Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  The first time Callaghan had got that buzz he was fifteen, and behind the wheel of a stolen Lexus. Fifteen and immortal, fifteen and in no doubt he was a natural-born driver who could fishtail his way out of the tightest corner. And so it was, until two years later, lost in the wagon-wheel layout of Marino, with a squad car somewhere behind, he cut a corner too close and ended up clipping a lamp-post. When the ambulance crew took him out of the wreck he was smiling, his head still full of that buzz.

  Callaghan felt a shiver now, remembering. There was no cure except time for that mixture of testosterone, arrogance, courage and stupidity.

  He walked through a narrow passageway and out into a wide and overgrown area of green stretching across a dozen acres. With a bit of work it might make a nice little park, but that wasn’t in anyone’s budget, so it wouldn’t get done. The landscape was uneven, full of hillocks and hollows. The tarred surface of the pathway that cut through it was encrusted here and there with sprinklings of broken glass.

  Who’d want to kill Walter Bennett?

  One man with a gun could be a personal grudge. Two – main man and backup – that had the smell of a drugs gang solving a problem.

  Hard to believe, though, that Walter Bennett had graduated to that level of action. They’d met in prison during the final year of Callaghan’s sentence, when Walter came in to do five months for breaking and entering a car showroom. Since Callaghan got out, they’d bumped into each other a couple of times, had a drink once. Walter’s life had been repeatedly interrupted by prison terms, leaving his ageing face with the perpetually resentful look of a loser. Callaghan couldn’t imagine how such a small-timer fitted into the quarrels of young men with serious weapons, and he didn’t care.

  Fucking idiot.

  Whatever he’d got himself into, Walter couldn’t help being a fool, but Callaghan ought to have known better. If heavies with guns wanted Walter dead, for whatever reason, he was going to die. Interfering in that kind of squabble was pointless.

  That was the logic of it, but logic didn’t allow for impulse. It was impulse that made Novak get involved, defending his pub and one of his customers. It was impulse, fuelled by his friendship with Novak, that drew in Callaghan.

  Near the centre of the green there was a mound covered with bushes, behind which stood some kind of municipal storage shed. As Callaghan approached, three teenagers, wearing the hoodies of their tribe, emerged from the bushes. One of them saw Callaghan and gave him a nod, which Callaghan returned. The kid – his name was Oliver – shared a flat with his grandfather two floors above the apartment that Callaghan rented. They’d met on the first floor landing, on the day Callaghan moved in. Shuffling up the stairs with a suitcase in each hand, Callaghan had cursed as an uncooperative travel bag slipped from one shoulder. It wasn’t the kind of area where you could leave a case on the street for a couple of minutes while you carried the rest up. Oliver, coming down the stairs, paused, then nodded and reached for one of the suitcases. ‘Fucking lift,’ he said, ‘it goes dead every second week. And it takes them a couple of days to get it going.’

  He carried the suitcase up to Callaghan’s floor. He said he lived two floors up, then he nodded at Callaghan’s thanks and set off down the stairs, whistling. He didn’t seem to have regular work and spent a lot of time hanging around the area. Danny saw him a couple of times in Novak’s pub. The kid was right about the lift.

  Oliver was one of a group of local kids who regularly used the bushes in the centre of the green to store their booze, bought earlier in the day from a supermarket. The bushes were visible from the apartment block and apparently no one had ever been stupid enough to risk stealing the drink. Later in the evening, the kids would come back and cluster in some hollow with their bottles of cider and cans of beer and build a fire to keep warm while they drank.

  In his apartment, Callaghan poured himself a Scotch. The five-floor apartment block was known to its tenants as the Hive. There were bars on the windows of all the ground-level flats. Callaghan’s third-floor bedroom was just about big enough for a bed and storage for his clothes. It was slightly smaller than the space that served as combined living room, dining room and kitchen.

  Having sipped at the whisky for a while, Callaghan decided he wasn’t enjoying it. He poured what was left in the glass down the sink.

  Fucking idiot.

  He’d switched on the boiler but it would be a long time before the radiators had an effect on the icy air. He put his hands in his jacket pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold. Finding the Swiss Army knife in his pocket he took it out and opened the blade. He used it almost daily for one chore or another, but in a fight it might as well be a toy.

  What kind of fool goes up against a handgun and a shotgun with no weapon to hand except a bar stool?

  Dumb.

  Maybe it was a mistake coming home so early. He didn’t want to be with anyone, but the apartment had few distractions and he could feel the thoughts he’d so far kept at bay, fluttering around his mind, making only occasionally painful raids but aware of their power to dominate.

  One moment you’re alive. The next – and Callaghan knew the arctic chill that seized his scalp had nothing to do with the temperature of the apartment.

  The policeman knew Novak was lying and Novak didn’t care.

  ‘No way you don’t know him.’

  ‘I’d tell you if I knew.’

  ‘According to two of your customers, the intended victim is a regular. Name of Walter something.’

  ‘No, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.’

  The few customers still there when the police arrived had already been interviewed. After the police questioned the two bar staff and allowed them to take off, Novak cashed up and put the money in the safe.

  The policeman said, ‘Shut that thing off.’

  On the television screen high on the wall, a bald man with a lined face was leaning forward, his eyebrows agitated. One hand hammered into his other palm to emphasise every third or fourth word as he warned that too drastic an approach to tackling global warming would have adverse effects on competitiveness. Novak told the policeman, ‘I like to keep up with what’s happening.’

  There were three other policemen in the pub, two of them examining the bullet hole in the wooden panel on the back wall. The third had bagged the shotgun and the pistol and was now sitting at a table, phone to his ear, having an animated conversation with his wife.

  Novak said, ‘How long is this going to take?’

  ‘That depends.’

  This policeman had introduced himself as Sergeant Wyndham. A big man, taller than Novak, big as Callaghan. Where Callaghan was lean, though, the sergeant’s 36-inch belt strained to hold an overhanging 40-inch belly. The page of the notebook he’d opened when he approached Novak was still blank.

  ‘It’s a neighbourhood pub. This Walter guy drinks here two or three times a week and you don’t know him?’

  ‘Like I say, first I heard of his name was when you mentioned it.’

  It didn’t really matter. Once they had Walter’s name they’d find him. They’d get Danny Callaghan’s name and find him, too. But Novak had principles about this kind of thing. A man in his position, if he started talking to the bluebottles they’d keep coming back. Soon they’d start thinking of him as a source of tips about the less socially committed of his customers. And every time some local put a dent in the law the police would call around and Novak would get the kind of reputation that wasn’t good for his kneecaps.

  ‘The man who stepped in, the one who prevented the killing – I’m told you and he were talking, before this thing happened?’

  ‘I’m friendly with all my customers. That guy – I never got around to asking his name.’

  Novak’s tone was flat, his jowly face expressionless, the greying stubble a contrast to the shaven head. His face made no attempt to corroborate his lies.

  ‘And the gunmen – recognise anyone, hear any names?’

  One
of the pub customers, under questioning, had said that one of the gunmen had used the other’s name, but he’d told the police it had all happened so quickly that he didn’t register it.

  Novak said, ‘I was kind of busy, trying to keep everyone calm.’

  ‘The guns.’ The policeman pointed to the shotgun and the pistol, on the counter in separate evidence bags. ‘I suppose you got your fingerprints all over them? Anyone else touch them?’

  ‘It got a bit hectic. I wasn’t taking notes.’

  ‘Only stupid people make an enemy of the police.’

  Novak stood up straight and looked the policeman in the eye. ‘I’m just about to make a fresh pot of coffee. You and your mates, would you like to join me?’

  Wyndham said nothing for a moment, like he very much wanted to remain aggressive. Then he sighed and said, ‘Why not?’

  Chapter 3

  The way the receptionist at the shabby little hotel smiled, Karl Prowse knew she wanted him. She was in her late thirties, almost twenty years older than Karl, but he felt the hunger surge. It wasn’t the dyed blonde hair or the tight purple dress, it was the frank look-over she gave him, like she was mentally assessing how his weight would feel against her braced thighs. He savoured the thought while the receptionist nodded to the whore by Karl’s side. The whore had an account with the hotel and the cost of the room was included in the price she’d quoted Karl. As they went up the stairs, arms linked, Karl looked back. The receptionist had returned to her magazine.

  Karl remembered something from a television movie, about how a brush with death stokes the sex drive. He understood that. Once the fear and the tension goes, the juices all flow back and you need to connect with life and that means you need to fuck something. He could still feel the adrenalin.

  Back in that shitty pub, when the job went sour, there was just one moment when Karl Prowse felt fear. The rest of the time, he was on top of things. Even after that fool butted in, even when Karl felt something hard smash into his back and he went down, the gun jolting from his hand, he was in control. His confidence assured him that within seconds he would hit the floor, roll over and come up, the gun in his hand again. Even when the interfering bastard came down heavily, his knee pinning Karl to the floor, that was something he could deal with. His mind was instantly assessing weights and angles and forces, his muscles tensing – then, from the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach down and take the gun and he felt something lurch inside his body. It was Walter, the piece of crap that he’d gone there to flush, it was his fingers taking control of the gun. Karl knew there was nothing he could do in those next few seconds that could stop that gun punching a hole in his head. And for those seconds, even as his body heaved against the weight of the bastard who butted in, he accepted that he was about to die and it drained his mind of thought. Then he saw the interfering bastard’s hand take the gun away from Walter, easily pulling the weapon from his fingers, and his fear gave way to rage.

  Where the fuck are you?

  By now, Robbie’s shotgun should have sorted this out. The interfering bastard should be jam on the floor. And Walter – soon as Walter reached for the gun, his blood should have been decorating the walls.

  Where the fuck?

  Pulling Karl to his feet, the interfering bastard jerking his arm up behind his back. Unsteady on his feet, the pain didn’t matter – the humiliation fuelled Karl’s rage.

  ‘Let him go!’

  Robbie, goddamn retard, holding the shotgun like he was afraid it was going to explode in his hands.

  ‘It’s over, okay, just take it easy!’

  Guy from behind the bar, he was trying to make it all go away.

  Fucked up. It’s done. Over.

  For now.

  Then the one who was holding Karl, the interfering bastard, was telling Robbie not to be stupid and the interfering bastard took Karl’s helmet off and he was pushing him towards the door and the whole thing was almost finished, and Robbie the retard went so far down the stupidity scale they didn’t have a number for it.

  ‘Come on, Karl, come on!’

  No names.

  First principles in a job like this – no matter what happens you don’t use names.

  Stupid bastard.

  Karl was pounding the whore, her face pushed hard into the pillow, his fingers gripping her hips, his thrusts making the bed shake. She made gasping, moaning noises, as though she was contractually obligated, and after a while Karl remembered he’d had her before. He closed his eyes. He was thinking of the receptionist.

  When they’d got clear of this evening’s operation, Karl didn’t say anything to Robbie about the fuck-up. No point.

  ‘Karl, I’m sorry—’

  Robbie Nugent was a good kid – they’d known each other since primary school, and it was Karl who’d recommended him to Lar Mackendrick. Maybe a mistake. This was Karl’s big chance – maybe, when Lar Mackendrick asked if he knew another guy who could handle himself, maybe he should have nominated someone harder. But Robbie was a pal – a goddamn retard, but a pal.

  Karl swore at the whore, told her to shut up, then he bent forward and made small grunting noises as he came, his lips pressed against her back, her scent filling his lungs.

  Once they’d got away from the pub, and Karl had changed clothes at a safe apartment and told Robbie to stay there, he’d taken a taxi the couple of miles into the city centre. There, in a pub dominated by grey and chrome surfaces, with a huge neon flower decorating the wall behind the bar, he found a phone.

  ‘It didn’t happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A civilian stepped in, threw his weight about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We cut our losses. The way it went, it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘And?’

  Karl felt his face flush. Something in his voice had told Lar Mackendrick there was more. Screwing up a job was bad enough. Leaving behind the revolver and the shotgun – Jesus. Karl hated the timidity in his voice but he couldn’t do anything about it. ‘We lost the tools.’

  Silence from Lar.

  Karl said, ‘I’ll explain when we meet.’

  Lar said nothing, just clicked off.

  Now, in the shabby little hotel, Karl found his jeans on the floor and paid the whore, then told her to fuck off. After dozing for an hour or so he felt hungry, so he got up and got dressed and went downstairs. There was a buck-toothed young Chinky boy behind the counter in reception. Karl found a pub, had a beer and a sandwich and when he was done he went home.

  *

  Sergeant Wyndham could hear laughter in the background. It sounded like there was a dinner party at the Chief Superintendent’s home. The Chief Super said, ‘You don’t think it’s connected, then?’

  Four gang members dead in less than two weeks, all public executions. Tit gets his head punctured, so Tat gets his balls blown off. None of the murders happened in the Glencara area. If this thing at Novak’s pub was connected, it could mean the feud was spreading out from the inner city.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. We have a first name – Walter – we’ll trace him. Middle-aged man, local, doesn’t sound like any kind of a major player.’

  ‘Personal, then?’

  ‘We’ll probably find out he groped someone’s kid, or maybe he took someone’s parking space.’

  The Chief Super sounded relieved. ‘Maybe it’s over, then. Two dead on each side. Could be they’re getting war-weary.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Hope for the best, expect the worst.’

  ‘Say a prayer.’

  When Danny Callaghan slipped between the cold sheets and lay down he smelled his own sweat from the pillow. He hadn’t taken anything to the launderette for a couple of weeks. He hadn’t had a woman back here for over a month. It took a moment to cast the pillow aside and find a spare blanket to roll up to serve as a pillow.

  That’s how it happens – one moment—

&n
bsp; When he decided the thoughts were too strong to suppress, he turned on his back and stared at the ceiling.

  One slip.

  Maybe, instead of taking him down, the bar stool glances off the gunman’s shoulder and the guy – Karl – he stays on his feet, holds onto the gun and Callaghan takes a bullet in the chest, then one in the head as he lies on the floor of Novak’s pub.

  Or the gunman’s minder wasn’t so sluggish, he moves in quickly, pulls the trigger when the shotgun is a foot from Callaghan’s head.

  All over.

  And since Callaghan is 32, that’s maybe fifty years of life flushed down the pan in an instant.

  Fucking idiot.

  It should be a big thing, dying. It should come with some warning, a little time to take a breath, to recognise the significance of the moment. It should be about something more than a loser like Walter Bennett.

  In the decade since Danny Callaghan had killed a man, there hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t thought about it. Remorse rubbed shoulders with anxiety about the probability of retribution. When he saw the helmeted man come into the Blue Parrot, a gun in his hand—

  Callaghan kicked the blanket off and let the air chill his body. The cold was an efficient distraction. Out on the street, three floors down, someone was cursing someone else. Callaghan listened, letting the sounds draw his mind away from tonight’s foolishness. The male voice was repeating ‘Always!’ over and over. The yelling stopped and the object of derision made a crying sound. The voices continued for a while, alternately harsh and mewing, fading into the distance.

  Callaghan picked up his Nokia from the bedside table. He opened the contacts list and scrolled down through the names. He stopped and stared at Hannah’s name. His thumb caressed the centre button in a random pattern. When the light on the screen dimmed he put the phone away. After a while, he pulled the blanket up and rolled over, waiting for the heat to build up inside the cocoon.