A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1)

by Caimh McDonnell

  Sitting there, slurping on the melted ice from his large Diet Coke, he had time to think. Brigit was right. He had spent a lot of time moaning and feeling sorry for himself. Alright, she’d got him into this, but she was also the only one trying to get him out of it too. The Gardai didn’t care. The Nellis family were his oldest friends and they’d turned their backs on him. Yet Nurse Brigit Conroy, who he barely knew, was out there trying to make it right. Putting herself in danger to fix something that had only really come about because she’d tried to give some comfort to a dying old man. She’d defied police instructions to tell him who McNair really was, she’d come up with the idea of going to see Kruger and she was over there right now, trying to get information out of Brophy. All Paul had done in that time was whinge, moan and almost get her ex-fiancé killed. Alright, her ex was a massive tool but that, in itself, was not worthy of the death penalty. He owed her an apology. Actually, he owed her more than that. It was time he stopped being the hurler on the ditch. It was time he got in the damn game.

  Paul reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

  “It’s alright, you tried your best. How did he react when you mentioned Fallon?”

  Brigit looked at Paul suspiciously, like she was expecting a punchline. “He nearly shat himself as soon as I said the name. He’s terrified of him, but then everybody else seems to be too.”

  “Excellent.” Paul stood up, took his sling off and threw it on the table.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “Do you remember what happened between McNair and me in that hospital room?”

  Brigit rolled her eyes. “Oh for God sake! For the hundredth time, I’m sorry about…”

  “No, no, no,” interrupted Paul, “I meant before the stabby bit.”

  Brigit looked at him blankly.

  “He thought I looked the spit of my da, one Gerry Fallon. Let’s see if anybody else sees the family resemblance.”

  Paul entered Brogan’s and looked around. He spotted Brophy almost immediately, sitting at the table at the corner, holding court. From the excited expressions on the faces of his companions, he’d lay good money the gobshite was telling them some cock’n’bull story about where he’d been for the last fifteen minutes. Paul manoeuvred himself into the queue for the bar behind a woman who was rocking a truly impressive pink Mohawk. He glanced over at the group in the corner and noticed Where’s Wally doing the internationally recognised mime for a blowjob. Paul took a step towards them and realised that his adrenaline might be getting the better of him. Luckily, Mohawk moved at just that moment, so it looked like he was just making room for her to relay her tricky triangle of three drinks back to her table. She nodded her thanks and Paul slipped into the gap she left at the bar.

  He waited patiently for the barwoman to finishing serving three other people, and then he ordered a pint of Guinness. As it was settling under the tap, he saw Brophy out of the corner of his eye dragging himself out of his seat. Paul tried not to watch too closely as his target began moving his considerable bulk across the bar, excusing and thanking his way through the crowd. He was heading for the stairs down to the basement, where the loos were. Paul waved desperately to catch the barmaid’s eye and then nodded at the nearly settled pint.

  “Close enough,” he said, trying to sound relaxed.

  She gave him a disapproving look but topped it up as requested.

  “Four ninety five, please.”

  Christ, thought Paul. He could get a whole six-pack of the normal paint stripper he drank for that. It had been a while since he’d bought an actual pint in an actual pub. Paul handed her a five-euro note and grabbed the glass.

  “Keep the change,” he said.

  “Last of the big spenders! Looks like I’ll be buying that yacht after all.”

  Paul didn’t respond. He was moving towards the stairs Brophy had disappeared down about a minute before. He walked with as much speed as he could manage, through the crowded bar, without it looking suspicious. He made it down the stairs and turned right. He had to stop at the door to the gents to allow a large shaven-headed guy to exit. He gave Paul a funny look. In his eagerness, Paul realised he’d not stopped to put his pint down anywhere.

  “I don’t want to get spiked,” he said.

  The other guy raised his eyebrows and nodded, like that was a thing he’d have to worry about.

  Paul pushed through the door and glanced around. His luck was in.

  The urinals were free, as were two of the three stalls. Paul moved across to the sinks and looked in the long horizontal mirror. He could see in the reflection that it was indeed Brophy standing in the middle cubicle, and from the sound of it, he was right in the middle of a prodigious pee. Paul hadn’t exactly planned this bit out in detail. He noticed that Brophy still had the toilet seat down, the dirty animal. That made him feel a lot better about what he was about to do. As far as Paul was concerned, peeing on a toilet seat should be a capital offence.

  He took a gulp of his pint, placed it down on the ledge behind the sinks, and then moved into the middle stall right behind Brophy.

  He shoved the big man forward.

  “What the fuck…” exclaimed Brophy. Paul grabbed the neck of his blazer before he could turn around. Ideally, he’d have liked to close the cubicle door behind him, but there was barely enough room for Brophy in there, never mind the both of them.

  “Well if it isn’t acclaimed author Mark Brophy.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Brophy sounded scared, which is exactly how Paul needed him.

  “Now is that any way to speak to the son of an old friend?”

  Brophy turned his head as much as he could in the confined space. Paul leaned forward to prevent him getting a good look back, and whispered in his ear. “My Da, AKA Gerry Fallon senior, asked me to pass on his warm regards.”

  Brophy twisted a bit more, trying to get a better look at his assailant. Can’t give him time to think. Got to keep him off balance.

  “We hear you’ve been running your mouth.”

  “About what?”

  Paul punched him in the kidney with his right hand. He got a stab of pain through his wounded shoulder for his trouble. It probably hurt him more than it did Brophy, but it was more for effect.

  “Don’t piss me about,” said Paul.

  “Sh… she came to me, I told her where to go. Honestly!”

  “Took you long enough. About twenty minutes by my reckoning.”

  “I didn’t…”

  Paul shoved him forward again.

  “You’ve got a big fucking mouth. Did you tell her that the boat didn’t leave from Kerry?”

  Paul took a stab in the dark, hoping that whatever investigators Kruger had employed had at least got that right.

  “I told her nothing, I swear.”

  “Don’t lie to me! We know they know that.”

  “They didn’t get it from me. Fuck sake.”

  Brophy sounded like he was about to cry. Now was as good a chance as he was going to get.

  “Do they know the location?”

  “What?” Brophy tried to move, but Paul shoved his body against him, keeping him trapped facing the toilet.

  “The truth, ye fat prick!”

  “I wouldn’t tell them that. I swear.”

  C’mon, c’mon – give me something.

  “You know the word you can’t say. Tell me the word you can’t say?”

  “What the fuck?”

  Paul’s mind was racing, there had to be some way to get information out of him but this was the best he could come up with. He needed something. It was only a matter of time before…

  A flash of pain shot through Paul’s skull. His vision blurred and then his eyes closed. He felt himself bounce off Brophy’s fat arse and then fall messily onto the damp tiles. Then hands were upon him, dragging him up to his feet as voices chattered excitedly through the fog around him.

  “Who the fuck is this guy?”

  “Never you m
ind. Just grab him.”

  “Did you see me, Doug? I twatted him with this bottle, right on the head. Boom! One shot. Down.”

  “Shut up and help him, Clive. Hold the cunt.”

  That last voice had been Brophy’s, not sounding scared anymore. He sounded angry now. Paul could feel something oozing down the back of his head.

  Then next thing he felt was his almost full pint of Guinness being hurled into his face. He could taste it on his lips.

  He opened his eyes. Brophy was standing before him. He slapped Paul across the face. Paul tried to raise his hands in defence, but arms held him back. Where’s Wally and the black guy, thought Paul.

  Brophy leaned into him. “How fucking dare you. Coming around here, trying to intimidate me. I’m sick of this bullshit.”

  “Yeah,” said a voice from behind.

  “Shut up, Clive,” said another.

  Brophy grabbed Paul’s chin and held it up. “You tell your dad that I have never broken our agreement and I never will. I’ve as much to lose as you do. Don’t you dare pull this crap again.”

  Brophy shot a worried look over Paul’s head at the two men holding him up, then he leaned in close to Paul’s ear and whispered. “And yeah, I know the word I can’t say.” He said it in almost a hiss. “Bandon!”

  Brophy pulled back to look directly into Paul’s eyes. “You tell him — that word, and a lot more besides, is with several different people around the globe. Anything happens to me, anything! And everything I know gets released. Now why don’t —”

  Brophy stopped talking as the door flew open.

  “What in the hell is going on here?”

  Brophy stepped back as the hands holding Paul released him, and then grabbed him again to stop him falling to the floor. Paul could see a man in his thirties, in a white shirt and black pants, standing in the doorway. A member of staff, had to be.

  “He fell and cracked his head,” explained Brophy, trying and failing not to sound guilty. “He’s gee-eyed drunk, Dessie. Fecking senseless.”

  “I saw him walk in twenty minutes ago,” said the man. “He looked fine to me.”

  “Drugs maybe,” said a voice from behind Paul, which he guessed belonged to the black guy.

  “Yeah right. Pull the other one, it’s got my bollicks in it.”

  Paul saw the suspicion in Dessie’s eyes as he came forward and looked at him. He moved Paul’s head around and leaned over to look at the back of his skull. He could smell Dessie’s aftershave. Whatever it was, it was wonderful.

  “Fecking hell,” said Paul’s new favourite barman. “Right, give him to me.” He threw Paul’s left arm over his shoulder and took his weight. “Can you walk?”

  Paul nodded, the movement of his head causing a wave of nausea to wash over him.

  “C’mon so.”

  Dessie walked him out of the Gents and then stopped in the hallway. He leaned Paul against the wall and spoke in a low voice. “Do you want me to call the guards?”

  “No, no, I’m grand,” said Paul.

  “Are ye sure? Slipped, my arse. That looked like three on one to me.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “We’ll get you an ambulance then.”

  “No, no, no. No need…”

  At the top of the stairs, Paul fended off Dessie’s further attempts to help him. The whole pub looked on as he lurched towards the front door, testifying to his own glorious health all the way.

  Paul clambered messily through the double doors, nearly knocking a woman over on her way in. The evening air came as a blessed relief. He leant against the wall, gasping. He began to feel queasy so he closed his eyes, hoping for the world to stop spinning. He could hear people tutting as they moved around him on the pavement. “Pisshead,” said a voice.

  Then he felt arms around him.

  “Jesus! Are you OK?”

  Brigit. Christ, she smelt even nicer than Dessie.

  Paul opened his eyes and, after a couple of dizzy moments, he was able to focus on her. He gave her a wide grin. “Bandon.”

  Then he passed out.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Assistant Commissioner Fintan O’Rourke slammed the door of his car and looked up at his own top floor window. He’d seen the lights from a distance as he’d driven in. The house sat up on a hill, away from the main coastal road. After sitting through a long and tedious Chamber of Commerce dinner, he’d been looking forward to having the place to himself. It’d been a long week, and filling in for herself at functions like that was one of his least favourite parts of the job. Still, he’d turned up and smiled at the same old faces, and laughed at the same old jokes. Got to get along in order to get along.

  Light spilled out from the windows of the converted attic, which could mean only one thing. His son Jason must have had a change of heart and come home for the weekend after all. He was in university down in Waterford, having crashed and burned out of his languages degree in DCU. While he’d never admitted as much, O’Rourke senior had always had the strong impression his son had only signed up for it in the first place because of the high percentage of females on the course. He’d subsequently found Japanese so utterly impossible that he’d abandoned all hope of proceeding in alarmingly quick time, not even making it to the first year exams. O’Rourke had been inclined to teach the boy some hard life lessons by having him go out and get a job, but the wife had turned on the waterworks at the prospect of Jason being ‘unqualified’. He’d subsequently suggested the Gardaí, his wife’s derisive response to that option having led to a couple of weeks of domestic cold war tension. Business Administration in Waterford was seen as much more low-hanging and manageable fruit, surely not even Jason could drink his way out of that?

  The wife was away in Durham for the weekend, visiting Jason’s younger sister. O’Rourke didn’t mind spending the money on Jenny’s education, her results indicating not only that she regularly opened books, but that she refrained from using them as raw materials for rolling joints.

  O’Rourke let himself into the hallway, tossed his keys into the bowl on the side-table and shouted up. “Jason?”

  No response. The converted attic was Senior’s sanctuary, a little treat to himself. Technically part office, it was really the snooker table and big screen TV that were its most enticing features. He could also stand out on the private rear balcony and have a cheeky cigar without drawing the wife’s wrath. Jason knew all too well he shouldn’t be up there. He was banned, ever since Senior had come home unexpectedly to discover his son on top of his beloved snooker table, buried up to the hips in some bit of skirt. He’d stopped short of hitting the lad, only because he didn’t know who the girl was. The papers would love a bit of scandal to go along with their current obsession of tearing down the Gardaí Siochana. If he was at it again, though, O’Rourke didn’t care about the headlines or the grief he’d get from the wife, he was finally going to give the boy the hiding he’d repeatedly asked for throughout the previous twenty years of his over-privileged life. It’d cost him the best part of 400 euros to get the table re-felted last time. It hadn’t been technically necessary, there having been no actual damage, but it’d felt horribly defiled.

  “Jason?” O’Rourke could feel his anger rising as he reached the first floor landing. In work, his every word was gospel and his every command was carried out to the letter. While at home, his gormless son rode rough-shot over every rule, grinning like an idiot as he did it.

  O’Rourke girded himself for the worst and pushed open the door. He scanned the room right to left. The table was blissfully unoccupied. Jason was, in fact, nowhere to be seen.

  “Fuck sake!!” said O’Rourke, leaping back in surprise.

  Bunny McGarry, sitting in the leather easy chair in front of the TV, raised a tumbler of O’Rourke’s obscenely expensive 12-year-old Milton whiskey in toast. “Commissioner, up your arse.”

  He had made himself very much at home, his large sheepskin overcoat slung over the arm of the chair, his hur
ley sitting across his knees.

  “Jesus, Bunny, what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

  “I wanted to have a chat.”

  “Then ring my office and make an appointment like everybody else.”

  O’Rourke looked around the room nervously and then closed the door behind him.

  “I’m not really the appointment sort.”

  O’Rourke strode across the room and picked up the bottle of whiskey from the carpet beside Bunny. “You’re not one for half-measures either I see. Do you’ve any idea how much this stuff costs?”

  “Ah, put it on my tab.”

  O’Rourke walked across to the drinks cabinet and grabbed another glass. He half filled it and then pointedly left the bottle there. “How did you even get in? This house has a very sophisticated alarm.”

  “And I’ve got a very sophisticated stick,” said Bunny, giving his hurley an affectionate stroke.

  The alarm company were in for the mother of all bollockings on Monday morning. Twelve grand for something a muck-savage with a stick could apparently beat his way around.

  “Tis a lovely place you’ve got here. I’m surprised you’ve not invited me around before.”

  “I would do, Bunny, but you’ve no fucking clue how to behave in polite company.”

  “What the feck bullshit is that?” said Bunny, the words spilling out in a torrent. “I’m a fecking delight at dinner parties.”

  Even now, after knowing the man for a quarter century, O’Rourke could never tell when Bunny was really angry, and when he was just pretending. He was getting an unpleasant sensation of déjà vu. That old sickly feeling that every conversation with Bunny McGarry was a game of Russian roulette. “Do you not remember my wife, Bunny? She certainly remembers you, and your performance at our wedding.”

  “Ah for…” Spittle flew from Bunny’s lips as his gesticulated with his hands. “That swan could’ve broken some poor child’s fecking arm.”

  “Not after you broke its neck it couldn’t. Do you have any idea how much trouble I had over that?”