Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  Lar said, ‘Okay, we should have been done by now. Shit happens.’

  Karl said, ‘Frank Tucker’s place will be a fortress.’

  ‘We’re not going in.’

  ‘Any time he comes out he’s going to have an army around him, not to mention the police.’

  ‘He won’t come out until this is over.’

  Karl said, ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘It’s simple.’

  On the other side of the warehouse Novak was shivering, and not just from the cold. They didn’t mind that he saw their faces. And now they didn’t mind that he heard every word they said.

  When Danny Callaghan picked up four sets of licence plates from Jacob Nash he asked if Jacob could get hold of a gun on short notice.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Any type of handgun, as long as I can get it by tonight.’

  ‘Sorry, man – that’s way out of my department. Basic tools of the trade, that’s me.’

  In the late afternoon, Callaghan bought a Stanley knife in a tool shop in Capel Street. When he got to O’Connell Street he went into Clery’s kitchen department and bought the sharpest carving knife they had. In an art shop he bought a cutting mat.

  At home, he folded the cutting mat twice and wrapped it in tape. It made a sheath for the carving knife. He put it into the inside pocket of his suede jacket and practised pulling the knife out. He had to use his left forearm to keep the sheath in position as he withdrew the knife. The whole thing was clumsy and slow, but it was the best he could do.

  Karl said, ‘What about Callaghan – why isn’t he dead yet?’

  ‘I talked to him this afternoon.’

  ‘And he’s still breathing?’

  ‘We need transport for tomorrow. After that, he stops being useful – you can help me turn off his lights.’

  ‘We owe him – his wife ought to go.’

  ‘Fuck her, too much trouble. When we’ve got what we need, he’s dessert.’

  Dolly Finn said, ‘How do we take Frank Tucker?’

  ‘The original list I had, there was a man on it named Roly Blount. If Callaghan hadn’t ratted, Blount would have been blown to bits along with Tucker. Roly’s a smart guy, wicked little bastard. We use him.’

  ‘Pay him?’ Karl said.

  ‘Blount will be holed up with Frank Tucker while this lasts. He lives in Raheny. He’s got two teenage sons. He has a brother lives around the corner from him. Tomorrow morning, we take the brother, bring him here. We take the wife and the two kids, bring them here.’

  ‘Hostages?’ Dolly Finn said. ‘How long do—’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Mackendrick said. ‘The brother we kill immediately. In front of Roly’s wife.’ He let that sink in. Karl was nodding, Robbie looked worried. Dolly Finn’s face was as expressionless as ever. ‘Then we use the brother’s phone to text Roly, tell him to call back.’

  Karl said, ‘And we break it to him?’

  ‘We get his wife to do that. She tells him some IRA people have taken her and the kids. And she tells Roly his choices. He kills Frank Tucker – and whoever else gets in his way – and he turns himself over to the police, then he keeps his mouth shut and takes his lumps. Or he can stay on the phone and hear his two kids dying, one by one, followed by his wife.’

  Robbie said, ‘We’re going to kill two kids?’

  ‘It won’t come to that – Roly’s a tough guy, he’ll do the smart thing.’

  Karl Prowse was looking at Lar Mackendrick with admiration. Robbie Nugent seemed unsure. He said, ‘What age are the kids?’

  Lar said, ‘It won’t come to that, okay?’

  Dolly Finn gestured to Lar. ‘I need a word.’

  When they were about fifty feet from the others, Dolly said, ‘I don’t like this. You said it would take one day. I didn’t reckon on this becoming a career.’

  ‘Karl and Robbie are okay, but this needs someone with real balls and a steady hand. I’ll double the money.’ Lar was staring into Dolly’s eyes, as though he was trying to read something there.

  Dolly said, ‘Double?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Double what you owe me, or double the upfront money too?’

  ‘Double everything.’

  Dolly said, ‘You’ll have it ready this evening?’

  ‘Most of it – I’ll need to get some more cash tomorrow morning.’

  ‘First thing?’

  ‘First thing.’

  ‘How long more? I mean, I’m anxious to get back to London.’

  ‘Tomorrow – if Roly does what we say, it ends. If not – that’s our last shot, you go back to London either way.’

  Dolly Finn pursed his lips and said nothing for a moment. Then he said, ‘No one’s going to let his kids die. It’ll work.’

  The car Danny Callaghan was stealing was a Toyota Corolla, parked outside a terraced house with a front garden not much bigger than a window box. It was late, a weeknight, most people long asleep, and it was a cul-de-sac with no through traffic.

  It took a minute with the jiggle key to get into the car, then Callaghan punched out the ignition and used a screwdriver to start the engine. Ten minutes later, in another quiet street, he changed the plates. He was wearing a baseball cap so the CCTV cameras wouldn’t get anything useful when he filled up at the local Topaz.

  It was the second car he’d stolen tonight. Like the first, he’d deliver it to the street across from Kimmet’s Ale House. He’d head home for a couple of hours’ sleep, then he’d steal the last two cars by dawn.

  As he turned in his bed, Lar Mackendrick felt his back ache. Too busy these past few days, he hadn’t kept up the exercises he needed to keep the aches and pains at bay. By the end of the day, this whole thing should be over. It would take a few days for everything to settle down, then life would return to normal.

  Beside him, May was deep into the final chapters of a novel.

  It could go wrong tomorrow. If Roly Blount played it stupid it might be necessary to kill one of the kids, maybe the wife – and even then Blount might be stubborn. After that – anything could happen. Lar Mackendrick had only the vaguest notion where he might take it from there. Failure tomorrow meant tapping out. If that happened, the best he could hope for was that the bullshit about Declan Roeper and the Interim IRA would provide some cover while he and May disappeared.

  Tomorrow ought to work. Shifting on the pillow, he could see the slim book on his bedside table, the thoughts of Jo-Jo’s Chinaman. He offered a moment to his dead brother.

  Military tactics are like unto water, for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards. So in war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak.

  He could hear May’s steady breathing When he turned to look she was asleep, her book still open on the pillow.

  Unable to sleep, Danny Callaghan got up and took the knife and makeshift sheath out of his suede jacket. He wrapped black electrical tape around the sheath. He turned the sheath upside down and its grip on the knife was tight enough to keep it from falling out.

  He used the electrical tape to attach the sheath to his left forearm. He put on his suede jacket and the tip of the knife handle was just covered. It felt awkward, but that couldn’t be helped.

  He put the Stanley knife in the breast pocket of the jacket.

  As he worked, Callaghan remembered the conversation in bed with Alex – the casual questions about Hannah.

  ‘I think you’ve still got a thing for her.’

  ‘Do you think she still cares for you?’

  Were they Alex’s questions, or did they come from Hannah, from Leon? The briefcase in the closet, where she’d left his jacket – an accident, or was it intended that he would stumble across the affair with Leon? Did someone imagine that he’d make a fuss with Hannah? Or was he making too much of this?

  It didn’t matter now. Alex might have been prying on Leon’s behalf, or it might have been idle chat. Either way, that part of hi
s life was tired, infertile soil. He cared for Hannah’s safety, but he realised everything else to do with that part of his life was just habit. And sometimes habits got in the way.

  Within a few hours this Mackendrick thing would be over, one way or the other. When Mackendrick’s people took the stolen cars they’d have no further use for Callaghan, or for Novak. Whether either of them survived what followed would depend on chance and circumstance. The knives weren’t much, but they were better than nothing.

  If Callaghan survived, Hannah would still need protecting from Mackendrick. If Callaghan didn’t survive, Mackendrick would have no need to threaten Hannah, so she should be okay.

  Callaghan reached into his breast pocket, took out the Stanley knife and in the same movement he slid the button forward, opening the blade. He retracted the blade and put the Stanley away.

  Then he tried the carving knife. He casually brought his hands together, the fingers of his right hand slipping smoothly inside the left sleeve of his jacket, gripping the handle, the carving knife sliding smoothly from the sheath, slipping from his grasp and bouncing on the floor.

  Christ.

  Day Thirteen

  Chapter 46

  The thunderclap that woke Lar Mackendrick was still echoing around the room as he jerked upright in his bed. The light—

  The light is on—

  Smell—

  Gunshot smell—

  Lar screamed an obscenity when he saw someone at the foot of the bed, a silhouette against the light.

  Someone else near May’s side of the bed.

  This second man was holding aloft a big, heavy automatic pistol, smoke wafting from the muzzle.

  Lar’s scream was a frenzied noise as the realisation punched him in the chest and he jerked his head to the right and it was as if something evil sucked all the oxygen out of the world. In that moment, staring down at the mass of shiny dark blood that seeped from May’s hair, he knew what the noise was that had woken him and he could feel his heart break.

  His scream became a wretched, wavering moan as he pushed his way off the bed, clawing hands reaching for the nearest of the intruders. Something hard hit him on the side of the head and he went down, his chin glancing off the post at the end of the bed. The instant he hit the floor the urge to struggle evaporated. Hands and knees touching the carpet, yet the earth was falling away beneath him. He wanted only to get to his feet, to throw himself onto the bed, to look into May’s face, to see her respond. Someone kicked him in the ribs. The pain, the smell of the gunshot, the rush of grief, his stomach heaved. His thumping heart seemed to have expanded to fill his chest.

  May—

  He was panting. Tried to clear his head. There was something he had to get a fix on.

  ‘Take it easy, Lar.’

  Someone was hunkered down beside him.

  ‘No point getting upset.’

  ‘Cunt!’ Mackendrick jerked forward and up, hands reaching for Frank Tucker’s throat. Again, something hard hit his left temple and he found himself face down on the floor, aware that he’d blacked out for a moment. Tucker was speaking calmly. Something about not being a fool. ‘It doesn’t help, all this roaring.’

  May—

  Jesus fuck—

  Mackendrick’s head swayed from side to side, inches from the floor.

  He got onto his knees, eased himself upright and inched towards the bed. The blood around May’s head had saturated the pillow.

  Nothing can change this – this is done—

  Over—

  For ever—

  May.

  He could taste acid.

  Nothing can change this.

  Only then, the fear. Not a sliver of doubt that within seconds he would be as lifeless as his wife—

  As soon as it came the fear melted. It didn’t matter now.

  Mackendrick didn’t want to know how this had happened, he didn’t long for escape or revenge. The world was suddenly too complicated, too confusing, overwhelming. It wasn’t his and he didn’t want it. In the clearest thought he’d ever known he saw plainly what his life now was – a little thing, lasting only a few more moments, all in this small space and he knew there was just one last thing he wanted to do.

  He said, ‘May.’

  Frank Tucker said, ‘You had a good deal, Lar.’ Tucker was holding a small Glock pistol. Behind him, Roly Blount had the big heavy automatic.

  Lar stood there, tears on his face, his mouth moving silently, spittle on his lips. He wanted only to be on the bed, holding May close, for a few seconds that would last for ever. Frank Tucker was smiling as he raised the Glock and Lar said, ‘Could I just—’ and there wasn’t any more.

  Robbie Nugent was up early – awoken by the sounds of his father’s pick-up pulling away from the house, the rattle of the ladder strapped in the back. Robbie could hear the washing machine grinding away downstairs. He rolled out of bed. Something unpleasant was pushing its way to the front of his mind. As he left the bathroom, he realised he’d been holding his breath. He let it out, slowly, audibly. Today he might be involved in killing Roly Blount’s kids. The thought had an almost physical weight in his head.

  ‘We’ve no milk,’ his mother said. ‘I’ll go down to Centra in a minute.’

  ‘No bother, I’ll get it,’ Robbie said.

  He was coming back with the milk when he saw them. Parked at the kerb, thirty feet in front of him, two men he didn’t know getting out of a black BMW. It was the way they did it, moving together, both looking down the street towards Robbie – this wasn’t good. He turned and he ran and he could hear them coming after him.

  After several yards he threw away the carton of milk and that got his balance right, his arms pumping, and within a few yards he could feel his stride lengthening. Head down, leaning forward, he knew he was pulling away. He felt a push in the back and a millisecond later he heard the bang and he knew they’d shot him and he was still running.

  No pain at all. Just that little push in the back. He didn’t know how that could be, but he’d been shot and it didn’t hurt. He rounded into Willow Drive – a woman standing back against a garden wall, looking at him with her mouth open – and there was something wrong with his feet, like they were trying to catch up with the rest of his body. He ended up half sitting, half lying and he tried to get up but there was no strength in his legs.

  He turned his head and watched the two men come towards him.

  Karl Prowse’s wife said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  All she wanted was for the baby not to wake.

  She’d been up three times during the night.

  ‘Please, keep your voice down.’

  ‘What time did he leave the house?’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  The two men knew Karl wasn’t here. They’d been in every room.

  ‘He’s not here. What time did he leave?’

  ‘He didn’t come home last night.’

  They said nothing for a while, then one of them said, ‘What time are you expecting him?’

  She said she didn’t know. And after a while they left.

  Dolly Finn could feel the surge of the airplane engines in the pressure of his back against the seat, the roar of the rush down the runway. He felt the plane lift and soon he was looking down at Dublin. In less than ninety minutes he’d be searching for a taxi at Heathrow.

  There was a time when he couldn’t have imagined being happy to leave Dublin. He’d left a lifetime’s collection of music behind and he’d adjusted to that, too. He’d long concluded that he was a better man for the change. He was looking forward to getting back to London.

  The Dublin job was a downer. He had the upfront money, but there’d be nothing else.

  ‘No,’ he told Cillian Connolly, ‘I’m not looking for money – I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.’

  They met at two o’clock in the morning, in the 24-hour Tesco at Artane Castle.

  In
the old days, Dolly had worked twice with Cillian Connolly on jobs that paid well. That was long before Cillian hooked up with Frank Tucker’s outfit. It took Dolly two phone calls to old acquaintances before he got Cillian’s mobile number. Where could they meet? Yes, it was important.

  Most of the aisles were half blocked with caged pallets stacked with packets, boxes and tins. Tesco workers, pale and tired, filled gaps in the shelves. Flanked by sliced pans on one side and Swiss Rolls and Bramley Apple Pies on the other, Dolly Finn told Cillian Connolly what his role had been over the past couple of days. He told him everything about Lar Mackendrick’s plans and the people involved, who they were and who did what, why the bombing attempt hadn’t worked. He told him about the plan to use Roly Blount’s family.

  ‘Lar’s easy – you know where he lives. You shouldn’t have much trouble tracking down Karl or Robbie.’

  Dolly Finn believed there was a time when the smart thing to do was to walk away with whatever you could salvage. They’d missed their chance with the bomb. If that had worked Frank Tucker would be history, Lar Mackendrick would be bigger than ever and Dolly Finn would have a powerful friend. Now the odds were that Tucker would figure out what had happened. The Republican outfits were all well stocked with informers and eventually the police would know that none of the varieties of the IRA were involved.

  Too many things might go wrong with Lar Mackendrick’s last-chance hostage plan. Sooner or later, Frank Tucker would put Lar’s balls in a vice and the names would come flowing. Even in London, Dolly would not be safe.

  Much better to sabotage the Roly Blount plan – put Frank Tucker in his debt. Dolly had killed several of his people, but Frank was a businessman. Once Mackendrick’s threat was smothered Frank would look at the bottom line, he’d call it quits and Dolly would be safe.

  That was what Lar Mackendrick didn’t understand. Those years ago, when Dolly got tight with the Mackendrick clan, when he warned Jo-Jo Mackendrick about the threat to his life, it wasn’t personal. It was the best way out of a sticky problem for Dolly. This job, it was just business. Good money for dangerous work – and when the shit hit the fan you looked for the least unacceptable outcome.