Many thanks to the publishers for permission to quote from Martin Carter, The University of Hunger: Collected Poems & Selected Prose, ed. Gemma Robinson (Bloodaxe Books, 2006).
The quotes from The Art of War, by Sun Tzu, are from the 1910 translation by Lionel Giles.
Once again, I’m indebted to Evelyn Bracken, Pat Brennan, Tom Daly, Cathleen Kerrigan and Julie Lordan for advice and support.
After seven non-fiction books, veteran journalist Gene Kerrigan received critical acclaim in Ireland, the UK and the USA for his first two novels, Little Criminals and The Midnight Choir. He lives in Dublin.
Danny Callaghan is just out of jail and enjoying a quiet drink in a Dublin pub when two men walk in with guns. On impulse, he intervenes to rescue the intended victim, petty criminal Walter Bennett, and finds himself dragged into Dublin’s murky underworld. As the police grope for answers, and Danny struggles to protect those he loves, the rising tensions between the gangs threatens to erupt into a bloody showdown.
Dark Times in the City portrays a society on the edge, where affluence and cocaine fuel a ruthless gang culture, and a man’s impulse to do good may cost him the lives of those who matter the most.
www.vintage-books.co.uk
On that part of the street, at this hour of the evening, only the pub was still open for business. Near the middle of a row of shops, between the flower shop and the hairdressers, it offered the street a welcoming glow on a chilly winter’s night. There were two entrance doors, one to the bar and one to the lounge. The windows were small, high on the wall and barred. The pub front had been recently painted off-white. The blue neon decoration high on the wall was a bog-standard outline of a parrot. The pub was called the Blue Parrot. It was owned and managed by a man named Novak.
This was a neighbourhood place and most of the younger set travelled into the city centre or favoured local pubs that featured entertainment. Novak didn’t believe in pub quizzes, pub bands, comedy nights or DJs. He just sold drink and provided a venue for companionship.
On the other side of the street, it was all terraced houses with well-tended front gardens. They were of a standard municipal design that was duplicated throughout the Glencara estate and across similar council-built estates throughout Dublin – Finglas, Cabra West, Drimnagh, Crumlin, Ballyfermot. Small and narrow, most of the houses now bristled with extensions. Many had colourful cladding or fanciful embellishments – columns flanking the front door or tiled canopies overhanging the windows.
From the far end of the street a motorbike made its way towards the pub. Traffic was light here, far from the main routes through the estate, but the motorbike was taking its time, easing gently over the speed bumps installed to discourage joyriders.
The passenger was first to dismount at the pub. He took something from a saddlebag. At the entrance to the lounge he paused and gestured to the driver to hurry up.
When the man in the black motorcycle helmet came into the pub, Danny Callaghan slipped down from the bar stool and looked around for anything he might use as a weapon. His hand grasped the only possibility he saw within reach – his half-empty beer glass.
A few feet inside the entrance the assassin paused. The helmet hid most of his face, with just a gap behind which his eyes glanced from table to table. He had a revolver in his right hand, held casually down by his side. Behind him a second man in a matching motorcycle helmet came in, cradling a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun. Both men wore dark blue boiler suits.
Most of the drinkers were seated at the tables and booths around the edges of the pub, half a dozen of them sitting or standing at the bar.
The first assassin spotted his target and began to move forward.
By now, most of those in the vicinity knew what was happening. The motorcycle helmet indoors, the armed minder watching the killer’s back and the quick stride towards the intended victim – in recent years, a routine as recognisable as a Riverdance twirl.
The panic subsided in Danny Callaghan’s chest.
Not me.
He relaxed his grip on the beer glass and put his hand in his pocket, to try to stop it shaking. The assassin was walking towards an alcove over by the large fireplace, where three men were now white-faced and standing up.
The man in the middle – small, middle-aged, grey-haired – was named Walter Bennett. Where his companions’ expressions were a mixture of fear and bewilderment, Walter’s pinched face was all dread.
Danny Callaghan felt the Swiss Army knife in his pocket. It had a small pliers, with a screwdriver, a bottle opener and a two-inch knife blade. A hopeless weapon, but he held onto it anyway. He used a fingernail to pick at the knife blade.
Just in case.
Less than ten seconds had passed, and by now even the dimmest customer in the Blue Parrot knew the score.
The noise from the fifth-rate soccer game on the sports channel continued, but much of the pub chatter had been replaced by the coarse sounds of startled men releasing gasps and swear words.
Several just turned their faces away, crouched or ducked. Some stared open-mouthed, not wanting to miss a thing.
‘Ah, come on, fuck off.’
Novak, the pub owner, was behind the counter, sucking in his gut, holding up an open-fingered hand towards the first gunman. The man, almost at the alcove now, ignored him.
From across the pub floor, Walter made eye contact with Callaghan.
‘Help me, Danny!’
Four feet from his victim the gunman raised his arm, aimed the revolver at Walter’s forehead, paused a second, then squeezed the trigger.
It didn’t even make a clicking noise.
Nothing.
No sound, no recoil, no wisp of gases. Just a gun not working.
The gunman ducked when Novak threw a bottle of gin. And Walter moved, one foot stepping up and backwards onto the seat behind him, his other foot up and forward onto the table, the table lurching, drinks falling over. He hit the floor running.
The gunman turned, crouched, arm extended, revolver pointing at the moving figure. A clamour of shouts and screams from the customers was followed by the loud, flat sound of the gun going off.
Walter, unhurt, was coming Callaghan’s way.
‘Help me, Danny!’
One hand clutching at the lapels of Callaghan’s jacket, Walter paused a moment and then he was past, head twisting from side to side as he sought a way out.
‘Danny!’
The fuck does he think I can do?
Callaghan released his grip on the Swiss Army knife and took his hand out of his pocket.
Walter turned towards the toilets, but even in his panic he knew they offered only an enclosed place to die. No time to get across the counter, through the archway and out into the bar. He turned to the approaching gunman, then twisted and crouched sideways, as though he could shrink his body beyond harm’s way.
Grunting a warning as he passed Callaghan, the gunman pointed his revolver at Walter and Callaghan hit him square across the back with the bar stool. The gunman went down, landing heavily on his side. As the gun flew from his hand, Callaghan dropped, one knee pinning the gunman to the floor.
Walter ran forward and kicked the gunman hard, connecting with his ribs. He bent and snatched the gun, a small grey pistol, and before he could do anything with it Callaghan’s left hand gripped both Walter’s hand and the revolver itself. With his other hand he unpeeled Walter’s fingers from the gun and looked around.
There wasn’t a customer above table level.
Novak was out from behind the counter, standing with his back to Callaghan, one hand held up, palm towards the gunman at the front door, the other hand holding a hammer. The gunman waved the shotgun and shifted from one foot to the other.
‘Anybody hurt?’ Novak shouted.
Silence.
Then the man with the shotgun let out a hoarse roar. ‘Let him go!’
Novak lowered the hammer, his voice unnaturally calm. ‘It’s over, okay, just take it easy.’
Callaghan bent down, bunched the prone gunman’s boiler suit under his chin and pulled him up. The gunman was heavy, but Callaghan took him easily. He heard a satisfying gasp as he twisted the man’s arm up behind his back, a squeal as he pushed him past the bend in the bar and around towards the front door. The gunman’s movements were awkward, his vision limited by the helmet.
Novak’s voice was strained. ‘Take it easy, no harm done.’
Holding the gunman in front of him, Callaghan moved alongside Novak. The one with the shotgun was a dozen feet away. Callaghan said, ‘Don’t be stupid, okay? You piss off, and we let him go.’
The one with the shotgun hesitated. Callaghan pointed the pistol at him and said, ‘Leave that and go.’
The would-be killer put the shotgun down on the floor and backed away, pushing the door open. He called back, ‘Come on, Karl, come on!’ Then he was gone.
Callaghan reached around and pulled the helmet off the gunman. Karl was about twenty, bulky little guy with hair cut tight to his skull and the shadow of a moustache above his quivering lip. Callaghan’s hold on his arm was solid, but he could feel the strength there.
‘Toddle along, Karl – you come back here, you’ll get your pimply arse kicked.’
Callaghan jerked the gunman forward, leaned him against the front door and pushed. Outside, the second gunman was astride the motorbike, the exhaust already belching. His partner jumped onto the pillion and the harsh revving noise the motorbike made as it carried them away was maybe meant to be aggressive but it came off like a petulant bark.
Novak was standing beside Callaghan, watching the motorbike accelerate towards the far end of the street. ‘Jesus, Danny’, he said.
Callaghan nodded. ‘Jesus.’
In the distance, the motorbike passed through an orange beam from a street light, then jumped and wobbled as the driver forgot to slow for a speed bump. The tyres screeched as the motorbike turned sharply into a side street. In seconds even the noise of the engine had disappeared.
Novak was breathing as though he’d done a couple of laps around the block. ‘This bloody city.’
Callaghan said, ‘Recognise anyone?’
Novak shook his head. ‘Someone’ll tell the cops – I’ll have to call it in.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Were you in tonight?’
Callaghan just looked at him.
Novak said, ‘You better go, so.’ He nodded towards the shotgun down by his side. ‘What should I do with this?’
‘Raffle it.’
Holding the revolver with the hem of his brown suede jacket, Callaghan used the front of his black T-shirt to wipe it. He offered it to Novak. ‘Raffle this too.’
Novak said, ‘This is going to screw the place up for a couple of days, with the coppers making a fuss.’
Walter Bennett came out of the pub in a hurry, brushed past Novak, and began the jerky stop-and-start lope of a man unused to such exercise.
Novak and Callaghan watched him go. Novak snorted and said, ‘You’re welcome, Walter.’
In the ten minutes it took Danny Callaghan to walk to his apartment he sought to keep thought at bay by repeatedly cursing his own stupidity.
Fucking idiot.
That’s how it happens – one moment—
He cursed himself again and realised he’d said it aloud.
‘Fucking idiot.’
There was no one to hear him. The air was cold enough to show his breath and the street was deserted. Callaghan was tall, with the build of someone capable of making a living with his hands. He had an unfinished look about him. His hairstyle was an old-fashioned short-back-and-sides that might have been done by a third-rate barber in a hurry. The peppered grey of his hair aged him beyond his 32 years.
The roar of a boy racer announced the arrival of a young man in his early twenties, in a light blue Ford Fiesta. The car came to a too-abrupt stop at the T-junction just ahead. Windows darkened, decorative blue lights reflected from the road underneath the chassis, the entire body of the car seemed to throb with the hip-hop beat of the pulsing music. The night was cold but the driver’s window was rolled all the way down. Nothing to do with ventilation, all about youth and image and the insistence that everyone should listen to his chosen music. Callaghan remembered the feeling.
The kid might well be on his way home from a job that paid under the minimum wage, in some kip where the manager didn’t bother to ask his surname. In his head, though, he was motoring through the ’hood on his way to score a couple of keys of blow, ready to get down and dirty with a bitch or two and waste any muthafucka that got in the way. The kid gunned the engine, leaning forward as he glanced to his left, then turned right and kicked off, the screech of the tyres almost as loud as the scream of the engine.
The first time Callaghan had got that buzz he was fifteen, and behind the wheel of a stolen Lexus. Fifteen and immortal, fifteen and in no doubt he was a natural-born driver who could fishtail his way out of the tightest corner. And so it was, until two years later, lost in the wagon-wheel layout of Marino, with a squad car somewhere behind, he cut a corner too close and ended up clipping a lamp-post. When the ambulance crew took him out of the wreck he was smiling, his head still full of that buzz.
Callaghan felt a shiver now, remembering. There was no cure except time for that mixture of testosterone, arrogance, courage and stupidity.
He walked through a narrow passageway and out into a wide and overgrown area of green stretching across a dozen acres. With a bit of work it might make a nice little park, but that wasn’t in anyone’s budget, so it wouldn’t get done. The landscape was uneven, full of hillocks and hollows. The tarred surface of the pathway that cut through it was encrusted here and there with sprinklings of broken glass.
Who’d want to kill Walter Bennett?
One man with a gun could be a personal grudge. Two – main man and backup – that had the smell of a drugs gang solving a problem.
Hard to believe, though, that Walter Bennett had graduated to that level of action. They’d met in prison during the final year of Callaghan’s sentence, when Walter came in to do five months for breaking and entering a car showroom. Since Callaghan got out, they’d bumped into each other a couple of times, had a drink once. Walter’s life had been repeatedly interrupted by prison terms, leaving his ageing face with the perpetually resentful look of a loser. Callaghan couldn’t imagine how such a small-timer fitted into the quarrels of young men with serious weapons, and he didn’t care.
Fucking idiot.
Whatever he’d got himself into, Walter couldn’t help being a fool, but Callaghan ought to have known better. If heavies with guns wanted Walter dead, for whatever reason, he was going to die. Interfering in that kind of squabble was pointless.
That was the logic of it, but logic didn’t allow for impulse. It was impulse that made Novak get involved, defending his pub and one of his customers. It was impulse, fuelled by his friendship with Novak, that drew in Callaghan.
Near the centre of the green there was a mound covered with bushes, behind which stood some kind of municipal storage shed. As Callaghan approached, three teenagers, wearing the hoodies of their tribe, emerged from the bushes. One of them saw Callaghan and gave him a nod, which Callaghan returned. The kid – his name was Oliver – shared a flat with his grandfather two floors above the apartment that Callaghan rented. They’d met on the first floor landing, on the day Callaghan moved in. Shuffling up the stairs with a suitcase in each hand, Callaghan had cursed as an uncooperative travel bag slipped from one shoulder. It wasn’t the kind of area where you could leave a case on the street for a couple of minutes while you carried the rest up. Oliver, coming down the stairs, paused, then nodded and reached for one of the suitcases. ‘Fucking lift,’ he said, ‘it goes dead every second week. And it takes them a couple of days to get it going.’
He carried the suitcase up to Callaghan’s floor. He said he lived two floors up, then he nodded at Callaghan’s thanks and set off down the stairs, whistling. He didn’t seem to have regular work and spent a lot of time hanging around the area. Danny saw him a couple of times in Novak’s pub. The kid was right about the lift.
Oliver was one of a group of local kids who regularly used the bushes in the centre of the green to store their booze, bought earlier in the day from a supermarket. The bushes were visible from the apartment block and apparently no one had ever been stupid enough to risk stealing the drink. Later in the evening, the kids would come back and cluster in some hollow with their bottles of cider and cans of beer and build a fire to keep warm while they drank.
In his apartment, Callaghan poured himself a Scotch. The five-floor apartment block was known to its tenants as the Hive. There were bars on the windows of all the ground-level flats. Callaghan’s third-floor bedroom was just about big enough for a bed and storage for his clothes. It was slightly smaller than the space that served as combined living room, dining room and kitchen.
Having sipped at the whisky for a while, Callaghan decided he wasn’t enjoying it. He poured what was left in the glass down the sink.
Fucking idiot.
He’d switched on the boiler but it would be a long time before the radiators had an effect on the icy air. He put his hands in his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold. Finding the Swiss Army knife in his pocket he took it out and opened the blade. He used it almost daily for one chore or another, but in a fight it might as well be a toy.
What kind of fool goes up against a handgun and a shotgun with no weapon to hand except a bar stool?
Dumb.
Maybe it was a mistake coming home so early. He didn’t want to be with anyone, but the apartment had few distractions and he could feel the thoughts he’d so far kept at bay, fluttering around his mind, making only occasionally painful raids but aware of their power to dominate.
One moment you’re alive. The next – and Callaghan knew the arctic chill that seized his scalp had nothing to do with the temperature of the apartment.
The policeman knew Novak was lying and Novak didn’t care.
‘No way you don’t know him.’
‘I’d tell you if I knew.’
‘According to two of your customers, the intended victim is a regular. Name of Walter something.’
‘No, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.’
The few customers still there when the police arrived had already been interviewed. After the police questioned the two bar staff and allowed them to take off, Novak cashed up and put the money in the safe.
The policeman said, ‘Shut that thing off.’
On the television screen high on the wall, a bald man with a lined face was leaning forward, his eyebrows agitated. One hand hammered into his other palm to emphasise every third or fourth word as he warned that too drastic an approach to tackling global warming would have adverse effects on competitiveness. Novak told the policeman, ‘I like to keep up with what’s happening.’
There were three other policemen in the pub, two of them examining the bullet hole in the wooden panel on the back wall. The third had bagged the shotgun and the pistol and was now sitting at a table, phone to his ear, having an animated conversation with his wife.
Novak said, ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘That depends.’
This policeman had introduced himself as Sergeant Wyndham. A big man, taller than Novak, big as Callaghan. Where Callaghan was lean, though, the sergeant’s 36-inch belt strained to hold an overhanging 40-inch belly. The page of the notebook he’d opened when he approached Novak was still blank.
‘It’s a neighbourhood pub. This Walter guy drinks here two or three times a week and you don’t know him?’
‘Like I say, first I heard of his name was when you mentioned it.’
It didn’t really matter. Once they had Walter’s name they’d find him. They’d get Danny Callaghan’s name and find him, too. But Novak had principles about this kind of thing. A man in his position, if he started talking to the bluebottles they’d keep coming back. Soon they’d start thinking of him as a source of tips about the less socially committed of his customers. And every time some local put a dent in the law the police would call around and Novak would get the kind of reputation that wasn’t good for his kneecaps.
‘The man who stepped in, the one who prevented the killing – I’m told you and he were talking, before this thing happened?’
‘I’m friendly with all my customers. That guy – I never got around to asking his name.’
Novak’s tone was flat, his jowly face expressionless, the greying stubble a contrast to the shaven head. His face made no attempt to corroborate his lies.
‘And the gunmen – recognise anyone, hear any names?’
One of the pub customers, under questioning, had said that one of the gunmen had used the other’s name, but he’d told the police it had all happened so quickly that he didn’t register it.
Novak said, ‘I was kind of busy, trying to keep everyone calm.’
‘The guns.’ The policeman pointed to the shotgun and the pistol, on the counter in separate evidence bags. ‘I suppose you got your fingerprints all over them? Anyone else touch them?’
‘It got a bit hectic. I wasn’t taking notes.’
‘Only stupid people make an enemy of the police.’
Novak stood up straight and looked the policeman in the eye. ‘I’m just about to make a fresh pot of coffee. You and your mates, would you like to join me?’
Wyndham said nothing for a moment, like he very much wanted to remain aggressive. Then he sighed and said, ‘Why not?’
The way the receptionist at the shabby little hotel smiled, Karl Prowse knew she wanted him. She was in her late thirties, almost twenty years older than Karl, but he felt the hunger surge. It wasn’t the dyed blonde hair or the tight purple dress, it was the frank look-over she gave him, like she was mentally assessing how his weight would feel against her braced thighs. He savoured the thought while the receptionist nodded to the whore by Karl’s side. The whore had an account with the hotel and the cost of the room was included in the price she’d quoted Karl. As they went up the stairs, arms linked, Karl looked back. The receptionist had returned to her magazine.
Karl remembered something from a television movie, about how a brush with death stokes the sex drive. He understood that. Once the fear and the tension goes, the juices all flow back and you need to connect with life and that means you need to fuck something. He could still feel the adrenalin.
Back in that shitty pub, when the job went sour, there was just one moment when Karl Prowse felt fear. The rest of the time, he was on top of things. Even after that fool butted in, even when Karl felt something hard smash into his back and he went down, the gun jolting from his hand, he was in control. His confidence assured him that within seconds he would hit the floor, roll over and come up, the gun in his hand again. Even when the interfering bastard came down heavily, his knee pinning Karl to the floor, that was something he could deal with. His mind was instantly assessing weights and angles and forces, his muscles tensing – then, from the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach down and take the gun and he felt something lurch inside his body. It was Walter, the piece of crap that he’d gone there to flush, it was his fingers taking control of the gun. Karl knew there was nothing he could do in those next few seconds that could stop that gun punching a hole in his head. And for those seconds, even as his body heaved against the weight of the bastard who butted in, he accepted that he was about to die and it drained his mind of thought. Then he saw the interfering bastard’s hand take the gun away from Walter, easily pulling the weapon from his fingers, and his fear gave way to rage.
Where the fuck are you?
By now, Robbie’s shotgun should have sorted this out. The interfering bastard should be jam on the floor. And Walter – soon as Walter reached for the gun, his blood should have been decorating the walls.
Where the fuck?
Pulling Karl to his feet, the interfering bastard jerking his arm up behind his back. Unsteady on his feet, the pain didn’t matter – the humiliation fuelled Karl’s rage.
‘Let him go!’
Robbie, goddamn retard, holding the shotgun like he was afraid it was going to explode in his hands.
‘It’s over, okay, just take it easy!’
Guy from behind the bar, he was trying to make it all go away.
Fucked up. It’s done. Over.
For now.
Then the one who was holding Karl, the interfering bastard, was telling Robbie not to be stupid and the interfering bastard took Karl’s helmet off and he was pushing him towards the door and the whole thing was almost finished, and Robbie the retard went so far down the stupidity scale they didn’t have a number for it.
‘Come on, Karl, come on!’
No names.
First principles in a job like this – no matter what happens you don’t use names.
Stupid bastard.
Karl was pounding the whore, her face pushed hard into the pillow, his fingers gripping her hips, his thrusts making the bed shake. She made gasping, moaning noises, as though she was contractually obligated, and after a while Karl remembered he’d had her before. He closed his eyes. He was thinking of the receptionist.
When they’d got clear of this evening’s operation, Karl didn’t say anything to Robbie about the fuck-up. No point.
‘Karl, I’m sorry—’
Robbie Nugent was a good kid – they’d known each other since primary school, and it was Karl who’d recommended him to Lar Mackendrick. Maybe a mistake. This was Karl’s big chance – maybe, when Lar Mackendrick asked if he knew another guy who could handle himself, maybe he should have nominated someone harder. But Robbie was a pal – a goddamn retard, but a pal.
Karl swore at the whore, told her to shut up, then he bent forward and made small grunting noises as he came, his lips pressed against her back, her scent filling his lungs.
Once they’d got away from the pub, and Karl had changed clothes at a safe apartment and told Robbie to stay there, he’d taken a taxi the couple of miles into the city centre. There, in a pub dominated by grey and chrome surfaces, with a huge neon flower decorating the wall behind the bar, he found a phone.
‘It didn’t happen.’
‘Why?’
‘A civilian stepped in, threw his weight about.’
‘And?’
‘We cut our losses. The way it went, it was the right thing to do.’
‘And?’
Karl felt his face flush. Something in his voice had told Lar Mackendrick there was more. Screwing up a job was bad enough. Leaving behind the revolver and the shotgun – Jesus. Karl hated the timidity in his voice but he couldn’t do anything about it. ‘We lost the tools.’
Silence from Lar.
Karl said, ‘I’ll explain when we meet.’
Lar said nothing, just clicked off.
Now, in the shabby little hotel, Karl found his jeans on the floor and paid the whore, then told her to fuck off. After dozing for an hour or so he felt hungry, so he got up and got dressed and went downstairs. There was a buck-toothed young Chinky boy behind the counter in reception. Karl found a pub, had a beer and a sandwich and when he was done he went home.
*
Sergeant Wyndham could hear laughter in the background. It sounded like there was a dinner party at the Chief Superintendent’s home. The Chief Super said, ‘You don’t think it’s connected, then?’
Four gang members dead in less than two weeks, all public executions. Tit gets his head punctured, so Tat gets his balls blown off. None of the murders happened in the Glencara area. If this thing at Novak’s pub was connected, it could mean the feud was spreading out from the inner city.
‘Doesn’t look like it. We have a first name – Walter – we’ll trace him. Middle-aged man, local, doesn’t sound like any kind of a major player.’
‘Personal, then?’
‘We’ll probably find out he groped someone’s kid, or maybe he took someone’s parking space.’
The Chief Super sounded relieved. ‘Maybe it’s over, then. Two dead on each side. Could be they’re getting war-weary.’
‘Could be.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘Hope for the best, expect the worst.’
‘Say a prayer.’
When Danny Callaghan slipped between the cold sheets and lay down he smelled his own sweat from the pillow. He hadn’t taken anything to the launderette for a couple of weeks. He hadn’t had a woman back here for over a month. It took a moment to cast the pillow aside and find a spare blanket to roll up to serve as a pillow.
That’s how it happens – one moment—
When he decided the thoughts were too strong to suppress, he turned on his back and stared at the ceiling.
One slip.
Maybe, instead of taking him down, the bar stool glances off the gunman’s shoulder and the guy – Karl – he stays on his feet, holds onto the gun and Callaghan takes a bullet in the chest, then one in the head as he lies on the floor of Novak’s pub.
Or the gunman’s minder wasn’t so sluggish, he moves in quickly, pulls the trigger when the shotgun is a foot from Callaghan’s head.
All over.
And since Callaghan is 32, that’s maybe fifty years of life flushed down the pan in an instant.
Fucking idiot.
It should be a big thing, dying. It should come with some warning, a little time to take a breath, to recognise the significance of the moment. It should be about something more than a loser like Walter Bennett.
In the decade since Danny Callaghan had killed a man, there hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t thought about it. Remorse rubbed shoulders with anxiety about the probability of retribution. When he saw the helmeted man come into the Blue Parrot, a gun in his hand—
Callaghan kicked the blanket off and let the air chill his body. The cold was an efficient distraction. Out on the street, three floors down, someone was cursing someone else. Callaghan listened, letting the sounds draw his mind away from tonight’s foolishness. The male voice was repeating ‘Always!’ over and over. The yelling stopped and the object of derision made a crying sound. The voices continued for a while, alternately harsh and mewing, fading into the distance.
Callaghan picked up his Nokia from the bedside table. He opened the contacts list and scrolled down through the names. He stopped and stared at Hannah’s name. His thumb caressed the centre button in a random pattern. When the light on the screen dimmed he put the phone away. After a while, he pulled the blanket up and rolled over, waiting for the heat to build up inside the cocoon.
His hand was resting on the pillow, inches in front of his face. In the dim light from the window he stared at his fingers and imagined them now, if things had gone the other way. Right now, he’d be lying on the floor of Novak’s pub, blood pooled beneath his body. A policeman, maybe a doctor, staring down at something that used to be Callaghan. His hand not a hand, just cooling flesh, with no more life than an empty glove.
Callaghan flexed his fingers.
He closed his eyes and when the first wisps of sleep began to fog his mind, he welcomed them and let himself slip away. He woke to the distant sound of music and laughter. Still dark, the noise coming from another apartment. He looked at his watch – not yet midnight. Hunger pangs reminded him he hadn’t eaten, but he shied away from the thought of getting dressed and going out. After a minute, he rolled off the bed, went into the toilet nook and emptied his bladder. Then he stood by the bedroom window and looked out across the green in front of the Hive. He could see flames from the hollow where the neighbourhood kids were drinking, maybe ten or twelve of them. One of them was dancing around the fire, his arms waving, his body swaying.
The little prick should have been here by now if he’d done what he was told. Detective Garda Templeton-Smith glanced at the door of the pub, then back to the coffee on the bar in front of him. Usually Walter was sensible enough, but the panic Templeton-Smith heard in his voice might have driven him into some little bolt-hole where he could curl up.
‘Freaking out won’t help. Calm down.’
‘Two of them, two of them! With guns! Jesus!’
It took a while before Garda Templeton-Smith got the story of the two assassins and how the gun didn’t fire first time and then it did but the guy missed and how Walter used the confusion to make his getaway.
‘What the fuck are you going to do?’
‘Calm down.’
‘Easy for you to say – what are you going to do about making me safe?’
Garda Templeton-Smith named a pub on the south side of the city centre. ‘Go directly there, soon as you hang up. I’ll meet you there.’
Walter’s voice went up a pitch. ‘I’m not going near that shithouse!’
‘Twenty minutes from now, I’ll be at the bar, waiting for you. Take a taxi – shouldn’t take you much longer.’
‘You people going to put me somewhere, keep me safe?’
‘We’ll talk.’
‘I’ll need stuff. I can’t just—’
‘Don’t go home – go straight to the pub.’
‘I’ll be there.’
That was ninety minutes ago. Still no sign of Walter.
The pub walls were lined with sporting memorabilia. Not just programmes and photographs but jerseys and signed balls, an oil painting of a cup-winning team, a large photograph of the pub owner with his arms around the shoulders of two grinning sports heroes. The pub was fairly busy, mostly men. Garda Templeton-Smith went through two Ballygowans before he switched to coffee.
There was always a possibility that the people who wanted to kill Walter had come upon him by chance on his way to the pub. Unlikely, if he did what he was told. Walter would be next to invisible travelling in a taxi. This pub was far removed, in every sense, from Walter’s usual haunts.
The barman was pouring a fill-up when Garda Templeton-Smith saw Walter come in. The policeman said, ‘Pour us a second cup, please.’
Walter waited until the barman had finished and moved away. ‘This is where the queers drink.’
‘Soon as you walked in the door, you set their pulses racing.’
‘Fuck off. I don’t drink in places like this.’
Garda Templeton-Smith took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘Did you have any warning?’
‘I told you, they just came into the pub waving cannons.’
‘No one said anything to you over the past few days? Nothing to make you wonder? Anyone act strange – maybe someone shut up as soon as you came into the room, that kind of thing?’
Walter was staring at two men further down the bar, their heads together, their voices low. He said, ‘Nothing like that.’
‘You piss anyone off – take something, maybe grope someone’s missus?’
Walter said, ‘That’s not me.’
‘You into anything where you might hold back someone’s share?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
Garda Templeton-Smith took Walter through the attempted killing, move by move.
‘You sure you didn’t see any faces, no names?’
Walter shook his head.
‘It’s best you move on, so.’
‘What the fuck do you mean?’
‘It’s not safe for you, this city. Someone knows you’ve been yapping to me, probably. Probably you’ve been careless.’
‘And that’s all you can say – jack it all in, leave Dublin?’
‘Or stay, take a chance – your choice.’
‘What are – you’ve got witness protection, you’ve got places—’
‘You’re not a witness, Walter, you’re a tout. And now that you’ve been blown you’re an ex-tout.’
‘Fuck that.’
Templeton-Smith smiled. ‘You play this the wrong way, you’re a dead tout.’
Walter’s expression flickered between anger and panic. ‘I can’t go home, I need somewhere.’
Templeton-Smith took an envelope from an inner pocket. He gave it to Walter, who looked inside and then slapped the envelope against the bar. ‘That’s less than – Jesus, in this town, that wouldn’t buy me a good meal. How am I supposed to survive?’
‘We don’t do pensions.’
One of the two men further down the bar turned and looked their way. Walter stared until the man turned back.
‘How can I move – where can I go?’
‘You’ll get by, Walter. You’re a practical kind of guy.’
Walter made a contemptuous noise. ‘Word gets around – people hear how you treat people who work for you—’
‘You’re threatening me now, Walter?’
‘I’m just saying.’
Garda Templeton-Smith nodded. He leaned closer. ‘We get into a pissing match, Walter, who do you think’s going to get wet?’
Walter just sat there.
Touts have a short-term view of life. They sign up because they’re looking for a quick way out of trouble – like Walter had been when Templeton-Smith caught him driving a BMW X3 he’d just stolen to order for a northside outfit.
‘No way – no way,’ Walter said when Templeton-Smith first made him the offer.
‘Your choice,’ Templeton-Smith told him. ‘Judges identify with people who get their BMWs stolen. This isn’t a month or two sitting on your arse while the screws prepare breakfast. Three years, minimum, at a guess. You got three years to spare, Walter?’
It took ten minutes. Walter said the people who commissioned him to do the BMW X3 were off-limits, and that was fair enough. ‘And I won’t give evidence against anyone,’ which was as much as could be expected.
Garda Templeton-Smith gave him a pass on the BMW and Walter began dropping titbits. Disappointing stuff so far, but he might have coughed up some more useful information in the long run. Should have lasted more than seven weeks, but those were the breaks.
Who?
Someone in the station, probably. Over the seven weeks, Templeton-Smith met Walter just once, in a pub. He’d rung the tout once a week. Should have been safe enough, but there was no telling. Someone saw or heard something, yapped about it. It happened.
Walter tapped the envelope. ‘You can afford more than that. Please.’
‘I have to go.’ As Garda Templeton-Smith stood up he put a tenner on the counter. ‘You stay, have a drink on me.’
Walter shook his head. He picked up the money. ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking in a place like this.’
‘Fair enough, you’ve got standards.’
Walter gave it one last try. ‘Look, Jesus, there’s got to be more you can do – if not more money, somewhere to go—’
‘I’m a policeman, Walter, not your guardian angel.’
‘You don’t care, do you? You don’t care what happens to me.’
Garda Templeton-Smith thought for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Don’t give a fuck.’
The kettle plugged in, switched on, Danny Callaghan took down his mug and reached for a spoon, his hand knocking against something. When the jar of instant coffee hit the floor, Callaghan barked an obscenity.
Great start to the day.
After he’d cleaned up the coffee and the broken glass, he did the washing-up – the glass from which he’d drunk his orange juice, the bowl from which he’d eaten his microwaved porridge. He put them in the cupboard with the coffee mug he hadn’t used. One bowl, one glass, one mug – and, in the cabinet, one plate – all bought at Tesco the day he moved in. He washed the two spoons he’d used. Part habit from prison, part the urge to keep things simple. Clean as you go, that way a little place like this stays liveable.
Callaghan set out for the local shopping centre. He passed a petrol station and shop that used to serve as a neighbourhood convenience store. It had already closed down, bought by a developer, when Callaghan moved into his flat. The intention was to build another apartment block, with retail units on the ground floor, but the developer killed the project when the property market collapsed. Now there was no local shop and there wouldn’t be one while the developer awaited a new property boom. Meanwhile, the garage had become an eyesore, the pumps vandalised, the abandoned car wash a haven for teenage lovers in search of ten minutes of frantic privacy.
It took Callaghan twenty minutes to reach the shopping centre. He bought two newspapers, then he went to the coffee shop and took a black coffee to a seat by the window. This time of morning the shopping centre had yet to come fully to life. Mostly old people and young women with buggies.
One bowl, one glass, one mug in his kitchen. In the seven months he’d been out his life had remained small, bare, cramped, not much in it beyond the things that met his immediate needs. Living within a prison routine for eight years, it never occurred to him that life outside might contract into a routine just as narrow.
He’d had a general intention, when freedom came, to return to some variant of the business he’d set up before he went inside – interior fittings for kitchens, apartments and shops. Throughout his sentence, the country had been full of chatter about opportunity. Once he got out, he recognised that he simply didn’t have the interest in the constant planning and assessing involved in running a business.
‘Take control,’ Novak told him. ‘If you’re not in control of your life, someone else will be.’ Which was when Novak offered him the driving job. ‘Until you pull things together.’
The driving ate up hours, the routines of sleep and food and drinking slotted into the spaces around the work. Much of the rest of the time just seemed to evaporate. There were times, here at the coffee shop, when he’d be staring at something innocuous – an old man leaning on his cane, a dog waiting outside the shop for its owner to return – and he’d take a sip of coffee and find the remnants had gone cold. He couldn’t tell if ten minutes or an hour had passed.
Two Asian waitresses, barely out of their teens, were cleaning nearby tables. During Callaghan’s eight years inside, a lot of things had changed. All the talk was of money, opportunities and the nervous prosperity. And it was like every hotel, pub and café and most of the shops had become a mini-United Nations, staffed by Asians, Africans or Eastern Europeans. Despite the low pay, the loneliness and the racial insults, they seemed to burn with a sense of purpose. Watching the girls, Callaghan tried to imagine them making their way across the world, each probably alone, determined to survive and prosper. He envied their passion.
His mobile rang.
‘You okay?’
‘Fine.’
Novak said, ‘I called last night.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Must have had your phone off. You haven’t forgotten you’ve got a pick-up this morning?’
The silence said that Callaghan had forgotten.
Novak said, ‘I can get someone else – it’s not a problem.’
‘No, it just – it slipped my mind. You know how that goes.’
‘Fine.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘The airport, two people – take them to Northern Cross, the Hilton. Then on to the financial centre. They’re due in mid-morning, wait a minute—’ Novak checked a sheet of paper and said ‘—eleven-forty. Aer Lingus flight from London. They’ve got a working lunch with the people picking up the tab for this. Then – whatever. Their schedule’s a movable feast.’
‘Until?’
‘Whenever. Today, tomorrow morning, depends how today goes. You have a pen there?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Rowe and Warner – R-O-W-E.’
Novak gave him a flight number, then waited a few moments before he said, ‘The police been around?’
‘No.’
‘Most likely someone will give them your name.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Will you be dropping by tonight?’
‘Depends what time these people finish their business. Probably not.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘Yeah.’
It was mid-morning when Karl Prowse woke. He could hear his wife making baby talk with the kids, down in the kitchen. When he came down he kissed her, then kissed the baby attached to her right tit.
‘You working late tonight?’
Karl poured a coffee. ‘Depends. You know how it is.’
Sitting on the floor in a corner, the two-year-old was complaining about something, so Karl put his coffee down and spent a few minutes hunched down with her, playing ‘A Sailor Went to Sea-Sea-Sea’ until she started laughing. He went to the local Centra for the Sun and the Mirror, but there was nothing about the shooting.
Karl was upstairs, texting a friend about a cancelled trip to Amsterdam, when his phone rang.
‘Outside, now,’ and the call ended.
He went to the window and moved the curtain enough to see down into the street, where a green Isuzu was parked across from his house, Lar Mackendrick’s shape recognisable behind the wheel.
Danny Callaghan drove his Hyundai to Novak’s garage off the North Strand, parked it and picked up the VW Tuareg he’d use for his driving job. He spent a couple of minutes checking it out. It was clean, a full tank, everything in order. He adjusted the driver’s seat, then spent a minute tweaking the side mirrors. He popped a mint into his mouth and started the car. The morning traffic was heavy as usual, but he allowed for that. At the airport, he took a rectangle of white cardboard from the boot, used a black marker pen to write the names Rowe and Warner in neat block letters and went to stand in Arrivals.
Rowe had long fair hair in a ponytail. Jeans and a white waistcoat over a light blue T-shirt. Warner wore a dark suit and a white shirt, but no tie. Their only luggage was one overnight bag each. On the way to the hotel the one with the ponytail asked Callaghan what he knew about the nightlife.
‘There’s a place or two.’
‘Maybe we’ll have time later – you can show us around?’
‘My pleasure.’
It was going to be a late night, then.
Traffic was light enough on the short drive to the Hilton at Northern Cross. After a brief stop at the hotel, the two gave Callaghan an address in the financial centre. From their conversation, it seemed that Rowe and Warner had something to do with marketing. Apparently some outfit had called them in to try to rescue a new product that was failing to take off. At first, Callaghan thought the product was some kind of food, then Rowe said something that made it sound like a range of clothes. Warner was doubtful that the project was doable, given that the client had spent five years making a balls of securing his customer base. It sounded to Callaghan like maybe he was talking about financial products. When they got to where they were going, the small black lettering on the wide glass door said the company was called 257 Solutions.