Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  The war council had been short enough. Mackendrick distributed guns and silencers and off-the-shelf mobiles, then he went over the plan, so each would know what the others had to do. Dolly Finn wasn’t too concerned about anyone else’s work – he had three killing jobs, and it all sounded very doable. Karl Prowse was playing Mr Cool, trying to impress the new guy. The kid, Robbie Nugent, seemed moody, perhaps nervous.

  ‘There’s a driver, too – Danny Callaghan. I had a meet with him earlier – no need for him to be here.’

  To Dolly Finn, the hired help weren’t too impressive, but it was a straightforward job as long as no one lost their nerve. His work done, his Michael Sheehan bank account replenished, Dolly would be back in London by tomorrow night.

  The street outside the B & B had been noisy earlier, but it was quiet now. Dolly felt sleep lapping at his mind, so he killed the iPod, slid off the headphones and turned his face towards the wall.

  Danny Callaghan looked at the clock again, the 12.18 glowing in the darkness, on the table beside his bed. He’d tried reading, but his mind was skimming from one thought to another, unable to settle, unable to absorb. It was more than twenty-four hours since the shooting of Declan Roeper in the Dublin mountains.

  Beside the clock there was a folded piece of paper.

  ‘That’s Karl’s address in Santry, okay?’ Tonight’s meeting with Lar Mackendrick, five hours back, had taken place in an upstairs room at Kimmet’s Ale House, in Wakeham Street.

  ‘Needn’t keep you long, Danny,’ Lar Mackendrick said.

  ‘What do I do?’

  Mackendrick spoke above the noise from the traditional band downstairs – guitars, fiddles, a bodhrán and a lot of didley-eye-de-da. He and Callaghan were in a second-floor room with a weak bulb. They were alone – the bar at the end of the room was closed.

  ‘All you need to know is that this whole thing depends on everyone doing their job. Take one piece away, it doesn’t work. And your piece is this. Nine-thirty in the morning, you pick up a white Ford van from Karl Prowse’s garage – at that address. Karl’s wife is expecting you. Take it to Cullybawn, park in the grounds of St Ursula’s church. Make sure you bring your mobile along – soon as you get there you ring me. The number’s on the other side of that piece of paper.’ Lar smiled. ‘When this is over, Danny – if you want regular work, you’re a good team player.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘To each his own. We don’t need to be friends, but there’s one reason you want to hope that this works out okay.’ Lar’s voice lowered. ‘I’ve made arrangements. Anything goes wrong, say I take a fall, your ex-wife’s going to do a lot of screaming before she dies. I’ve got people lined up—’

  ‘My ex-wife’s got nothing to do—’

  ‘She’s handy. Your girlfriend, too.’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend. She—’

  ‘Whatever. Here’s how it is.’ He held out one hand, palm up. ‘You’ll do what you’re told. Exactly the way I want it done, and afterwards you and yours get left alone.’ He held up the other hand. ‘You stab me in the back, and you get to mourn what you’ve done to – what’s her name – Hannah, lovely name. And the girlfriend, whatever her name is – my people have the details and, believe me, they’ll enjoy their work.’

  ‘I’ll do what you say.’

  ‘They’ll die hard. And you won’t get to mourn for long.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘Just so you know.’

  *

  Lying in the dark now, staring at the ceiling, trying not to see Declan Roeper’s eyes.

  After the shooting of Roeper, the evening before last, Lar Mackendrick and Danny Callaghan began the drive down from the Dublin mountains. After a few minutes, Callaghan said, ‘I’m not feeling well.’

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ Lar Mackendrick said.

  Somewhere near the Old Bawn Road, Callaghan demanded that Mackendrick stop the car. ‘Look, you go ahead home, okay? I need – I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  Feeling the seconds race past, his mind full of the image of the leather hat sagging above Roeper’s face, Callaghan tried to keep the urgency out of his voice.

  ‘No, I think I’m going to throw up. I need a walk, to clear my head – and I’ll get a taxi home. I need to calm down.’

  ‘It’s no—’

  ‘Please – I’ll be okay.’

  Mackendrick said, ‘Suit yourself.’

  After Mackendrick drove away, Callaghan found a quiet street and smashed the driver’s window of a car. With no tools and no time for subtlety, he ripped the wires from under the steering column and hot-wired the engine. It took him fifteen minutes to find the two spruce trees forming an X shape, and another couple of minutes to find the clearing, his breathing noisy as he stumbled through the woods.

  He’d brought along three CD cases he’d found in the car and he used one to dig at the earth and when the case broke he used a second to gouge a hole above where he reckoned Roeper’s face to be. That got him down far enough to use his fingers to tear at the earth. When he got to Declan Roeper’s hat and pulled it away the eyes stared straight up, nothing there.

  Danny Callaghan sat cross-legged on the grave, the fingers of one hand clutching tightly at his hair, his head back, his eyes closed, his teeth bared, his breathing harsh in his throat.

  His hand slid slowly down his face until it held his mouth, and his head bent forward. He stared at the unblinking eyes.

  ‘Please,’ he said, not knowing what he was appealing for. His fingers were numb from the cold and the tears on his cheeks felt like slivers of ice.

  The clock said 1.22 now.

  Danny Callaghan flicked on the bedside light. He’d managed to doze for a while, then he woke and tossed and turned, and now he reached for a magazine. He turned several pages and began reading a review of a new movie, half-aware of the sense of the words.

  Just deliver the van to the church grounds.

  He knew that wherever he left the van the chances were that someone would use it in a hit, maybe as a getaway car. Callaghan had no doubt that before the day was done his actions would play a part in killing someone.

  Chapter 37

  That was some workout.

  Karl Prowse found his jeans in the dark. He was tired – in a perfect world he’d just crash out, spend the night here. The bed covers were half on the floor, the sleeping woman lying on her side, naked in the light from the window.

  Twice my age, twice my energy.

  He was in the shabby little hotel, with the dyed blonde receptionist who’d been every bit as juicy as he’d figured she would be.

  Best to go home, get changed in the morning before the big day started. Besides, he wanted to kiss the kids before he left to do the job. You can’t ever tell how these things will work out.

  Some ride, though.

  He stood there, jeans in hand, thinking. Maybe he should stay. Go at it again in the morning.

  Nah.

  He pulled on the jeans, still staring at the naked woman.

  It took longer than usual to lock up, cash up and clean up the pub. Novak was yawning when he reached home. No messages on the machine, no notes on the kitchen counter to say that anyone had called. He’d already checked his mobile half a dozen times, but he checked again as he went upstairs.

  He eased the covers aside, careful not to wake Jane.

  Still no word from Danny.

  ‘I have to deal with this myself.’

  ‘Deal with what?’

  ‘Please.’

  Maybe it had something to do with Frank Tucker, maybe it was the police. Whatever it was, it felt like something in their friendship had shifted. For the bad, or maybe for the good, but something had changed.

  ‘Don’t shut me out. If you need help—’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Ring me when you can.’

  Now Novak left his mobile on the bedside table.

  Robbie Nugent was w
alking down Westmoreland Street, a friend on each side, arms linked. They were singing the Sesame Street theme. This time of night, revellers were draining away from the city centre, heading for the Nitelink buses. Those who were left were the ones for whom things hadn’t worked out – the over excited young, the drunk and the desperate, the losers reluctant to give up on the night.

  Crossing O’Connell Bridge, Robbie unlinked from his friends, took two quick steps and vaulted up onto the parapet. As he walked, he held his arms out on each side and swayed. ‘Waaaay-haaa-ha-heyyy!’ he teased. One of his friends, hampered by drink, tried and failed to climb onto the parapet behind him. The other laughed very loudly.

  Halfway across, Robbie jumped down to the pavement and the three ran together the rest of the way across the bridge and out onto the road, against the lights. Traffic was sparse, but a car coming up the quays made a screeching noise as it braked suddenly, the rear coming around. Robbie half-turned and doffed an imaginary hat to the driver.

  They were just past the GPO when a police car pulled up abruptly, nearside wheels on the pavement, the doors opening, a couple of cops getting out. Robbie and his mates began running.

  Within yards they’d split up, one friend fleeing up towards Parnell Street, the other turning and running for Henry Street. Robbie sprinted across the road and down a side street, past the Pro-Cathedral. To change his appearance he took off his powder-blue jacket, rolled it into a ball and tucked it under one arm. He took a right and a left and slowed to a walk. He glanced back.

  Safe enough.

  On his way down Talbot Street he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him home to Coolock. Before he reached North Strand both his friends had texted him to say that they were free and clear. He texted back. Twenty minutes later he was sitting on a sofa beside his mother, watching Big Brother live. Two of the housemates slumped on separate sofas, sulking silently. The rest were sleeping in the bedroom. The screen showed one motionless scene for a while, then the other, then cut back to the first. Robbie watched, reluctant to go to bed, waiting for something to happen.

  Sleeping like a baby.

  May Mackendrick leaned back and felt a surge of tenderness.

  It was one of those too-frequent nights when she’d had trouble getting off to sleep. She lay in the dark, Lar snoring lightly beside her. The snoring didn’t bother her. It was as much a part of her night as the darkness and the moonlight from the window.

  Lar was lying on his back and she considered his profile.

  So peaceful.

  Within a few hours they’d know if this was going to work. If it didn’t, everything was at risk. In the year after Jo-Jo was killed, when Lar went to pieces, when his health collapsed, she’d stepped in and gently guided him back from the brink. For the next few hours she had no role but to pray.

  Heaven and Earth are full of the majesty of Thy glory.

  It was something that her mother taught her, the best part of fifty years earlier. You don’t need a church to pray, you don’t need a prayer book – prayer is just talking to God. All you need are the words in your heart. Think of God in Heaven, say the words silently and sincerely and believe that God will hear them.

  I beseech Thee, oh Lord, in the name of all the saints and of the Blessed Mother, to lead us from peril, and into the warmth of Thy eternal love.

  Oh most loving Father, refuge of sinners, please keep Lar safe tomorrow. Lord God of Mercy, who takest away the sins of the world, grant us peace, grant us hope, grant us thy blessing. And, please God, send our enemies into the deepest fires of Hell. Amen.

  When Danny Callaghan woke he was relieved that the night was over. Then he saw that the clock showed ten minutes to five and he groaned and turned his face into the pillow. It was unlikely he’d get back to sleep soon, and the alarm would go off at seven. He rolled onto his back.

  Today.

  He was fully awake now, his gaze fixed to the ceiling.

  Today, someone will live. Someone will die.

  He raised one hand, watched his fingers flexing, did it again and again.

  Day Twelve

  Chapter 38

  You couldn’t miss him. Fat man with dark brown hair and a blond goatee beard, wearing jeans and an anorak. Dolly Finn identified the target from a photo. His name was Brian Tolland. You had to give Lar Mackendrick credit. He had everything ready at the war council – names, addresses, location maps and pictures of the targets. Details of who would be where and when. This was more organised than Dolly had thought it might be.

  Not bad, Lar, not bad at all.

  It was shortly after eight in the morning. The street was a busy short cut for cars seeking to avoid the Simonsville Avenue traffic passing through the Cullybawn estate towards the M50. Nothing else on the street opened for at least an hour. Dolly Finn was wearing a red baseball hat and a bulky green anorak, so he’d remain anonymous on any CCTV cameras he encountered during the day.

  He watched the target get out of his white van and take two crates of apples, one atop the other, from the back. He left the crates down, took out his keys and bent to unlock a padlock at ground level. After he pulled up the roller shutter he left the crates of apples inside the shop, then he went back to the van.

  The metal shutter was the entire front of the shop. Inside, the remaining three walls all had display counters, with an island counter in the centre on which were an old-fashioned weighing scales and an electronic cash register. The sign above the door said the shop was called The Big Fat Tomato.

  When the target carried a double load of orange crates from his van into the shop Dolly Finn came in after him.

  ‘Not open yet,’ the man said.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Dolly Finn said. He pulled down the shutter behind him and when the target turned Dolly squeezed the trigger of his automatic twice and the silenced gun gave a double cough. The first bullet hit the man in the face and knocked him back and down, the second shot shattered some kind of china figurine on a shelf behind him.

  The man was lying on his side, making sucking noises. Dolly leaned over and put the muzzle of the gun behind the man’s left ear, about an inch from his hair. He squeezed the trigger twice more.

  ‘What matters,’ Lar Mackendrick had told the war council the previous evening, ‘is that this is done without ringing any alarm bells. We take them down, we cover them up – no one twigs what’s going on until we’re ready to let Frank know. Then he lashes out, and plays into our hands.’

  Dolly Finn pulled Tolland’s body behind the island counter. He ate an apple while he waited. After about ten minutes the metal shutter rattled noisily. Dolly ducked down behind the island counter. After a moment, Dolly stood up. A man in a heavy car coat and a black woolly hat was slamming the shutter back down. When he turned and saw Dolly Finn he said, ‘Where’s Brian?’ Dolly’s first shot hit him in the throat. He administered a second shot behind the ear. Then Dolly pulled the man’s body behind the island counter. He dragged across several sacks of potatoes and placed them around the bodies. Any nosy parker looking through the letter box in the shutter – nothing for them to see.

  When he left, he pulled the shutter down and locked the padlock.

  Come on.

  Karl Prowse looked at his watch again. He had two jobs to do this morning and if the first target didn’t hurry up the odds were that Karl would be late getting to the second appointment and that would make a balls of the whole morning.

  If the guy didn’t come by the time he’d counted to two minutes he’d move on, do the second job.

  Karl felt exposed. Standing a few yards from an old stone bridge, out of sight of the traffic, but visible to anyone who came along the towpath.

  Stupid plan.

  He couldn’t say that to Lar Mackendrick, but it was stupid.

  For the hundredth time he patted the bulge in the small of his back, where the gun was tucked into his belt.

  ‘Make sure he’s dead,’ Lar said, ‘before you leave him there. People
can take a couple in the chest, even in the head, and survive. And you walk away and a year later they’re standing in the witness box, swearing your life away.’

  Cillian Connolly jogged there every morning, Lar said. He brought Karl down to the towpath, to show him the gap in the wall under the bridge. ‘When you cap him, you stuff him down there – no one’s going to find him until the smell gets bad.’

  Should be done with it by now.

  He watched two middle-aged men come around the corner of the balustrade, down onto the towpath. They both looked with wary curiosity at Karl as they jogged past.

  Stupid plan.

  ‘If there’s anyone around when he comes, give it a miss. Better to miss him altogether – last thing we want is to set off the alarm bells before we’re ready.’

  Karl realised that he’d lost count. He looked at his watch again. He’d give it another two minutes.

  Stupid plan.

  *

  After he started the engine, Robbie Nugent exhaled slowly. He sat there, the engine turning over, his hands on the wheel, his eyes wide open, focused on nothing in particular. He was seeing again Perryman’s wounds. Small, jagged, black-red holes appearing as if by magic in his bare chest. The silencer made it all the more magical.

  Phhttt!

  Bingo!

  Robbie realised he was gripping the steering wheel tightly and his voice was doing something high-pitched, a long-drawn-out squeal of triumph.

  Magic!

  No other word for it.

  When it started, Perryman backed away from the door of the apartment, a warning finger pointing at Robbie, his mouth open but making no noise. Then he turned and ran and turned again and opened his mouth and—

  Magic.

  The second guy, the guy coming out of the bathroom, Perryman’s boyfriend, he was wearing a Reebok top and shorts. Robbie didn’t get as big a charge out of that one. The fact that Perryman was bare-chested, maybe that was what made the difference. You shoot someone and you see some blood on their clothes, that’s one thing. You squeeze the trigger and at that very instant a wound appears in his flesh, exactly where you want it to be.