To Keep a Bird Singing

by Kevin Doyle

  ‘My aunt rented those sheds to this man for years. For pittance. Don’t know what the connection was. When the sheds came my way I said I was putting up the rent. Not by much now, I’m not greedy. I was making it more reasonable, that was all. I had unbelievable trouble even getting this man to respond to me.’ Ajax frowned. ‘Anyway, the rent fell due. Last month this is. But not so much as an extra cent from his nibs. I went this way and that way about it. Met him finally, the once only. He came here. He claimed he had an arrangement with my aunt. High-handed about it, he was. But no paperwork. Not a single line to prove anything. Wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t pay the extra either.’

  ‘So you …?’

  ‘I cleared one shed. Just one – I’m not unreasonable. I moved his stuff into the other two sheds. Most everything’s in there. The few things I couldn’t fit in I decided to pass on to herself on Castle Street. Move him along like.’ Noelie frowned but Ajax was adamant. ‘Look, this fellow has money. He’s not short.’

  ‘So this man, this sheds guy, he’s the one that had my records?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Ajax shook his head. ‘Not so fast, boyo.’

  ‘Look, I already told you, I’m just curious.’

  ‘No deal.’

  Noelie got up from patting the dog. ‘Okay so. But this man, he look like an old punk to you?’

  Ajax guffawed. ‘The opposite. This man’s in security, the top end. Did the yachting regatta last year, the one that all the la-di-das were at. That’s what I mean like. He has money this man.’

  At an internet cafe Noelie googled the regatta and found the name he was looking for in the credits: Cronin Security Group, proprietor Don Cronin. A further search uncovered an address in Montenotte. Noelie knew the area. It was on the northside of the city, along one of the many hills that bordered the Lee Valley. At one time the area was the preserve of Cork’s grandees – big-house territory with large gardens to match. But in time and with the various changes that came to the city, the majority of its spacious lots were chopped up and sold off in portions to developers. Montenotte was no longer exclusive but it was still on the right side of desirable.

  Grant Lane was tucked away in a quiet corner. A cul-de-sac, it snaked its way downhill until it met one of Cork’s many sheer red-stone cliff faces. Noelie didn’t fancy the narrow lane so he left his Astra up on the main road. Cronin’s place was the last house down the lane and unlike its neighbours, a new build. A sign warned of a snarling Alsatian guard dog.

  The gate was open and he went through. A silver Mercedes was parked in the drive. Noelie pushed the doorbell and heard a sing-song chime. A medium build of a man in his late fifties answered. He was tanned, in a Marbella sort of way. Either he loved golfwear or he had just come from eighteen holes. Unlikely to be an old punk, decided Noelie.

  ‘Yes?’

  Noelie put his hand out. ‘Don Cronin?’

  The man looked at Noelie’s hand and didn’t reciprocate. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Noelie Sullivan. I was wondering the same. The Arcadia Ballroom, The Stranglers, The Slits, The Damned – any of that lot ring any bells?’

  Cronin looked perplexed, and a touch bemused. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Noelie withdrew his hand. ‘It’s like this. You used to own some punk rock records. A decent collection. Crass, Nun Attax, The Clash and the like. A few first issues as well. Was wondering how you came by them?’

  Cronin’s expression remained bewildered so Noelie continued. ‘Up in Dillon’s Cross there. You’ve been renting some lock-ups, I’m told. You had stuff in them in storage, including my old record collection. So, to cut a long story short, I was wondering how you came by them, my records like?’

  The confusion on Cronin’s face vanished. ‘How did you get my address?’

  ‘Does it matter? See the records were robbed from my flat. I’m talking 1984 here … A long time ago, admittedly. But a crime is a crime, right?’

  The silence grew long and Noelie understood that a connection had been made. He watched Cronin scratch his head.

  ‘Wait a moment, I need to make a call,’ he said and turned to go down the hall but then changed his mind. He smiled at Noelie. ‘Look, come in.’

  Noelie hesitated but Cronin insisted. He stepped into the hall. ‘Make your call, I’ll wait here.’

  Cronin had the phone to his ear. He turned to check that Noelie was still there and then walked out of view. In a nearby room, Noelie saw a large marble fireplace with tall stand-alone vases on either side of it.

  Cronin returned.

  ‘Got it now?’

  ‘There’s been a mistake. I’m very sorry about this. Noel O’Sullivan, you said?’

  ‘No ‘O’. Just Sullivan.’

  ‘Actually, it does seem likely that you’re talking about my property. I’ve been having some difficulty with a landlord. I do own some LPs.’ He paused. ‘You think some of them are yours?’

  ‘There’s no thinking about it.’

  Cronin smiled. ‘But we can sort this out, right? If it’s a matter of money?’

  ‘It’s not.’

  Cronin looked past Noelie and attempted to shepherd him down the hall. ‘Tea, coffee? A beer? Look, come in.’

  Sudden wild barking outside made up Noelie’s mind for him. ‘Another time,’ he said. He was out the door and through the gate before Cronin could stop him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ called Cronin.

  Noelie walked quickly up the steep lane. At the first bend, he saw a white Audi approaching at speed. He turned back. He was lucky that a lot of the houses round there were enclosed by walls or high hedges. The first gate he tried was locked but the next along opened. Inside was a large house. A mature garden sloped away on one side. Noelie heard the Audi outside. It stopped. Car doors opened. He heard men’s voices and a dog barking. Noelie made his way to a large rhododendron and ducked under its canopy; he stood in deep shade.

  A moment later the gate opened. Two men entered with a dog on a leash. A frail voice called out, ‘I’m ringing the police.’ Noelie spied an elderly lady at the door of the house. She brandished a mobile phone.

  The visitors were courteous. They explained that they were with Mr Cronin. Her neighbour, they emphasised. There had been a burglary attempt at his place and they were looking for the intruder. A standoff ensued. Unfortunately the dog got excited. It had picked up Noelie’s scent.

  ‘I’m talking to them now,’ called the woman shrilly.

  The men opted to leave, dragging the dog behind them.

  Noelie remained hidden. What was going on, he wondered, and why had Cronin’s overreacted? Eventually, he went as far as the gate and looked out. There was no one around but there was no knowing what was around the next bend either. He decided not to take the risk. Heading down the garden, he stayed out of view. It was a beautiful property, one of the old, undivided domains. Two monkey puzzle trees stood at the bottom.

  Reaching a low wall, he climbed it and entered another garden. This was smaller and there didn’t seem to be anyone around. He waited a moment and then walked out the front gate like he had been visiting for afternoon tea. An hour later he was back home.

  3

  Noelie had the upstairs flat at 78b Douglas Street. It had been his home for nearly twelve years, since his return from New York in ’98. There was a decent-sized bedroom, a large sitting room with a kitchenette to one side and a small bathroom. He had made it cosy, fitting a better kitchen and repainting it fully. An entire wall was dedicated to bookshelves, very overstocked.

  Ani DiFranco was playing when the downstairs front-door bell sounded. Noelie was expecting a visit and figured it would be either Cronin or his goons. In the event of trouble his plan was to exit by a landing window outside his flat door. But it was only Ajax.

  Noelie lifted the sash. ‘What’s up?’

  Ajax was spitting. ‘You’ve fucked up, that’s what’s up. Open the door.’<
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  Noelie took the precaution of putting his father’s old poker under a newspaper by the sofa and went to open the door. Ajax barged through, fuming. ‘Even at my age I’m still surprised at how stupid some people are.’

  Checking there was no one else outside Noelie followed his visitor upstairs. He guided Ajax to his best armchair and asked if he wanted tea.

  ‘Fuck tea. What’s with you? Do you have any sense?’

  Noelie was bemused. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’s gone apeshit, that’s what’s up. You don’t realise who he is, do you?’

  ‘Cronin Security.’

  ‘You fuckwit. A couple of hours after your visit, he’s out to me. Wouldn’t give me the time of day before that. Now suddenly he’s sitting in my kitchen. There’s cash on the table for everything he owes me, plus two more years in advance at my new rate.’

  ‘You’re laughing so.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’ Ajax half stood. ‘If I was a few years younger I’d break your fuckin’ front teeth.’

  Noelie wrinkled his forehead. He didn’t mind Ajax letting off steam but dangerous talk could get out of hand.

  ‘I shouldn’t have got rid of those records. It was a mistake. A rash act. I need them back.’

  Noelie shook his head. He filled the kettle and clicked it on.

  ‘I’m not asking, Noel or Noelie or whatever it is you’re called, I’m telling you.’

  Noelie spoke slowly. ‘First thing, they’re not your records, they’re mine. You off-loaded them to Mrs MacCarthaigh and I purchased them from her. Second, the records were mine in the first place, from way back. Like I said, there’s even a garda report.’

  Ajax stood. Placing a hand on his bad leg, he winced and approached Noelie. ‘Cronin called me again just now. Asked if I had the records back yet. I said I was planning on calling to see you. A few minutes later, two cunts arrive out to me in a fuckin’ Land Cruiser no less. Walk right in the back door and stand looking. The younger one’s holding a crowbar. Didn’t scare me but scared the life out of the missus. Understand now what we’re dealing with. I have until midnight.’

  Noelie figured that Ajax was telling the truth; he certainly looked bothered. But what was up? Why did Cronin want the records back?

  ‘Play along please. Hand over the records. I’ll even pay you.’

  ‘You’re not curious?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I just want the records back. How much?’

  Noelie wandered over to the front window and looked out. There was no one down on the road other than his neighbour from across the way. She had her digital camera out and was snapping the regs of a few parked cars. She was in a one-woman war with City Hall over disputed disability parking rights.

  ‘Well, how much?’ pressed Ajax.

  ‘Make me an offer.’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  Noelie guffawed.

  ‘You cunt.’

  ‘My dear man, those records are valuable. Some are first issues. A few are even signed. There’s an actual Nun Attax EP in that lot. Can’t be got nowadays, not for any amount of money.’

  ‘You tell me then.’

  ‘Two grand. But that price is a favour to you. If I went on eBay …’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Deal?’ repeated Noelie alarmed. ‘Serious, you’d pay me that much?’

  ‘I don’t have it on me but I can be back in an hour with the full amount.’ He limped over to Noelie with his hand outstretched. ‘Deal?’

  Noelie shook his head reluctantly. ‘Actually no, I was codding. I’m not interested. I told you the records are of sentimental value.’

  Ajax didn’t appear to hear what Noelie said. ‘I need to see them, okay, if I’m to shell out so much.’ He went over to Noelie’s CD collection. He looked around and under the counter. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Did you hear me? I’m not selling.’

  Suddenly Ajax lunged towards the bedroom door but Noelie got there ahead of him. ‘Out of bounds, if you don’t mind.’

  Ajax tried to push through but Noelie easily held him off. The older man glared. He pointed at a framed poster on the wall. It was given to Noelie by an ex, a long time back. The subject was an elderly woman clouting a fascist skinhead with her handbag. The text was in Swedish but the graphic underneath was unmistakable: it showed a clenched fist shattering a swastika.

  ‘What are you anyway? Some sort of nut?’

  ‘You telling or asking?’

  Ajax cursed again. Noelie shepherded him towards the armchair but he wouldn’t sit.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Noelie. ‘I’m curious, I really am. You tell Cronin I’ll speak to him. Tell him I’ll meet him somewhere in public. I’ll deal with him and that’ll take you out of the picture. Okay?’

  ‘That’s not okay.’ Ajax went over to the flat door. ‘You thick fuck, you’ll learn.’

  4

  What did Noelie mean, sentimental value? Why did he even say that? It had little enough to do with anything sentimental. It was seeing the records again, realising that the collection was intact. That was odd for sure, and after all this time too. But there was something else. The break-in hadn’t been straightforward. Noelie’s records disappeared along with some other items – an antique clock and some money. At the time Noelie had been involved in a campaign opposing the visit to Ireland of US president, Ronald Reagan. There had been a plan to disrupt Reagan’s walkabout in Ballyporeen where his great-grandfather hailed from. Following the break-in the protest never took place.

  Sleeping lightly, hovering in the middle world between flight and rest, Noelie was alert to every noise. It was still dark when he opened his eyes. An alien blue light bathed the ceiling. At the window he saw a squad car below on Douglas Street. He heard voices next, his downstairs neighbour Martin’s among them. Boots plodded up the stairs. Noelie’s flat door suffered some hefty blows. He opened up to two uniformed cops, both bulked out in stab vests. The younger one, hand on truncheon, looked confidently at the ready.

  ‘Noel Sullivan?’ the older garda asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘You’re under arrest.’

  Noelie didn’t move; he shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘An assault earlier tonight near Blackpool Credit Union.’

  ‘I’ve been here the entire evening.’

  ‘Well, you’re coming with us now.’

  Noelie still didn’t move. The younger cop advanced and poked him roughly with the truncheon. ‘Now, get dressed.’

  They observed him while he put on clothes. Downstairs, as they were leaving, Martin called out generously, ‘I’ve got their badge numbers.’

  Noelie was stuffed into the back of the squad car. The vehicle smelled foul. It also brought back some very unhappy memories.

  He was taken to the main garda station in the city, Anglesea Street, and was put in a room with two chairs, a table and a recording contraption on the wall. He declined tea and was left there. There was a single window and below it a long slicing mark that looked like smeared shit.

  A detective finally arrived. He had light red hair and red eyebrows, as well as a generally red complexion. Thirty-five maybe. He placed a photograph on the table between them; a family snap job.

  ‘Know him?’

  ‘Ajax Dineen.’

  The detective pulled out another picture, a cheap digital printout. It showed a face caked with blood, eyes battered and woefully swollen.

  ‘Know him?’

  Noelie drew back in shock.

  ‘Same man,’ said the detective. ‘First picture his wife loaned us, the second picture was taken a few hours ago up at University Hospital. He’s barely able to speak.’

  Noelie picked up the printout and examined it. Could be a forgery but he doubted it. Anyway, what would be the point? It certainly looked like Ajax.

  ‘According to his wife you did this.’

  Noelie shook his head. ‘Not me.’ He met the detective’s stare.
‘I mean it, not me. I wouldn’t do something like that even if I had something against him, which I don’t.’

  ‘She claims you were bothering him earlier, that you took some things belonging to him and wouldn’t give them back.’

  Noelie saw no reason not to explain. He told him about finding the records in the charity shop, and then about Ajax and the lock-ups. He mentioned visiting Don Cronin but didn’t elaborate on how that had gone.

  The detective wrote everything down. When he finished he asked about the lock-ups. What did Noelie know about them?

  ‘Nothing. Mr Dineen there, he was the one who mentioned them.’

  ‘Know where they are?’

  Noelie shrugged. ‘Dillon’s Cross, around there.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  Noelie shook his head. The detective sized him up. He stood and picked up his notebook.

  ‘You have a name, by the way?’ asked Noelie. ‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?’

  ‘Barry.’

  ‘First or second name?’

  Noelie didn’t get an answer. The detective left and he waited another long while. The pictures remained on the table and he examined them again. The bludgeon job looked real, too real. Over records? Noelie couldn’t believe that. For one, Cronin had trouble remembering them. He wasn’t playing them too often either, stored in those lock-ups.

  So was Cronin just teaching Ajax a lesson? Because he had acted the mick, moving Cronin’s gear from the lock-ups – that was brazen. Noelie recalled something else though, that comment: Do you know who he is? So who was Cronin when he wasn’t being top dog in Cronin Security Group?

  He tried the door but it was locked. He rattled the handle and shouted a few times but no one came. Eventually he kicked the door but that had no effect either. He returned to his seat and waited. Resting his head in his arms he must’ve dozed because when he woke it was with a start. The interrogation room door opened.

  Detective Barry spoke to someone in the corridor and then moved aside to allow a second officer to enter. This older man wore a lighter-coloured uniform reserved for senior officers; there were red epaulettes on his shoulders. It was over twenty-five years since their last encounter but Noelie recognised him straight away.