by Kevin Barry
Shook his head woefully, the hunchback, and he kept running – there was a thirty-two-page special on the cards for sure, and it wanted filling.
The offices of the Vindicator were located on a New Town street, a block of stout Edwardiana in prim greystone, and Balt Grimes descended to its basement along the rusted iron stair.
Shut the door of his darkroom behind him and leaned back against it and felt the lightness of relief and the pride of an assignment completed.
He set about unspooling the reels and soaking them.
From the pools of developer – brought in from the Lisbon route now, most often – a succession of images rose from the blue fluid. The images were lifted from the pool and pegged along the line. The hunchback Grimes walked the line, thoughtfully, as the photographs dried, and he made notes for the captions.
He saw:
– The Fancy’s mobbed ranks enter the Trace… their gobs violently agape as they hollered (per tradition) random names of the Back Trace dead… interesting… the way they had the look of young crows out for a feed.
– The boy Wolfie Stanners as he led a squall of followers into the 98er Square, his hackles heaped like a rabid dog.
– A Norrie line, barechested, as they hissed and cawed… oh and a lovely detail: the way their tongues were held as bits between their teeth to make the sound… and upon their scrawny chests crude renditions in charcoal of starlings, their symbol.
– Close-up: what looked like a Cusack–McGroarty crossbreed – the hunchback Grimes squinted – giving the come-on to the Stanners kid directly, with his eyes rancid and herbshot, a scrunchy look to him, a classic Norrie scobe.
– Close-up: same boy on his knees, a moment later, with his face busted open by the sling of a chain, and Wolfie whispering to him as he prepared with a scimitar dirk to slit his throat. (Just a boy he was – sixteenish?)
– A scraggle of shit-faced McGroartys in a wynd’s shadow looking none too sure of themselves.
– Wolfie appearing to hover in the filthy air – prime shot, page lead – as he made for the McGroartys in a lung-busting dash.
– A broken face.
– A gaunt Norrie lad with a dislocated shoulder: lovely, the way his features were caught in a rictus of animal pain.
– Distant shot of Trace women and bairns on the rooftops as they roared encouragement – no good, too fuzzy.
– A gouging.
– A kicking.
– A shkelping… this one too much… the spilt innards visible… bin it.
– Wolfie, again, so low-sized, and neck-deep now in Norrie gore.
– A sand-pikey, his dreadlocks flailing as he went hand to hand with a Lenane bro’ – there was only going to be one outcome.
– The boy Burke – Fucker, known as – with an Alsatian on a battle leash, in the 98er Square, fending off a pair of Norries with his boots as the Ala feasted on a gore spill.
– The Ching gal – prime shot, page lead – as she lands a flying kick to split open the noggin of Eyes Cusack hissel’ with a steel toecap.
– Close-up – page lead – Eyes Cusack, bleeding, as reality dawns.
– Close-up – Logan Hartnett… the Long Fella… the ’bino – a page lead – leaning back against the wall of a wynd, arms folded, a rope coiled and waiting on his shoulder, and not a single fucking hair out of place. Smoking a tab.
– Wide-shot: cackling sand-pikeys chase down a gang of fleeing Norries.
– Close-up: Fucker, a hank of hair in his paw, looking… sexual. Bin it.
– Close-up: Angelina drooling.
– Ching gal – prime shot – with Eyes Cusack in a headlock.
– Wolfie bricks a scuttling Norrie weasel on the back of the noggin – a comic turn, page… 6?
– Triumphant Fancy lads doing a natty-boy skank in the 98er Square – lovely, a double-page spread.
– Close-up: Fucker’s forehead raw and scabbed from headbutting.
– Close-up: the Long Fella, stony-faced beneath his top hat.
– Jenni Ching arriving into the 98er Square – prime shot – with Eyes Cusack before her, a shkelp to his throat and his hands tied behind his back.
– Peach: the high arc of the Smoketown footbridge, its shape beautifully embossed on the dark of night, just as Fucker and Jenni hoist Eyes Cusack over the railings, while Logan makes the knot, and Wolfie waits.
– Peach: Wolfie slips on the noose, delicately, and this one’s an interesting study, his expression is almost… saintly – one for the portfolio, certainly, coz Eyes maintains a dignity too. Fair dues to him.
– Wide-shot: along the dockside, the ranks of hoss polis as they keep their mounts discreetly turned. Lovely.
The hunchback Balt Grimes came to the end of the line and wryly he smiled. Norrie bluster, it seemed, was of a moment’s lasting, and Back Trace class was permanent.
– Front-page shot: Eyes Cusack is hung by the neck from the Smoketown footbridge.
24
22 December, 12.01 a.m., Bohane Authority
Each of them ashen-faced, each with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, the twelve members of the Bohane Authority sucked on high-tar tabs and drank a dose of filthy coffee from paper cups. Talk ran madly the length of the conference table as the Feud’s aftermath was reckoned.
‘What’re we talkin’, boys?’
‘It’s lookin’ like a dozen dead.’
‘An’ twice that lamed, blinded, or generally crippled.’
‘SBJ wept! As if our fuckin’ name wasn’t bad enough!’
‘Oh those bastards outside in the Nation Beyond will be laughin’ up their sleeves tonight!’
‘It’s the end of a Beauvista tram!’
‘Think the NB tit was gone witchy on us b’fore? It’ll be witchy on us now mos’ certain!’
‘Ne’er a sign o’ Mr Mannion, nah?’
‘They’re at it again! That’s what they’ll all be sayin’! One half o’ Bohane tryin’ to ate the other half!’
The Authority men were desperate and ill-paid souls who lived as peaceably as they could in the modest terraces that ascended towards (but did not reach) the Beauvista heights. They kept always to the New Town side of De Valera Street. They went nervously about their business in an animal town. Their business was to keep the place in some manner civilised. It was a job of work.
‘What do we know of the kid Stanners?’
‘Came up rough. Orphaned early. Runs with the boy of the Burkes.’
‘Fucker, known as. A regular savage.’
‘But not much of a brain, really, just a viciousness. It’s said the Wolfie runt is as smart as he’s vicious.’
‘We know he’s attached to the girl of the Chings.’
‘Sweet Baba Jay float down and preserve us!’
There was plenty to be bothered about in Bohane at the best of times. The El train must be kept running, and the sodium lights must rise for whatever few hours of the night could be afforded, and occasionally – if only that – the gutters must be swept clear of dead dogs, jack-up works, and mickey-wrappers. The Authority men truly cared that the once great and cosmopolitan city of Bohane should retain at least the semblance of its old civility.
‘Polis need to be kept tight on the Norrie families. We don’t want some halfwit of a young fella coming down the 98 to make a martyr of himself on account o’ Eyes Cusack.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Is Mr Mannion on the El train?’
‘That’s the word we have – he’s just in offa Nothin’.’
The men of the Authority wished that the docks be kept open and working. They wished for beer to be brewed and sausages packed. They wished that relations between the factions be kept just a shade short of murderous. They wished that the gentlemen of Endeavour Avenue be allowed to go about the administration of their business. They wished that the lost-time in Bohane might with the years that passed fade into less painful memory.
‘What way is the Mercy holding?’
<
br /> ‘What doctors we have are called in. The Mercy’s handled worse than this.’
‘Did Girly give nod to the pikeys?’
‘Must ha’! Logan’s the babby-boy yet. He couldn’t call in the pikeys without Girly’s say-so.’
The door of the conference room fell open then and it was Ol’ Boy Mannion that stylishly appeared. The Authority men rose as one and came about him in a great kerfuffle.
‘Ah shush, will ye!’ Ol’ Boy cried. ‘Barnyard fuckin’ fowl ye’re like.’
He quietened them, and quickly, for he was practised in the art, and soon all were seated and smoking again around the long table. Ol’ Boy stood at its head and raised his palms once more for hush.
‘Now let’s not get this out of proportion, boys,’ he said. ‘There were minor disturbances among juveniles in the Back Trace area of the city. We can get past this. We get the bodies down to the riverside smokehouse under cover of dark. We get the corpses burned off before first light. How’re we fixed for diesel?’
It was confirmed that sufficient supplies could be rounded up for the purpose.
‘Good. Now we need to let Eyes dance on the air for an hour or so yet. The Fancy will want to linger on the sight – leave them to it. We don’t want to rile the boys when they’re in a celebratory mood. They’ll have the calypso records out and the herb-pipes burnin’. Tomorrow, we’ll let the Vindicator special go ahead, coz the town has an appetite for it, but I’ll have Dominick cut any mention of a body count. A nice few gorey pictures and Bohane will be happy enough – you know the way of it, gents. Of course, the polis will have to keep the 98 Steps especially tight for the holiday period. We’ll want every unit out: hoss polis, dog polis and the knuckle-draggers general.’
The Authority clucked a henhouse concensus.
‘Do we know,’ Ol’ Boy continued, ‘what level of brute animal violence has been committed to the properties of the Trace?’
He was informed of what damage was known.
‘At least the market canopies seem to be intact. That’s something. If an old dear can pass through the market of a morning and snag herself a stalk of sprouts, it seems as if all is right with the world. Next thing is Girly.’
Shudders around the table, which he acknowledged with a sad closing of his eyes.
‘There is no way around it. We need to send a delegation to the old rip. We need it made clear that if the sand-pikey element is to be allowed a share of the Smoketown trade, then they have to be kept in some way decent. We can’t let the place go to hell altogether. We might suppose, of course, that the Fancy’s promise to the sandies is half-hearted at best and they’ll attempt to fob ’em off with the run of a couple of hoorshops and a few vouchers for a tickle-foot parlour…’
Pale smiles surfaced – the first of the night. Ol’ Boy’s grasp and control was so reassuring.
‘But that would be a dangerous game for the Hartnetts to play. There is nothing so terrifying to behold, as those of us ever so slightly longer in the tooth know, as a sand-pikey feeling hissel’ to be double-dealed. Now I mean no disrespect to their ethnic heritage…’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘… but we don’t want them lightin’ bastards getting any sort of a foothold. Bohane’s name is bad enough. And I am not suggesting for a moment that it is altogether unjustified. This is a bad-ass kind of town.’
The Authority men shrugged in sad agreement.
‘All I’m saying,’ Ol’ Boy went on, ‘is the last thing we want to be known as is Pikey Central. Things are bad enough, lads. We need to get Girly onside agin the pikey influx. Now. With regards to the Gant Broderick…’
The Authority members edged forwards in their seats.
‘… situation, I’ve spoken to him more than once but I confess his motives are still a mystery to me. I don’t know for sure why the Gant is back. What I do know is that he’s causin’ sleepless nights for a certain pale-face. And the way I’m figurin’?’
Ol’ Boy shrewdly grinned.
‘We got the Gant, and the Long Fella, and lovely Macu. So think on, boys-a-mine. It’s a rum ol’ love mess for certain and it could make fine distraction for the Bohane people this weather. Could make ’em forget an aul’ Feud quick enough…’
Slowly the Authority men nodded as they grasped the sense of it.
‘Hear this!’ Ol’ Boy cried. ‘Bohane city don’t always gots to be a gang-fight story. We can give ’em a good aul’ tangle o’ romance an’ all, y’check me?’
III
APRIL
25
Babylon Montage
A hot scream cut the April night in S’town.
Logan Hartnett, the sad-eyed Fancy boss, looked drowsily to the high window of the dream salon’s booth. The window was open to the great swelter of spring and the air was pierced by the white syllables of the scream. Heartbroken in the cruel season, Logan as he lay on the settle bed felt the scream along the tracklines of his blood as though carried by an army of racing ants. His true love had left him, and he closed his eyes against the scream, and the pink backs of his lids pulsated woozily. He felt the slow, negotiating trickle of a single bead of sweat as it rolled from his forehead along the line and tip of his nose, dropped to the indent above his thin lips, trickled slowly across his lips to leave a residue of salt burn, and rolled onto his chin to be removed with the single neat swipe of a toe by Jenni Ching.
He opened his eyes to the girl.
She winked as she drew back her foot again. She sat on her haunches, at the far end of the settle, facing him. She took up the pestle and mortar and grinded still more of the poppy bulb’s paste. She spread it on the burner of the dream-pipe, and she came to him along the length of the settle – see the slow and sinuous movement of her as she brought balm for his soul’s ache – and she placed the pipe to his lips, and she sparked the flame.
‘More,’ she said.
The scream ripped the air again but it broke up as it caught at its source, and it became a hacking cough, and a boy of fifteen doubled over in a dune-end alleyway. His thin hands clutched at his sides and his fingertips kneaded his ribs and on each knuckle a numeral was marked in the pale blue of Indian ink:
2 0 1 1
2 0 5 3
These were the dates of his father’s span. It was in the same alleyway his father was stomped to death by Fancy boots. The boy Cantillon knew that vengeance might cost his young life to exact but his screams told the need for it. He felt inside the waistband of his lowriders for the shkelp – the reassurance of its bone handle – and he wondered how long it would take for the moment to present itself. The wooziness of the spring night was all about him and a silence held briefly to worry the moment.
Then a round of roars and chants surged on the measured beat of handclaps from a pikey-run grindbar nearby.
Sand-pikey floor show was in full swing:
A slave-gal lurcher, painted with lizard motifs about the face, was chained at the waist. The chain’s end was held by her handler, a hooded dwarf. She writhed and twisted in a diamond-shaped pit marked out with burning reed-torches. A fat gent got up as a dog-demon, in full pelt, then entered the pit on his fours – whoops and hollers rose – and the pair cavorted, frankly, and at great, unsavoury length, and they kept a good rhythm with the handclaps as they went.
All the while, the lurcher ranted for the tiered punters a devil’s babble – it was learned to her in the dune cages – and her eyes were livid in the dim of the pikey joint.
The dwarf handler fed out lengths of chain at certain moments, and withdrew chain at others – this so as to assist and steer the design of the cavort. The punters clapped out a steady, three-beat rhythm, and whistled and hissed, and they sucked on herb-pipes – squinting through the greenish fug of their smoke – and they lapped up a three-for-two offer on bottles of Phoenix ale.
Lurcher had the telltale welts of captivity on her back. Type that would have been taken as a girl-chil’ from the high reaches of the Not
hin’ massif, and dune-raised. Such were the sad old stories you’d get out that end of the creation. Gal the likes of the lurcher might have been bought for a few bottles of the Beast and a box of colouredy bangles.
Get ’em young – that was the sand-pikey reckon when it was lurchers they was talking.
Yes and the sand-pikeys held all the hottest tickets out the S’town dune end this season. The lurcher and her dog-man were tonight but a curtain-raiser. It got lowdown and brutish altogether as the night stretched out its hairy arms, and the trick-ponies emerged, and the big lasses in harness, and the biters, and the maulers, and the double-jointed chap with the moustache what styled hissel’ ‘The Magician’. You would blush to even repeat the details of that man’s act – suffice to say there wasn’t a cat safe for miles.
And all the while Prince Tubby, the Far-Eye, kept sconce from the doorway, and he tallied a head count in the tiered seats around the pit. There was a couple of stag parties in, which was always a help. He reckoned the toll he’d taken in door tax and he nodded serenely.
Prince Tubby was offering cheap entry, credit lines for repeat custom and rotating deals on Phoenix ale, Wrassler stout and Big Nothin’ bushweed. Ambition lit the Tubster like a star this weather. He had taken to city living. He placed a hand in the pocket of his velvet loon pants, and he felt the weight of coins there, and he set them merrily a-janglin’. He scratched his balls and he wanted more – more! – and he brooded on the weakness he perceived in the Trace Fancy. The ’bino was down to lonesomeness and the dream-pipe, and the Fancy boys were whispering.
Tubby went outside for a taste of the night. He took a sniff at the S’town air. His guards were stationed all along the dune-end alleyways – the Fancy was not to be trusted – and he felt the reassurance of them. He ate a lungful of mineral wind. Raised his eyes and read the stars. Briefly, in Bohane, there was that feeling again of stillness.
And then a nightbird’s strange call from the treetops.
Bird’s call had the neat, rapid, whirring sound of an old motor, and it carried a distance along the tops of the scarred trees, and it was picked up by others of its kind, and answered. The call – this sequence of whirrs and tiny, deep-throated clicks – ascended thus the gable-end of a fetish parlour, and crept through the window of a top-floor suite, and Big Dom Gleeson, the stout newsman, heard it as he lay on a bed with his belly-side down. He suckled on a sour French brandy from the nipple of a baby’s bottle, and he sweated profusely as a seventeen-year-old tushie whipped him a hundred strokes on the raw of his arse with a pearl-encrusted hairbrush.
