by G D Sheehen
He knew what he had to do now. He had to go back to Waterford and atone for his past indiscretions. There was no running away from it anymore, no numbing the reality and truth with drugs and death. The gardaí were surely looking for him by now and Razor Ray would be sniffing his trail, seeking revenge. He would willingly give himself over to them but only after he did what was needed to be done. If Rodge and Julie could show him forgiveness and understanding, maybe they could help him uncover the demons of his past. Why did he see Eve Richards in his visions? What did she have to do with his past? Was she even still in Dunmahon? He had a vague recollection of her being sent to school in England, but the details escaped him, like so many other things. Over two decades of drug addiction had robbed him of a past in more ways than one.
He checked his pockets and was relieved to discover he still had over a hundred euro. The notes were wet from the river but were salvageable. He walked through the park and passed Saint Mary’s Hospital, exiting on Chapelizod Road where he jumped on a bus, back into the city, a renewed sense of purpose driving him on.
16
He got off at Busaras bus station and checked the departure times for Waterford. It had been so long since he visited home he had no idea how often the buses ran. It turned out there was a one on the hour, every hour, so he decided to wait an hour and a half for the twelve o’clock. His decision was determined not because he wanted to hang around Dublin any longer than was necessary but because Busaras was only a fifteen-minute walk from where he jumped into the Liffey the night before, fifteen minutes from the package of heroin. He told himself he would need it as insurance if Ray caught up with him but he also had a deep urge to mark his changing path with one last fix.
Following a groggy walk towards the quay, he sat down at the river wall, trying to look as casual as possible for one in his current state, and felt around for where he’d left the package. To his relief it was still in the same place as he’d left it, spoon and syringe attached. Doing a shot after the bus arrived in Waterford would leave him too out of it by the time he met Julie and Rodge so now would be the best time to take his very last hit. That’s how he reasoned it to himself anyway. He headed to a nearby lane that had two large wheelie bins he could hide between. Down on his haunches, he put a modest amount onto the spoon and dug around his pockets for a lighter.
“You’ll never make it like this,” came the voice and made him almost knock the spoon over. He raised his head just enough to see if anyone was there but saw nobody.
The needle burnt as it slid into his veins and he instantly thought he shouldn’t be doing this. But what else will a junkie with three ounces of heroin do? As the warm comfort seeped through his body he came to a full resting position against the wall, his legs outstretched. His body weighed down and he had to fight an overpowering urge to lie there and enjoy the sensation of peacefulness and contentment. He gave himself ten minutes to lap it up, then gathered his stuff to return to the station. An air of calm washed over him as he stood up, his back sliding against the wall for support, his eyes half closed, in a dream-like state. Footsteps echoed close by but he could hardly give it a thought, such was his state of inebriation.
The lane came into focus more and he felt ready to return to the bus station and make the journey to Waterford. When he was about to take a step forward he was viciously grabbed by the throat and pressed back against the wall. Gargling with the force of the hold, he feared that Ray’s men had caught up with him, but he soon realised who it was haunting him yet again.
His first impression was how the black-eyed monster was now more human-like than before. His eyes were shaped like a person’s but solid black with a tint of red flashing through them. The black clothes he wore were less raggedy and the black top-hat gave him an aristocratic air, although he was still hideous and had horrific sagging features.
“Who are you? Why are you following me?” he struggled the words out despite the pressure on his throat.
“You know exactly who I am,” he said and moved in closer. “You created me and only you can release me from this world.”
Philip summoned the energy to raise his arms and push the monster back and as he did so it vanished into a black cloud, a black cloud that again showed him the faces of people from his past, if just for a fleeting moment.
After gathering himself and allowing time for his heart rate to slow down, he headed for the bus station. When he arrived he still had twenty minutes to wait until the bus departed. He took a seat near gate ten, where it would leave from and scanned the station, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Next to the cafe, a stairwell led up from below where the toilets were. Philip turned and hid his face from sight when he saw one of the men that had chased him the previous day, emerge from the stairs. He got up and headed for the nearest exit without looking back. His pace quickened as he rounded the building and ended up at the front entrance. Peering in, he saw Ray’s henchman was strolling around casually, occasionally looking at the people sitting on benches, checking to see if any of them were Philip.
At a loss what to do next, he crossed the road to consider the situation. There was no way he could get on the bus when he was in the station. People came and went and he could move around the perimeter but the thug was sitting on a bench in the centre of the waiting hall every now and then looking up from his phone to identify a new arrival.
“Can I help you with anything?” asked a female garda, making Philip realise he was peering in the window in an unusual way.
He let out an awkward laugh to try to diffuse the strangeness but only succeeded in making things more tense.
“I was just about to call the guards meself,” he said in his best Dublin accent. “See yer man with the black leather jacket sitting in the centre, looking around all suspicious like? I think I seen him on Crime Stoppers recently. Something to do with an armed robbery.”
She took a close look, as close as she could get from their position twenty metres away. Philip watched her face for any sign of recognition and her features suddenly dropped to an expression of alertness and anxiety.
She reached for her shoulder radio and said, “Garda Daly to station. Possible sighting of Darren Purcell at Busaras. Requesting back-up to move in.”
“Keep eyes on him Garda. A unit will be with you in less than a minute.”
“Jayzus, I was right, wasn’t I?” said Philip, portraying an aura of pride at his discovery.
“You stay right here. We’ll need to speak to you later.”
“I’d be happy to help in any way I can, Garda. I hate these fuckin’ scumbags, terrorising my city.”
She looked at him blankly, his street smarts coming to play at the most opportune time.
She headed around the corner to the main entrance where she was shortly joined by three more gardaí who pulled up and got out of the patrol car. They circled the interior in a coordinated way and when spread wide enough started to simultaneously move towards the centre of the hall. Purcell was aware of them from the outset of their entrance. He remained composed and barely lifted his head from his smartphone. They reached him and circled him, three of them with their hands on their batons, the other speaking directly to him.
Philip seized his chance and rounded the outside of the building and stood near gate ten, out of sight of the gardaí and Purcell. He glanced in and could detect things were starting to get tense. Purcell was still seated and it was apparent they were trying to get him to stand and getting near the point where they’d be willing to use force.
The Waterford bus pulled into the bay and opened its door for passengers to get in. Philip stood at the back of the line of about ten people and kept his gaze close to the unfolding incident inside. Another patrol car came to a skidding stop right beside the Waterford bus and for a shuddering moment, Philip thought it was there for him.
Two gardaí sprung from the car and bolted towards the others which immediately drew Purcell’s attention. He looked past the onrushing gar
daí and his facial expression shattered into one of the deepest rage on seeing Philip standing in the line. Purcell jumped from his seat and his six-foot plus, eighteen stone frame bowled over the female guard and two of the men as if he were a professional rugby player tackling three forwards from an underage team. The remaining garda dived onto his back and wrapped his arms around his neck.
“Stop that junkie fuckin’ piece of-” he shouted as the other two gardaí reached him and struggled to get him to the ground.
The line onto the bus was now moving but many people were stalling to see the ruckus erupting in the main hall. To Philip’s relief, the driver urged the passengers on and pleaded with people to not get involved. Philip climbed the steps to the bus a few seconds later without looking back. He took a seat near the front and looked out the window to see that Purcell had broken free and left one of the gardaí on the ground clutching his face.
The bus doors swished closed as the gardaí once again overpowered him right next to where Philip was seated. The bus revved and went into gear and, pulling away, Purcell caught Philip’s eye and shouted, “Stop that thieving cunt.”
The female garda looked up and saw Philip and called out, “Stop the bus. We ne-”, but before she could finish, Purcell’s huge boot flew out and struck her hard in the stomach, sending her to the ground, folded in agony.
The batons were now out and raining down on Purcell with all the ferocity the three standing gardaí could muster. The last Philip saw of Purcell was with blood streaming down his face. When he faced forward in his seat to settle in for the journey ahead he caught the driver staring at him through the rearview mirror, a look of worry in his eyes. Philip tried his best to play it cool but would keep an eye on him to see if he made any calls during the journey.
They passed by the Liffey and soon he was going to leave the city for the first time in years. Trepidation, excitement, fear and loss all clung to him at once. He closed his eyes and went into a half-waking slumber. Voices cajoled him out of his comfort and the haunting reality of the last couple of days washed over him like a lifetime of pain and regret injected into his bloodstream in an instant.
He found an Evening Herald from that day on the seat across from him and leafed through it to see if there was any mention of a murder on the streets of Dublin in the early hours of Sunday morning. He found nothing to indicate Dan was dead, or alive.
His stomach then knotted up when he caught sight of a small inset headline as he was just about to close the paper. ‘Man Seen Jumping into Liffey at North Wall Quay.’ He read on, ‘Authorities are on the lookout after it was reported that a man, possibly in his thirties, was seen jumping into the Liffey at 10:45 on Sunday night. Locals in the area and pedestrians on the quays are asked to be extra vigilant if they suspect someone is vulnerable and about to jump into the river. If you are feeling depressed and hopeless, call the Samaritans on 116 123.’
Part Two
17
A summer storm rolled in from the sea and darkened one of Philip and Rodge’s final days playing on the beach before school started again. They watched as the thickening clouds edged ever closer to where they skimmed stones, silently daring one another to stay as long as possible. The waves grew and bulged and swayed in unnatural directions and the breeze that was warm on their faces moments before, turned chilled and speckled with quickly evaporating dots of mist.
“I have an idea,” said Rodge, the thought tensing up Philip’s shoulders. “We could go and hear another one of Mr Richards’ stories.”
“I don’t want to. I have enough of his stories.”
“What do you mean? We only went there once. And you loved the story. You wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Philip paused and turned away from Rodge. “I don’t think Mr Richards is a good person.”
“Huh. Why would you say that? He was so nice to us last week. Are you jealous or something?”
“Jealous? Jealous of what?”
“Of his stories. You wish your ones were as good.”
He turned back to Rodge with an exacerbated look. “That’s daft. Why would I be jealous? They’re even not his stories anyway. Their old stories passed down the generations.”
“Exactly. So why wouldn’t you want to hear more? You can get more ideas for your stories, like the Dearg Due. That one was friggin’ scary, wasn’t it?”
Large drops of rain now plopped into the sea a few metres out from where they stood. The wind picked up to almost gale force.
“I went back there last week.”
“What? Without me? Ya fucker,” said Rodge and threw a dead arm punch that landed on Philip’s shoulder. He barely flinched.
“You were working on the farm that day and I was passing by, so I called in. I wasn’t slying off on you, I swear.”
“I suppose that’s okay then, if I was working, like. Did he tell you another story?”
“Ya. A really good one about the legend of the Banished King.”
“Nice one. So there’s a story behind that rock sticking out near the tree.”
“Ya, there is.”
“Then what’s the problem? Let’s go hear another one and get away from this storm.”
Rodge gave in first, the rain now upon them and about to get heavy enough to soak them through. Philip followed right behind.
“Aren’t you gonna say anything? Rub it in?” asked Rodge.
“What?”
“That I moved from the storm first. You win this one, but only because I want to get to Richards’ before I’m soaked through.”
They began to pick up their pace, the rain now whipping around from all angles. They sprinted down to the road, outrunning the worst of it for a while. The miles of cliff edge before them could barely be made out due to the low storm clouds blanketed over the land.
“Let’s just go back to my house. I finished the first Cloudcrawler story. You can tell me what you think.”
Rodge broke into a paced jog again and Philip tried to keep up with him. Rodge was the bigger of the two and always fitter and better at all sports. Later in his teen years, he even represented the county in hurling but drifted from the sport and, as so many said, never truly reached his potential as a player. Many blamed Philip for being a bad influence and turning him to other things.
They turned onto the road that led to the village, and, of course, Mr Richards’ house.
“He surely won’t let us stay out in this,” said Rodge, speeding up more, the rain beating on their faces, making them tuck their chins into their necks.
“I think there’s something strange about him, Rodge. He acted very weird the last day. And I don’t think he’s very good to Eve.”
“What? You saw Eve the last day?” he shouted through the increasing volume of the downpour.
“Yes. And she seemed very unhappy.”
“Maybe that’s because it was you there and not me,” he said and laughed.
“He’s not good to her. I know it. And if we go back there he’ll-”
Rodge sped up and put distance between them as soon as the fortifying walls of Richards’ house came into sight. He stopped at the gate and looked in, then turned to Philip and waved him on. When Philip reached the gate, he saw Mr Richards struggling to take down a large tent, the type the scouts used. He was also a scout master in the city. He caught sight of the boys and let out a laugh of relief.
“Come boys. The gate is open,” he called out waving his arm, leaving the side wall of the tent to flap in his face. He pulled it off and Philip could see a flash of rage cross his face and leave just as quickly.
Rodge was already in the gate, running up the garden before he could protest. Philip followed and they helped Mr Richards tame the wildly blowing tent. He ushered them inside and called out for Mrs Richards to bring some towels. Philip heard a stab of aggression in his request, one that Rodge seemed oblivious to as he just stood there with a complicit grin pasted across his dripping face.
She arrived with a nervo
us trotter and handed the three of them warm plush towels, folded in a way Philip had never seen before. They dried themselves off and Rodge and Mr Richards broke into a conspiratorial laugh. The rain lashed off the glass on the sides of the front door and a draft twirled across the ornate reception room.
“Oh, boys. Did you feel that? I things the Sluagh has come for the soul of an unforgiven.”
“What’s the Sluagh Mr Richards?” asked Philip, some of the anxiety draining from his body.
“You haven’t heard of the Sluagh, Philip? Well, I must say I am surprised, for the Sluagh is the most wicked and feared of all the otherworldly creatures that prowl our fair land,” he said and winked at Philip, summoning a sense of dread once more.
“Is that another one of your stories, Sir?” asked Rodge. Rodge had now wrapped the towel around his wet T-shirt.
“It certainly is, Mr O’Sullivan.”
He took the towel off Rodge and said, “Not like that. You’ll only press the dampness through your skin and give yourself the death. Take off your T-shirt and leave it on the radiator to dry. Then wrap the towel around yourself to keep warm.” He turned to Philip. “You too, Philip.”
Philip complied awkwardly.
“Now boys. Let’s go to the drawing room. And brace yourselves. The Sluagh is truly a force to be reckoned with.”
The curtains of the drawing room were opened wide and the rain flowed down the many square panes of glass creating an opaque portal like a mirage showing a gateway to the Otherworld. Philip's imagination went to work and presented him with a pre-story soundtrack, the voices of the victims of the previous stories he’d heard from Richards, followed by images, clear in his wandering mind, of the Banished King and Dearg Due.
