Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  The doors opened and they stepped out, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just heading into town for a meeting. Good to meet you, Dave.”

  He was gone. The leader of a major political party, possibly the next leader of the country, just walked out of the hotel and into the early evening unaccompanied, no security or personal assistants. What a great country, David thought. God, it’s going to be so easy for someone to kill him.

  Patrick O’Sullivan walked out into the cool evening air. A small hidden camera transmitted his image to a computer in the bus parked across the street. The screen brightened, and with the familiar ‘ding’ of an incoming email, an oversized copy of Patrick O’Sullivan’s passport photograph illuminated the darkened cabin of the bus.

  Brent opened one eye. Recognising the image on the screen, he pulled on a sweater and baseball cap, left the bus, and crossed the road, noting O’Sullivan already heading towards the centre of town.

  He kept well back, strolling and pausing to peer into shop windows. He’d already spent an hour familiarising himself with the layout of the town centre and could visualise the entire length of Trafalgar Street, from the Cinema and Post Office at one end, to the Cathedral steps at the other. Brent knew the location of every bar and restaurant in the street.

  O’Sullivan crossed the road and turned the corner.

  Three weeks earlier Brent had been honing his close quarter urban tracking skills amongst the mass of shoppers and sightseers on a humid summer’s afternoon on London’s Oxford Street. This time, his prey was the only other person on the street.

  He turned the corner, eyes instantly darting up the street, left then right, until they met a silhouetted figure now turning into one of the bars halfway down. He crossed onto the opposite side and made his way towards the bar, passed it, crossed over and approached it from the other end of the street.

  O’Sullivan was already seated with two other men, his back to the bar, talking about a press conference that had been held earlier.

  The barista ostentatiously steamed a jug of milk. Carefully, he poured the frothy mixture into each of the three cups before lifting them onto the counter in front of Brent, acknowledging him for the first time. “Won’t be a minute, mate. Just finish this order and I’ll be with you,” he said, as he sprinkled cinnamon on one and chocolate on the other two. As he walked around the bar to collect the drinks, Brent felt for the phial in his pocket. By the time the barman was next to him, Brent already had two of the drinks in his hands. He handed them over;

  “Here, let me help you.” Brent thrust the drinks at him, almost forcing him backwards. Brent had hoped for ten seconds but hadn’t counted on the barman backing away, still facing him, before reversing himself into a chair and finally to O’Sullivan’s table where he served the men on a first-come, first-served basis, so O'Sullivan last, as Brent had hoped.

  As soon as his back was turned, Brent popped the top of the phial and emptied a small quantity of the contents into the third remaining coffee. The white powder instantly dissolved through the milky froth into the hot drink beneath. As the barman returned for the third cup, Brent was already out the door.

  By the time he was back in the bus, Patrick O’Sullivan had already sipped his first three milligrams of gamma casein. A fatal dose was around fifty milligrams. No one could be sure as to the exact amount needed since no data had ever been published on the quantity needed to cause a deliberate fatality in humans. Brent had been told O’Sullivan would need to drink at least another sixteen coffees in the next five days; about three a day. How was he going to get the stuff into every single coffee O’Sullivan drank for the next week?

  * * *

  David sat in the hotel bar, sipping beer, waiting for his food. A short distance away, Patrick O’Sullivan had already started to die.

  His entire perception of the man had been coloured by the impressions of others. Now he had seen him in the flesh, stood next to him, even spoken to him, he found it hard to believe that such an apparently genial, vigorous man deserved to die. David already knew the manner of his death and that it was expected to be soon. He made his way down to the hotel lobby, waiting for O’Sullivan’s return. If he had any sense at all he would listen to what David had to say and then make up his own mind.

  There was a flash as the entrance doors parted, catching the glare from the chandeliers above. David walked purposefully towards him, unnoticed by O’Sullivan who continued towards the lift. David was still five paces behind. The door of the lift opened, O’Sullivan stepped in and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

  David quickened his pace. He felt like a stalker. Now he had the opportunity to say what he had spent the last hour planning in his own mind. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath as the doors closed behind him.

  They stood, side-by-side, gazing blankly ahead. O’Sullivan didn’t even acknowledge him. Perhaps he had already forgotten their brief introduction earlier?

  “Mr O’Sullivan, there’s something I need to tell you.” David heard his voice boom in the confined space. “Your life is in danger. Since arriving in New Zealand earlier this week, I’ve met people who intend to kill to stop you becoming leader of this country.”

  O’Sullivan turned. “It’s, er…?”

  “Dave, sir, we met earlier. You’re in the room three doors down from me.”

  ‘Are you a journalist, Dave?”

  “No sir. Remember I told you I’ve just emigrated here?” The lift door opened and O’Sullivan stepped out, intent on reaching his room and closing the door. David only had a few seconds left to persuade him. “I know about Cowood.”

  O’Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Is that what this is about? Dave, the fact that I’m on the board of Cowood Industries is common knowledge here in New Zealand. My directorship is completely compatible with my role as leader of EPANZ. Why would that endanger my life? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day and I’m up early in the morning for a radio interview.”

  David had to think quickly. He at least expected time to explain the whole scenario. O’Sullivan already had the key in the door of his room. “I know about Waiheke Island and the real reason for the foot and mouth story.” The door to O’Sullivan’s room was open. He paused. “Does this convince you?” David fumbled in his pocket for the credit card and held it up close to O’Sullivan’s face.

  He looked back at him blankly. “Are you trying to bribe me or blackmail me here, Dave, because you’ve completely lost me?”

  “This is an Associated Bank of Monaco credit card and, from what I’ve learnt in the past few days, it’s more exclusive than a black American Express card.” David emphasised the next sentence. “You could buy a whole country with one of these.”

  O’Sullivan pushed the door fully open and gestured to David to enter ahead of him. The card had apparently worked. Finally, O’Sullivan was prepared to listen. David entered and waited for O’Sullivan to click the door completely shut behind him before continuing, relieved he was finally about to get it off his chest.

  Instead, O’Sullivan spoke first. “Look. Dave, I’ve been hearing rumours for a few months now about supposed innocent couriers being used to bring large sums of money into the country with the intention of destabilising our economy, even that my name and my political and business interests were being used as some kind of bizarre justification for their actions when these supposed couriers realised or found out exactly what they were carrying.”

  David was confused. This was the first opportunity Patrick O’Sullivan had to explain his role in all this and it wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. But why should David disbelieve him? After all, the people who’d given him another version were an old school friend he hadn’t seen or had contact with for the past twenty years, and his mates who seemed to be little more than small time local crooks, certainly kidnappers, if nothing else. What if it was O’Sullivan who was telling the truth? David almost wanted to trust him.

  “This is the first time anyo
ne has shown me any concrete evidence of these rumours. Thanks for bringing this to my attention tonight. Dave, I really appreciate it, believe me. Now, by coming forward with this information you’ve probably put yourself in danger. Somewhere out there, probably not too far away, these people are very keen to get their card back.”

  David remembered the bus that was already parked at the front of the hotel when he arrived.

  “We need to get you out of here tonight, my friend. First thing tomorrow we can go to the police and get this all sorted out.” O’Sullivan had already keyed in a number and his mobile phone was to his ear;

  “It’s me. Look, sorry to call so late, I need you to send a car to the hotel. About thirty minutes? Good. I’ll call you back with the details. Tell the driver to meet me round the back.”

  David was no longer sure what was happening. Had O’Sullivan just called the police, some special government security number or his own private protection? He hustled David towards the door. “Go back to your room, Dave. Put the chain on the door, pack your bag and don’t answer the phone. When I knock in about twenty minutes, be ready with your stuff.”

  Chapter 21

  Patrick O’Sullivan grew up on the West Coast of Ireland. His family owned a large dairy farming operation. Pat helped his father in the milking sheds on pitch dark, cold wet winter mornings, or cut hay in the summer holidays in bright daylight at ten o’clock in the evening.

  His father, a large, ruddy-faced man, inherited the family farm and had ambitions to expand it. Within five years of taking it over, he’d either bought out his neighbours or was leasing substantial amounts of grazing pasture from them.

  In the early seventies, this expanding empire caught the eye of the Irish paramilitaries as they looked at diversifying into activities giving them a legitimate income to make overseas arms purchases. At this point in the troubled history of Ireland, the Republican movement was going through a period of in-fighting as different factions split from the old IRA. Battle lines were being drawn.

  Paddy O’Sullivan Senior resisted all attempts to allow arms dumps to be secreted on his land, or outlying barns to be used for small arms practise or explosives training.

  There was another reason he was keen to keep strangers from having free rein on his property. He’d been a keen and productive home brewer for many years, well known locally as a reliable and discrete source of poteen; Irish moonshine, illegal since 1760 but nonetheless, widely produced and enjoyed throughout the Republic. Paddy produced a potent and agreeable brew for his small group of regular customers. He was always coming up with new variations of ingredients which could be mixed and distilled to produce drinks that one day he hoped to produce legally and in commercial quantities.

  One night, Paddy decided to experiment by adding small amounts of cream to the base poteen spirit. He dripped small globules of cream into glass test tubes of clear, neat spirit, lined up along his work bench. The cream, being heavier than the spirit, inevitably sank like cold white wax.

  He picked one up, shook it hard, mixing the two opposing liquids, then gulped down the contents. The sensation was not unpleasant, the cream creating an unexpected smooth sensation in his mouth which was quickly overtaken by the poteen burning through.

  He ran to the house and burst through the door, already the worse for being the willing victim of that night’s experiments. “Try this, Mary!” he shouted to Mrs O’Sullivan, sitting in the lounge, reading. She wasn’t a regular drinker, and Paddy was shrewd enough not to waste the stuff on her, but she was always willing when offered a sample, although careful never to appear too keen.

  “Get away with ya now, Paddy O’Sullivan, Don’t come into my house at this time of night stinking of booze and waving your illegal brew in my face!”

  “But, Mary, this time I think I might have just cracked it. Take a wee sip of this.” He handed her one of the three glass phials he’d managed to keep from spilling in the dark making his way from the barn to the kitchen door. She eyed it suspiciously. Already the cream and alcohol, which he’d shaken together in the barn only moments earlier, were beginning to separate out again. She took another close look at it and sipped, taking only some of the spirit from the top. As usual. she winced and opened her mouth wide, breathing heavily, allowing the cooling air to calm her burning throat. “Fiery as usual,” she rasped.

  “Shake the tube woman, mix the cream and the spirit, and take another sip.”

  She looked at him, eyes wide, as if he’d just asked her to imbibe neat acid. The clock above the fire place chimed nine thirty. She would down the rest of the tube in one go, then head straight upstairs to bed. Hopefully, the full effects of a second mouthful wouldn’t wreak its full vengeance until her head was safely on her pillow.

  Young Patrick, woken by the commotion downstairs, crept onto the landing and watched his parents knocking back home-made hooch. His mother frowned. Maybe Paddy was right, perhaps he did have something here. “It’s a bit, well, a bit raw Patrick, a bit too harsh for my taste, but the cream certainly gives it an unusual texture on the palate. Let me try just one more.”

  Paddy was taken aback. Usually Mary abused him for wasting time on his useless pursuit of the perfect home brew. He handed her the last phial and she headed into the kitchen. Intrigued, he followed, half expecting her to throw it down the sink. “It needs something to sweeten it up a bit.” She opened the sugar jar, took a pinch and dropped it into the phial, shook it and then took a sip. “Try that, now,” she said, handing the phial back to her husband who stood, dumbfounded to be offered a shot of his own moonshine by his wife.

  He sipped. “Smoother, much smoother. I think we might be onto something here, Mary. What else have you there in the pantry we could try?”

  “Not tonight, Paddy O’Sullivan,” she said, firmly closing the door and pouring the remaining contents of the phial down the sink. Paddy knew when to call it a night. It was triumph enough he’d persuaded Mary to try his latest concoction, and it was a small miracle that she’d opened up her pantry and actually offered ingredients from within it. He’d try again in a day or so.

  Young Patrick, hearing the creak as the pantry door closed and the sound of his parents moving towards the bottom of the stairs, crept quickly back to his room, silently pulled the door behind him, and climbed back into bed.

  Now, in the solitude of his hotel room, this memory returned as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. A short time afterwards, he was in bed, aware more than usual of the silence in the house. His mother either read the paper or listened to the radio in the evening. On this occasion, there were neither the familiar voices, music and laughter, nor the rustle and noisy shaking as she turned the pages of the newspaper, attempting to unravel the mess his father made of it at lunchtime.

  Curious, he crept once again to the top of the stairs that led down directly into the main living area of the old farmhouse. Only a table lamp lit the room, too dim to read by, he thought. Step by creaking step, he made his way downstairs. If his mother suddenly appeared through the kitchen door beneath him, he could say he was after a drink of water, brazenly keep going, get his drink and go straight back to bed.

  Silence. The house appeared to be empty. It was usual for his father to be working late into the evening on one of his projects out in the barn, but for his mother to not be doing something around the house was unusual, disconcerting for a ten year old used to the security and certainty of routine family life.

  He heard a familiar and welcome sound. His breathing which had been shallow and hesitant returned to its usual rhythm. It was the sound of his parents laughing together somewhere outside.

  He felt compelled to check everything was all right. Patrick made his way, barefoot and increasingly cold, across the yard. Depending on what he saw, he’d retreat, embarrassed but reassured, back to his room. If he was caught then he’d heard noises, was frightened and had come looking for them.

  Patrick decided it would be better to peer through
the small window first and in that way decide if he should make an innocent entrance. The naked brilliance of an uncovered bulb cast a stark clinical light around the inside of the barn. Patrick could see his parents and someone else standing by the workbench against the far wall. They were drinking from small glasses, talking and laughing. Why were they socialising in the barn? Surely the house was warmer and more comfortable at this late hour?

  Patrick heard a bang. Half-blinded by the brightness he had just been staring intently into, he could just make out in the gloom the shape of Tess, the family dog, running out through the open front door and across the yard towards him. He tried to silently shoo her away, but she misunderstood his waving and barked a loud greeting back. Paddy cursed. “Who let the bloody dog out at this hour?”

  Patrick ran through the barn door, following the panting Tess. “It was me, Da,” he puffed, pretending to have just chased the dog all the way from the house. “She was scratching at the door to be let out and woke me up. She just ran, so I ran after her and … ” Tess looked up at him as if she believed every word of it.

  His parents accepted the explanation. Their focus at that moment was on their guest; a smartly dressed man who Patrick now recalled, over thirty years later, wore a tie, a long black overcoat and immaculately polished black brogues, caked on the soles in farmyard soil. He looked out of place standing there in the barn but otherwise seemed at ease. The empty glass in his hand was probably the explanation for his relaxed demeanour;

  “Mr Templeton, this is my son, Patrick. Say hello to Mr Templeton, Patrick.”

  Patrick smiled awkwardly. He knew Mr Templeton was the reason he hadn’t received a clip round the ear. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Mr Templeton and his parents' laughter, he wouldn’t have been standing in the barn in his pyjamas in the first place. “Now then, Pat, Mr Templeton here has come all the way from Dublin to try a wee drop or three of my latest home brew.”