Whenever Coyne tried to make some of his own discreet investigations, the result was always uneven; either he got on too well and revealed more about himself than he gathered, or else the conversation got stuck on the weather. An old woman in the local shop just going on about the wind, saying it was penetrating, and Coyne just walking off thinking about the choice of word: penetrating.
Fred was such a talented investigator, he could only have been hounded out of the Gardai by some injustice. Lack of promotion perhaps. Fred had a way of being invisible. A good listener who offered little titbits as bait. The great Irish trade of information – give a little, take a little. Somebody’s always dying to talk, he’d say. Fred and Coyne had already built up quite a dossier on many of the top criminals.
How’s Carmel? Fred asked over tea and Kerry Cream biscuits.
She’s gone mad on this art business, Coyne replied.
Fred also played a role in Coyne’s moral and intellectual well-being. Liked to listen to Coyne talking about his kids. Took an interest in Carmel’s latest craze.
Won’t last, Fred pronounced. I can tell you that straight off.
That reflexology thing lasted long enough, Coyne insisted. I’m telling you, Fred: she’s gone nuts about this painting business. She’s at it all the time now. Day and night. All over the kitchen she’s got this calendar of Chagall, or whatever his shaggin’ name is.
Won’t last. There’s too many at it. All that self-expression lark. There’s too much expression and too little understanding, Fred thought.
Not Carmel. She’s hooked.
Have you thought of taking her away? Fred asked.
Away?
Coyne considered it. Since when had they been away together like a couple, without their kids? In fact, Coyne was afraid of that. Afraid in a way that they would have to face each other, some kind of imaginary family court where everything would come up in evidence between them. He was afraid of the honesty of a weekend trip with Carmel.
Think about it. A weekend in the west. Be good for you, Fred said.
Inevitably, however, the conversation would return to crime. And as Coyne accompanied his mentor on his tour of the compound, shining his torch under parked trucks, lighting up the deadly shadows behind containers and checking the razor-wire-topped walls of his fortress, Fred came up with a theory.
Will I tell you what’s causing all this crime, Pat?
What?
Cars! That’s what. The private car is what’s doing it. You see, all that privacy is no good for people. Alienates everybody. Makes them unfriendly. A sick society. There should be no such thing as private cars.
We’d be walking around in the rain otherwise, Coyne remarked.
What’s wrong with taxis? There should be nothing but taxis and trains. Far more sociable. It would give people things to do. And reduce the crime. A nation of taxi drivers and delivery men.
And squad cars, Coyne added.
It’s the dogs of illusion, Pat.
Drummer Cunningham was a man of few words. Within hours of his release he was walking around his new nightclub on Leeson Street as though nothing had happened. He wasn’t even being triumphant, or celebrating his release like a primitive criminal. He just got on with his business and nodded quietly as the builder, Brendan Barry, explained how they would be finished in a day or two.
We’re just putting in the spots, then we’re ready to roll.
Rock ’n’ Roll, Drummer echoed.
The workers were busy carrying out the last minute renovations. A DJ was already trying out the new sound system and two go-go dancers were shifting around on the dance floor with mechanical movements.
Chief was there too, looking busy with a little pocket calculator. And Mick Cunningham leaning up against the new oval-shaped bar. Drummer looked a little concerned as he stood back and squinted at the dance floor. Liked everything to be dead on. Felt he knew something about architecture since he had a former student of architecture as a girlfriend. With his new-found talent for interior design he gave the builder some minimal instructions. Then started looking around in a suspicious way as though something was wrong.
There’s something missing here, he said, and Builder Brendan instantly became a ball of nerves.
What, Berti? There’s nothing missing.
Something isn’t right here, Cunningham insisted.
I swear. There’s nothing gone out of here, boss. You can search us.
No, I don’t mean missing, Drummer said. I mean, there should be something else here, like a fountain.
A fountain? The builder smiled with relief.
Yeah. A fountain would be nice.
Where?
There, you know, Berti said, waving his hands in the general direction of the dance floor and then moving on to inspect the lights and the mirrors, leaving the builder to ponder the sheer lunacy of erecting a fountain at such short notice. A fountain would require a water supply. That meant pipework, ripping up the floor again; a nightmare. And while Drummer was walking towards the DJ, Chief whispered discreetly into the builder’s ear.
Put in a fuckin’ fountain, he commanded. I don’t care where you get it. I want to see a bleedin’ fountain there by tomorrow.
Some days later, Coyne found an opportunity to deal directly with the Cunninghams. Just to let them know that even if the Special Branch had given up on them, the whole business with Brannigan wasn’t over yet. They hadn’t come across Coyne yet. Be afraid, was the message he was trying to get across.
Coming around the corner towards the canal at Percy Place, Mick Cunningham drove the Range Rover through the city, showing the world and his mother what an excellent driver he was. Should have been a stunt man, doing wheelies maybe. Except that Coyne happened to be driving the squad car from the other direction. A conversation with McGuinness about why he didn’t go to the cinema had to be postponed. Coyne felt there was far too much escapism. The streets of Dublin were like one big movie anyway, something that was borne out like an instant illustration by Mick Cunningham, lashing around the corner at high speed.
Coyne was just in time to switch on the blue light and pull out to stop the oncoming car. Got out and discovered he had stopped Mr Big Time’s brother Mick. Should have known not to proceed any further because it was a sensitive case. But Coyne was beginning to see it as his own personal crusade, a kind of tacit competition with Moleshaver Molloy to see who would put these boys behind bars first. The Cunning brothers, he called them.
Out, he shouted, McGuinness standing right behind him with a torch.
Mick Cunningham was the calmest person you could ever meet on a dark night. Thought he was being arrested again, so he didn’t put up any struggle. He was like the Pope, waving his hands up and down in slow motion like a wind-up doll. Wearing his reversed baseball cap, and bomber jacket with a mobile phone in the pocket. Clean shaven, number one haircut, with highlights. Coyne was staring into Mick Cunningham’s eyes, just to make him understand who was who around here. The air laden with silent aggression.
You think you can get away with the Brannigan murder, Coyne said. Well, wait till you start dealing with me.
Coyne lifted up his baton as though he was going to beat Mick Cunningham to a pulp in the street. McGuinness anxiously shifting around in the background, hoping this would go off peacefully.
You can’t touch me, Mick Cunningham said.
That’s what you think, Coyne said, instinctively throwing Cunningham up against the car, showing him the baton.
Have you ever shat one of these before?
You’ll have to ask my solicitor, was Cunningham’s slick reply.
Coyne laughed. McGuinness coughed in the background as though he wanted to pass on some urgent message to Coyne but was afraid to interrupt.
Are you in the VHI? Coyne asked, holding Cunningham by the throat. The volu
ntary health?
He got no answer, just a stunned look. Coyne released his grip and turned away, satisfied that he had delivered his message. He knew he had gone too far. It was not the right time yet. That day would come soon. But Cunningham was even more amazed that he was being let go. Looked at Coyne with great surprise.
You better be in the VHI when I deal with you, you glick bastard. Plan fucking D.
Coyne began to walk back towards the squad car. He turned again at the last minute to add a final warning, pointing his baton at Cunningham once more.
’Cause, I’m going to get medieval on your arse, boy.
Back in the squad car, McGuinness was uneasy about the incident.
Take it easy, Pat. You’re shittin’ yourself.
But Coyne was still furious, as though everything had broken loose inside him. He was all over the place. These Cunningham brothers had it coming. Coyne’s Justice was on the way.
That was mild, Larry. They’re going to get it. They’ll wish they were born scorpions.
I don’t like it. We’ve nothing on Mick Cunningham. It’s not our case.
You have to connect the shite back to the arsehole it came from, Coyne announced.
But McGuinness was starting to act the psychologist, telling Coyne he should relax. Had he ever thought of taking up golf?
Piss off, Larry. Golf is for emotionally disturbed whackoes.
Even before the shift was over, Superintendent Molloy sent out a message over the radio asking Coyne to come back to base. Molloy was hopping.
For Jesussake, Coyne. What are you up to? he barked. Threatening a suspect in the middle of a murder enquiry.
I was keeping an eye on him, Coyne offered.
Keeping an eye on him? Do you fancy him or something?
Molloy looked like he was going to start foaming at the mouth like a wounded horse. Yellow teeth all biting the dust. He was squinting up as though he was going through a particularly difficult gastric experience. Mouth curled up into an O of incomprehension. His hair-flap all out of place.
Look, Coyne. You lay off these guys. Ignore them. They don’t exist. Are you watching too much feckin’ television or something? You’re a plain and simple Garda on the beat, no more. This is Special Branch stuff, stay out of it. Got that?
Yes, Coyne agreed.
Molloy was staring up at him as though he’d had his stomach lanced by a pike, horse intestines spilled out all over the place. Moleshaver Molloy crawling away from the agony of his own bowels.
What the hell has got into you, Pat? Relax. You should take up golf. It would calm you down a bit.
Coyne stared back with great indignation. Golf? Coming from Moleshaver, that was a good one. You think you can solve Dublin’s crime with golf. Coyne was no ordinary cop. They would see. Coyne’s Justice was coming. He had nailed down some of these bastards and was keeping an open mind on a lot more. He had solved a few minor mysteries and put a certain Brian Quinn behind bars. And Sergeant Moran had become the station’s best-known alcoholic, leaving Coyne directly in line for promotion. All he needed was one big case. One big crap which he could bring back in a plastic evidence bag and put on Superintendent Molloy’s desk.
Coyne’s Justice referred to an incident at school. A concept of fair play that wasn’t without regret, as though justice was always accompanied by a certain guilt and compassion for those who were condemned. Even as a child, Coyne had wondered about the cruelty of Divine justice. I mean, how the fuck could God get away with burning people for ever. Bet there were a whole load of innocent people in hell too, people stitched up on spurious confessions. Coyne knew all about the innocents. And Coyne’s Justice referred to Brother O Maolbheannaigh, and his little dog Bran, who came to a bad end on behalf of his master. O Maolbheannaigh’s innocent little terrier took the rap for all the beatings dished out to the pupils over the years in school.
Every Wednesday, Coyne went out to the playing fields along the Liffey in Chapelizod for hurling. Next to the Garda rowing club as it happened. Health of body, purity of mind. There was no way out of it. Hurling was compulsory, even if you were an utter gobshite with no sense of direction, wielding the hurling stick like a sword or a Claimh Solais around your head as though you were after a wasp. The fastest game in the world. The first time Coyne ever tried to hit a ball he nearly decapitated Proinsias De Barra, otherwise known as ‘Spunk’, with an almighty blow to the back of the head.
O Maolbheannaigh was always there on Wednesdays, extolling the virtues of the air. Seagulls everywhere, waiting for a new delivery at the dump on the far side of the river. Flocks of them milling and screeching as the bulldozer turned over the city’s rubbish for them. And the playing fields were usually covered in sheepshite. The Brothers let out the fields to a sheep farmer through the week, and on Wednesdays the lads were lifting sliotars of dried black dung and whacking them into the air. Boys stuffing great lumps of it into each other’s nicks, forcing each other’s faces down on to the grass to eat it. Oh you boyo. Flying sheepshite everywhere until O Maolbheannaigh came out with the real ball and his little dog, Bran. Sometimes he would send some of the goodie boys down to get a bar of Aero for the dog.
There was always a smell too, Coyne remembered. From the river. From the dump. From the Guinness brewery. A mixture of rot and ferment drifting across the playing fields, like O Maolbheannaigh’s breath, shouting at everyone all the time: go, boy. Go, you moke, or else I’ll take a big sceilp out of you with my bare hands. It was never clear whether the players were inspired by the ball or by the fear of O Maolbheannaigh, who sometimes chased after a player and gave him a clout for not doing what Christy Ring or Jack Lynch would have done. He treated the little leather sliotar like a museum piece, holding it up in the air as though it was the one used on the grassy slopes of ancient Ireland by the fucking Fianna.
And one day, Coyne’s Justice took over. Coyne took his revenge for all the casual beatings that O Maolbheannaigh had given out. Struck a blow back on behalf of his friends and all the other pupils. He got O Maolbheannaigh’s dog. Bran was always there on the sidelines, looking for rats, everybody dying to use him as a sliotar. Coyne could not recall ever hitting the ball, except for one day when he was required to take a seventy-yard puck. Ten minutes whacking the clear daylight with the stick until O Maolbheannaigh came over and said: Right, me bucko. In fear, Coyne attempted one last time, throwing the ball up gently and finally making contact, sending it into infinity like a legendary puck from the Ulster Cycle. The impact of the ball shuddering back through the ash and stinging his fingers, all the way back through his arms, down to his groin. The ball went sailing out over the perimeter fence towards the river and O Maolbheannaigh instantly rained clouts and punches.
You clod, O Maolbheannaigh shouted, giving Coyne an almighty kick in the arse that almost sent him over the perimeter fence as well.
They carried on with a tattered back-up sliotar while Coyne searched in the reeds and bushes along the banks of the Liffey. Bran searching too, and before he knew it, the dog was somersaulting through the air down into the green water. Bran surfaced and tried to swim, even though the chocolate was holding him back. He got to the shore, but Coyne was there throwing stones at him, pushing him back out again with his hurley, running along the bank to make sure. And then Bran started going down, Coyne watching from the side, feeling a new sense of compassion for the innocent dog. Maybe for O Maolbheannaigh too, who was going to be the loneliest bastard in Ireland without his partner. Coyne felt awful. Tried to rescue the dog, wading out into the muddy water and almost drowning himself, but it was too late and the limp, upturned corpse floated down the river, mouth open, teeth bared in the agony of defeat. Coyne’s Justice.
Carmel was sitting up in bed sketching, the noise of the pencil on the paper scratching at Coyne’s brain. He stood by the window, looking out over the gardens, and saw Mr Gillespie next door playing g
olf in darkness. There was only the light from the kitchen illuminating the tiny garden in which the neighbour was swinging his iron. Each swish followed by a small pock of the plastic golf ball against the back wall.
Gillespie, you’re a sad case altogether. What’s this, the Irish Open or something? You wanker. Who do think you are, Bernard Langer?
Carmel continued sketching. The time on the digital clock was 12:12. It always came back to those even numbers again and Coyne thought he was going mad, surrounded by all the tiny signals of suburban melancholia. Swish, pock, scratch, flush is what his life amounted to. It was at moments like this that Coyne became aware how trapped you could be by noise. The trademarks of his home. It was this shaggin’ art business. She was as bad as the nocturnal golfer next door. Every night she sat up in bed with her sketch pad, scratching away like a chicken while Coyne drifted off into sleep. Fruit bowls, baskets of flowers, trees, children’s faces – the whole house was already infested with drawings. Everything had to be recorded in art as though it was in danger of evaporating. And how many times in the past month had Coyne heard her repeat the story about Matisse, how Matisse could not afford to eat the fruit he painted. How he would work away in a cold studio because he was afraid the heat would make the fruit go bad. Again he saw Mr Gillespie placing the plastic golf ball on the grass and shuffling up, getting ready to tee off in his little suburban dog pound of a garden.
Everybody’s gone golf mad, Coyne muttered, and Carmel ignored him because she had just had a brilliant idea.
Pat, why don’t you let me paint you?
Give me a break, Carmel.
Please, Pat. As a special favour?
What, like this? He almost conceded. He was standing in his boxer shorts and a vest.
No, silly.
Headbanger Page 5
