To Keep a Bird Singing

by Kevin Doyle

  Denis Lynch still sported the same Saddam Hussein-style moustache. He was jowlier about the face and had put on weight. Clearly, he had been promoted a few times since their previous encounter. Noelie’s old adversary would be in his mid-fifties now.

  ‘Like old times,’ said Lynch, affably putting his hand out.

  Noelie looked away. Lynch didn’t react. The smile left his face though. He nodded to the detective to leave.

  Noelie had seen Lynch’s name a few times in the intervening years. Mostly in relation to drug finds. More recently Lynch had been in the newspaper to do with a community initiative on the southside of Cork. The photograph accompanying the article showed Lynch in the company of a few of the city’s councillors, including a prominent member of Sinn Féin. Considering Lynch’s reputation for ill-treating republicans during the Troubles, it was something of a treasure shot.

  Lynch sat down. He looked at Noelie. ‘You’ve a long memory.’

  ‘Ever wonder why?’

  ‘That’s in the past now.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Noelie. ‘In the meantime you’ve been promoted. Got the stripes, I see. Whereas a mere insect like me, I’d be better off forgetting, right? Who the fuck cares anyway?’

  Lynch reached across the table and retrieved the digital print of Dineen. He looked at it. ‘You’ve had a run-in with someone of interest to me. Don Cronin. I’d appreciate your help.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You said there were lock-ups.’

  ‘Can’t remember now.’

  Lynch held Noelie’s gaze. ‘I don’t want to get offside. I’m guessing this has nothing to do with you. I’m guessing you’re stuck in the middle of something else entirely. And I don’t particularly care what that is. But Cronin I’m interested in. You ever heard of the Hennigans, the drug family? On the southside? He’s close to them.’

  ‘I stay clear of those types.’

  ‘Not for long more, I’d say.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Lynch nodded to the photos.

  ‘I’ve a set of punk rock records. Why would they be of interest to the Hennigans?’

  ‘Tell that to Mr Dineen.’ Lynch leaned into the table. ‘Where are the records now?’

  ‘Why? You’re interested in punk too, is it?’ Noelie paused. ‘What do you want with my records?’

  ‘There’s an ongoing investigation. In other words, until I say different, everything, and I mean everything, to do with Cronin is relevant. Including your records – is that clear?’

  Noelie didn’t reply.

  Lynch was more conciliatory. ‘Look, let me have one look at them. If they are what you say they are, then you can have them back right away. It’s no big deal surely?’

  Noelie smiled. ‘Normally I’d agree. In fact I’d be happy to help, being an upstanding citizen and all. But this isn’t a normal situation. For one, you’re not normal. You’re a fucking sadist and I remember that.’

  ‘I’ll get a warrant.’

  ‘Get a warrant.’

  ‘And maybe, while I’m at your place, I’ll find something else – weed or something more unsavoury.’

  Noelie suddenly banged the table with his fist giving Lynch a fright; the senior cop looked annoyed.

  ‘I know,’ declared Noelie. ‘Get a warrant and when you’re at my place, maybe you’ll find explosives. You’d be the right pig of a hero then, wouldn’t it? Imagine the headlines: “Red Brigade Cell Rumbled”. Underneath, a picture of yourself and the byline “Our Intrepid Hero Saves the Day Again”.’

  Lynch said nothing. They stared at each other. Eventually Lynch pushed his chair back and stood. He wrote a number on the side of the digital print.

  ‘In case you change your mind.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

  ‘Never say never, Noelie.’

  ‘Oink, oink.’

  5

  Noelie took a taxi to his sister’s. Ellen lived in Bellevue Park, a quiet area on another of Cork’s numerous hills. Noelie liked the red-brick three-storey house. It had character, large rooms and gardens at the back and front. Ellen had done well for herself. While Noelie was in college doing a chemistry degree, Ellen had gone into retail and eventually started her own business. Her first venture was a tiny boutique selling hats and scarves. This was in the mid-eighties and there was a recession then too; the business went bust. Design college followed, part-time, and after that, following a spell in France, she tried again. This time it was ethnic clothes and she was successful.

  A husband followed. Coincidentally, Arthur was also a chemistry graduate. After working for a few years, he went to business school and was later head-hunted to the pharmaceutical operation L&G Health where he had since been promoted a few times. Now Arthur travelled a good deal, mainly within the EU, and was an expert of some sort on quality and regulation law.

  Noelie and Arthur didn’t get on. They were different in outlook and temperament, and had argued one too many times at the Christmas dinner table and other family events. Bush’s Iraq war, the Celtic Tiger when it roared, even global warming divided them. Noelie’s erratic career hadn’t helped. He had abandoned his PhD in ’85 and moved to the States where he worked mainly on the lab bench for the next thirteen years. After a messy, difficult breakup with a woman he had spent almost eight years with, he had returned to Ireland in ’98 and found work almost immediately. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Made redundant in 2004 after the firm was downsized, he eventually got another position – on a lot less money. That job only lasted until the financial crash in 2008. Now, at forty-nine, he was signing on again and had been for nearly nineteen months.

  ‘Sorry I asked.’

  Ellen shook her head. ‘Look, out of nowhere you arrive here and ask to stay the night. I mean do you realise how early in the day it is? It’s only just past nine. Who turns up at this time of the morning and asks to stay the night. You’re in trouble, right?’

  Noelie watched his sister put her breakfast things in the dishwasher. Arthur had already left for work and normally Ellen opened her boutique for 10 a.m. Not that there was much business now – austerity Ireland had seen to that.

  To change the subject he asked her what she thought of the Ireland Hearse. ‘They’re all on the dole, I bet,’ she replied.

  After Ellen left for work, Noelie wondered what he should do. The obvious option was to go home and he was tempted. At some point he would also have to face Cronin.

  Shane was the only other person in the house. At sixteen he was Ellen and Arthur’s only child. Noelie got on well with him. Music was their connection. Young Shane had his own band and Noelie had been to one of their gigs – there had been only one – at The Old Oak pub. That move had scored the uncle plenty of kudos.

  Shane was easily capable of spending the entire morning in bed – he had finished school for the summer – so Noelie went to rouse him. The teenager had long shaggy hair and bore an unfortunate resemblance to Rory Gallagher, Cork’s renowned electric guitarist. Noelie’s advice was to lose the look and the hair – it was too generic for Cork – but the advice had been ignored.

  Otherwise, Shane was cool. Posters of Nirvana, The Clash, Bombay Bicycle Club and The National were placed around his own Old Oak gig poster. The opposite wall was a hand-painted take-off of Lou Reed’s Berlin album cover. Not a bad attempt either. Dark. Apparently Shane’s dad wasn’t wild about it.

  Noelie called up the stairs to Shane and told him of his good fortune – finding his record collection in the charity shop. He reeled off some bands and record names. Punk was not Shane’s thing but Noelie knew that his generation had plenty of respect for the genre. The Jam, The Clash, The Ramones and New Order were legendary and probably always would be. Also because Noelie had seen many of the bands perform live he had plenty of stories. At one time The Phoenix Bar and The Arcadia Ballroom in Cork were massive venues.

  Being a teenager, Shane felt hungry as soon as he was awake. He came downstairs alm
ost immediately and Noelie enquired about a pot of fresh coffee. Shane obliged. He also put Noelie on the house computer, which was password protected.

  Noelie wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He googled combinations like ‘Hennigans and Cronin’ and ‘Hennigans and Cronin Security Group’ but these searches yielded zilch. He added Lynch’s name only to find out that his old nemesis was now a garda inspector – a high rank indeed.

  He tried the term ‘Brian Boru’ and came up with tons of links to the last High King of Ireland. The majority were mundane articles from Irish history. Others referred to pipe bands and Irish clubs named after the historical figure; most of those were in the US and Australia.

  Shane brought Noelie his coffee and looked at the screen. ‘Wouldn’t have put you down for a Celtic warrior, Uncle Noel,’ he quipped. Noelie allayed his fears and a moment later he heard The Clash’s ‘Spanish Bombs’ blasting out on the house sound system; fine system, too. Shane put his head back round the door.

  ‘That suit you?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  Noelie abandoned his search for the ex-High King and returned to Don Cronin. Almost immediately he found something. Tucked away on an old website was a biog. Apparently Cronin Security Group had escorted a shipment of medical equipment for free to Chechnya in 2003 during the war there – hence the plug on the site. The short biog boasted that ‘Don Cronin was a serving member of An Garda Síochána from 1971 until 1997, spending the majority of his service in Garda Special Branch in Cork …’

  Noelie sat back and said, ‘Well, fuck me.’ An ex-garda then. Not any old ex-garda either, Special Branch. With thirty or more years of service. He thought about this. A one-time Garda Special Branch officer now in bed with the Hennigans – according to the inspector anyway. So, were Lynch’s interests legit? Or was it personal? Or could it be a bit of both? After all, cops hated crooked ex-cops.

  Noelie surfed for a while longer, reading an article about house repossessions and another on Gerry Adams. Apparently Adams was now being feted in Spain, where they were hoping he’d play a role in persuading ETA to go down the peace-process road. The irony of it made Noelie smile – the alleged IRA man now rehabilitated into the role of wise statesman.

  Closing the browser, he went to the kitchen where he found his nephew tucking into a strange breakfast: scrambled eggs, black pudding and sausages all rolled up in a orange tortilla. The teenager could hardly get the wrap in his mouth.

  ‘Looks mega,’ said Noelie.

  Shane shook his head. He regularly reprimanded his uncle for using, as he put it, the lingo of ‘the youth’. Knowing it would wind him up, Noelie did it even more. He said goodbye and received a muffled acknowledgement in return.

  In the back garden a side gate opened on to a private lane that travelled along the side of Holy Family Church. Eventually it joined Military Hill. Noelie stood at the intersection and looked around. Setting off downhill, he was immediately overtaken by a slow-moving silver work van; it pulled in ahead. Warily he crossed the road and, at the bottom of Military Hill, kneeled to tie his laces. He saw that there were three men in the driver’s cabin. They avoided making eye contact.

  St Luke’s Cross was his best option. It was a busy junction and there were a number of exits. He went into O’Keeffes. The corner shop now did a major line in deli foods. Jacob’s was joined on the cracker shelf by Sheridan’s, Carr’s and Miller’s. Plenty of varieties – gluten-free, wholewheat, savoury, paprika. Even GM-free. Noelie waited. Outside, the van appeared and as it did he ducked, left the shop again and ran down the narrow lane immediately outside. Crossing Summer Hill, Noelie made it on to Mahony’s Avenue and kept running. He had just decided that he had lost them when he heard tyres zipping over the corrugated road surface. He looked back and saw the van bearing down on him. A Fiesta came to the rescue. Mahony’s Avenue was narrow and the Fiesta’s driver panicked at the sight of the speeding van. Noelie heard horns blaring and the beginnings of a shouting match – ‘Pull over, pull over …’

  At the next intersection, the traffic was one way. Almost out of breath, Noelie ran counter-flow and into the railway station. Platform 1 was deserted and he walked to where a notice declared ‘End of Platform’. Pedestrians were advised that they should go no further but Noelie hopped over the barrier and continued quickly on to the tracks.

  He hurried into the rail tunnel. There were lights at the entrance but he was quickly surrounded by the dark and the cold. All he could hear was the hollow echo of his footsteps.

  The tunnel was an engineering feat for its day. Opened in 1855, it travelled for five kilometres under a series of hills that stood on the northside of Cork’s Lee Valley, linking the riverside rail station with the flat countryside inland. There were a number of smoke shafts, needed in their day for the coal-powered engines. Between the second and third shafts Noelie recalled that there was an alcove with a shed for tools and for the track workers to rest up in. As a young lad he had been into the tunnel a few times – for the dare and in search of a chase from the workers.

  He found the alcove after a long walk. It was smaller than he remembered and the shed wasn’t much to look at – more a lean-to. But it was dry. Using the dim light from his phone he settled in a corner, glad to rest. By night time it would be safe to move again.

  Bonfire Night

  6

  There was dull yellow light as far as Noelie could see, right down Douglas Street to Frank O’Connor House. Cars were parked nose to tail on one side and he figured that someone could easily be in any of them waiting for him to reappear. After a long day and most of the night in the train tunnel, he didn’t feel like taking any chances.

  Backtracking to Sullivan’s Quay he walked downriver. On Dunbar Street there was a patch of waste ground. He scaled a high wall, crossed three gardens and crouched outside the back window of his neighbour Martin’s flat. It was dark inside. He tapped the window quietly and repeatedly until a crack of light appeared in the curtains. Putting a finger to his lips he warned Martin to be quiet.

  They went into the sitting room. It was warm. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Don’t turn on the lights.’

  ‘Your place has been trashed.’

  Noelie cursed. ‘When?’

  ‘Some time yesterday, I guess in the afternoon, while I was at work. The door was busted in.’

  ‘Anyone there now?’

  ‘Don’t think so. It was quiet all evening and during the night. But this character called. Asked if I knew you or where you were. Big ears on him. Didn’t hang around.’

  Noelie thought about this. ‘Still have the records?’

  Martin went to his bedroom and returned with a cheap canvas suitcase. He unzipped the flap and removed a towel covering the records underneath. Blondie’s album Parallel Lines lay on top.

  ‘Quite the collection.’

  Noelie whispered, ‘Lovingly gathered.’

  He took the records from the suitcase and placed them in stacks on the wooden floor.

  ‘Years ago I had a run-in with this cop. His name is Lynch. He’s still around, an inspector now. Over at Anglesea Street the other night, he turned up. You can imagine my surprise. But guess what? Lynch wanted to see these records too. That’s when I realised, there must be something in them.’

  Martin put on the kettle and Noelie checked that the curtains were drawn. Positioning a lamp on the floor, he examined each LP thoroughly: outer sleeve, inner sleeve and then the record itself. He moved quickly through a stack of twenty and found nothing.

  Martin brought tea and a cheese sandwich. Noelie ate and continued to check the records, explaining how he became entangled with Lynch back in 1984.

  ‘There was this stunt I was in on. The idea was to embarrass Ronald Reagan.’

  Martin was incredulous. ‘Were you out of your tree? A stunt involving a US president. You could’ve been shot.’

  ‘We never got that far.’ Noelie shook his head, thinking about the time and the
madcap plan. ‘We were clueless. We had this black coffin filled with imitation blood. The idea was we’d take it to Ballyporeen and drop it there somewhere in public. Crazy. Anyway the cops got wind of it. My place was broken into. I didn’t put two and two together initially. My records were stolen, that was all that I could think of. Later I realised I had left information in my flat about the Reagan stunt. The day we were due to head to Ballyporeen, I was hauled in by Lynch and his crew. I got a bad hiding.’

  Noelie went quiet. It was the one and only time in his life that he had been physically assaulted and it had been done by the cops. It still made him angry.

  He was nearly two thirds of the way through the collection and beginning to doubt his theory when he felt something bulky. In The Fall’s Live at the Witch Trials he saw an envelope taped to the inside of the cover. He worked it free and a package fell out. Inside was a typed document.

  Statement by Detective Sean Sugrue on the matter of Mr Jim Dalton.

  ‘Cops again.’

  Noelie read on.

  I, Sean Sugrue, am making this statement on April 27th 1997 of my own free will and volition. I wish this statement to be made public in the event of my death and I have given instructions to this effect to my colleague, Don Cronin.

  There were four pages. The last page showed a map, hand-drawn and quite faded. ‘Proposed Shopping Centre’ was written over a large, shaded square. Noelie couldn’t work out where the map was of until Martin deciphered another handwritten note.

  ‘Box and Hounds?’

  Noelie looked more closely. ‘Fox and Hounds. It’s a pub on the northside, Ballyvolane area.’ It was easy after that. The map referred to the area known as the Glen. ‘When I was growing up it was wilderness. But a while back the Corpo agreed to make it a public park. It’s kind of rough and ready.’

  Martin pointed to a cross. It was prominent on the map and had numbers beside it. ‘What’s that? A church?’