Carmel didn’t like it. To her, the game was childish and dangerous. She was afraid they would throw themselves off somewhere when he was not there.
He’s teaching them to commit suicide, was Mrs Gogarty’s attitude.
But Coyne urged his kids to go higher and higher, to find new peaks of fearlessness, and to hurl themselves off the roof of the car, right in front of the neighbours. Carmel inside trying to draw her mother, who was looking out through the window and shaking her head all the time with shock and horror.
He’s showing them how to kill themselves. That little grimace around her nose as though she was constantly caught fighting back a bad smell.
You’re such a headbanger, Pat, Carmel said when he finally stopped and came inside. Why don’t you build them a swing instead? That would be useful. More normal too.
You call that useful, Coyne responded, looking at the half-finished painting of Mrs Gogarty looking all flushed and red in the face, like she was asphyxiating.
Coyne went into the kitchen. Underneath that instant surge of aggression, he reflected on his role as a father. Felt that he’d failed his kids. Of course they should have a swing. It wasn’t a lot to ask for, and maybe he was desensitizing them to feelings of fear with his games. They were deprived kids and he vowed he would build the swing. A really good one. But he wasn’t going to do it on orders from Carmel. He wasn’t going to do it for Mrs Gogarty, the voice of righteousness. No way. So he sat in the kitchen and stared with contempt at the pictures of Chagall and all the others on the wall.
Shag off, Chagall, he muttered.
Maybe it was the way Coyne was brought up. Maybe it was the passionate severity of his father that made him the way he was. His father had come to Dublin from West Cork to claim his part in the making of a new Ireland. An Irish, Catholic Ireland. With his job in the Civil Service, Coyne’s father began to involve his family in a personal crusade for the language. He would shape the new Ireland through his own kids, turning them into native Irish speakers. Making them speak Irish on the buses, like aliens in their own land. Coyne could see that his father was right, but too late. By the time Coyne was growing up, rock ’n’ roll had already taken a grip of his intellect. The Irish language could never work in neon. It was unsuited to the electric guitar. Unsuited to commerce. It was like jumping off the roofs of cars.
Coyne was sent to the Gaeltacht in Connemara at the age of nine where he learned how to smoke. The old woman in the house gave him Sweet Afton for his sweet asthma. Puffail siar air sin, she said. That will make you cough it up, and it took him twenty years to give it up again. He could still hear the song of her voice calling out on the wind, the chickens proclaiming newly laid eggs, and the sound of enamel buckets, slopping with milk. Coyne loved Irish Ireland, the warmth and non-judgemental nobility of the west. At Colaiste Mhuire, the all-Irish secondary school where Coyne was educated in the city centre, the Christian Brother idea of education was nothing but decolonization, lash by lash. The panic of a young nation. They had nothing in common with the Blasket Islanders, or the famine cottages of West Cork.
Now it was Coyne’s turn to shape the nation. Only that it was changing again and all the old historical landmarks would be eclipsed by new outrageous shrines of crime. As a Garda, he saw it all coming. Murder at the Rock of Cashel. Armed robbery in Enniscorthy. A paedophile priest at a summer camp in Glendalough. The old Yeats poem, ‘Come away, o human child…’, took on a whole new meaning. The sacred places of Irish history defiled by new atrocities. And now it was murder in Brittas. Crime was the nation’s biggest growth industry.
Back in the squad car that afternoon, Coyne was casually telling McGuinness what he had read in one of his nature magazines the night before. They were crossing back over the toll bridge at the time. The green river backing up into the city, bridge by bridge.
Come ’ere, Larry. You know something I found out about scorpions last night.
What?
You know they have a sting in the tail and all that.
Yeah!
Well that’s not all they have. Did you know they have a disposable penis?
McGuinness laughed. But Coyne remained serious, looking for some sense in his own words, some new allegory he could pin on to his fellow humans.
I’m not joking you, Larry. One shot. Then they grow a new one.
Coming back into Ringsend, they passed by a convoy of police vehicles. In the back of one of them sat Drummer Cunningham, who was being taken in for questioning. Molloy sat in another vehicle waiting to extract a confession from his man. But Berti Cunningham had a special grin on his face as though he was enjoying the journey. Behaved like somebody on a state visit.
Somebody should impale that fucker, Coyne remarked.
He’s the real Teflon criminal, McGuinness responded with the usual lethargy. No evidence will ever stick to him.
I wish his mickey would fall off, Coyne said, waiting for his turn to deal with Drummer.
But Coyne’s life revolved instead around petty crime and they were soon called to the scene of a mugging, where an old woman stood bewildered at the side of the street, outside some shops, holding a strap in her hand.
I seen them do it, a bystander kept saying, as Coyne got out of the squad car and went over to them. I seen her holding on, the poor thing. Dragged her along the pavement so they did.
It was this kind of situation that Coyne had to deal with. Some junkie out of his mind taking the price of a fix off an old woman and nearly putting her into the grave in the process. There she was, lost and shocked, just passing the strap of her bag along in her hand like a set of rosary beads. Shaking and crying.
We’ll run her up to the cemetery, McGuinness said, and they led her gently towards the car. Drove up along the canal to see if there were any new bags floating along the surface. Then stopped at a place under a railway bridge which they called the handbag graveyard. A place full of handbags and other rubbish. They brought the old woman out to see if she could identify her own.
What colour was your handbag, Mam?
Tomorrow, she answered.
What colour, Coyne tried again.
Wednesday, she said. My appointment is Wednesday, isn’t it?
Animals, Coyne muttered to McGuinness.
Come on, we’ll take you home, he said, leading the old woman back to the car. And as he placed her in the back seat, Coyne began to think of his own mother. He should review the security arrangements before anything could happen to her.
Coyne saw it all. He saw the pigeons pecking at dried vomit and discarded chips. He saw the victims, culprits – the lucky and the unlucky. Coyne could tell you more about the nature of society than anyone else. The kids sleeping rough. Boys for sale. It was difficult not to be whipped by compassion. But that was Moleshaver Molloy’s golden rule to all Gardai – you couldn’t allow it to get to you. Never entertain your emotions.
Coyne had witnessed everything. The amount of people he brought to Focus Point; women with their entire families on the move in the middle of the night. Whole families of junkies. Beatings, muggings, suicides. Shopkeepers held up with syringes. The distress of a woman after rape. They dragged a man in his pyjamas out of the canal one night. Found a well known politician in a car with a young boy. Once helped to contain a riot near the British Embassy. Yobbos. Paedophiles. Alcoholics going downhill year by year. Rich kids acting the fool as though they owned the city. And the endless succession of car crimes. Road accidents.
Coyne saw the filth and the funny side of the city. In broad daylight, he once had to restrain an old traveller woman standing in the middle of a busy intersection with an oar, beating the cars and buses as they went by. A boy who had accidentally shot an arrow into his mother’s neck. A burglary where the criminal called the Gardai to save him from a snake. A car parked suspiciously, only to reveal a woman’s naked arse in the windscreen. An
d all of this had to be interpreted for the larger public audience. Each incident had to be put in official words, for the records, and for the press. Gardai at Irishtown received reports of a man interfering with himself on the canal bank. Drunk and disorderly youth, barking at the punters in Shelbourne Park. There was a lot of repetition. Lots that Coyne didn’t even remember offhand. Or care to. The foreign tabloids across the water frequently had more spectacular stories, but this was Dublin. And Dublin had everything. He tried not to make a political judgement. He had his own ideas on how the society should be run, but he was only concerned with justice and fair play. Coyne’s Justice.
Mick Cunningham was arrested in the snooker hall. When members of the Special Crime Squad walked up to table number five, he looked around and said: wait till I take this shot. The Gardai ran and lunged forward to prevent him potting the last red. Under interrogation, he got them back, however, by making total fools of them. One detective after another went in to listen to Mick talk like a cross between a garrulous DJ and a pro-life spokesperson, droning on in a kind of pseudo-legal gibberish, The term ‘You have the right to remain silent’ took on an entirely different meaning. We beg you to remain silent and stop fucking going on about article this and article that of the constitution.
Chief was arrested at his home. He was sitting there with a two-day stubble on his face, trying to get his girlfriend’s cat drunk. Devising new sources of delicious cat food that could be marinated in alcohol to deceive the suspicious animal. But the feline hangover must have rated among the world’s worst. And when Chief answered the door to two detectives in plain clothes, the cat made a dash for it.
Drummer Cunningham and his gang were finally sitting in various interview rooms at Irishtown Garda station. Drummer surrounded by Superintendent Molloy and top members of a special unit that had been set up to deal with this case alone. In the yard of another station, the Range Rover was being examined carefully by forensic experts, sweeping little bits of dust and sand particles into plastic bags. Moleshaver Molloy, with his jacket off, was there leading the enquiry, asking lots of questions and getting no answers. Like his brother and understudy, Mick, Drummer put into effect his strict policy of obfuscation, saying something utterly daft back to them – something domestic, something philosophical that would demonstrate clearly what a waste of time it was. Then Molloy would start all over again.
OK, Cunningham. That’s all very interesting, but let me ask you a simple question. You filled the Range Rover with petrol in the afternoon. Next morning it’s empty. That’s a lot of mileage, Drummer. Can you explain that?
You went for a drive, isn’t that so? one of the other detectives added. A midnight beach party maybe.
Who was with you, Berti?
But Drummer just smiled. You could see that it was all very amusing to him. They were trying to get into the select VIP lounge at the back of his head again, so he just stared at the wall.
Gentlemen, is all he would say. Because even trivial answers would help them. He rarely gratified them with anything. It was only when Superintendent Molloy seemed to lose his temper and start shouting the same question at him again and again that Berti Cunningham decided it was time to give them something.
All right. I’m going to tell you something. Just to keep yous happy.
Cunningham began to talk to them about his new nightclub, offering invitations to the stunned detectives. They had to hold themselves back. And secretly, they were also curious, as though there might be some hidden clue for which they dutifully had to listen.
My club, Drummer said. Opening up next weekend. Bring the missus.
Molloy glared back. Refused to entertain the joke and remained serious. In order not to lose face, he immediately lashed back with another question. A crucial one that would get Drummer worried. Looked like he was going to beat the living daylights out of him. Came right up close to him, breathing mint and black pudding breath over his face, staring straight into the whites of his eyes and speaking in a quiet, eerie tone of voice.
What’s the sand doing all over your car, Cunningham?
Drummer seemed to be caught out by the question. He was smiling with pride, and suddenly went serious. Looked up with a kind of new-born innocence and came up with the most straightforward answer.
The dogs, he said. I walk the dogs on the beach every day. They need the exercise.
Coyne was on duty that night. There was hardly any action except the usual complaints: dogs barking and drunk driving. A youth pissing against the railings of the American Embassy; somebody puking right up against the window of Pizza Hut, like an action replay for the diners inside; break-ins, car thefts and loads of domestic stuff. It was not until the early hours of the morning, just before they went off duty, that they received an unusual call. A girl on the railway line. Tightrope walking along the tracks in some kind of death wish. With the first DART due any minute, she was impervious, treading along one of the silver rails in her bare feet like some angel of commuter despair.
Coyne parked at the level crossing. And while McGuinness stayed with the car, he ran down along the sleepers, behind the terraces of the Lansdowne Road grounds. Coyne had begun to see certain moments like this in sharp relief, like a symbol of what had become of his life, running along the railway line wheezing. This is where he had ended up, his friend Vinnie Foley would say.
He shouted but the girl didn’t hear him. When he got closer, he discovered that she was humming, or moaning. She wore starry purple shorts and a loose belly top, holding her shoes in her hand. Some young one dancing as though she had lost control of her intellect altogether.
What are you trying to do, kill yourself, he shouted.
A glazed blue trance occupied her eyes and she was shivering, mouthing a frantic, silent refrain that reminded Coyne of Lady Macbeth. Fucked-up on smack or something. He then realised that she was trying to top herself.
What’s wrong, love. Why don’t you come with us. Everything will be all right.
He took hold of her bare arm, feeling the soft, creamy white flesh in his hand. He was miles away from the squad car and had to walk her all the way back along the line. She didn’t even realise that he was guiding her, she was so stoned out of her mind. Trembling with the chemical imbalance in her blood. Deeply unhappy, stopping every now and again to fret and clutch her shoes to her chest.
Not far to go now, love, Coyne said, coaxing her along like a father bringing a child to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But then she suddenly pulled away and ran towards some railway huts. He followed her, calling after her until she stopped in the shadow of one of the huts. And when he moved towards her, she pulled up her jumper exposing her breasts to him. He stalled a moment to look at them. The nipples and their dark aureoles were staring at him. Challenging him. Women like that gave him a fundamental feeling of inadequacy, because he felt a duty to go after them. It brought out all the hard man talk at the back of his mind. I’d love to drink your bathwater, missus. Suas do Guna, Una. She lunged forward to embrace him, kissing and crying at the same time, trying to make him place his hand on one of her breasts. But Coyne jumped back.
Pull yourself together, he said almost to himself as much as to her. He drew her top back down again.
What’s your name?
Naomi, she said in a melancholy voice, as though to indicate that he was another failure.
Well look, Naomi. We’ve got to go home now. Come on.
Lights were coming on in the nearby houses. Silhouettes in bathrooms. Kettles boiling in kitchens with built-in pine cupboards. You could see right down into the houses, and through one window he saw a duvet pulled back on a bed. Somewhere else just a naked bulb lighting up a bare room. Dawn seeping across the city like a great sadness. It crept along the railway line, all the way from Wexford, emptying out a steady blue-white flood of solitude on to the dewy sleepers. Dublin-lonely. The night was dying an
d a blanket of cold reality claimed back the illusion, bit by bit, reaching in under bridges, along the empty streets and down the long narrow gardens below. Dogs were barking somewhere. Soon there would be people everywhere.
He had brought junkies to the methadone dispensary before, but this was like his own daughter. When he got back to the squad car, he opened the rear door and placed her in the back seat.
Jesus – she’s like Madonna on oysters and Guinness, he whispered to his colleague.
By morning, Moleshaver Molloy had been forced to release the Cunningham gang. There was no evidence, nothing they could pin on them. Drummer emerged from the Garda station triumphant, shaking hands with his solicitor, thanking the forensic experts for cleaning all the sand out of his Range Rover.
Coyne was there to see Mick Cunningham and Chief being released some time later. Made the Gardai look like a whole bunch of flowerpots. The law was an asshole. And on the way home, Coyne dropped in on Fred Metcalf, his older, ex-Garda friend who now worked as a security guard at premises in Dublin Port. Fred kept saying it was time to get tough. Somebody was going to have to get dirty. Rules had to be broken.
What do you expect, Pat? Criminals have taken on designer status. No question about it. It’s Kilkenny Design. Look at this place here. Gurriers coming in here every night to see what they can rob or smash up. It’s the dogs of illusion, Pat.
The dogs of illusion, Coyne said, puzzled.
Fred had guru qualities. He knew the city like the back of his hand. He was an encyclopaedia on crime and Dublin anthropology. Knew the background circumstances on every court case and every personality involved. Fred had taken early retirement from the force, though Coyne never found out why. There were various excuses, but it was too late to ask. And Coyne was his protégé, in a sense; destined to succeed where Fred had failed.
It was to Fred Metcalf that Coyne looked for real guidance. With his grey moustache and his slow, deliberate movements, he provided great encouragement. Coyne admired the way Fred could follow a line of enquiry by simply going in and talking to local newsagents, butchers, car mechanics. He just talked for no reason about the weather, football, the government; anything that could sustain a subtle little question here and there about the local suspects. Fred was a natural born local, no matter where he went.
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