I intervened at that point.
"You didn’t believe him, did you? I know you didn’t believe him. Leo Halligan always thought it was Steno who raped Hutton."
Miranda looked at me and swallowed, and continued from where she left off.
"And Patrick said, they’d each said that. Each of the perpetrators—and the other boys who were victims were told the same thing too. Tell no one. Say nothing."
Tell no one. Say nothing. The secret history of Irish life.
"I asked you what was in it for Steno. Looks like you won’t answer. Explain something else to me, Miranda," I said. "I can understand Folan—a row, or a brawl, or some messy accident that got covered up. I can understand Kennedy, the blackmailer. What I don’t get is Jackie Tyrrell. She was your friend, in many ways your champion. You clearly revered her. Why did she have to die?"
Miranda began to nod her head very quickly, as if someone was disagreeing with her but she had right on her side, and if only they’d stop talking, she’d set them straight.
"It’s the same answer to both questions. Patrick wanted to return. He wanted one last race, that was all. And I felt…because of how I’d treated him, the way I’d abandoned him, given up our child…I felt I had a lot to make up for. I felt I’d betrayed him, and I needed to atone. Patrick killed Bomber Folan years ago, and I was there. It was an accident, but Steno knew we were both involved. He cleaned up afterward, and then we were both in Steno’s power. When Kennedy started the blackmail, we both wanted him to die. I don’t feel guilty about Kennedy, he was a piece of filth, extorting money out of our unhappiness and shame. But I couldn’t do it myself, and neither could Patrick, as it happened. So Steno did it for us."
"And Steno’s price was Jackie Tyrrell. Why?"
Miranda stared at the floor.
"I said no harm could come to Regina. And…as you said, Steno wanted to know what was in it for him. I was…I am Jackie Tyrrell’s heir. Her estate: the riding school, the house, everything, it all goes to me."
"And now it all goes to Steno."
"I couldn’t argue him out of it," she said. "I begged him, I said I could get her to advance me enough to keep him going…it wasn’t enough. Steno went his own way. It frightened me."
Miranda looked at me with tears in her eyes, and everything I had felt for her brimmed to the surface again. Complicity in Jackie’s murder had pushed her beyond the pale; now I knew she was not directly responsible, my flexible moral code longed to find some clause that would welcome her back to the fold. Regina Tyrrell looked between us, her face closed to everything but her own pain. The sleet had picked up to hail now; it pounded needle sharp against the windowpanes; I had to raise my voice to compete.
"What else had Kennedy on you, Miranda? I mean, it couldn’t’ve just been Regina as Patrick’s mother, there must have been more to it. Otherwise he would have been blackmailing Regina, or F.X., not you."
Miranda took a page from her coat and unfolded it. It was a long-form birth certificate.
"Kennedy was a predator. He was real scum. He wanted more money. He threatened to go to Regina, to tell her what he had found out. I didn’t think she knew…I reasoned that no one but me knew, that Regina had a better chance of…of bringing up my little girl properly if she didn’t know either."
"I think Regina suspected, at the very least," I said.
"You can suspect, and go on living. You can suspect, and keep lying to yourself, and survive. That’s what people do every day. But you might not make it past knowing. Anyway, this pig wanted more to keep the secret. I couldn’t afford it. That kicked the whole thing off, really. Steno helped us then. Helped us to scare the daylights out of Kennedy until he gave us the key to a safe in his house where this was kept. Helped us to kill him. And good riddance."
"What’s the secret?" Regina asked.
And Miranda Hart said: "That you are my mother. That Patrick and I are brother and sister. That our daughter, Karen…"
She didn’t need to continue. Regina nodded her head wearily. She had said to me earlier that she had dreaded this day, but prayed for it, too. I think dread was the dominant emotion in the room, especially because of what Miranda Hart said next.
"Maybe we could have gotten past that," she said. "Maybe…I don’t know…but when Patrick…when Patrick went to confession with Vincent Tyrrell…it was after By Your Leave, and all the shenanigans with the Halligans and so forth, and Patrick was sick to his stomach, he didn’t like the cheating, that side of the game, he was straight as a die, really. And he went to confess his sins. And he told Vincent Tyrrell he was worried about getting another job, with a bad reputation, because his wife was pregnant. Tyrrell got very angry, and Patrick was confused: he knew he’d been in the wrong, but surely these things happened to everyone at one time or another. Surely even a Catholic priest could be more understanding than that.
"And Vincent Tyrrell told him that this child would be an abomination. It would be against nature. Patrick asked why. And Vincent Tyrrell said, because its mother and father shared the same mother, and their fathers were brothers."
All you could hear when Miranda stopped speaking was the hail against the windowpanes and the slow, steady wailing of Karen Tyrrell.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tommy witnessed what happened in Leopardstown that day at first hand, and this is the way he told it to me:
"I was the driver, Steno in the back with Hutton. Hutton kept drizening this tune to himself, over and over, driving me mad so it was. Steno seemed as ever, you know, Mr. Chill. I was trying to get something out of him on the whole operation, find out what the plan was: giving him a lot of excitement and enthusiasm, not laying it on too thick ’cause he’s obviously not a fucking plank. Telling him I’d had it up to here with fucking Ed Loy taking me for granted and paying me shit and expecting me to watch his back all the fucking time. But Steno played it cool and steady: is that right, no really, Tommy, all this. Pretty soon I gave it up. The driving was taking up all my attention anyway, the hail and the sleet, our number one weather choice, and cunts in Mercs and boy racers still pissed from the night before cutting me up in a poxy dribble of muddy water morning light, you wished you were in your bed with nothing more taxing than a trip to the pub ahead. Stephen’s Day, a few bets, a few jars, and home to see what’s on the box. Turkey sandwich, bottle of beer. Not this year.
"We’re on the M50, heading south, Steno says to keep going on past Leopardstown, and then to cut down toward the sea, onto the N11 and down into Bayview. Father Vincent Tyrrell, I’m thinking, and sure enough, we get to the church car park and Steno nods me out. He leaves Hutton in the backseat, still singing away to himself, sounds like a Christmas carol to me, but I’ve heard so fucking many the past few weeks I can’t remember which is which. We head into the back porch, there’s a mass on, I look at Steno and he shrugs, and I’m thinking, this cunt would strafe the fucking church now not a bother on him, and then I’m like, calm the fuck down, this is a barman from Tyrrellscourt, not a fucking suicide bomber for al-Qaeda. I open the door and it’s Father Lyons, home from the missions, and the beady-eyed cunt clocks me instantly, caught rapid, where the fuck were you? I can see he spots me, well, pity about him. Twenty women and three men over seventy in the church, you have to feel sorry for them, sorry for Lyons too, I mean, six masses between them yesterday, and Stephen’s morning these ’oul ones and ’oul fellas are back for more. I know they’re probably lonely and they’ve fuck-all else to be doing, but come on, Jesus knows you love Him by now, He got the message big-time on His birthday, relax there or He might start to think yiz are all laying it on a bit thick.
"We go around to the presbytery, knock away, nothing doing. Steno looks at me like I have the inside story.
“Maybe he’s gone to Leopardstown,’ I say.
“Maybe he has. Two birds,’ he says.
"I don’t like the sound of that.
"And we’re back in the Range Rover, back up and onto the M50, heading
for Leopardstown. The hail and sleet have dwindled to a scuttery rain now, and the air is warming a little, and there’s a crack in the sky that, if it’s not exactly blue, it’s at the silver end of gray, and I can see Steno nodding out the window.
“The day is coming together,’ he says. ’The day is going to happen.’
"F. X. Tyrrell has gone ahead with the head man, Brian Rowan, in the last horse box. Always goes with the horses, Rowan says, still in awe, and Steno checks him, is he sure he’s with the program, and Rowan reassures Steno he’s onside, well in there, bought and paid for. Horses’ll be up in the stables with all the lads looking after them, and Tyrrell too. We turn off for the course and the Garda checkpoints are already in place, waving punters into the car parks about half a mile from the track. Steno’s given me some kind of official pass he’s got from Rowan and they nod us through. And part of me is, why didn’t I just call a halt, tell the Guards I’ve a madman with a submachine gun in the back, not to mention a madman with no tongue who thinks he’s Lester Piggott? Why don’t I tell them about you, tied to a chair in Tyrrellscourt? I could pretend I think nothing bad is gonna happen here, like it’s just a sentimental old debt being paid: Hutton gets to run a prestige race, ten years after everyone thought he disappeared. What a story! But I know that’s not all there is. Maybe it’s that I want to know what happens next. Like it’s their story, and I want to see how they play it out. And maybe it’s because I still don’t like talking to the fucking cops. And maybe there’s a second, just a glimmer, when I roll down the window and show the Guard the pass, and he sees it’s Tyrrellscourt stables, and he looks in the back and sees Hutton, and you know what he says?
“Is that him? Is that Hutton?’
"Fuck sake, it’s out already. And of course, I know Tyrrell has to tell them Barry Dorgan is being replaced by Hutton. Maybe I just don’t expect everyone to remember who he was. But why not? Fuck, I do. There’s lads in Paddy Power’s who talk about By Your Leave and Hutton vanishing still. So it’s out there, the return of the prodigal: they’re building the fucking myth already. And maybe there’s a glimmer: tell him. Tell him. And then he’s beaming at us, his eyes twinkling with excitement, in such a fucking hurry to wave us on it would’ve seemed like bad manners to disappoint the cunt. In for a penny. And I thought, what would Ed do? He’d follow it to the end. Follow it to the end, Tommy, and see where it takes you.
"We park close enough to the entrance, and Steno goes off to the stables; he’s got to get passes for us all. While we’re sitting there waiting, I finally pick up on what it is Hutton is humming.
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel,
Shall come to thee, O Israel…
"I join in on the chorus, and he gives me a big smile when I’ve done, and nods his head, like, at last, here’s someone who understands me.
"Mental, totally fucking mental.
"When Steno comes back, he tells us Hutton needs to go to the weigh room, and then we can hang on in the jockeys’ changing room—but not to go yet, or we’ll be in there too long, and the other jockeys’ll be hassling us.
“We?’ I say.
“Yeah, you can be his valet, all right?’ Steno says to me.
"Not as if I have a great deal of choice in the matter.
"Steno rolls his eyes then.
“You’ll never guess who’s up there with the animals.’
“Dr. Doolittle,’ I say, before I can stop myself. Then, ’Rex Harrison, not Eddie Murphy,’ as if that’s gonna help. It doesn’t: he gives me the base of his hand smack in the jaw and sets my teeth scraping and my head clanging like an anvil, the fucker.
“Don’t get smart with me, you mangy fuck,’ Steno says, side of the mouth, all smiles, like he’s chatting to a friend. ’You’re still on probation. And Rex Harrison is dead.’
"I nod, trying to look sorry, which is no great stretch, ’cause after the clatter he’s given me, believe me, I am.
“Vincent Tyrrell. He knows all the stable lads of course, half of them were in St. Jude’s, so he’s at home up there. Him and the brother pretending they don’t see each other. Said he’s particularly keen to see how Bottle of Red gets on.’
"Steno seems to be directing this as much at Hutton as at me, and when I look round, there’s Hutton all fired up, glaring, eyes boiling, like a bull at a gate.
"Steno fucks off then, but before he does, he takes my phone, and gives me a little warning about what he’ll do if I double-cross him. I can remember it, but I’m not going to repeat it, ’cause there’s a chance I might forget it one day, but not if it lodges in my head.
"We hang on for a while, then twelve-twenty, just before the first race, that’s our cue. We go in and present our passes and head for the changing rooms and grab a spot. Hutton has a bag with his silks and riding hat and his whip and some street clothes. There’s a bit of muttering from the other lads. But Hutton doesn’t care, he just changes into his colors, cool as you like. And then a couple of lads come up and give it a bit of remember me, I was a boy in Tyrrellscourt when you were riding. Hutton smiles at them, and nods away big-time, and maybe they’re a bit disappointed he’s not chatting to them but they’re not really surprised, and they seem to go away happy. Any jockeys I ever met, either they wouldn’t fucking shut up or you couldn’t get a word out of them, so maybe he’s coming across as normal. I can see all eyes are on him though—the fucking head on him man, even without knowing about his tongue: he has that complexion street drinkers have, like he’s been boiled. Not to mention he’s the comeback kid to beat the band, a fucking legend in the making.
"We go around to the weigh room, which is on the lower deck of the grandstand just across from the parade ring. Same story here, everyone having a squint. Hutton’s not bothered, the opposite actually, like he’s missed it, the attention, and I have to say, it is pretty class now, all the riders in their silks, the colors, the shine of the boots, the roar of the crowd for the first race, I’m getting into it man. While he’s queuing for the scales, I grab a race card, maybe I’ll get a chance to slap a bet on. No time like the present. And the first thing, looking at the card for the third race, what jumps out is Bottle of Red’s owner: Mr. G. Halligan. Looks like it’s going to be quite a circus out there in the parade ring this afternoon.
"The weight’s ten-stone-nine, and Hutton makes it with three pounds to spare, fair play, and he is in good shape, and we’re off to hang in the changing room again. The boys are in from the first race, winners and losers, and Hutton gets a bit more attention and handles it the same, and then the second race is called, and we’re out to saddle up. While we’re on our way around the parade ring to the saddling stalls, Steno falls into line with us and tells me to get lost. I linger though, long enough to see him draw Hutton aside and slip something to him, something Hutton slips inside his silk top, something that glitters in the faint sunlight that’s still trying to break through.
"The parade ring’s where it’s happening now. I can see Vincent Tyrrell in his dog collar and his long black overcoat and his black fedora, looking like a priest in a Jimmy Cagney movie, and there’s George Halligan in his Barbour jacket and his tweed cap, looking like a cunt, basically, giving F. X. Tyrrell an earful, and there’s Brian Rowan in the middle of them with one of those women George collects from Russia or Brazil who all look like they’re waiting for the operation. She’s a foot taller than Rowan, snow-blond hair, wearing a white fur coat, a lynx it must be, Rowan’s talking into her fake tits and she’s looking out across the crowd pretending she hasn’t noticed every eye is glued to her.
"Mind you, there’s a lot of money here today, a lot of new tits and teeth and holiday flesh and fur being waved; it’s been a while since I was racing and the biggest change is, fair enough, there’s the usual crowd, the old boys in their trilbies and wool coats, the country farmers, the Barbour jacket crowd, all the middle classes in their Christmas best, then there’s the betting-shop boys giving themselves a day out from the bookies, scruffy lads i
n jumpers and jeans like, like me, to be honest, but then there’s also a lot of young people, young fellas with estate-agent hair and cheap suits and young ones in skimpy dresses and high heels, like it’s a nightclub they thought they were going to, working-class kids out for a big day. And some politician getting his photo taken with your one off You’re a Star on the telly. And Bono and Ali here too, someone said, up in one of the boxes, I suppose. Even a few Butlers are here, picking pockets and rolling drunks. Everyone’s here, relieved the big freeze never came. Everyone’s here!
"And here comes Patrick Hutton on Bottle of Red being led by her groom into the ring, and such a roar goes up you’d swear it was one of the Carberrys or A. P. McCoy, one of the crowd’s favorites anyway, and you can see George Halligan is still bulling but F. X. Tyrrell has moved away from him, and George has tugged on his shoulder to turn him back, and suddenly Steno is at his side, looking as if he has every right to be there in his long coat and his big hat, looking like an Australian. George is still looking gnarly and aggravated, and then Steno prods him in the side, and George looks at him straight on, and Steno nods, and George nods back. Deal for now.
"Patrick Hutton is leaning down to listen to whatever F.X. has to say to him, taking instructions, fair play to F.X., he looks like he’s making the best of it. Hutton is beaming, and there’s a chant going up:
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
"The chant builds and builds, and he’s taking the horse around the ring now, and as it hits a big crescendo Hutton touches the peak of his riding hat, and the crowd erupt in cheers.
"Now I’m watching Vincent Tyrrell, who’s staring at Hutton, never at the horse, always at Hutton, like he’s trying to hex him or something, and Hutton looks across every now and again, and looks away as quickly. And then I get a dig in the ribs and a hand on my collar and I’m pulled out of the crowd by Leo Halligan.
The Price of Blood Page 27
