The Going Rate

by John Brady

  Minogue eyed the pictures again. He settled on the one of Tadeusz Klos’ bloodied face, his teeth bloodied and broken, the swollen lips, the terrible sneer of death.

  Duggan opened his eyes slowly.

  “I had this brilliant dream,” he murmured.

  “It was perfect,” he added, swallowing dryly.

  “That Amy Winehouse one again?” Wall asked.

  The unexpected humour heartened Minogue. Maybe Wall wasn’t all piety. Maybe he actually had a bit of give in him.

  Duggan shook his head.

  “Long gone,” he said. “That tramp deserted me, so she did.”

  “Is it too late to start a support group?” Minogue asked.

  “Ah, no – but thanks anyway. I’ll suffer in silence. Wait, no: I’ll blog it.”

  “That’s Monaghan men for you,” Minogue said. “‘Stony grey hills…’”

  The puzzled expression that was Duggan’s response brought a little dismay to Minogue. Did nobody read Patrick Kavanagh’s poetry anymore?

  “Well, in anyway,” said Duggan, gathering himself. “This one was about tonight, or this morning, whatever you want to call it. Set right here in this room.”

  Minogue looked over.

  “Yeah,” said Duggan. “All the yo-yos in there walked in the door here, along with their counsel, and confessed.”

  “Wild out entirely,” said Minogue.

  “It was brilliant,” said Duggan. He rubbed at his ginger stubble.

  “‘Sorry to have kept you up so late,’ said one of them, what’s his face, the long stringy fellow, Twomey.”

  “Come on now,” Wall said. “Hardly Twomey. He’s a complete idiot. The way he’s talking and posing? I swear he thinks he starred in some video or something. Did you hear what he said to his counsel after she showed up?”

  “I know, I know,” said Duggan and yawned.

  “‘Get out of here,’ says he. ‘You’re working for The Man!’”

  “Well it was grand while it lasted, that dream.”

  “Is that all?”

  Duggan took his hands down from wiping his eyes.

  “Actually, it wasn’t. I think we all shook hands. And off we went.”

  “Off where?”

  “We went to a pub to celebrate. Now did you ever hear anything like it?”

  “I never did,” said Wall. “But I’ll bet you they hear it all the time up in Portrane.”

  It took a moment for Minogue’s tired mind to place the jibe: Portrane was for the criminally insane, right. A lull followed. The clock’s hands had only moved five minutes since last time. Wall turned another page.

  Duggan’s yawn ended in a long groan.

  “God almighty,” he said and he levered himself robotically out of the chair. “Something’s got to give here now, or there’ll be no bed for anyone.”

  Minogue checked the time on his watch.

  “Isn’t it kind of sexist,” said Duggan, “to be trying to get the girls out, and not the two head-cases?”

  “No,” said Wall, “it’s about adults and children. The girls are supposed to be the children. Those two fellas are supposed to be the adults.”

  “As the law sees it, at least,” Duggan grunted.

  “Are her parents still in there?” he asked Minogue.

  Minogue nodded.

  “The father will turn Turk if she’s held over,” said Duggan.

  “Well we’ll deal with that,” said Minogue.

  “Begob, but it’s raining. Drizzle. I–”

  The knock on the door was a split second before the Guard off the midnight shift opened it.

  “There’s a solicitor wants to see ye, one of ye.”

  Mahon now reminded Minogue of a Goya painting. His cheeks flattened and even sunken in a way he hadn’t expected, the dark rings around his eyes.

  “A request,” he said to Minogue.

  “I’ll be happy to oblige. If I can, of course. What’s on offer now?”

  Mahon shook his head.

  “My client is very frightened,” Mahon said.

  “Is this the same Mr. Twomey we spoke with earlier on?”

  “He’s beginning to understand the position he might be in here.”

  “Okay. That’s good for all of us.”

  “He’s very apprehensive at the thought of, you know.”

  “Staying in a cell overnight?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Well if he’d stop holding out on us…”

  “He’s not.”

  “You say, that he says, that he’s not.”

  “I didn’t come down in the last shower.”

  “Fair enough. But I’m here since The Flood, and I don’t buy that.”

  Mahon drew a long breath.

  “Your grounds for wanting him remanded are not clear.”

  “Have I not shown you the site pictures? That is to say the photos from this scene, of Mr. Klos? Savage treatment. Brutal, sadistic, unrelenting. Now that’s unacceptable.”

  “Grandstanding isn’t allowed in court either, I think you know.”

  “Mr. Klos choked on his own blood.”

  “My client admits to taking items off the body – with the others.”

  “A body, or a live man? Unconscious and dying, and needing help?”

  “Am I being cross-examined now?”

  “One phone call from any of this foursome could’ve saved the man’s life.”

  “He’ll be no use if he can’t get a night’s sleep.”

  “Mr. Mahon. I’m not the one getting in the way of Twomey’s shut-eye. You’re the one made the request to keep this long consultation going so long. I mean, I admire your staying power tonight. Any other solicitor would be gone hours ago.”

  “Your mind is made up?”

  “It is.”

  “Let me phrase it a different way. What is it exactly you are expecting from him tonight?”

  “That he tells us what really happened. I’m more than content to wait until tomorrow and argue the same thing in the Circuit Court.”

  Mahon rubbed at his eyebrows, and then looked over Minogue’s shoulder at the open door.

  “You’re here because this is a high-profile case. A lot of pressure too?”

  “That’s immaterial and irreverent,” Minogue replied with a shrug.

  “I know you have the girls here too. And you’re playing everyone off against the other.”

  “The world isn’t flat, Mr. Mahon. It hasn’t been flat for quite a long time.”

  “Questionable process there. Juveniles, questioning at this hour of the night?”

  “Phone a judge,” said Minogue. “Have a go. No hard feelings, whatever happens. Or doesn’t happen.”

  “Kids that age will say anything.”

  Minogue gave him the eye.

  “Your client already said so. Several times, if I remember. No one is saying either one of these two girls is sugar and spice.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “Which always means the opposite, in my experience. You’re driving at…”

  “That people have blind spots. All people.”

  “Specifically?”

  To his credit, Mahon wasn’t flinching.

  “That girls wouldn’t be capable of doing it. That maybe the men here – boys really, or at least my client, I regard him as a boy really – have a misguided loyalty.”

  Minogue raised an eyebrow. Mahon raised one back.

  “Mr. Mahon, let me tell you something. I’d want you on my side, I really would. To be sure, people do the right thing for the wrong reason, and all the rest of it. I don’t for a minute doubt what young ones – girls – can do, what they come up with.”

  Minogue took a step back toward the doorway.

  “So, on account of my admiration for what you’re doing here tonight – and I am not joking one bit, now – here’s what had been going through my mind. The two young ones set Mr. Klos up and then they told the two lads when they showe
d up. All part of a plan. Who’s to say the two girls didn’t even lend a hand? Or a boot, should I say. But that doesn’t diminish what your client did. What I allege he did. Why I oppose bail.”

  “You have forensic evidence to back all of this.”

  It was unworthy of Mahon, Minogue believed, but he was tired and frustrated too, no doubt.

  Mahon cast a glance again at the doorway.

  “We’ll have to leave it at that,” Minogue said.

  Chapter 36

  THE CAR CREAKED AS CULLY STRETCHED AGAIN. He sat back and closed his eyes.

  “Well can I get out? Or open the window a bit?”

  Cully looked at his watch.

  “Wait a minute and I’ll get out with you.”

  Cully reached under his seat and pulled out the shopping bag that held the pistol. He unwrapped the nylon pouch, releasing an oily smell into the car, and he lifted out the pistol.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Tell me what you’re going to do first.”

  “I’m going to put gloves on.”

  “No, you’re going to ask me to check it’s safe. Safe is, it’s empty, no rounds in it.”

  “Okay.”

  Cully remained still. Fanning knew he was staring at him.

  “Can you do that then?” he asked Cully. “Please?”

  Cully nodded slowly.

  “Raring to go, aren’t you?”

  “Just want to get it done and get out of here,” said Fanning.

  “Cully pulled the ammunition clip from the bag.

  “Clip is out, okay? But you always assume there’s one in the chamber. Ever see that?”

  “On television.”

  “Pull back the slide, empty. Here.”

  “You want me to…?”

  “Sure. You’ve got to see what it’s like. Heavy, isn’t it?”

  Fanning held it on his palm and lowered it to his lap.

  “Hold it, go on. The grip there.”

  “The grip.”

  “The handle you call it. Yeah, hold it.”

  “Finger inside here?”

  “Outside the guard.”

  Fanning heard his own breath escaping through his nose.

  “Breathe,” said Cully. “I’m not joking.”

  Fanning let out his breath in small, controlled breaths through his mouth.

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. You just don’t want to say it.”

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  “It’s power,” said Cully, “right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose? You have one, the other guy doesn’t. That’s power. No one can hurt you. You can say what you like can’t you? Pretty well do what you like. It’s all up to you. Right?”

  Fanning nodded. His heart rate wasn’t slowing.

  “Keep your head, show self-control and you’re going to be able to do things. You see? But if you’re an idiot, what you’re holding there is only going to speed things up, until you crack. You have the gun, the gun doesn’t have you. You know what that means?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Okay then. We’re going out there to take a bit of a stroll. Not far. I’ll bring the clip.”

  Cold night air from the forest washed over Fanning’s face. He felt his heels sink into the needles and he closed the car door. There was no door light in the car. It had probably been Cully’s doing. He waited for Cully’s dark form to come around the boot of the car.

  “Christ,” said Cully, “dark enough.”

  “I can’t see anything out here.”

  “Anything?”

  “I can see a few patches of light in the sky there.”

  Cully tapped the trunk with his knuckles before he made his way around.

  “What is this thing anyway,” Fanning said. “What make is it, like, what type?”

  “That’s a good one,” said Cully. “Now’s as good a time as any to tell you, I suppose. What you are holding is a replica.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Cully was beside him now. He took something from his trouser pocket. A narrow beam of bluish light poked about the forest floor by their shoes.

  “No, I’m not joking.”

  “What’s the point then, what are we doing here?”

  “It’s a replica that’s been converted.”

  “So it’s real?”

  “It’s a real replica of a proper gun.”

  “It’s safe then?”

  “If it was done right.”

  “How will we know it was done right?”

  “If you still have all your fingers when you fire off a round.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “No,” said Cully. “It’s research, isn’t it.”

  “The innits were coming thick and fast now, Fanning reflected.

  “Why didn’t you say when you looked in the bag back then?”

  “I knew already.”

  “Why didn’t you…?”

  “Ah that’d spoil it,” Cully said. “There you were, your heart going bang bang with the adrenaline ready to break open your ribcage, you’re all done up pro with a disguise – and I should have wrecked that experience for you? I don’t think so.”

  “But you’ve got bullets there. That clip of ammunition.”

  “They’re compressed air.”

  “Air.”

  “Here, I’ll show you. Give me the gun.”

  The flashlight beam gleamed dully on the blackened metal.

  “See? See that nail there. That’s the maker. There in England. Lots and lots of these around, and coppers really don’t like them. They’re trying to get a ban on them.”

  “There’s no way I’m paying a hundred and fifty Euro for twelve hours with this piece of crap.”

  “You wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t told you.”

  “But you let it happen anyway.”

  “It’s not a big deal. Think about it.”

  “I have. It sucks. It’s stupid.”

  “What do you know about the likes of this? It feels the same. It sounds the same. It will get you what you want most of the time. You stick this in someone’s face, are they going to say hold on a minute let me check if that’s the real thing?”

  “So the guy knew back there in the shop, the guy who gave it to me.”

  “He did, he didn’t. I don’t know. He just hands things over. He’s like a go-for. The one who runs the show, he’s not out delivering is he.”

  “But it’s just a colossal rip-off.”

  “Are you going to do this or not?” Cully asked.

  The beam from the flashlight carried far but was narrow. Fanning’s eye followed it over pine needles glistening with raindrops and down the trunks where roots showed from the carpet of dead needles. The ground was soft and springy, and the sharp twigs and branches Fanning had expected would block their path through the trees had been cleared. The ground sloped and dipped, revealing the odd boulder.

  Cully was whistling quietly under his tongue and moving the flashlight beam up from their feet to the darkness ahead in a routine arc.

  “Here is good,” he said.

  He slowed to let the light play on the tree trunks ahead. He stopped when he found the plastic shopping bag attached to a tree. He took the clip from his jacket and held out his hand for the pistol.

  “There’s banks here that will catch the noise. Hold my torch will you.”

  “We’re going to fire the thing here?”

  “Yes,” said Cully. “Here. Better here than O’Connell Bridge, I say.”

  Fanning tried to hold the light steady on Cully’s hands but it kept wavering. A small glint came back up to him from the edge of the light spilling out onto the undergrowth. Cully shoved the clip home with a sharp click, followed by another.

  “There are footprints here,” said Fanning. “They’re new.”

  “Are they.”

  “See how the heels are dug in, th
e little pools of water from the rain? They’re recent.”

  “Could be, I suppose.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “No,” said Cully. “Now, you’re ready. Give me the torch, I want to show you something. The details on this are spot on, they have a working safety switch here. See it? Watch my thumb.”

  “Do I have to fire the thing?”

  Cully stopped.

  “We’re all the way up here, on a crappy wet night and you’re backing out?”

  “What’s the point, I’m thinking. It’s not a proper gun. It’s just a waste of time.”

  “You get everything except the lead flying.”

  “Well you go ahead then.”

  “Me? I don’t need to. I don’t want to.”

  “Really.”

  “I’ll fire one off then you. Okay?”

  When he got no reply from Fanning, Cully walked over to where the bag had been pinned to the trunk. He yanked it and tore it open and unfolded a piece of paper.

  “Orienteering,” he said. “Some club. Geo caching. Ever hear of it?”

  “No. Maybe.”

  “GPS?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’m gonna put this bag over here. Watch. I’m gonna aim at it and shoot. Take my word for it. It’s easy at ten feet. You shine the light on it. It won’t budge. Air. See? But it will make the same bang. Ready?”

  “Okay.”

  Fanning let the torch play on the tree trunk. Cully spread the bag against the trunk and he stepped back.

  “Two hands,” he said. “Shine it on me for a second. Look. You see? One over the other, fingers like this. It’ll pull up if you don’t and you’ll miss.”

  “Miss what? There’s nothing coming out, you told me.”

  “If it was a real one, I’m saying. You ready?”

  This pistol bucked immediately. Fanning felt like he had been smacked with a newspaper on both ears. He could almost see the shock-waves of air around him. The beam jerked but he could see that the plastic bag hadn’t moved.

  “Loud, isn’t it?”

  “That’s for damn sure. Let’s go.”

  “Give it one. Come on. It’s your turn.”

  Fanning watched as Cully readied the pistol, moving the safety forward and back twice. He handed over the torch.

  The grip was warm. The weight of the pistol seemed to pull it forward and down.

  “No,” he heard Cully say as his heart sped up again. “Really grab hold of it. The left over the right. Straighten your arms. Keep it pointing down there.”