Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Gene Kerrigan

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Impulse

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  2. Entrepreneurs

  Day Four

  Day Five

  Day Six

  Day Seven

  Day Eight

  Day Nine

  Day Ten

  3. In the Beginning

  Three Weeks Earlier

  4. At the End

  Day Eleven

  Day Twelve

  Day Thirteen

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Danny Callaghan is just out of jail and enjoying a quiet drink in a Dublin pub when two men walk in with guns. On impulse, he intervenes to rescue the intended victim, petty criminal Walter Bennett, and finds himself dragged into Dublin’s murky underworld. As the police grope for answers, and Danny struggles to protect those he loves, the rising tensions between the gangs threatens to erupt into a bloody showdown.

  Dark Times in the City portrays a society on the edge, where affluence and cocaine fuel a ruthless gang culture, and a man’s impulse to do good may cost him the lives of those who matter the most.

  About the Author

  After seven non-fiction books, veteran journalist Gene Kerrigan received critical acclaim in Ireland, the UK and the USA for his first two novels, Little Criminals and The Midnight Choir. He lives in Dublin.

  ALSO BY GENE KERRIGAN

  Novels

  Little Criminals

  The Midnight Choir

  Non-fiction

  Round Up the Usual Suspects (with Derek Dunne)

  Nothing but the Truth

  Goodbye to All That (with Derek Speirs)

  Hard Cases

  Another Country

  This Great Little Nation (with Pat Brennan)

  Never Make A Promise You Can’t Break

  In memory of

  Bridget Kerrigan and Eileen Kerrigan

  and Larry McDonagh

  and Thomas Daly

  GENE KERRIGAN

  Dark Times in

  the City

  This is the dark time, my love.

  It is the season of oppression, dark metal, and tears.

  It is the festival of guns.

  – Martin Carter

  The frightened man said, ‘Please don’t do it. He’s just a kid.’

  The thug said, ‘This is the one I’ll use.’ He held up a small, blunt-nosed bullet, the hallway light reflected in the shiny brass shell.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ the frightened man said.

  The thug was leaning forward, his face inches away. There was resentment in his voice.

  ‘Hey, old man, I’m supposed to take the loss?’

  ‘He hasn’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘You give it to him.’

  ‘I haven’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘Everyone’s got that kind of money. Sell something.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Not my problem.’ The thug dropped the bullet into the breast pocket of his Hugo Boss jacket and began to turn away.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Big boys’ rules.’

  ‘I’ll sell what I can.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘But it’s not—’

  ‘He’s got till the end of the week.’

  From up here in the Dublin mountains, the lights of the city glowed like countless grains of luminous sand strewn carelessly in a shallow bowl. There were random patterns in the glitter – silvery lights bunched together, clusters of tall buildings, cranes topped by red hazard lights, curving lines of orange street lights heading out into the suburbs or marking where the coast road held back the black sea. Above, the lights of airplanes moved along an invisible path towards the airport. The sky was clear, the moon almost full, the air as sharp as broken ice.

  The two men, one turned sixty, the other in his early twenties, paused at the edge of thick woods and looked down on their city. A lot of lights, a lot of people. Half a million in the city itself, another half-million in the surrounding area. Every one of them wanting things, needing things. Some of what they wanted couldn’t be bought legally – other stuff, they’d rather not pay retail prices. Many of them were wealthy and wealth is detachable. In that shallow, glittering bowl there were a million opportunities.

  Some of the cranes were decorated with coloured lights, to celebrate the impending Christmas. It used to be that the chattering classes were never done boasting about how many cranes there were on the Dublin skyline. The cranes were badges of national pride, and they talked about them in the same respectful tones that the old folk used when they remembered the sacred patriot dead.

  Not so much boasting these days.

  ‘What do you think?’ the younger man said. ‘This the place to do it?’

  The older man looked away from the city lights. He switched on his small flashlight and led the younger man a couple of dozen yards into the woods, to a small clearing. There he used a heel to probe the ground.

  ‘Hard,’ he said.

  ‘Time of year.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be deep.’ He gestured around the clearing. ‘When it’s time, you’ll be able find your way back to this place?’

  ‘No bother.’ The younger man buried his hands in his armpits. ‘Jesus, it’s cold up here.’

  The older man tapped the ground with his foot. ‘It’ll have to do.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘we won’t be doing the digging.’

  On the way back to the car, from somewhere down there in the city the older man listened to the wavering sound of a distant siren. Police, ambulance or fire brigade – someone was in trouble.

  Part One

  Impulse

  Day One

  Chapter 1

  On that part of the street, at this hour of the evening, only the pub was still open for business. Near the middle of a row of shops, between the flower shop and the hairdressers, it offered the street a welcoming glow on a chilly winter’s night. There were two entrance doors, one to the bar and one to the lounge. The windows were small, high on the wall and barred. The pub front had been recently painted off-white. The blue neon decoration high on the wall was a bog-standard outline of a parrot. The pub was called the Blue Parrot. It was owned and managed by a man named Novak.

  This was a neighbourhood place and most of the younger set travelled into the city centre or favoured local pubs that featured entertainment. Novak didn’t believe in pub quizzes, pub bands, comedy nights or DJs. He just sold drink and provided a venue for companionship.

  On the other side of the street, it was all terraced houses with well-tended front gardens. They were of a standard municipal design that was duplicated throughout the Glencara estate and across similar council-built estates throughout Dublin – Finglas, Cabra West, Drimnagh, Crumlin, Ballyfermot. Small and narrow, most of the houses now bristled with extensions. Many had colourful cladding or fanciful embellishments – columns flanking the front door or tiled canopies overhanging the windows.

  From the far end of the street a motorbike made its way towards the pub. Traffic was light here, far from the main routes through the estate, but the motorbike was taking its time, easing gently over the speed bumps installed to discourage joyriders.

  The passenger was first to dismount at the pub. He took something from a saddlebag. At the entrance to the lounge he paused and gestured to the driver to hurry up.

  When the man in the black motorcy
cle helmet came into the pub, Danny Callaghan slipped down from the bar stool and looked around for anything he might use as a weapon. His hand grasped the only possibility he saw within reach – his half-empty beer glass.

  A few feet inside the entrance the assassin paused. The helmet hid most of his face, with just a gap behind which his eyes glanced from table to table. He had a revolver in his right hand, held casually down by his side. Behind him a second man in a matching motorcycle helmet came in, cradling a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun. Both men wore dark blue boiler suits.

  Most of the drinkers were seated at the tables and booths around the edges of the pub, half a dozen of them sitting or standing at the bar.

  The first assassin spotted his target and began to move forward.

  By now, most of those in the vicinity knew what was happening. The motorcycle helmet indoors, the armed minder watching the killer’s back and the quick stride towards the intended victim – in recent years, a routine as recognisable as a Riverdance twirl.

  The panic subsided in Danny Callaghan’s chest.

  Not me.

  He relaxed his grip on the beer glass and put his hand in his pocket, to try to stop it shaking. The assassin was walking towards an alcove over by the large fireplace, where three men were now white-faced and standing up.

  The man in the middle – small, middle-aged, grey-haired – was named Walter Bennett. Where his companions’ expressions were a mixture of fear and bewilderment, Walter’s pinched face was all dread.

  Danny Callaghan felt the Swiss Army knife in his pocket. It had a small pliers, with a screwdriver, a bottle opener and a two-inch knife blade. A hopeless weapon, but he held onto it anyway. He used a fingernail to pick at the knife blade.

  Just in case.

  Less than ten seconds had passed, and by now even the dimmest customer in the Blue Parrot knew the score.

  The noise from the fifth-rate soccer game on the sports channel continued, but much of the pub chatter had been replaced by the coarse sounds of startled men releasing gasps and swear words.

  Several just turned their faces away, crouched or ducked. Some stared open-mouthed, not wanting to miss a thing.

  ‘Ah, come on, fuck off.’

  Novak, the pub owner, was behind the counter, sucking in his gut, holding up an open-fingered hand towards the first gunman. The man, almost at the alcove now, ignored him.

  From across the pub floor, Walter made eye contact with Callaghan.

  ‘Help me, Danny!’

  Four feet from his victim the gunman raised his arm, aimed the revolver at Walter’s forehead, paused a second, then squeezed the trigger.

  It didn’t even make a clicking noise.

  Nothing.

  No sound, no recoil, no wisp of gases. Just a gun not working.

  The gunman ducked when Novak threw a bottle of gin. And Walter moved, one foot stepping up and backwards onto the seat behind him, his other foot up and forward onto the table, the table lurching, drinks falling over. He hit the floor running.

  The gunman turned, crouched, arm extended, revolver pointing at the moving figure. A clamour of shouts and screams from the customers was followed by the loud, flat sound of the gun going off.

  Walter, unhurt, was coming Callaghan’s way.

  ‘Help me, Danny!’

  One hand clutching at the lapels of Callaghan’s jacket, Walter paused a moment and then he was past, head twisting from side to side as he sought a way out.

  ‘Danny!’

  The fuck does he think I can do?

  Callaghan released his grip on the Swiss Army knife and took his hand out of his pocket.

  Walter turned towards the toilets, but even in his panic he knew they offered only an enclosed place to die. No time to get across the counter, through the archway and out into the bar. He turned to the approaching gunman, then twisted and crouched sideways, as though he could shrink his body beyond harm’s way.

  Grunting a warning as he passed Callaghan, the gunman pointed his revolver at Walter and Callaghan hit him square across the back with the bar stool. The gunman went down, landing heavily on his side. As the gun flew from his hand, Callaghan dropped, one knee pinning the gunman to the floor.

  Walter ran forward and kicked the gunman hard, connecting with his ribs. He bent and snatched the gun, a small grey pistol, and before he could do anything with it Callaghan’s left hand gripped both Walter’s hand and the revolver itself. With his other hand he unpeeled Walter’s fingers from the gun and looked around.

  There wasn’t a customer above table level.

  Novak was out from behind the counter, standing with his back to Callaghan, one hand held up, palm towards the gunman at the front door, the other hand holding a hammer. The gunman waved the shotgun and shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘Anybody hurt?’ Novak shouted.

  Silence.

  Then the man with the shotgun let out a hoarse roar. ‘Let him go!’

  Novak lowered the hammer, his voice unnaturally calm. ‘It’s over, okay, just take it easy.’

  Callaghan bent down, bunched the prone gunman’s boiler suit under his chin and pulled him up. The gunman was heavy, but Callaghan took him easily. He heard a satisfying gasp as he twisted the man’s arm up behind his back, a squeal as he pushed him past the bend in the bar and around towards the front door. The gunman’s movements were awkward, his vision limited by the helmet.

  Novak’s voice was strained. ‘Take it easy, no harm done.’

  Holding the gunman in front of him, Callaghan moved alongside Novak. The one with the shotgun was a dozen feet away. Callaghan said, ‘Don’t be stupid, okay? You piss off, and we let him go.’

  The one with the shotgun hesitated. Callaghan pointed the pistol at him and said, ‘Leave that and go.’

  The would-be killer put the shotgun down on the floor and backed away, pushing the door open. He called back, ‘Come on, Karl, come on!’ Then he was gone.

  Callaghan reached around and pulled the helmet off the gunman. Karl was about twenty, bulky little guy with hair cut tight to his skull and the shadow of a moustache above his quivering lip. Callaghan’s hold on his arm was solid, but he could feel the strength there.

  ‘Toddle along, Karl – you come back here, you’ll get your pimply arse kicked.’

  Callaghan jerked the gunman forward, leaned him against the front door and pushed. Outside, the second gunman was astride the motorbike, the exhaust already belching. His partner jumped onto the pillion and the harsh revving noise the motorbike made as it carried them away was maybe meant to be aggressive but it came off like a petulant bark.

  Novak was standing beside Callaghan, watching the motorbike accelerate towards the far end of the street. ‘Jesus, Danny’, he said.

  Callaghan nodded. ‘Jesus.’

  In the distance, the motorbike passed through an orange beam from a street light, then jumped and wobbled as the driver forgot to slow for a speed bump. The tyres screeched as the motorbike turned sharply into a side street. In seconds even the noise of the engine had disappeared.

  Novak was breathing as though he’d done a couple of laps around the block. ‘This bloody city.’

  Callaghan said, ‘Recognise anyone?’

  Novak shook his head. ‘Someone’ll tell the cops – I’ll have to call it in.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Were you in tonight?’

  Callaghan just looked at him.

  Novak said, ‘You better go, so.’ He nodded towards the shotgun down by his side. ‘What should I do with this?’

  ‘Raffle it.’

  Holding the revolver with the hem of his brown suede jacket, Callaghan used the front of his black T-shirt to wipe it. He offered it to Novak. ‘Raffle this too.’

  Novak said, ‘This is going to screw the place up for a couple of days, with the coppers making a fuss.’

  Walter Bennett came out of the pub in a hurry, brushed past Novak, and began the jerky stop-and-start lope of a man unused to such exercise. />
  Novak and Callaghan watched him go. Novak snorted and said, ‘You’re welcome, Walter.’

  Chapter 2

  In the ten minutes it took Danny Callaghan to walk to his apartment he sought to keep thought at bay by repeatedly cursing his own stupidity.

  Fucking idiot.

  That’s how it happens – one moment—

  He cursed himself again and realised he’d said it aloud.

  ‘Fucking idiot.’

  There was no one to hear him. The air was cold enough to show his breath and the street was deserted. Callaghan was tall, with the build of someone capable of making a living with his hands. He had an unfinished look about him. His hairstyle was an old-fashioned short-back-and-sides that might have been done by a third-rate barber in a hurry. The peppered grey of his hair aged him beyond his 32 years.

  The roar of a boy racer announced the arrival of a young man in his early twenties, in a light blue Ford Fiesta. The car came to a too-abrupt stop at the T-junction just ahead. Windows darkened, decorative blue lights reflected from the road underneath the chassis, the entire body of the car seemed to throb with the hip-hop beat of the pulsing music. The night was cold but the driver’s window was rolled all the way down. Nothing to do with ventilation, all about youth and image and the insistence that everyone should listen to his chosen music. Callaghan remembered the feeling.

  The kid might well be on his way home from a job that paid under the minimum wage, in some kip where the manager didn’t bother to ask his surname. In his head, though, he was motoring through the ’hood on his way to score a couple of keys of blow, ready to get down and dirty with a bitch or two and waste any muthafucka that got in the way. The kid gunned the engine, leaning forward as he glanced to his left, then turned right and kicked off, the screech of the tyres almost as loud as the scream of the engine.