Headbanger

by Hugo Hamilton

  I really don’t have words to say how I feel.

  He reached over and held her hand: steady on there, Carmel. Don’t entertain your emotions in the restaurant. He had to lean sideways to look beyond the candle. Couldn’t take it if she cried, because it would make him all soft and pathetic.

  I’ve found something really worthwhile, she uttered through moist eyes.

  Sure.

  My art, she said at last. Doing something creative has given me something to live for, something to look forward to. I feel really fulfilled.

  Coyne could not hide his disappointment. He was looking across the table of betrayal. Withdrew his hand and folded his arms to register his surprise. It was as though she had said something about the universe that disproved his forecast, some amazing revelation that meant he had been staring into a blind alley. The world was safe and he didn’t know it.

  What’s wrong, Pat. I thought you’d be happy about it.

  Carmel, there’s far too much creativity in the world already. That’s what’s wrong with the place. Too much junk. It’s only going to lead to trouble, believe me.

  You don’t understand, Pat. I need to do something with myself. I’m not the type to stay at home and make puff pastry and soufflés. Can’t waste my talent on that.

  Coyne took the opportunity to pay the bill. A climax of romantic illusion, shattered in an instant.

  You’re afraid I might improve myself, she said in an outburst of absolute lucidity, but Coyne wasn’t listening any more. He was already planning a great future. A world without improvement where people could be themselves and not keep trying to be creative or paint pictures of each other.

  Back at the hotel, he came to a peak of new ideas and suddenly asked an absurd question. Suggested they should move down to the west altogether, to the Gaeltacht, where the children would speak Irish, where they would be a part of the real Ireland. He would get promotion easily and become a celebrated Connemara cop; famous far and wide among the ordinary people; a kind of nobleman of the west. Out there with all that raw nature she wouldn’t need any of that art lark. They would be content on the beauty of the rocky land, living an uncomplicated life between the bog and the sky. Nothing else. Maybe they would learn a few songs. And there was that business in water. They would start something with water, that’s for sure.

  But Carmel stared at him. Like he had made some outrageous sexual demand on her.

  You must be out of your Vulcan mind, Pat, if you think I’m going to live down here and speak the cupla focail.

  Then she started laughing again and calling him a teddy bear. Giggling hysterically while he remained utterly serious. As if something in her mirth pointed the finger straight at something in his doomed vision. As if her laughter was bringing the world to an end more rapidly than he had expected. And he could not see what was funny about it. His proclamation was in shreds.

  Carmel jumped on the bed, bouncing up and down. Behaving like a child, not a mother. She put on the bedside radio – Daniel O Donnell singing Whatever happened to old-fashioned love. She danced on the spring-harvest duvet like she was in a field, running with her hair blowing back in the wind. Looked up at the painting with the white frame above the bed and felt she was galloping across the blue moonlit canyons with the horses. Coyne was the horse on his own, heading in the wrong direction. Inspired by a magnetic signal that nobody else was willing to answer.

  Catch on to yourself, Carmel, he said.

  But there was no point in talking to her. She was drunk and disorderly. He had chosen the worst moment to put his daft dream of relocation forward because she had begun to perform a mildly erotic floor-show, laughing defiantly, showing him her new bottle-green knickers with white lace edging. He stared at them as if they were some kind of plastic carrier bag from Dunnes Stores. Refused to enter into the spirit of shopping, denying his instinct, cantering off towards a different moon.

  You can take nothing seriously, can you, he said in pure Garda-speak.

  Her hips moved at angles that contradicted any musical logic. She pouted and pulled the dress down off her shoulder, gazing at him with mock shyness like a calendar girl. A deadly sex kitten. Eyes radiating a comic impression of lust; something between deep trust and deep suspicion, between hatred and love, barely holding back the next burst of helpless laughter.

  Coyne wasn’t going to wait for it. He’d had enough and opened the door suddenly. Said he was going out because he needed to clear his head, leaving her behind with a look on her face like the moment the track begins to fade away on the radio. She had gone too far and it seemed he was about to set off right away to find himself a bothy or a disused cottage to spend the rest of his days in.

  Had she misunderstood him? Had she not acknowledged his stark vision? Such consummate pessimism was like an act of faith, an act of obstinate loyalty to their love. All that talk of imminent catastrophe, all that irrational longing for a simple life in the west was just a way of stopping the drift away from the night they first kissed in public, at the bottom of Grafton Street, while everyone else was running for the last bus. One of her feet off the ground, toe pointing. Coyne had become obsessed with endings, with the futility of things carrying on and being repeated into infinity. Once was enough of everything on his fevered plane of understanding. Things needed to come to a conclusion.

  It had begun to rain. Buckets of rain. He was soaked already, walking through the narrow streets of Galway in his good jacket. To go back to the hotel for his coat would have seemed like an expression of immense hope and reconciliation. His hair was already plastered down on his skull. Rain in his eyes. Cool water running off his face, in around the back of his neck. He blew sprinkles upwards from his nose. Kicked water forward with his shoes. Jumped back in fright when he saw a couple huddled together in the shelter of a doorway. The rain drove people in Ireland into each other’s arms, while back at the hotel, Carmel was already lying on the bed, face downwards, crying.

  Coyne was right about the rain. The streets were like rivers and there was a sense that things had adopted the appropriate tone of emergency. Everyone had fled the deluge, and the sheer fury of the rain bouncing on the pavement had proved him right. Everything about rain was moving downwards to a glorious end. He saw the herring-bone pattern along the gutter as the water rushed away into the shores. A saturated welcome mat. A car hissing along the street with the driver leaning forward and the windscreen wipers dancing. Rain sloping across headlights and street lights and small upstairs windows. Across the plains of Connemara and across the islands. The Corrib was in spate and he stood on the bridge of despair, looking down into that wild, single-minded frenzy as though it was his salvation.

  Drummer Cunningham got his picture in the paper. On the same page as the headline – Farmers attack Taoiseach – he was smiling at the people of Ireland from some charity function where he’d won the prize as best-dressed man. Coyne saw it the day he got back from Galway. It made the Irish legal system look like it had crashed into the side of a mountain in thick fog. One of its greatest adversaries on the loose, wearing the double-breasted suit of respectability. The benevolent face of Berti J. Cunningham: philanthropist; supporter of the blind; man of substance and owner of the Fountain nightclub, his new laundry operation. He had become an overnight celebrity, laughing at the law with a grin that looked more like a slashed bus seat.

  Whoever took the Drummer out of circulation was going to make legendary status. A real modern-day patriot. Superintendent Molloy’s methods were no use. All Moleshaver could do was dance around his office in a great fury, like some new rap king, moving his arms up and down in a steady rhythm and repeating: The Gardai have their hands tied. Moleshaver, you’re so funky.

  There was little Coyne could do either. He was trapped in his squad car again like a shaggin’ astronaut, listening to McGuinness giving him the membership rates on all the different golf clubs, still trying
his best to persuade him to join. The Garda club at Stackstown wasn’t a bad spot. What they needed, however, was a floodlit club for people on shift work. Fair play to the first person who runs a twenty-four-hour golf course.

  Trust a Kerryman to think of that.

  Give it a chance, McGuinness urged. You’d love it.

  But Coyne dismissed it. His views on golf were well known; it was for failed psychopaths. He had already made up his mind to go for strength and speed. He had booked an appointment at the chest clinic. He was going to join up in some local gym and get into serious shape. There was going to be a showdown and he would be ready.

  In his new role as businessman, benefactor and best-dressed man, Drummer seemed to be getting a taste for funerals and charity functions. The man who had sold smack to kids on the streets, robbed banks, snuffed out the lives of anyone who threatened his empire, was now transforming himself into a regular statesman. He knew the way to the hearts of the people. Go to the funeral. Offer your condolences. Shake hands. Put some money in the fund and turn up at a benefit concert for the young widow of Dermot Brannigan. How fucking cynical can you get? Front-row table for Berti and Naomi, Chief and Mick, drinking pints and buying all colours of raffle tickets, maybe hoping to win back the satellite dish Drummer had donated for the first prize. Drummer could be generous when the time came to demonstrate that he had a heart.

  A hundred pounds’ worth of satellite dish, the master of ceremonies announced every ten minutes. Kindly donated by Berti Cunningham. A hundred pounds’ worth of satellite dish, ladies and gentlemen.

  That’s cause I couldn’t get the rest of it off the roof, Drummer whispered discreetly to his friends, and they all chuckled.

  He liked simple pleasures, and though he remained mostly serious and aloof, speaking only whenever he had to, he loved a bit of clean fun. He smiled and tapped his foot to the music. Enjoyed the sound of laughter. Felt the warmth of the community around him as they clapped and danced in their seats, singing along with the band: Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me. What a night! Drummer even danced with some of the girls from Crazy Prices. Invited them all to the new nightclub. Then he laid into more egg sandwiches and Smithwicks, and watched a stripogram dressed in black leather and fishnet tights, cracking a whip and hauling two very embarrassed local men up on the stage for a double birthday celebration.

  I’m gonna whip yous to death, she threatened, as the men dutifully knelt down on the stage to remove her red garter with their teeth.

  It would be a brave woman who would get Drummer Cunningham to do that, because he was such a deeply private individual at heart. You wouldn’t make a show of him. Only at your own peril. It would be like breaking and entering the VIP lounge in his head. People knew not to try that kind of thing on him, like you wouldn’t try it on a priest, or a doctor, or a politician. Berti Cunningham was in a position of power, with influence over people’s lives. He was too well respected.

  Even the Special Branch had learned to respect him. They never troubled his ex-wife, Eileen, for instance. For security reasons, she and her two sons lived in an apartment in Ballsbridge, where Berti could play happy families whenever he wanted to. Christmas, Easter, birthdays and the occasional football international. Or whenever he felt like being the head of the family, and using his wife for a punch bag, leaving her with a few marks to remember him by. The two little Cunningham boys were going to a good school and Berti was obviously intending to break the cycle of crime that he had inherited from his own father. They were going to grow up like decent citizens.

  Two senior detectives who once went around to the apartment to check it out got the surprise of their lives. Eileen rang her husband and Drummer got so angry that he sent a squad of young lads round to deal with the situation. That’s not your car, is it? she then asked them, and the detectives looked out through the window to see their car engulfed in flames.

  That taught them to respect Eileen’s privacy. The family flat was out of bounds for detectives. Just as Berti’s house in Sandymount was out of bounds for his wife. Only his brother Mick slept there occasionally, as well as special guests and the most prominent members of the gang like Chief, and their women friends.

  Fred was of the opinion that Drummer had insulated himself so well, there was nothing the Special Branch could do at this stage. He was in the process of going clean. Had some new friends in high places.

  The whole thing needs to be tackled in a different way altogether, Fred said.

  Yeah, like joining them.

  It’s time to get tough. That’s the bottom line. I tried some innovations when I was in the Force, but it was all ahead of my time.

  Coyne was waiting to see what Fred might suggest. Watched him pour milk into his tea in the small night-watchman’s room. Then waited a while further as Fred dunked a Mikado biscuit and chewed as though he could extract some great new plan from its soft pink flesh.

  Pat, somebody with your abilities should be actively beavering away. The person who nails that bastard will shoot up the ranks. You should be out there preparing your own dossier on these guys.

  What do you mean?

  Surveillance, Pat. In your spare time. Just keep an eye on them. Take away some of his privacy. You’ll come up with something in the end, wait till you see.

  What about the rookies from the CDU, and the drug squad?

  Don’t worry about them, Fred said. I have the contacts in there. I know for a fact that they’ve been ordered to drop the stake-out.

  If the Super finds out, he’ll go bananas.

  Forget Molloy. He’s got his head up his arse. You’ll get the results, Pat. It’ll take time, but you’ll win if you persevere. Check out his new nightclub.

  Ah Jesus, Fred. My clubbing days are over.

  Coyne could see it already. Girls in hot pants – men with mobile phones and wedding bands in their pockets. Spiderwoman getting into the car and asking what the baby seat was doing in the back. Oh fuck.

  Be worth having a look around some night, Fred urged. Keep a low profile, though. Stay incognito.

  But instead, Coyne began a special surveillance of Cunningham’s swanky home in Sandymount. Kept walking up and down Hawthorn Avenue in the early hours of the morning, staring into the window of Cunningham’s cosy front room with its lampshades and floral wallpaper, all deluxe and delightful. Until he eventually saw Drummer coming out with his dogs. An overcoat slung over his shoulders, like he was fucking Napoleon or somebody, leading two Rottweilers up the pavement. The dogs were larger than life, straining on their leads, almost pulling Drummer up the street with them, as though they could smell the local Abrakebabra about half a mile away. Berti all cool and aggressive, smoking a cigarette and jerking the leads back violently.

  Wait, ye fuckers.

  Coyne had come up behind them, walking at a slightly faster pace, feeling the edginess of being on the same street as his enemy, posing as an ordinary suburban resident. He wanted to get a good look at his man, stare into the whites of his eyes. Get a sense of his stature.

  But as he caught up with them, Coyne was surprised at how small Drummer really was. He was tough looking. But he expected a much larger man. And Drummer’s hair seemed a little bit laughable; cut short at the sides and long at the back, like one of those really stupid haircuts that Wrestlemania stars wore.

  As Coyne approached, Drummer stopped on the street to undo his fly. While the dogs were lifting a leg against one of the hawthorn trees, Drummer joined them, pissing in public to mark his territory. A gesture of contempt towards the people of Sandymount.

  Like a normal, disgusted neighbour, Coyne took the opportunity to cross the street to avoid him. But he had made eye contact at last. Under cover he had managed to come face to face with Cunningham. You’ll be pissing in hell soon, Berti. You’ll be passing boiling urine with the dogs of the underworld to keep you company. Burning an
d barking into infinity. Just you wait.

  In a new sense of reform, Coyne decided he was going to be more of a brick. The new Coyne would be all muscle and speed. He was going to get in touch with his body, so to speak. All he had to do was get his health cleared first. The lungs had been acting up quite a bit recently, so he found himself in Vincents, lining up for another chest X-ray. Felt he was back in short trousers with his mother, endlessly shifting from one bench to another to see the consultant and talk about the dinosaur in his chest. How is the bronchitis? Coyne with his indigenous lungs, rasping and coughing with the hollow bark of a seal until the tears stung his eyes. Lungs like a damp Irish cottage with the wind whistling and the half-door banging.

  Once more he found himself walking along the polished corridors with a new pink card and big folder containing his skeletal upper half; humble ribs and air bags that had acquired their own medical fame over the years. It was like a homecoming for the nostrils – the disinfectant, the stuffiness, the heavy smell of hospital food rushing towards him like an old uncle, urging contrition and humility. The alarming clang of kidney bowls. Nurses squeaking along the lino in their white shoes, and the patients everywhere infecting each other with a deep sense of mortality.

  Hard man? He felt about as hard as a globule of phlegm in a plastic beaker. Waiting outside the pulmonary lab, he listened as the others went ahead – could you please spit into this cup, like a good man. Who needs a tennis racket? An old man serving a high-speed green ace and Nurse Proctor saying: excellent, well done. Oh my God, call the Ghostbusters, what’s this? Then they were proud of themselves, thinking of their record-breaking sputum being rushed away to a research centre where it was going to be tested for radioactivity, for fucksake.

  Coyne observed fellow patients like the ghosts of his own future. Some of them were inmates from the wards. A thin man sat opposite him in his pyjamas, ribcage showing and his whole frame heaving and droning like a set of human uileann pipes. Ivory feet stuck into a pair of tartan slippers and a bony hand holding on to a sort of metal staff on wheels, with a suspended see-through bag and a tube that disappeared up one nostril. His face was more like the Tolund Man they found preserved in the bog with a thin leather gauze pulled over the skull.