The Murk Beneath

by L. D. Cunningham

  I went through the rusted gate next to the car to enter the field. I could see that it directly adjoined the O'Brien site. It was just grass, probably for grazing, left to grow long for the cows to mow. The field was largely clear of livestock – just my friendly cow and a friend – and, though it had rained, the ground didn't seem too mucky.

  I didn't want to be spotted for fear of someone reporting a prowler, but it was nearing ten and I guessed the majority of the morning commuters would have set off on their journeys long ago. Besides, the old, lichen-covered stone wall separating the field from the road was pretty high. I walked briskly to the hedge that demarcated the O'Brien residence from the surrounding farmland.

  The hedge was quite dense. Some kind of perennial bushes with large leaves and fairly thick branches, though these were pliable enough and spaced far enough apart that I thought I might be able to squeeze through.

  I looked at my sleeve. The jumper I wore was knitted from large, fuzzy strands and would surely catch on any stray twigs, but it wasn't like it was anything special – a Christmas present from Mam nearly three years ago. I'd only worn it initially to avoid hurting her feelings, but more recently because fewer and fewer clothes seemed to fit as I gained weight. I would push on, regardless.

  I didn't think there was a dog around, but that would be something to be aware of, so I trod carefully to begin with. I picked my way through the branches protruding between two of the bushes that formed the hedge. As I did, a strand of wool caught and pulled out into a big loop. I cursed my mother under my breath. I grabbed it and yanked it so that it stripped the leaves from the branch it had caught on. Another branch nearly ruptured an eyeball, scratching the skin just above my left eye.

  I peered out into the back garden before breaking free from the hedge and when I saw that the way ahead was clear, I stooped and awkwardly shuffled towards the gable end of the bungalow. Another of the wool strands caught and dragged a branch behind me. I pulled free sending the branch flinging back with a swoosh, which was followed by a rustling sound that seemed to go on for an eon as if there was some animal in there doing the hokey-pokey. I glanced anxiously at the back door as I quickened my steps to the side of the house.

  The SUV was parked there. Whoever it was had backed it in to maybe allow for a quick exit. There was just the one small window on the wall and I gently lifted my head up to glance into the room. In the split second I allowed myself, I could tell it was some sort of small utility room. There was a laundry basket, tumble dryer, a large fridge freezer. More importantly, though, it was unoccupied. The window was slightly ajar and for one crazy moment, I considered going in to take a look around. But that would have been suicide.

  I could hear O'Brien talking. It came from the other side of the door to the utility room, so it was logical to assume that O'Brien was in the kitchen. I wondered if my hearing was beginning to go, because O'Brien's voice seemed muffled and there was a humming in my ear. Another health-related foible I could have done without. I relaxed when I realized that the hum was from the tumble dryer. If I was to eavesdrop on the conversation, I was going to have to find another window – and raise the stakes.

  As I made my way around to the back of the house, continuing to stoop, I could feel the tendons in my knees getting sore. All the crouching around like a rabbit was making me stiff. But this wasn't exactly the kind of job you could bring a deck chair on, so I would just have to put up with it.

  I could see a larger window at the rear of the house, where I thought maybe the kitchen would look out onto the lawn. There was a slide and a set of swings, perhaps where mammy would keep an eye on the kids as she prepared the dinner. I couldn't help but think traditionally like that.

  "– valuable those boxes were,” O'Brien was in the middle of saying. “It’ll set us back weeks.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” another man said, his voice muffled slightly, like he might have been in the hall. “I thought our little problem had taken care of itself, but obviously not.”

  Could I risk rising up a bit to take a peek? They could be staring out the window right then, and wouldn't they get a nice surprise to see my ugly mug appear from nowhere like a decrepit meerkat.

  “I dunno,” O'Brien said. “There’s obviously some other snitch out there. Maybe our problem wasn't really the problem. Maybe he was clean.”

  O’Brien paused for a while, then spoke again.

  “We need to plug the hole, get the fucking rat.”

  A moment of silence followed. Then a bird fluttered in the bushes and my heart nearly went pop. Not now. I'm not able for that shite now.

  “It’s not one of my lads,” I could barely hear the stranger say. “That I can guarantee you. Can you say the same for your own?”

  I was straining my ears and it was giving me a headache. There was something about the voice, something familiar. If I could just hear him a bit clearer I was sure I could identify it. I inched along below the window sill to get nearer to the part of the window that was ajar.

  “You leave my lads to me,” O'Brien said. “And we can't use Druid anymore. Not after the robbery. Do you have any more on that?”

  I was just about to settle into some semblance of a comfortable position to earwig on the rest of the conversation when I heard a car pull up out front. I could hear a door open and a kid shouted something – a boy I would have guessed.

  “Who’s that?” the stranger asked with some urgency.

  “Shit. Karen’s back early with the kids. What is she playing at? I told her you’d be visiting. You better go out the back way before the kids see you.”

  There was no time for ceremony. I got up on my haunches and hobbled as quickly as I could to the bushes. I pushed through at the same spot I had eased though earlier, leaving nearly half my woolly jumper in strips on the branches, and ran as fast as I could towards the car. There was blood streaming into my left eye from a cut on the eyebrow.

  There was no hesitating when I reached the car. I got in, fumbled for my keys, and finally got the thing started. The stranger had not followed me through the bushes, but there was every chance he would appear on the road and drive past in his SUV. I revved the engine to fuck, engaged first, and did about the quickest U-turn in history. As I sped down the road – though that, perhaps, would be to give my Fiat too much credit – I kissed the steering wheel. You might be old and ugly as sin, I thought, but you never let me down when I need you. It was quite sad, really, but the old girl was about the closest thing I had to a dependable friend.

  I took the next left down a boreen, then another left down an even narrower boreen. I had no idea where I was, but I sensed I was pointed in the direction of the city. I looked in the rear view mirror. No sign of the SUV. It looked like I was in the clear. Maybe the bird shite had worked its magic after all.

  I replayed in my head what I hadn't had time to process moments earlier. The stranger had said “who’s that?” and it had been loud and clear. I played it again in my mind. It sounded familiar. Was it? Was it Dave Savage? My stomach churned. I was sure it was, and that moment I thought my goose might very well have been cooked.

  Later back at home I lay in the bath surrounded by Radox bubbles. The doc had said to fit in more relaxation time and there had been this bottle of stuff I had not planned on buying near the shaving cream I had actually planned on buying. It promised to take me to another world full of meditation and the smell of a woodland glade.

  I thought about what to report to Jordan. It wasn't something I relished doing. For my four days of effort I’d managed about five minutes of eavesdropping. And with Jordan's history, he might send old granite face, O'Keeffe, to pay me a visit in the middle of some dark night, to pop out from one of the many narrow lanes around Blackpool and send me to meet my maker, whoever or whatever that might be. Perhaps my Dad knew the answer to that one.

  I pinched my nose and submerged my head. I felt the heat on my cheeks and a sting from the scratches above my eyelids where t
he hedge had done its damage. I did this a couple of times to soften the four-day-old stubble that was beginning to feel like a Brillo pad every time I rested my chin in my hands, which I was doing a lot. I shaved and felt a bit cleaner.

  Then I just lay there to relax. But I couldn’t. I had to process what little I had heard at O’Brien’s. I’d figured the boxes, what with them containing flat screen televisions, might be valuable, but enough to set him back weeks? And wasn’t he just distributing for other suppliers? Sure, the insurance would sort out any monetary issues. And what problem had been sorted – a mole? I was sure O’Brien and Savage had stood there talking about a hit. Did they mean Moolah?

  If that was the case, I could probably rule out Jordan as a suspect, because it had been Jordan that put me on the job in the first place. That was contrary to the rumours someone had been spreading.

  When I had done washing myself I stood up in the bath. I felt light-headed and had to steady myself with a palm on the wall.

  What the fuck! What's wrong with me now?

  It took about ten seconds for the spell to pass and I was able to step out of the bath with some degree of confidence. I felt heavy on my feet and went to the bedroom to sit on the bed.

  My arteries, my heart, and now my fucking head – I'm falling to pieces.

  I dried myself as I sat and warily stood up. Again I felt light-headed, though not as badly or for as long as before.

  Jesus Christ! What am I going to die of first? A heart attack or fecking Parkinson's?

  I dressed myself and tottered a bit as I donned my trousers. I thought a Barry's tea with plenty of sugar was well in order. Maybe it was just low blood sugar.

  Just low blood sugar? Diabetes? No hang on just a minute, I've had my bloods checked not so long ago. Doc would have called if there was anything wrong … wouldn't he?

  The sup of tea was most welcome. If it wasn't exactly a pharmacological effect that calmed me, it was at least the fondness of connecting with other tea-filled moments. Sharing tea and biscuits with Mam, for example.

  Mam … oh God, what date was her birthday again?

  I turned on the telly to double check the date on the news channel. It was her birthday. I'd remembered a couple of days ago only to forget until now. That bloody memory of mine again. What was happening with my head?

  I took another sup of tea and tried to regulate my breath. Breath in … and out … breath in … and out. I’d learned this technique from an old cassette tape I'd bought at another car boot sale in Kilkully – a time before I bought the space music CD. Tapes and CDs I was comfortable with. I could hold them, stick them into some basic machinery to make the music play. Now it was something else entirely: digital downloads. I just didn't know where to begin with those.

  Feeling somewhat better, I clicked my brain into a more rational gear. I had only been on the case for a few days, hadn’t much, but suspicions to follow up. It was a start, enough surely to justify Jordan’s retainer. I decided I would give the surveillance another twenty-four hours before calling Jordan.

  I’d been parking by the post office to surveil O’Brien, but continuing to do so might have drawn suspicion. Someone might have mistaken my surveillance as casing the post office. I knew a traveller by the name of John Paul Kiely in the halting site just up the road from the post office. From there I would get a good view of the lot. An even better one, in fact.

  I drove into the site to the askance looks of a couple of kids who should probably have been at school. I saw JP outside his caravan tending to a lawn mower. I parked nearby and walked over to him.

  “Hi –” I began.

  He held up a hand to quieten me, pulled a chord to start the petrol mower. It rumbled for a few seconds and then stopped with a clank. He cursed something in an accent or language I didn’t understand.

  “Ah, howya boss man,” he said, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. “I suppose you’re to be welcomed now, not being filth and all that.”

  He grinned and revealed a surprisingly polished full set of teeth. My preconceived notions about the dental health of travellers was confounded.

  “I’d like to think you would have made an exception for me anyway, JP. It’s good to see you again.”

  “It’s been fair time since last time. Is it four years?”

  “More like five or six.”

  “What can I do you for?”

  I pointed to the corner of the site. A car was on blocks, some of the panelling missing, the engine bay empty. Car parts was just one of the travellers’ many trades.

  “Do you mind if I spend some time parked over there?” I said.

  I would have expected a puzzled look, but JP just spat in his rag and went to work on his hands finger by finger.

  “A space like that’s worth money,” he finally said when all of his fingers had been cleaned – though they were still blackened by old engine oil. The space was just another commodity to be sold by a resourceful traveller, no more, no less than a piece of carpet or a settee.

  “I figured it would be,” I said. “What’s the damage?”

  “Depends,” he said without elaborating. He picked up a splinter of wood from the ground and got to work on picking the dirt from under his nails.

  “It always does, doesn’t it.”

  “Sure, once a Pavee, always a Pavee.”

  “Will we say fifty Euro a day?”

  “If we say eighty, we can call it a deal.”

  “Let’s split the difference,” I said.

  I spat in my hand and offered it.

  JP laughed. He spat in his hand and clasped mine.

  “Deal,” he said.

  “And no questions,” I said.

  “About what?”

  Enough said.

  I had a perfect view from the halting site of O’Brien’s BMW. The bustle of traveller life went on behind me – the comings and goings of vans, the various clattering and banging of their trades, horses neighing in the field to the back. It was a microcosm of a way of life that was under threat – from local authorities, politicians, the public, even the Guards. Ironically, it was their desire to keep to themselves, the very thing that those who despised them would want, that made them seem even more suspicious to those who sought out suspicion.

  It was a crisp early afternoon. Ideal surveillance weather – no haze of any kind, a clear view for miles. I wondered how much O’Brien’s car cost. I’d probably have had to pay someone to take my old Fiat Uno away. Given the choice, I’d take the Fiat, though. I’ve heard it all about the reliability of Fiats of that era, the tendency to rust, and so on. But there was a spirit to the Uno that O’Brien’s seven-series just did not have.

  O’Brien left his office at 2:15 p.m. I moved my hand towards the ignition key, but O’Brien took a pack of fags from his back pocket and proceeded to smoke two cigarettes. I hadn’t seen him smoke before, maybe just overlooked it, but I thought maybe it was because he was feeling the pressure of recent events. There was time enough for him not only to inherit Jordan’s old empire, but his paranoia also.

  An hour later he left the building and got into his car and that cop feeling I’d felt before returned. Nostalgia, I suppose, for better days, a better purpose.

  I kept my distance as O’Brien turned left from the facility down towards the northern edges of Blackpool, then left again to take the shortcut to Commons Road. This quickly became the main Limerick national route. There were a number of possible destinations along that road, Blarney and Mallow chief amongst them.

  O’Brien passed the turn for Blarney. A cement lorry slowed us mid-way between Blarney and Mallow and I worried about O’Brien’s view in the rear view mirror. I slowed and allowed a frustrated woman in a Fiat 500 – the new breed of Fiat that lacked spirit – to pass me, giving me a buffer to O’Brien.

  The cement lorry took a right into Mallow town at the main roundabout and O’Brien continued straight. I wondered if he was heading to Limerick or, God forbid, Galway or b
eyond.

  O’Brien stopped in a garage just before Buttevant. I pulled in around the side of the garage where the car wash was. I had more than enough petrol for Limerick and back, but if he went further I’d be in trouble. I got out to stretch my legs.

  O’Brien filled up on diesel and went into the shop to pay. On the way out he was taking the plastic wrapping from a packet of Rothmans. He put one in his mouth and lit it despite the many warnings to the contrary next to the pumps. I guessed his stress levels were rising the closer he got to his destination.

  Through Buttevant and on through Charleville also. Then a long stretch to the outskirts of Limerick where O’Brien took an exit for the city centre.

  Limerick has a bad rep. Unfair in my estimation. Sure enough, there are areas you wouldn’t want to find yourself in daylight, let alone on a dark night, but Limerick people are gas characters. Self-deprecating and with an interest in any sport that involves a ball and brutality.

  After going straight through a couple of roundabouts, O’Brien took a left away from the city. He continued along a road that became more rural – a field with cows here, an animal feed plant there – until we hit a pocket of recently-built housing estates. Some of the estates looked unfinished, once freshly-laid pavement now cracked and with weeds flourishing in the cracks. Flowers and long grass grew from the edges of manhole covers. Pipes to nowhere stuck out of the ground where foundations had been laid and covered, but no house built.

  O’Brien turned in to one of the estates. There were no inhabitants. Without context, one might have thought a nuclear holocaust or a mining boom-bust had cleared the estate of life. I knew better. The Celtic Tiger had ravaged the land here.

  Following him into a housing estate where no one lived would have invited suspicion, so I drove into the next estate where most of the houses were occupied. I found an empty, boarded-up house that was adjacent to the ghost town, with an estate agency sign hanging at an angle by one nail from a post, a diamond swaying gently to and fro in the breeze.