by Bateman
‘Sometimes.’
‘Why don’t we get back together then?’
‘Because the police are busy enough without another murder on their hands.’
We were silent for a few moments. I had a killer to catch and Trish had people to tax, but neither of us knew how to finish it. Perhaps neither of us wanted to. But then fate or providence stepped in; I heard glass breaking down below.
‘Those hurley fucking bastards!’ I hissed into the phone.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Kids. I’ll have to go.’
‘Okay. Good luck.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘Okay.’
It wasn’t much, but it was something. I put the phone down and hurried along the hall. I’d murder in mind as I took the stairs three at a time, and it remained there, only turning 360 degrees when the man in the white suit stepped out of the cloakroom, raised a pistol and said something in Chinese which didn’t require translation.
12
There were three of them, though thankfully only one wore a white suit. They were all of Oriental extraction. They all bore serious demeanours and callous mouths. One checked out the house, one tried to access my laptop, while the third, he of the white suit and pistol, tied me to a chair, which is a difficult enough thing to do with a pistol in your hand. I didn’t put up a fight. I never do put up a fight if I can help it. I rely on the aforementioned rapier-like wit and a lot of tears.
When I was tied secure, White Suit stood back, glared at me some more, then said, ‘Don’t try anything stupid, Horse Whispara.’
There was enough of the kung fu’s about his accent to suggest he hadn’t just stepped off the ferry from Nanking. He was close enough for me to see a reddish spot dried into the lapel of his jacket. I was well acquainted with blood stains, and it wasn’t one of those. Further down I noted several grains of rice on one of his fake Gucci loafers. In downtown Dublin, I suspected, there’d be someone waiting a little longer for lunch.
I looked at him blankly and said, ‘Horse what?’
He cracked the barrel of the gun across my nose. I let out a yelp and started to bleed. One of his comrades came up with the laptop under his arm and said something in Chinese. White Suit snapped, ‘Password, Horse Whispara!’ at me.
‘I’m sorry, but one never reveals one’s––’
He hit me with the gun again. This time with the butt, to the forehead, and I toppled backwards. From my prone position I groaned, ‘Dalglish.’
They looked confused.
White Suit stood over me. ‘Spell.’
I spelled it, he repeated the letters after me in primary fashion, then allowed himself a smile of recognition. ‘Ah. Dalg-lish. Inspector. Pee Dee James.’
‘No. Dalg-lish. Liverpool. Blackburn. Newcastle. Celtic and God knows where else. Football.’
‘Ah.’
They left me on the carpet while they set the laptop on the dining table and gathered around it. They chatted excitedly amongst themselves as the password was accepted, then took a few moments out to glare menacingly at me before returning their attention to my files.
‘If you’re looking for porn,’ I said, ‘I never take it across international boundaries.’
There was no reaction. They were scrolling through my e-mails. Then my files. There was more jabber, though now markedly less excited. White Suit turned from the table while the others continued their useless search. I knew it was useless because there was nothing for them to find. I remained on the floor, bleeding, while he towered over me. He wasn’t, in truth, very tall, but even a midget is tall to a tied man on his back on the carpet.
‘Where you keep the money, Horse Whispara?’
‘It’s Whisper-er.’
‘Tell us now, Whispara, save yourself trouble, you will wank us later.’
‘I’d really rather not.’ It was time to shut up, to leave them alone, and God knows I’d enough racial tics of my own, but I was on a panicky roll. It was an attempt to stave off impending doom, although with my luck it would probably serve only to hasten it. It was difficult to tell. ‘It’s all about diction,’ I continued at speed, ‘keep saying Whisp-ara and people will dismiss you as a Johnny Foreigner. You have to assimilate these days if you’re going to get on in life and not get treated like a fucking boat person. And that’s before I even get into the wanking.’
He hesitated, rapidly blinking several times while he decided whether he was dealing with a nut, which was the reaction I was hoping for, then kicked me hard in the ribs, which was the reaction I was not.
‘You owe us big money, Whispara, and we gonna find it now.’
The other two turned from the computer, shaking their heads. I had a notion things were going to turn even nastier, and not a clue how to get out of it. They were welcome to all the money I had, but I doubted it would satisfy them. I had heard of Chinese water torture and didn’t relish the thought of it. I’d already experienced Irish water torture. You just drink it, the limescale nearly kills you.
White Suit removed a blade from his pocket.
I said, ‘I don’t have any money.’
‘You rip us off big style, you can’t spend that much in two week.’
‘I’ve never met you. I don’t know who you are. If it’s an unpaid restaurant bill I’ll happily settle up.’
He kicked me again. This time to the head. To the ear, to be more precise. It was extremely sore. I managed to croak, ‘I don’t know what you’re . . .’ before closing my eyes and feigning unconsciousness.
They brought me round by holding a cigarette lighter to the sole of my right foot, having first thoughtfully removed the shoe and sock. I yelped and tried to pull my burning flesh away, but they held it in place. I yelped some more.
‘Where the money?’
‘I don’t––!’
‘Where the money?’
‘Please . . . !’
‘Where the fucking money!’
I was on the verge of blacking out. I screamed, ‘Okay, okay . . . okay . . . !’ and they finally removed the flame from my smouldering foot. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . !’
‘The money.’ White Suit flicked the lighter again.
‘The money . . .’ I blinked helplessly at him. ‘I’m not the Horse Whisperer. My name is Dan––’
I screamed as he held the flame back to my flesh. I flexed against the flex holding me in place. There were tears rolling out of my eyes and snot dripping down off my chin. ‘For . . . Jesus . . . fuck . . . I don’t . . . know . . .’
‘You think you very smar’, but I think differen’.’
‘I don’t . . . I don’t . . . I don’t . . .’
‘We respec’ Horse Whispara, ‘’cept he comes off fence now and tries to take us to the laundry. No wank you, Horse Whispara.’
‘I didn’t––!’
The doorbell.
Never was I so pleased to hear a doorbell. I would lick it in thanks next time I passed. The third Chinaman, the one who’d searched the house, produced a length of masking tape and stretched it across my mouth. I was trying desperately to look on the bright side, but I was never much of an optimist. They wanted money and seemed to think I had access to it, so they weren’t going to kill me or inflict so much damage that I couldn’t tell them. And even if I was able to tell them they wouldn’t kill me until they’d retrieved the money. So really, I was fine. It was just that I wasn’t able to get the message through to my quaking, aching, smoking body.
The doorbell again.
The police, alerted to the breaking window and hideous screams.
The neighbourhood watch, summoned in force by bird-shit man and his annoying kids.
Anyone.
Anyone but . . .
‘Would you like to buy an oil painting?’
‘No,’ my laptop enemy said.
‘All by top Irish artists. I’ve been selling these paintings for twenty years. Are you new to the area?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only one hundred pounds.’
‘No. Wank you.’
‘That’s awful decent of you . . .’
And then there was an explosion and the Chinese came barrelling back into the lounge; I watched horrified through his chest as the oil paintings man followed in after him with a shotgun held to his shoulder. The shot man sprawled on to the carpet as White Suit and his remaining comrade reached for whatever weapons were concealed within their jackets, but before they got near them there was another shot from Oil Paintings. A body splattered back against the lounge wall, leaving just White Suit, now with his gun out and suddenly in no apparent rush at all.
Double-barrelled shotgun. Two bullets.
Oil Paintings was out.
A grin spread across White Suit’s face as he raised his pistol.
I closed my eyes.
There was a shot and my face was sprayed with blood, and a moment later there was a body in my lap. I fought against opening my eyes, but it was inevitable. Curiosity. And cats. The corpse lying across me was wearing what had formerly been a white suit.
I looked up, puzzled, shocked, as Oil Paintings smiled down. He winked once, then nodded across at the window. I followed his gaze to a gun-sized hole, and saw the chicken man grinning through the glass.
I managed a ‘Thank Christ,’ then directed a ‘Can you get . . . him off me . . . ?’ towards the oil paintings man. ‘Then tell me what the fuck is going on.’
‘Sure thing, Dan.’ He rolled White Suit off me with his foot as the chicken man appeared in the doorway, paused, frowned, then hurried back out again.
‘Do you think there’s more of them?’ I asked nervously. I tensed for more gunfire, but Oil Paintings didn’t seem concerned. He strolled to the window and peered out.
He shook his head. ‘I think he’s just having a word with the neighbours.’
He turned back from the window and started to search the dead Chinese. He pocketed three guns and three wallets while I waited for an explanation. When it didn’t come I said, still lying tied to a chair, ‘Get me up.’
He paused, nodded, then stood up from White Suit’s side and took hold of the back of my chair. He heaved me up into a sitting position. ‘That better?’ he asked.
‘Yes . . . Jesus . . .’ I began to struggle against the ropes, presuming he’d take the hint, but he remained where he was, looking down at me, and after a little, I stopped.
‘You don’t sell oil paintings, do you?’
He shook his head.
‘How did you know they were here?’ I asked, nodding at the dead Chinese.
Oil Paintings smiled and crossed to the canvas he had hung on the wall by way of thanks for the party. He lifted it off the hook and twirled it round, then ran one hand up the back. His fingers delved inside the frame, then a moment later emerged clasping a small, round, black object. ‘Bug,’ he said. ‘Strategically placed. That girl sure knows how to vomit.’
‘Who the fuck are you? Cops?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. He looked back to the door, where Chicken had reappeared. ‘Okay?’ he asked him.
‘Their phone’s suddenly out of order.’
Oil Paintings nodded.
‘Hiya, Dan,’ the chicken man said, coming into the lounge. ‘Close shave, yeah?’
I nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to let me go either.’
He smiled and shook his head. He looked from one dead body to another and another. ‘Fucking Chinese,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what the fuck’s going on,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who they were, I don’t know who youse are, and I don’t know what the hell any of it has to do with me.’
‘Well,’ said Oil Paintings, resting for a moment against his shotgun, ‘they’re the Chinese bookies who’ve been muscling into our turf, and you’re the cunt who ripped us all off. What we’re going to do now is take you and that chair and we’re going to put you in the back of our van. Then you’re going to lead us to the money. After that we’ll probably blow your knees off and throw you out the back of the feckin’ van, then you’ll be free to crawl to the Guards to explain how you have three Chinese carry-outs festering in your house. Is it any clearer to you now, Dan?’
‘Crystal,’ I said.
13
We arrived at the Superquinn car park across the road from the National Irish bank in Blanchardstown, a busy little suburb of Dublin, exactly fourteen minutes by battered Ford transit van from Ashtown. There were other cars waiting patiently for parking spaces to come free, but after some tasty threats were issued by the chicken man, we soon had a spot. I lay on the floor in the back, still tied to my chair. I’d started the journey upright, but two roundabouts had seen to that. I lay ignored amongst greasy overalls, a mechanic’s tools, empty cans of Steiger and crushed boxes of Superkings Menthol. It all smelled of neglect and surveillance.
Chicken switched off the engine. He turned from the wheel while Oil Paintings slipped into the back to untie me. ‘Okay,’ the chicken man said, ‘this is the way it works. You and me, we’re going into the bank. You withdraw the cash, you put it in this . . .’ and he raised a sports bag with Head emblazoned on the side. ‘I’ll be right there with you. You try anything funny I just pull out m’gun and rob the feckin’ place, then you’ll be done for your Chinese carry-out and armed robbery, okay?’
‘Okay.’ They’d found Corkery’s bank card in my wallet and put two and two together. It didn’t seem to matter to them that I’d never been near the bank in my life and had no other identification to prove that I was Corkery. But then I was south of the border and maybe they did things differently down here. I was to go in, introduce myself and ask to close my account.
‘You reckon this bag’ll be big enough?’ Chicken asked Oil Paintings, who shrugged and looked at me. I shrugged as well. I didn’t have the heart to tell them a medium-sized wallet would be big enough, or the courage. I was trying to come up with a plan, but as ever when you try to do that under difficult circumstances all you can really come up with is I’m going to die and Isn’t there a lot of traffic for this time of day?
All I could do was play it by ear and hope that something happened that didn’t involve any further pain to myself.
Oil Paintings knelt and examined my face. He shook his head, then removed from his pocket an opened packet of Kiddiwipes. He crushed one into my hand. ‘Sort yourself out,’ he said, ‘Can’t have you goin’ in there covered in blood. You’ll look suspicious.’
‘I’ll look . . .’
‘Just do it.’
I wiped my face. I didn’t have the benefit of a mirror, but the state of the Kiddiwipe told me all I needed to know.
‘They’re not going to . . .’ Oil Paintings held his gun against my knee. ‘On the other hand, I was captain of my school debating team. I can get blood out of a stone.’
It wasn’t the most appropriate analogy, but he removed his gun. He pulled open the transit door and pushed me out. I stood on the tarmac and stretched. All around me happy families were going off shopping. Kids were crying and there was a grandmother struggling to release a shopping trolley from its moorings. I grunted and walked ahead of Chicken through the car park and on to the pavement. We paused at traffic lights. The bank was directly opposite. As we approached it a gnarled old gypsy woman sitting on a dirty blanket by the door raised a paper cup towards us for donations. Ordinarily I would have asked if she’d take a traveller’s cheque. It was the place, it just wasn’t the time. We ignored her. I pulled open the door. Just as we entered, the chicken man hissed, ‘Careful does it.’
Inside, it was larger, busier than I’d expected. There was a queue of around a dozen people, with others already being attended to at one of the five windows. There was an unattended foreign exchange desk and beyond that, behind another glass partition, a balding man in a green shirt sat studying a computer screen. That would be the manager, then. I looked at the chicken man. He nodded at t
he queue, and we joined it. The young woman immediately ahead of me was straining under the weight of a large bag of coins. She had the russet cheeks of a farmer’s daughter. She puffed them out as she shifted the bag uncomfortably from hand to hand. She noticed that I was looking at her. She looked away, slightly embarrassed. I said, ‘Ten thousand pennies for your thoughts.’
She smiled and rolled her eyes, then moved the bag again.
Chicken whispered, ‘Watch it.’
‘I’m trying to act normal,’ I muttered.
‘Your normal is different from everyone else’s,’ Chicken said.
‘And how would you know?’
He pointed at his eyes. I turned away. ‘Awful weather,’ I said to the girl with the money and the cheeks.
‘Dreadful,’ she replied.
‘Still, nice for ducks. Unless your waterproofing has been ruined by pollution.’
She nodded thoughtfully.
Chicken jarred his elbow into my back and I gave a little jump. The girl, noticing, looked around me to him. He looked away. She kept looking at him, until he slowly turned back to face her.
‘It’s Jimmy, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What?’ the chicken man said.
‘Jimmy. You’re Jimmy Farrelly.’
‘No. Sorry, you must be mistaken.’
‘No – Jimmy Farrelly. We went to school together. Plunketts. In Swords.’
‘Nope. Sorry. Wrong man.’
‘Ach, stop it, Jimmy. Don’t I know you well enough. It’s Deirdre. Deirdre Slevin.’
His voice faltered. ‘I don’t . . .’
‘You went out with m’best mate. Roiseen. Roiseen Culcavey. It is Jimmy, isn’t it?’
Jimmy sighed. ‘Yes. Okay. I remember you now. Hoy-ya, Deirdre. Long time no see. How’s it goin’?’
‘Oh, y’know.’
Chicken, or Jimmy, nodded.
‘So what’re you doing round here, Jimmy?’
‘Just a bit of business.’
‘Last I heard you were running a bookie’s in Tallaght. You still . . . ?’
‘No – no. All closed down now.’
‘So what’re you doing now?’
