by John Brady
The Tinker’s dog, the terrier-cross, was the first to reach up in the air, its back claws scratching violently for a grip on the floor. A cry of surprise, something between a whine and a growl, erupted from one of the dogs. The men holding the dogs crouched low, their leashes cutting into their hands. Tony’s dog was half-crouched, its back legs locked even as he pulled it back to the line.
“Come on,” he heard Murphy say, and then yell. “Let’s go!”
Fanning heard his own breath whistling out of his nose in short bursts. Again he scanned the faces, taking in the narrow-eyed scowls, the frowns caught between glee and cruelty. The West Ham character was taking another swipe from the flask, wiping his mouth.
There was a shout, and both dogs shot from their handlers’ grip. Teeth flashing, they launched themselves into the space between one another. They hit together in a frenzy of violence, and above the snarling, Fanning heard a clap of bone on bone. Twisting and spinning still, their back legs dug in when they hit the floor again. The terrier-cross twisted away from the bulldog’s lunge.
Something flew through the air, a line or filament of something. Steady again for several moments, the terrier-cross reared and then dived, his teeth looking for a leg. He missed by inches. The bulldog took the opening, and sank his teeth into its shoulder. The terrier-cross jigged and arched, its back legs tightening and then trembling with the effort of pushing them both sideways. He had the bulldog off balance almost right away, but its jaws stayed clamped on his neck.
Someone bellowed. Fanning instinctively lifted his hands toward his ears. More men were yelling now. He leaned in toward Murph.
“When do they stop it?” “What? Stop what?” “When will they stop the fight, like when is there a clear winner?”
Murphy turned to him, a rapturous scorn on his face.
“Are you joking me? With the money that’s on this?”
The man in the leather jacket was on his tiptoes now. The West Ham character seemed to have woken up a little, and now began to punch the air in a slow, rhythmical duet of fists, his jacket rising to his belt each time. Fanning saw the gun lodged in the small of his back.
“Christ,” he said to Murphy. “Look.”
The terrier-cross was up again, he threw his head back, twisted his body and whirled back. Both dogs hit the floor hard churning their legs at one another.
“Not the neck!” Murphy shouted. “The belly! Tear his nuts off!”
Fanning grabbed Murphy’s arm. Murphy turned to him, wild-eyed, and Fanning leaned in close
“He has a gun,” he said. “That guy there-”
Murphy grabbed a lapel on Fanning’s jacket and twisted it. There were more shouts now.
“Shut your mouth,” Murph growled, his eyes glittering with anger. Somewhere Fanning felt pleased to have provoked him so.
“Let go of me,” he said.
Murph loosened his grip, but didn’t move back.
“Where do you think you are? This isn’t a joke, you know. It isn’t one of your film things. This is the real thing here, isn’t it. And these are very serious people.”
Somebody roared nearby. Murphy stepped back and turned back to the fight again.
Blood whipped into the air in long strings that broke before falling to the floor. The terrier-cross was being heaved side to side but Fanning saw that it was the terrier-cross that had a grip on the bulldog’s head.
The bulldog thrashed and reared, and then dove to the floor as though burrowing into it.
“No way,” Murphy said. “He’s got him, he’s got his eye out. Did you see it?”
The bulldog jerked his head up, tossing blood, and got one paw over the terrier-cross’s neck, but his head was pulled back down to the floor again. The terrier-cross began to tug harder. Together the two lurched across the floor until they hit the side of the cage again. That was when the bulldog pulled at the terrier-cross’s leg, clamping it and pulling back. Their frantic twisting slowed.
“He won’t let go of the head,” Murphy said. “Even if the other one…”
The crack of bone breaking brought groans from several of the men. The terrier-cross leaned in as his leg snapped but he kept his grip. Fanning shuddered and turned away, but the noise and the smells rushed in on him again. He glanced over at someone who was beginning a chant. It was that dopey-looking sidekick of the man in the leather jacket. The booze, or whatever he was on, was working now. His eyes were shining and he beat his arms in the air to keep time with the chant.
“Finish it! Finish it!”
Definitely English, Fanning was sure now. The zipper had slid down. Sure enough, it was a football shirt. The crest was blue, with two hammers crossed on a shield. Other voices began to join in. Light-headed now, he heard Murph’s yell as though from a distance.
“He did it, he did it! Jesus, he did it! Unbelievable!”
The bulldog’s fur was wet halfway down its back, and the side of its face was a mass of gaping flesh. His upper and lower teeth showed plainly, fixed on the cross-terrier’s throat. A weak fountain of blood spouted near where he worked at the throat. The terrier-cross’s feet slowed even more until one came to rest on the bulldog’s foreleg.
“Choked the frigging life out of him,” said Murphy. “Absolutely unbelievable!”
Tony was walking slowly into the arena, talking. The Tinker stepped in too and took an awkward step to avoid a gout of blood.
The bulldog was still gnawing on the terrier-cross’s throat. Every few moments, it gave a hard, tearing twist. The terrier-cross’s legs moved again. Tony entered the cage after the Tinker, both holding basins and dripping sponges. Tony went down on one knee, talking to his dog. The bulldog’s head turned a little but his jaws stayed shut. The Tinker bent over and looked at his terrier-cross and frowned. Tony said something to him but the Tinker didn’t answer. Instead he stepped around to get a different view. There was blood spreading beneath the terrier-cross now.
Murph’s voice seemed to come from faraway.
“You look like shite. Better sit down.”
Fanning realized that the shouting had stopped.
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
Murphy blocked him.
“Whoa, there. You can’t just walk out. We have a bet to collect.”
“You get it. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” Murph grunted, grabbing Fanning’s arm. “People are looking at you! Look, look — this is the finish. You’ve got to see this, you’ve got to.”
Fanning saw the Tinker shake his head once and look away. Tony glanced at the spectators, and at Delaney, and then he reached into his jacket.
Fanning had seen pistols on sets before, those replicas on the set for Terrible Beauty last year, the heavy Parabellums used back in the early 1900s.
Tony’s pistol was small enough to cover with a spread hand. That was what he did at first and then he passed it to his other hand. In a second it was inches from the terrier-cross’s head, and Tony’s thumb was on the hammer. He seemed to search for a spot where the dog’s neck met his skull. The dog made a feeble twist, and when it stopped, Tony pulled the trigger.
“Jesus Christ,” Fanning said.
There were starbursts in front of his eyes now. He turned, lunged, pushing away Murph’s arm. Murphy grabbed at him again, but he had pulled away. He aimed for the doorway, tensed for another shot. The door was cool on his palms, and he shoved at it hard.
There was cigar smoke here. The door to the laneway was closed. Jacko turned to him.
“I need my mobile back, I’m going.”
“Hold your horses,” Jacko said.
He didn’t want to look at Jacko’s face.
“The Nokia one there, yes, that one.”
Jacko took his time sliding a bolt and pulling the door open a little. “Wait, I said,” Jacko told him. “Are you deaf or what?”
Fanning pulled the closing door and yanked on it, knocking Jacko off balance. He stepped into the yard and began a fast walk toward the cars
. The door was closed hard behind him.
The damp air felt almost greasy, but Fanning took in deep, hungry breaths. He remembered the turns that Murph had taken, the bus stop, the passing traffic. He’d even phone a taxi.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
He didn’t need to turn to know it was Murphy’s running footsteps.
“Hey! Stop! Stop right there! You don’t just do that!”
Murphy skipped in front of him and began walking sideways, his chest heaving.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m doing what I need to do. Right now I want to be on my own.”
“No, no, no! We’re a team here, pal. Remember? You go with me, you get what you want, I bring you to the next gig.”
They passed the parked cars. A lorry drove by on the road outside.
“There is no next gig,” said Fanning.
Murphy got in front of him.
“What are you talking about?”
“What I said. There’s no more gigs.”
He tried to get around Murph, but his feints were matched. He stopped.
“We have a week’s worth of places to do yet!”
Murph began counting on his fingers.
“The pool club yesterday, Alfie’s. There’s the Big O in Clondalkin, you see them fencing stuff, remember? Then Mickser, the garage? The piranhas, the one-hour jobs?”
“We can talk later, I have to go.”
“Hop in the car, we’ll talk on the way then.”
“I need to be on my own.”
“What ‘on my own’? Look, I worked on this thing here.”
“I know. I know.”
“You don’t know, you know? Do you know how much I had to do to get us in there? You have no clue. No way you’d get near any of this if it wasn’t for me.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Screw tomorrow. I have it set up, and we’re going. We have to go.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? I’m the one decides. I’m the one paying.”
“Stop right here! Just stop!”
Fanning felt the ache in his shoulders stiffen toward a cramp. He looked up at an overcast, immobile sky, the classic Irish mass of grey and tan cloud that somehow managed to look soiled as well as glowing. The last thing he wanted to see was another episode of Murph working himself up, full of that indignation and what he thought was his charm or smarts, into another stupid soliloquy about real life in Dublin.
“No speech,” he said to Murph. “Okay? Just give me time.”
“Time?” said Murphy. “Time? Do you know how many looks you got back there? How many you got on me, and me trying to calm you down while you’re having your spaz? The way they were looking when you done a bunk like that?”
“Okay. I admit it. It was too much for me. Shouldn’t have gone.”
“A bit late to be telling me that! You done damage here, serious damage.” “What damage?”
“There’s your problem right there! You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t even see what’s going on. That’s exactly why you haven’t a clue, exactly why you’ll go dead wrong in this film of yours.”
“It’s a script.”
“Whatever! You want to get it dead-on, right? ‘The real thing,’ says you. You wanted an entry, so here we are. But it’s costing me, costing me big-time.”
“Like what? What’s it costing you? Nothing — that’s what.”
Murphy took a step back and he waved his finger like a windscreen wiper.
“Don’t go there. Don’t.”
“I’m the one paying,” Fanning said.
“Just ’cause you can’t handle it. That’s what it is. You want, what’s it again, gritty? I gave it to you. The real thing. Now you don’t like it?”
“I didn’t expect someone to pull out a gun and kill a dog.”
“That’s what you got to do sometimes. That’s how these things work! Get real here, or you’ll never get anywhere. Everyone has guns, everyone who’s anyone. And another thing-”
Murphy stopped. His eyes were fixed on the warehouse behind, and the opening doorway. Fanning looked around.
“Shite,” Murph said. He shoved keys at Fanning. “In the car. I’ll handle it.”
Fanning saw Murphy swallow hard, and then straighten up. Then, clearing his throat, he rolled his shoulders and he walked back toward the man in the leather jacket who had come out.
Chapter 12
Mrs. Klos — Anya Klos — was very, very shaky. Her hands trembled when she took out a pencil to place beside a pad of paper on the table. She was trying too hard to keep her head from trembling too. Minogue wrote the name of his section, a telephone number, and his email on the pad after the introductions.
Danute Juraksaitis’ narrow black-framed glasses said something to him: economist, doctor, lawyer. Something serious, thoughtful, exact. She made only the briefest of smiles at the exchange of cards. Then she took a small notebook from another bag by her feet.
Mrs. Klos blinked a lot. She seemed to be holding her breath.
Hughes began with condolences. He spoke slowly, and with a simple eloquence that impressed Minogue. The real Ireland still existed, he began to believe again. Hughes looked from one woman to the other, pausing often, and nodding for emphases. Did they understand what he was saying? Would they like anything repeated? Did they know that they could interrupt him at any time?
Danute Juraksaitis spoke to Mrs. Klos in Polish. A look that Minogue read as ironic crossed her features briefly, and she glanced at Hughes.
“Mrs. Klos has some of words in English,” she said. “The rest is up to me.”
Hughes made a sympathetic smile. Then he began with the times, the log of events that had preceded the arrival of the squad car to the laneway where Tadeusz Klos lay. He paused at the end of each sentence and waited for the translation, and a nod from Mrs. Klos.
“Ambulance?” Danute Juraksaitis said.
“The one phone call does ambulance and Guards,” said Hughes.
“They think he was alive then?” she asked. “That is why the ambulance?”
“Well that wasn’t clear,” Hughes replied. “That wasn’t what the two Guards believed.”
As Hughes’ reply was translated for her, Minogue studied the changing expression on Mrs. Klos’ face
“But the ambulance?”
Mrs. Klos’ face twisted up, and she quickly put her hands over her face. She shook her head and she turned away. Danute Juraksaitis put her notebook face-down on the table and stood up slowly, her hands clasped awkwardly. Then she placed a hand on Mrs. Klos’ shoulder. Sharp intakes of breath brought Mrs. Klos’ shoulders up, and they sagged again as the sobs seized her.
“Tea is needed here,” Minogue said. “Coffee. Something. Anything.”
He didn’t wait for a comment, but got up and headed for the door.
He took his time getting to the canteen. He was aware he was trying to remember that perfume. Those glasses on that woman were actually severe, in a way. The thought of her brought a mild confusion to him, and a twinge of something unfamiliar.
The coffee he found waiting for him had been sitting in the pot since Adam was a boy. He opted instead for two teapots of boiling water and four bags of Lyons’ Tea. The milk would be a problem, but it was a chance for a detour down to the cafeteria.
“I’ll bring the jugs back so I will,” he said to the cashier.
“How do they know you won’t rob them,” asked the sergeant in line beside him. Had he met him a few years back?
“The crime of the century,” he said to the sergeant, hiding his irritation. “All my plans ruined now.”
The Guard laughed as he counted out his own coins.
“I’ll vouch for this fella,” he said to the cashier. “One of Kilmartin’s crew.”
“And how is the bold Jim anyhow?” the sergeant whispered
“As ever.”
“Really? Well tell him I was asking for him, there’s a good man. Tell
him ‘The old dog for the long road,’ will you?”
“‘The pup for the path’?”
“Exactly. Good man!”
Minogue trudged up the steps balancing the tray loosely. Was every Guard in Ireland going to be asking about Kilmartin? His thoughts returned to Tadeusz Klos, and his mother. She didn’t look Polish, he thought. But what did Poles look like, then? A Slavic or Russian look?
He was careful opening the doors from the stairs. He stepped into the hallway, and he paused, listening to the cylinder at the top of the door hiss softer as the door came closer to rest. There were voices from the open area beyond the conference rooms. Someone had recently had an egg sandwich. But unless his mind was playing tricks on him, there was the faintest trace of that same perfume again. Hardly possible, his mind declared, but there it was.
Hughes had a map of Dublin spread out on the table. He was pointing out where the hostel was.
“The city centre here is very walkable,” he said, and waited. Minogue saw him wince and move his hand reflexively to his lower ribs.
Mrs. Klos did not seem much interested in the map. Minogue laid down the tray. Danute Juraksaitis had finished noting something. Her gaze turned to the teapots and then met Minogue’s eyes for an instant.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Klos. Then she said something in Polish.
“You are so kind,” said Danute Juraksaitis. “Mrs. Klos said.”
Minogue looked at Mrs. Klos. Her eyes were red and there were blotches on her face from crying.
“Nothing stronger I’m sorry to say,” he said. Mrs. Klos waited for a translation. Hughes cleared his throat and continued while they waited for the tea to draw.
“The clubs serve drink,” he was saying. “Alcohol?”
He cleared his throat again, excusing himself as he did. A pallor had settled on his features, and Minogue thought he spotted beads of sweat near his hairline. He hadn’t realized that Hughes had been that nervous.
“Pretty well every night of the week is party night now,” Hughes went on. “Dublin is very busy. Very modern.”
Minogue could not understand one word that Danute Juraksaitis translated of this. Mrs. Klos nodded.
“It is the same in Poland Mrs. Klos said,” said Danute Juraksaitis. “The young they want… life. Fun. This is freedom.”
