Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

“Do I strike you as a man who doesn’t take every necessary precaution? I’m recording this meeting, in fact.”

  Bunny glanced around.

  “It’s amazing how far microphone technology has come, isn’t it?” Hannity continued. “Well, as a police officer, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Hannity laughed. “Don’t bluff, Detective. You don’t have the face for it, and you certainly don’t have the cards.”

  “Gringo was just doing his job.”

  “And I’m sure that the inquiry will, of course, draw that conclusion. I’m sure there is another explanation for the large amount of cash he was confident he was about to come into. I wonder, were you about to benefit from a similar windfall?”

  “What is it that you want, Hannity? Or do you just like watching people squirm?”

  Hannity leaned forward. “I must confess, I had no idea you knew my wife.”

  Bunny shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “And?”

  “Just interested,” said Hannity. “When we met she was …” he gave a humourless laugh, “… at something of a low point. I did all I could to help her and her poor father. Even now, I’m paying a frankly extortionate amount to keep him in a very fine care facility.”

  Bunny said nothing, confused as to where Hannity was heading.

  ‘My point is, I understand Detective Spain’s— Forgive me, Detective Sergeant Spain’s determination to take care of his mother. And I appreciate those bills can really mount up, even if my ungrateful wife is blind to that fact.”

  “If you’re looking for marriage guidance, I’m really not qualified.”

  Hannity laughed heartily and took another deep drag on his cigar. “Ha, very funny. But no, I don’t require your services for that. You would be very useful to me in other areas, though.”

  “I’ve already got a job.”

  “And I wouldn’t dream of interfering with it. If you came to work for me, it would be in a discreet, off-the-books, supplemental role. A man with your connections, with your access – you could be very useful. And no doubt we could find certain scenarios in which we could let that violent temper of yours off the leash.” Hannity tilted his head and gave Bunny an appraising glance. “If I’m any judge of these things, you must be so damn tired of always having to keep that beast at bay. Think how good it would feel to have permission to let it loose. As well as making our current issue disappear, you would, of course, be handsomely compensated. What do you say, Detective? Would you like to be my friend?”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Hannity shrugged. “That’s a shame. Still, though …” He stood up and looked down at Bunny. “It’s Monday today. I’ll give you three days – until this time on Thursday evening – to think about it. We can be friends or … Well, on Friday morning, I give that tape of my conversation with DS Spain, which I may or may not have, to interested parties and I complete the steps necessary to take possession of the house that I definitely own.”

  Bunny clenched his fists.

  “Uh-uh, Detective,” said Hannity, wagging a cautionary finger. “I strongly advise you not to say anything you might come to regret. I appreciate your dander is up. How about you turn around, walk away, and have a long hard think about your options.”

  Bunny and Hannity locked eyes for the longest time and then, without a word, Bunny turned and headed back up the path.

  As he walked, a relieved-looking Joe fell into step behind him.

  Hannity’s voice carried across the cold night air. “Show the man directly out, Joe. And, Detective, I look forward to speaking to you very soon.”

  Questions Without Answers

  Bunny stared into the abyss.

  Metaphorically speaking.

  In real terms, he stared into a half-drunk pint of Guinness, with an empty whiskey chaser keeping it company. He was a few in and, despite his best efforts, was still feeling remarkably sober. What he wanted more than anything was to get blind drunk. The logic being that you can’t remember your problems if you can’t even remember your own name. Yes, it was only a short-term solution, but seeing as he had no long-term one, it’d do.

  He’d left Coop Hannity’s a couple of hours ago, and had engaged in one small act of defiance on the way out. Since then, he’d been propping up the bar in O’Hagan’s and had accounted for most of the drink sales from the dozen or so patrons scattered around the place. It was the quiet time between the post-work rush and closing, when only the hardcore manned the battlements.

  He took another sup of his pint and looked down the bar to where the young assistant manager, Tara Flynn, was watching him with concern while trying, unsuccessfully, not to be seen doing so. She’d been working there only a few months but, seeing as Bunny had been a fixture for most of that time, they’d become friends. Right now, he was wishing she’d ignore him.

  He nodded at his pint. “Same again, please, Tara. And another for my friend here.”

  Tara walked over and stood across from Bunny. “Don’t you think he’s had enough?”

  Bunny looked down at the gnome that was sitting on the bar beside him, having been relieved of his gig at Coop Hannity’s pond. “He seems fine to me. Still standing.”

  “Even so,” said Tara, “maybe he should pace himself. He’s been trying to catch a fish off the side of this bar for hours.”

  Bunny gave her a look.

  She held up her hands. “Alright. Fine. I’m not your mother.” After taking a pint glass from the shelf, Tara held it under the Guinness tap at exactly the correct angle and looked at Bunny. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “Really?” she said, incredulity in her voice. “In that case, would you consider professional mourner as a future career? You’d do an excellent job at setting the right tone.”

  “This is a pub, isn’t it? Aren’t people supposed to come in here to drink without being nagged?”

  Tara slammed the untopped pint down on the counter. “Excuse me for caring.”

  Bunny realised he was being an arse. “I’m just …”

  “None of my business.” Tara returned to the other end of the bar.

  “What are my chances of a packet of cheese and onion Tayto?”

  She didn’t turn around. “You’ve two. Fuck and all.”

  Bunny glanced at the gnome as he raised the remnants of his pint. “And you didn’t even get your whiskey.”

  The glassy eyes looked back up at him but didn’t respond.

  The problem was that Bunny’s options were as limited as they were unappealing. He laid them out for himself again as he ran his finger through the small puddle of stout that he’d spilled on the counter earlier.

  Option one – tell Coop Hannity to shove his offer up his arse. While it’d feel momentarily wonderful, so too does flying until you realise you’re actually falling. For a start, he’d need to find somewhere else for Diana Spain to live. Sure, there were state-run homes, but the prospect brought to his mind the image of Gringo’s face as he lay dying on a beach, in Bunny’s arms. His final words had been, “Take care of Mum.” The woman might well be a massive pain in Bunny’s arse but, like it or not, she was his responsibility.

  And that wasn’t even the worst part. Maybe it was all an elaborate bluff and Coop Hannity didn’t really have a tape of Gringo discussing how he was about to come into a large sum of money, but if it was a bluff, it was a damn good one. If he really did have a recording, it would be enough to change the whole context of the inquiry. As things stood, three officers had died in the line of duty. All anyone was expecting were tributes to the fallen, recommendations for bulletproof vests to be more readily available, and, inevitably, an extra bit of paperwork to be filled out.

  However, throw Hannity’s tape into the mix and the actions of those involved would be shown in a whole different light. What had at first appeared to be dedicated officers not paying due care and atten
tion to the chain of command in their rush to achieve a result, suddenly looked very different. DI O’Rourke already smelled a rat, and Bunny was guessing so too did those above him in the chain of command, but they appeared to be taking a pragmatic “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” approach to the Carter gang’s dramatic fall from grace. That would soon change, though. O’Rourke was, above everything else, a political animal. If he sensed the wind had shifted, he’d be moving at the speed of light, because where you stand for reflected glory is also in the splatter zone if the shit hits the fan.

  Even if no firm conclusions could be reached, Gringo’s name would be dragged through the mud. He’d go from hero to disgrace – an embarrassment to the force. Suspicion would also fall on Bunny. What he did and didn’t know. Not that he cared much about that. He hadn’t had anything to do with their dirty little get-rich scheme, bar figuring out that something was up and trying to stop the train that had already left the station.

  Gringo had been a flawed man who made a terrible series of mistakes. Bunny should have seen it sooner, or maybe just not wilfully ignored all the signs that his partner was going off the rails. Even if all of that didn’t make Gringo’s failings his problem, there was the other thing. In order to rescue the woman he loved, Bunny had completely stepped outside the boundaries of the law himself. His actions had resulted in the deaths of two men – two appalling men. Bunny didn’t feel a shred of guilt about that. Justice and the law weren’t always compatible. And yet, without Gringo’s help, Bunny and Simone would both be dead now. Burying two bodies in the Wicklow Mountains was almost the last thing they’d done together.

  He had a responsibility.

  Then, there was the other option.

  Become Coop Hannity’s man. The mere thought of it made Bunny sick to his stomach. He might not always play by the rules, but whatever he’d done he’d always done for what he saw as the common good. That would change now. Once they had you, they had you. Some lines you can’t uncross.

  So yes, Bunny wanted to get very, very drunk in peace. He took a long drag on his un-topped pint.

  “Howerya, Bunny.”

  He turned to see Detective Pamela “Butch” Cassidy standing behind him, dressed in sports gear, kit bag in hand.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Butch! What’re you doing here?”

  She looked exasperated. “What am I … You asked me to come and meet you, you drunken dipshit!”

  Bunny slapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh shite, course I did. Sorry, Butch. Pull up a pew. Drink?”

  “Lime and soda,” she said, hopping on to the stool beside him.

  Tara nodded, having caught the order.

  Butch’s nickname was as inevitable as it was ironic. Coppers were never the cleverest, and her surname of Cassidy had sealed her fate.

  Butch tapped the garden gnome on its head. “And who is your little friend here?”

  “No idea. Annoying little gobshite hasn’t shut up, though. To be honest, I thought it was you in fancy dress at first.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Those height jokes never get old.”

  Bunny sucked his teeth. “You and your short fuse.”

  “I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, Bunny, but nobody deserves that kind of disappointment.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Good one.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been practising.”

  “Speaking of which, were you off doing judo in your jimmy-jammies this evening?”

  “Krav Maga, actually.”

  “Crack your ma? I thought you did judo?”

  “I did.” In fact, she had been a national champion. “I’m doing this for a bit of a change. It’s a hybrid thing developed by the Israeli Special Forces. I’m thinking of getting a collection of black belts. They go with everything, and they really bring out my eyes.”

  Bunny turned and looked at Butch, who wasn’t much more than eight stone and five foot two. You could physically pick her up, although it’d be a mistake that’d probably leave you walking funny for quite some time.

  “Be honest with me, Butch – pound for pound, are you the most lethal person in Ireland?”

  She brushed back her red hair and gave a wolfish grin. “What’s this pound for pound nonsense? I took down a bloke who looked like a sumo wrestler last week on a raid. He actually cried. Was a thing of beauty.”

  “I bet it was. Would’ve liked to see it.”

  Butch slapped him on the arm. “Well, come back to work, then, and you’ll see the next one.”

  Tara placed Butch’s drink on the bar and withdrew.

  “Thank you,” said Bunny.

  “Yeah, thanks,” chimed Butch. “And you, stop avoiding the question. When are you coming back?”

  “Ah, we’ll see.”

  She folded her arms. “We’ll see? That’s the kind of nonsense answer you give to a child.”

  “Well, you are only little.”

  Butch scoffed. “How would you like to see this little girl send your fat arse over that bar?”

  Bunny grinned. “Stop flirting with me, Butch. I’m not your type.”

  She chuckled. “To be clear, if I was into men …”

  “I’d still not be your type.”

  They both laughed this time.

  “Ah, come on,” she said. “Come back. Since Dinny transferred to Galway for a quieter life, I’ve had to work with this new lad, Carlson. He wets himself if he’s left alone too long. It’s no fun any more, without you and …” Butch stopped herself and the smile fell from her lips. “Oh God, sorry.”

  “It’s alright,” said Bunny, turning to pick up his pint. “You can say his name, y’know?”

  “I know, I just …” Butch reached across and picked up her lime and soda.

  They both took a drink.

  “So,” said Butch. “Your text mentioned you needed a favour?”

  “Right. One of the lads on the team. Got bruising on his arm. Bad, so I’m told.”

  “Where did he get it?” asked Butch, now deadly serious.

  “His ma’s boyfriend moved in with them recently. Gary Kearney.”

  “The boxer?”

  Bunny nodded. “It would appear the useless prick finally found a bout he can win.”

  Butch put down her drink with more force than was necessary. “Shall we go and visit him?”

  Bunny turned to look at her. “Easy, tiger. I thought I was supposed to be the loose cannon?”

  “Well …” Whatever else Butch said was lost in a mumble. Bunny knew she took a particular interest in this area. He’d never asked why. On some matters you just don’t pry.

  “I happen to know some nuns who owe me a favour,” Bunny continued. “They can help get her and him away from Kearney.”

  “Nuns?” asked Butch, sounding taken aback.

  “Never mind that. First things first. We need to get her and the lad out of there.”

  “And after first things?”

  “Let’s play it by ear.”

  “OK.”

  “His mother will pick up Alan – that’s the kid – after training tomorrow night. I figured it’d be better if you made the approach.”

  “I’ll have to move several hot dates around, but I’m in.”

  “You’re a good woman.”

  “And you’re an awful man. Do you need a lift home?”

  “I’m grand, thanks,” said Bunny.

  “You sure? No offence, but you look like an early night wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to you.”

  Bunny patted the gnome on the head. “I’d love to, but himself has just got out of a long-term relationship and it wouldn’t be right to leave a man drinking on his own.”

  Butch blew a raspberry in response.

  “Classy bird. Give O’Rourke and your new partner my regards.”

  She gave him another lupine grin. “Prick. I’m away home for my dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “It’s a date.”

&
nbsp; “And now I’ve lost my appetite.”

  As Butch left, she passed Terry Hodges on his way in, who held the door open for her.

  Bunny turned back to the bar and gave his now almost-empty pint glass a mournful look. Before he could order another, an arm was thrown around his shoulders and Terry beamed a gap-toothed smile at him through the fog of his cologne. It was a move of familiarity that their relationship did not warrant.

  Terry currently held second position in the “most irritating regulars of O’Hagan’s” rankings that Bunny kept in his head. Behaviour such as throwing his arm around you while you were trying to enjoy a quiet pint was why Terry had always been top three, and why he was in danger of reaching both the number-one spot and the floor if he wasn’t careful.

  “Tara,” Terry roared unnecessarily loudly near Bunny’s ear, “have you asked this man yet?”

  Tara looked up from her book. “No. I was waiting for the right moment.”

  “Sure, isn’t now a great moment?” shouted Terry.

  Having just popped in, Terry was stone-cold sober. It shouldn’t matter but Bunny gave some allowances to people who were annoying when drunk. Terry was annoying when born. He probably came out of the womb trying to stick his grubby hands in somebody else’s crisps. He also often told stories about people that nobody in the room knew and therefore made no sense. Any time anyone pointed this out, he’d just laugh and say, “You had to be there.” As if that excused it. He was like watching a TV series you’d only joined in with halfway through episode six.

  The man’s only redeeming feature was that at least he wasn’t …

  Mark Kind’s insidious little head popped up from the other side of the bar. “What did he say?”

  Mark was known for two things. One – his freakishly small head. It was tiny. Weirdly tiny. Small enough that people actually wondered how an adult brain could fit into it. That is, until they talked to Mark. In fact, it was so small that every time he entered a room, anyone present was left with the unnerving impression that his body had got there first and his head was running late. In a more sensible world, people would hire him to stand in show homes to create the illusion of space.