Last Orders (The Dublin Trilogy Book 4)

by Caimh McDonnell

  Johnny tossed the sponge he’d been holding into the red bucket that handled ninety per cent of all medical scenarios the team encountered.

  “Alright, that’s it.”

  Bunny’s gaze pulled back from the middle distance and he looked at Johnny as if seeing him for the first time.

  “What’s up?”

  Bunny shrugged. “What the feck are you talking about? Nothing’s up.”

  “Really?” said Johnny. “We’re into the second half of our worst performance of the season – by some considerable distance, which is really saying something – and there’s barely been a peep out of you.”

  “You told me last week to be more constructive in my criticism!”

  “That’s not what I said. I said maybe avoid things like telling Daz his aim was so bad, he’d end up staying a virgin until he was forty.”

  “Well alright,” said Bunny, “and I’m taking your advice on board.”

  “Exactly!” said Johnny, “And when have you ever done that? Your half-time team talk was basically ‘enjoy yourselves’. You’re taking my advice. Jesus, Bunny, you’ve barely even swore.”

  “I’m controlling myself.”

  “Mickey Marsh just tried to head the ball. A sliotar, a leather ball hurtling at about forty miles an hour, and he tried to head it. And you. Said. Nothing. Now seriously” – Johnny lowered his voice – “what is up with you? Is everything alright?”

  “I’m fine, it’s just… It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Jesus, Johnny, if you’re hitting on me, I’m flattered and all, but that’s not the way my flag flies.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. If all men were like you, I’d be chasing vagina like it was the last chopper out of Saigon.”

  “I’m alright, just… TERRY FRANCIS, GET STUCK IN!!”

  Bunny bellowed so loudly that Johnny felt sure he’d temporarily lost hearing in his left ear.

  “OK, well, someone’s back.”

  Johnny turned back to the game just in time to see the centre forward from St Mary’s add what might be his tenth point of the match, sending the ball hurtling into the nettles beside the back wall in the process.

  “Rambo, get that back, will ye, please?”

  The tubby kid who was theoretically the St Jude’s goalkeeper gave Johnny a smile and a thumbs up before running off – the first indication all game that he was in fact aware of his surroundings in any way, shape or form.

  “Who’s that?” asked Bunny.

  “Who?”

  “Over there.”

  Johnny looked in the direction Bunny had nodded. “The woman with the pram? I dunno. Do you want me to see if her kid wants to play midfield for us? Can’t do worse than Ciaran.”

  “Nah, it’s just I’ve not seen her around. She’s not a mother of any of the boys or anything.”

  Johnny looked in the direction of the skinny blonde woman pushing the expensive-looking buggy. “So? I mean, I’m no expert, but maybe she fancied some fresh air. This is the only bit of green for several blocks. Maybe she’s just a big hurling fan?”

  “What the feck would she be doing coming to watch us then?”

  “Yeah,” nodded Johnny, “fair point.”

  “She looks familiar.”

  “Well, you do know almost everybody around here.”

  “That’s it, ye see, she’s not from around here and I – I was sure I saw her earlier today as well.”

  Johnny looked at Bunny again. “What, like somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, only she didn’t have the baby, and she was brunette.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t mind me. Just a coincidence.”

  “OK.”

  Whatever was bothering Bunny now seemed to be getting into Johnny’s head too, as he could have sworn she was now surreptitiously looking at them. Having caught him looking back, she bent and fussed about the baby before turning and heading back towards the gates.

  “C’mon, lads, let’s up our game here. You’re playing like a bunch of—”

  “Bunny!” They had previously had a long and detailed discussion/argument about words Bunny was not allowed to use to finish that sentence.

  “One-eyed sons of a cock-eyed Suzie.”

  “Oh, alright.” After all these years, Johnny still wasn’t entirely sure what that actually meant, but it seemed OK.

  “What score is it?” shouted Padraig Dawson.

  “Don’t you worry about the fecking score,” replied Bunny, “’tis all about the performance!”

  “Oh,” said Padraig, kicking disconsolately at his hurley, “we’re losing by that much already?”

  The game restarted and Saint Jude’s sprung into life, immediately giving away two frees, which at least showed more effort than their previous attempts at tackling.

  “That’s it, lads, get stuck in! They don’t like it up ’em!”

  Johnny rolled his eyes.

  “Johnny?”

  “Yes, Bunny?”

  “If anything ever happened to me, you’d take care of the club, wouldn’t ye?”

  Johnny turned around again. “Alright, seriously, have you been to the doctor’s or something?”

  “No,” said Bunny, shooing him away with his hand, “don’t be daft. I’m just saying. You would, wouldn’t ye?”

  “God help me, I’d try my best, but what has you in this mood?”

  “Nothing, just— REF!”

  A collection of twelve-year-olds from both sides clattered into each other, causing a pile-up in midfield with a fair share of hurt feelings and unhappy parents. The ref blew so hard the pea came out of his whistle.

  Without a word, Johnny snatched up the bucket and ran onto the field to make everything alright again.

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  Bunny turned at the voice. A man eighteen years dead sat behind him, on the cooler box for the halftime drinks.

  “Why don’t you tell him that, soon, you may be going away for a looong time,” he said, mockingly drawing it out. “After all these years, telling generations of kids to stay on the straight and narrow. How d’you think they’ll feel?”

  “Ara, fecking shut up.”

  Daniel Zayas smiled up at him, his left eye sitting incongruously beside the cavity where his other one should be. “Talk to your friend. Tell him you are going crazy. The ghost of a man you murdered eighteen years ago is chasing you. Maybe you should have gone to see that shrink. Maybe you should have taken the tablets. Maybe you should not have killed me in the first place?”

  “I never regretted that for a second, ye one-eyed wank stain.”

  “Oh, I know I was not your first. I’m just the one who will be your downfall.”

  “They’ve nothing to link—”

  “Oh please, we both know that isn’t true. They’ll be looking now, now they have the bodies. You can hear the footsteps. They are coming. It might take a little time, but they are coming. That’s why I’m here.”

  Bunny swung the hurley in his hand at a man that wasn’t there – knocking the drinks cooler on its side and sending its contents sprawling across the ground.

  Then he found himself alone again. He turned back to the field to see Padraig Dawson looking back at him, his twelve-year-old eyes filled with a new kind of fear. Everyone was scared of Bunny, but it was the right kind of scared. At least it had been.

  “There was a wasp. Buzzy little fecker.”

  Padraig nodded and moved away.

  Bunny ran his free hand up and down his face. Get it together. He glanced over to see the mother pushing her buggy out of the gates.

  Chapter Nine

  “I can’t believe it,” said Paul. “The whole thing is ridiculous.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Phil. “I mean, it’s not my job to go telling people bad news. I’ve enough stress in my life.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Phil removed his eye from behind
the telephoto lens and looked at Paul. “I’m talking about how when this idiot is having his end away, Brigit agreed that I would ring the client, his missus, and tell her. I mean, I’ve enough stress in my life!”

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” said Paul. “I was talking about how Brigit has removed me from my position in this company.”

  Phil tutted and resumed looking through his camera lens. “Oh, that. You were going on about that an hour ago. I thought you’d finished.”

  “Finished? I’ve lost my job for absolutely no reason. I’d have thought you’d be a lot more sympathetic, Phil.”

  “Well…”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Well what?”

  “Nothing, only, you’ve not been doing any work for the last few weeks and you’ve been spending a lot of money and the office is now covered in yellow paint.”

  “Exactly, and whose fault is that?”

  Phil pulled his head back and looked up at the ceiling of the van. Paul could see he was thinking this through. “Yours?”

  “No! The Kellehers!”

  “Alright,” said Phil, flinching back from Paul. “Fine, it’s all their fault. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  Phil looked back into the camera again. “Nothing.”

  “Jesus, Phil, would it kill you to back me up just this once?”

  Phil didn’t even look up from the camera this time; he just raised his bandaged hand. His wife, Da Xin, sick of her husband having his phone actually physically glued to his hand, had insisted he go to Casualty and get it removed. “Six hours in Casualty and the doctor insisted on bringing lots of people in to see it. I was a laughing stock, so I was.”

  Paul rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, alright, sorry.” The thought crept into Paul’s head that he might just be being a tad self-centred. “How’s Da Xin doing?”

  “Well, she’s as big as a Ford Cortina now so the poor girl can’t do much. The baby keeps kicking every time she hears my voice too.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  Phil gave Paul a sideways glance.

  Paul lowered his voice. “Are you still having the dreams?”

  “The nightmares, you mean? Yeah.”

  Phil had been having a recurring dream where he awoke to find that his unborn daughter had snuck out of her mother and was strangling him with the umbilical cord.

  “I told you, you’re being daft.”

  “Am I?” said Phil, “D’ye know how many people have liked me in my life?”

  “Ah, you’re being crazy.” He wasn’t being crazy. Paul, more than anyone, knew what Phil meant. As his best friend in the world, he could categorically confirm that Phil Nellis was an acquired taste. Their schooldays hadn’t been massively fun for anyone, but other kids went home at night thinking, well, at least I’m not Phil Nellis. He was cursed with his own Nellisian logic that looked a lot like stupidity if you didn’t catch it from the right angle, and few did. He also had a stubborn stick-to-it attitude, which meant that if he didn’t understand something, he asked questions, a lot of questions, and for the worst reason imaginable – a genuine thirst for knowledge. Other students hated that, as did the teachers, although you could see them trying to hide it. Nobody could forget their science teacher, Mr Lawrence, having a breakdown, prompted by Phil’s honest question, “Sir, Einstein or Newton, sir, who was better?” After a few minutes of floundering, the teacher had gone for the “That question is impossible to answer” option. Phil had sympathised and said not to worry about it, he’d ask one of the other teachers who would know. Mr Lawrence had gone into the storeroom and not come out for twenty minutes. Someone had eventually gone and got the headmaster.

  “Of course your daughter is going to love you,” said Paul.

  “That has not been my experience of people. I mean, statistically, the odds are against it, aren’t they?”

  A thought struck Paul. “But her ma, your wife, she loves you, doesn’t she?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “There you go. Love is hereditary.”

  Phil looked away from the camera again. “Is it?”

  “Yeah, course it is. Same way that your daughter is going to look Chinese.”

  “Is she?” Phil seemed genuinely surprised. Paul gave him a long look.

  “Obviously. I mean, her mother is Chinese. She’s going to be a mix of you and her, isn’t she?”

  “Is she? I thought that, like, babies born in China would be Chinese and, like, babies born in Ireland, would look, y’know, Irish.”

  “Ehm, no, Phil. That’s not how it works.”

  “Really?”

  There was a knock on the window. Paul was relieved – he was skating dangerously close to having to have the birds and the bees talk with Phil. He would rather sit in a van filled with actual bees than do that.

  “Go away,” said Paul in a loud voice.

  A voice responded from outside. “I’d like a 99, please.”

  Paul shook his head. “People are daft.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Phil, “people.”

  The MCM Investigations van had been Paul’s idea. Well, their obvious need for one had been Brigit’s suggestion, but Paul had been put in charge of acquiring it. He had a love of a bargain. Actually, from years of living off virtually no money, he had a need for a bargain verging on the pathological. He was starting to realise that this was becoming a problem. Case in point: the van. He had acquired it off One-Eyed Barry, who had acquired it from somebody who had shown far too much faith in the invincibility of a full house, kings over nines. The van did have a lot going for it: it had been going very cheap; it was a good size; it had just passed its NCT; and it had a nice big side window that they could replace with one-way tinted glass – perfect for surveillance. In fact, there was only one problem with the van.

  A fist hammered on the window. “Here, give us a 99, ye lazy bollocks.”

  It didn’t matter that they’d painted it black and removed all of the signage. Something deep down in the Irish psyche recognised the shape, and an ice cream van was still, and would forever be, an ice cream van.

  “Alright, keep your bleedin’ hair on,” responded Phil. He reached behind him and pulled a cone out from under the machine that they’d never bothered to remove. He then flipped the handle down and started assembling a 99 cone.

  “What the?”

  Phil looked across at him. “It happens so much, I figured this’d just be easier. I got some stuff from the cash’n’carry.” He shoved a flake in the ice cream and slid the window across. “Two euros.”

  A small hand reached through and handed Phil a couple of coins in exchange for the ice cream. “Here, I wanted raspberry sauce.”

  “We’re out.” Phil slid the window closed again and picked up the camera.

  “No raspberry sauce? You’re a fucking disgrace, mister. I’m never coming back here again!”

  “Good,” shouted Phil.

  Paul looked on in disbelief. “You’re selling ice creams now?”

  “It’s easier than dealing with all the angry people demanding ice creams. I got the idea after them kids tried to turn the van over in Ballymun that time.”

  “But,” said Paul, “you’re supposed to be doing surveillance.”

  “Exactly,” said Phil. “And nobody is going to suspect a van that’s selling ice creams of being a surveillance vehicle. It’s the perfect cover.”

  Paul stopped to think about this. He was in all too familiar territory. Nellisian logic on some intrinsic level felt like it didn’t make sense, but it was always incredibly hard to actually find fault with it. Before Paul could attempt to do so, Phil sprang into action, the camera clicking rapidly.

  “Here’s our boy – and he’s got a woman with him.”

  Paul picked up the binoculars from the bench. He saw a middle-aged couple – a portly man and a skinny woman with caramel-coloured hair – entering the Philbert Street apartment block opposite. The man held open the door fo
r his companion. She looked around, scanning the street before entering.

  “That was weird,” said Paul. “She seemed to take a hard look at the van.”

  “Maybe she fancied an ice cream?”

  The couple disappeared inside.

  “See now,” said Phil, “as far as I’m concerned, this is all the proof we should be providing. People going in, people coming back out again, maybe a bit of a snog.”

  “Why, what have you been told to do?”

  Phil shot an irritated look in Paul’s direction. “Have you not been listening to me at all?”

  Paul didn’t say anything, but he did feel slightly embarrassed. He may have been slightly too wrapped up in his own outrage at being fired to pay a great deal of attention to the other half of the conversation.

  Phil shook his head in disappointment and went back to looking through the camera. “Apparently they’re going to be in the second-floor apartment there on the far left.”

  Sure enough, as soon as Phil said it, a light came on at the indicated window.

  “Now, get this, not only do I have to take pictures of them, y’know…”

  “Right.”

  “Knobbing,” said Phil, who had never quite mastered the art of implication in conversation, “but I’ve to ring this prick’s missus and tell her when they’re at it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” said Phil. “I don’t want to be giving some poor lady a play-by-play on her other half being a cheating scumbag.”

  As they watched, the curtains of the window were thrown open by the woman they had seen earlier. The portly man came up behind her and put his arms around her. He then proceeded to push her up against the window and conduct what a customs officer would consider a highly comprehensive full-body search.