BENEATH LOST GROUND

by G. D. Higgins

  “I understand enough to know we could have waited a while until we had a better chance of finding the boy to press charges. We could have kept their names out of the newspapers. You’ve just severely damaged the chances of finding him with your agenda.”

  On the back of that comment, Leard sprang up from his chair and crossed the room to face off with Brophy. His eyes darkened, and he bit his lower lip.

  “What are you gonna do?” Brophy said to him whilst involuntarily puffing out his chest and clenching his fists at his sides.

  Leard’s head was but a foot away, then brought in closer without seeming to move his body.

  “Your little find in the woods today; I’m just off the phone with forensics. The gun used in the murders was in the bag. No prints, unfortunately, but at least we have the weapon and a pretty clear description that leads us right back to our man, Delaney. So, weren’t we right to release him early?” he said the last part as a statement more than a question.

  “So bleedin’ what? Have you taken Delaney in yet? How about Veale?”

  Leard’s all but imperceptible flinch backwards answered the questions for him. “Yeah, I thought not. You two might go on like you have this one cracked, but as long as he’s out there and the boy is missing, it’s still sealed tight around you two dickheads.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” said White, a hint of magnanimity in his voice. “Sergeant Brophy.” Brophy turned his head slightly to face him. “We know you’re fully invested in finding the boy and bringing down the shooter, but you have to get it into your thick head that there’s a lot more at play here. There’s a power vacuum left in the trade since we took down all the big players. Our battle now is trying to ensure that that space doesn’t get filled by groups of headbangers who are even more lethal than those who came before them.”

  “I’m well aware of the situation in Dublin and Drogheda, and I get that there’s a new generation of vicious little hardmen coming up, but that still doesn’t justify sending these families down.”

  “They’ll be fine,” said Leard. “The people they were associated with are in prison or dead. We’ll cut them a deal, and they’ll be back to their patios and hot-tubs in no time.”

  Brophy never remembered his dislike for someone growing so quickly as it was for Leard.

  “What has Doyle got to say for himself?” asked Brophy.

  “Sorry, but we can’t divulge that at this time,” said White, “But rest assured, he had nothing to do with the murders.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “We just are.”

  “Well, it seems to me like he was moving in on Quilty and Walters’ operation and attempted to win over Delaney in the process. That would give him more than enough motive to get someone to pull the trigger.”

  “For now, our investigation is focused on Delaney. He was ID’ed in the woods with his piece of shit car burying a bag. He was also in the locality at the time of the shootings.”

  “But why?” Brophy said with a sneer. “Why would he eliminate his supply line like that?”

  “We believe he got paranoid,” said Leard. Brophy knew he was lying.

  “So, it’s gonna be like that with you two, eh? Bennett was right. You are just a shower of wankers.”

  Brophy turned and left the office in a cloud of bitter silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The roar of the engine, the screech of the tyres skidding underneath Brophy’s Saab as he pulled out of the station car park, sent the reporters scattering away from the entrance they again blocked. The early evening sun offered little in the way of relief from the mugginess that clung to him since the woods that morning. The exchange with White and Leard had left him reeling, an unquenchable rage roiling his innards, the decision which direction to start driving was unconscious. Soon he found himself on the outskirts of the city, but instead of heading west towards his home, he headed north. The forty-minute drive went by like a hypersonic trip through a dark tunnel of fear and regret.

  He came to, and his mission became clear in his mind as he trailed along the R448. The harsh bright sky like white light reflected off the River Nore, running parallel to the road. He crossed the bridge at Market Street and arrived in the centre of Thomastown within a minute. He crawled along the narrow hilly streets of the old market town for a few minutes until he turned onto the one he was looking for, Mill Street. Three-storey Georgian terraced houses lined both sides of the street, most of which had been turned into various businesses over the years. The majority were painted in pastel colours, giving the appearance of a typical street in an Irish town. But the one he sought, situated at the end, was painted white with black trim and adorned with hanging lanterns and pristine flourishing window boxes. The name on the wooden sign hanging from an L-frame by two black chains sent a shiver down his spine, “Foylan’s.”

  He drove to the far end of the building and found a large park full of cars that looked out onto the river. Business was good. Without a thought for the consequences or inconvenience, he parked in front of the exit, blocking any cars that might attempt to leave. He cut across the car park and entered the restaurant via the side entrance.

  As soon as he stepped inside the door, a wave of loud chatter, traditional Irish music, and the aroma of freshly cooked wholesome food that the place was renowned for struck him. The restaurant was split into several rooms on two floors and after a quick scan of the dimly lit lounge he found himself in, he decided his mark was nowhere to be seen.

  The hushed whispers from a table of two middle-aged couples in the corner edged surreptitiously towards him. Without a word they spoke registering in his mind, he knew they had recognised him. And then it hit him like a sledgehammer; the insult that followed him since that fateful day he missed the big game: ‘Bottler.’

  His whole body clenched, and the muscles in his upper lip conspired to create a deathly snarl. The red-cheeked overweight man who dared let the nickname through his lips became wide-eyed and shaky when he saw Brophy’s darting glare. He was about to step over and confront the man when a waitress pushed the black panelled door open with her hip as she cradled three drinks in her hands. Brophy turned and took a step to the side to block her off.

  “Where’s the boss?” he asked the startled girl who looked no older than a school leaver.

  She shimmied and struggled to regain control of the three pints so as not to spill a drop. “Síle?” she said as though it were the oddest question she was ever asked.

  “No, not Síle. Brendan Foylan.”

  “He’s either in the main room or in his office upstairs. I’ll have a check for you as soon as I drop off these drinks.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said and swerved around her, headed for the black door.

  He stepped into the main room, which was even noisier than the lounge. At least twenty tables took up every inch of floor space and were full of boisterous customers. He could sense burgeoning rivets of silence ripple over the din as others recognised the intruder in their space. Typical Kilkenny people still know who he was after almost twenty years since he was a no-show and their team won the All-Ireland.

  His frustration was suddenly replaced by loathing when he caught a glimpse of Foylan. Across the room, he stood with his back to Brophy, chatting to a table of visibly charmed, laughing young ladies. Brophy marched across the room, the hum of merry punters lowering even more. He grabbed Foylan’s shoulder and pulled him around to face him. The action drew an aggressive ‘hey’ from Foylan, but his demeanour flipped when it dawned on him who his accoster was. Foylan wore a navy blue blazer with brass buttons, white shirt and red tie, and beige slacks, a combination that further infuriated Brophy.

  “What do you want? Get the hell out of here.”

  The thirty-year-old barely looked a day older than when he was under investigation for his girlfriend’s disappearance twelve years before, with a shock of blonde hair and not a line to be seen in his face even as he frowned at Brophy.
Not a day of stress or bother since then.

  “Did you hear about your best friend, Scully?”

  “Of course, I did. And I wouldn’t exactly say we were best friends anymore,” he hissed in a hushed tone at Brophy. “Maurice and I have drifted over the years.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re almost home and dry. The last witness to what you did is almost out of the picture.”

  “You have a nerve, Brophy, coming here and saying that to me. And anyway, Maurice is going to be fine. He’s responding well to treatment.”

  “You’ve certainly done well for yourself. Do you still not feel even a smidgen of remorse?”

  “I’ve nothing to be remorseful for. She ran off, to England or America, just like I told you a thousand times.” He turned back to the ladies at the table. “I hope you all enjoy your meal,” he said to some awkward expressions.

  He spun on his feet and headed across the room. Brophy followed. The restaurant was almost in complete silence. When Brophy pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen, a collective gasp was followed by the reemergence of loud chatter.

  All seven or eight workers in the kitchen lifted their heads from their busy jobs to scrutinise the stranger in their midst.

  “Max, you need to put more fresh basil in the soup,” said Foylan to the tall, obese chef who stood in front of ten active hobs, sweat rolling down his red cheeks.

  “Who’s this guy?” said Max.

  Foylan swivelled and said, “Would you ever get out of here. I have nothing more to say to you. Leave, or I’ll call the guards.”

  Half of the workers ceased what they were doing and took a couple of steps towards Brophy, who was panting by the entrance. “I am the guards, so that saves you the bother,” he said, more for the benefit of the workers, lest one may strike him and regret it later.

  “She had a drug problem and took off with someone else. How many more ways must I tell you?”

  “What about the photo taken the night she went missing?”

  “What about it? There’s no proof it was taken that night.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of proof. Just no one to back it up. You must have done a right number on your two pals.”

  “You’re talking absolute shit again, Brophy. That’s why you couldn’t find her the first time. You fucked it up, just like you do everything.”

  “Boss, do you want us to kick him out,” said one of the younger kitchen porters.

  “Shut up, kid,” shouted Brophy. “None of you are gonna do a damn thing.”

  “What’s this all about, boss?” asked Max, clearly impatient at the kitchen work being stalled.

  “It’s nothing, Max. Get back to work, everyone. Our guest was just about to leave, weren’t you, Bottler?”

  Brophy dived across to the centre of the kitchen and grabbed Foylan by the scruff. Pots and pans clanged and crashed to the floor as a swarm of bodies rushed for Brophy. Screams of panic and dismay echoed around the furnace of a room as Brophy dug in hard and did everything in his power to get a shot off at Foylan.

  Due to his enormity, Max managed to get his two arms around both Brophy and Foylan but lost balance and brought both tumbling down on top of himself. Brophy felt hands dragging at him from all directions, attempting to pin his flailing arms and legs away from Foylan. Brophy was momentarily stunned when the toe of a boot struck him on the top of his head.

  “Jesus, take it easy, Mickey,” squealed an unfamiliar voice. “He’s a cop.”

  The struggle went on for another couple of minutes until a hoarse shouting, accompanied by the clatter of a metal table, brought things to a shuddering stop. All but Max scattered back to their work stations.

  Brophy looked up from his prone position on the greasy red tiles and saw a local guard striking his baton on the table. He looked to be in his late fifties and had all the hallmarks and appearance of a local cop who’s not to be crossed.

  Foylan got to his feet, pleading with the new guest to arrest Brophy. Brophy rose slowly and told Foylan to shut his trap.

  “Detective Brophy?” said the guard, “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Just popping in on an old friend, Sergeant...?”

  “Ryan. I think you’ve given your old friend enough of a surprise. Come outside with me, if you please.”

  “This is not finished,” he said to Foylan as he brushed past him and tailed the guard out of the kitchen. He skulked across the main room and out the front entrance.

  Sergeant Ryan walked along the front of the restaurant, towards the car park, stopped half-way, and turned to Brophy.

  “What are you playing at?” he said, trembling with a scowl.

  “I had some unfinished business with your friend back there.”

  Ryan edged in closer, his face constricting more with contempt. “He’s not my friend. We all know at our station he should have been put away for what he did.” Brophy was flabbergasted by this comment. At the time, he’d felt like he never had the full backing of the local guards. “But that wasn’t on us. And I think we both know we were kept out of the loop for the most part so certain people could further their careers. How is that gobshite Bennett anyway?”

  Brophy stood motionless, stunned to silence.

  “I see you there, so preoccupied with yourself that you don’t even remember me, do you?”

  “Ryan? Ryan.” He wasn’t sure if he said the name twice or thought it, but a glimmer of recognition came back to him. “Garda Ryan. I remember you now. You almost had a confession out of Scully.”

  “That’s right. Until your lot came in and pushed me aside.” Brophy bowed his head, the onset of shame weighing on him. “I see her often, you know? Ursala Fanning, Mel’s mother. All the rumour mongering and gossip eventually cracked her, and now she’s holding out for her daughter to contact her from England or America. That’s how cruel the aftermath of this affair has been.”

  “We could have a swipe at Scully together after he’s discharged,” said Brophy by way of apology.

  “As much as I’d love to, I can’t. I’d lose my job in an instant. This case still plagues the town. Has left a black mark on the place for twelve years. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have another shot.”

  Ryan looked vacantly over Brophy’s shoulder as if contemplating saying something. “What is it?”

  “Foylan always had a hold on those two boys. Both have single mothers who work for the Foylan’s, just as half the town do. Scully feared that if he spilt the beans, the Foylan’s would go after his mother and destroy her. She’s already a very fragile woman as it is. Back then, I almost had him assured we wouldn’t let them do a damn thing to his mother. That’s your route in. But tread carefully. And I’m not sure if he’ll get out of the hospital this time.”

  “What do you mean? Foylan said he’s recovering well.”

  “From what I heard, it appears that way, but apparently his liver is on its way out.”

  Brophy nodded, acceptance and gratitude welling in him.

  “Now get out of here. Oh, and I have to file a report about this incident. So, deal with it.”

  The hour-long drive to his house on the Copper Coast drolled on as if the car was on auto-pilot. The late evening dusk of an Irish July sent waves of shadows cascading around the sloping green fields on all sides and cracked through the bulbous trees like shafts of dark matter subsuming everything in their path. The car swerved dangerously towards leaden ditches on sharp corners, and Brophy wondered if he was purposely toying with the danger of crashing, just to feel something. The sky blazed a molten mixture of red and orange, and an old saying he’d heard a thousand times as a child came to mind: red sky at night, shepherds delight; red sky at morning, shepherds warning. Tomorrow would be another scorcher. The thought of it gave further unease to his wrangled thoughts.

  By the time he arrived home, the sky had descended to black, and the stars that speckled the voids with pinpricks of light seemed further away than ever. On entering the living room, his bo
dy screeched at him to shower and return to some semblance of normality, but his mind already at the precipice of exhaustion ordered him to throw down on the old couch and block it all out. Lying on his back, he looked up at the damp-stained ceiling, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. He was asleep in seconds. The numb descent into slumber did anything but brought peace.

  A shattering creak followed by a crashing thump caused his eyes to spring open. After blinking in rapid succession, he rubbed his eyes, but still the room was in complete darkness. His neck was stiff. It took several attempts for him to turn enough to take in his surroundings. Still nothing. Then he noticed an echo emanating from a drip started from high above, wisping through the air until it made its landing.

  “Hello?” came the voice of a terrified child. Was it his own voice?

  “Who’s there? I want to get out.”

  Muffled footfalls from way up drew closer, every contact with the ground a deafening beat in unison with what his heart was doing.

  “I’m scared. I want my mam and dad.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t even know who I am? How are you going to find me?” The boy began to sob.

  The footsteps were now directly above.

  A blinding shaft of white light blasted in the opening overhead. He was dazzled again but in another way.

  The glimmer of something falling through the air was followed by a bone-crashing thump on the ground nearby. An ear-shattering crash of metal on metal made him jerk in his spot.

  “Who is that? Can you help us out of here?”

  Something dragged along the ground next to him. A shade of grey suddenly blanketed their entire surroundings. Light.