Headbanger

by Hugo Hamilton

  Fred was about to have something to eat and brought out his lunch box.

  Blasted chicken legs again, he complained. You’d swear they were breeding chickens with ten legs.

  Have some of mine, Coyne offered, going out to his car and coming back in with his own lunch. He had gone off food. Eating had become one of his lesser priorities. Fred loved Carmel’s sandwiches and said each one was a masterpiece.

  She’s up to something, Coyne said.

  What?

  There’s something going on. I know it.

  Who, Carmel?

  The whole art workshop thing is just a front for something else. It’s art for fucksake. I know it.

  But Fred would not believe him. Said it was all just in his imagination. He would never allow himself to think for one instant that Carmel was like that. She’s got a heart of gold.

  She’s messing, Coyne insisted.

  You’ll have to talk to her.

  I’ll do more than talk to her. I’ll kill the bastard, whoever he is. I swear. Either that or I’ll kill myself.

  Ah now relax, Pat, Fred said, offering him a drumstick. Here, have one of these.

  When Carmel had almost reached home, walking along a tree-lined avenue, the Nissan Pajero pulled up beside her. She thought somebody was looking for directions when they rolled down the window. She stopped and got ready to help, but in that same instant two men jumped out from the back and grabbed her round the waist. One of them held a gloved hand over her mouth. She could smell leather.

  The portfolio dropped out of her hand as though it had suddenly become too heavy to hold. She tried to scream, but managed only a tiny squeak. She was powerless. Within seconds she had been bundled into the car and was being driven away from her home again. She thought of her children and her husband Pat. A man wearing a suit spoke in a very polite tone, holding a gun to one of her knees, telling her not to make a fuss. The other man slowly released his hand from her mouth and she was in such a state of shock, she could do nothing but stare at the metal mouth making the print of a capital O on her skin.

  Drummer untied the red bow of her portfolio as though he was undoing a dressing-gown. With a glance at Carmel, he seemed to ask for permission to take a look at the paintings. Examined them with great respect and awe.

  They’re brilliant, he said. You’re very talented.

  Where are you taking me?

  Are you any good at dancing, Drummer asked.

  Back in the squad car, Coyne decided to go and investigate Sitwell for himself. Found his redbricked house in Blackrock and rang on the doorbell. There was nobody in, so he began to keep the house under surveillance, getting to the source of the problem at last. They were a long distance off their beat and McGuinness became apprehensive.

  What are we doing here, Pat?

  Just need to check out something. Won’t take long.

  But McGuinness was very agitated.

  Come on, Pat. This is over the top. You can’t just watch somebody’s house like this.

  I need to verify something, Coyne replied. Wait.

  By then, they could see the shape of a stout man coming down the street towards them. It was Gordon Sitwell. The man with the artistic touch. Coyne got out of the car and met Sitwell just as he reached the gate.

  Are you the owner of this property? he asked.

  Yes, I am, Garda. What’s the matter?

  Coyne wanted to tell him straight out to keep his visual arts mickey out of other people’s marriages. But he kept his cool and looked like a concerned Garda.

  We have reason to believe that there may be an intruder on the premises, Coyne revealed. We have been keeping your house under surveillance for the past twenty minutes.

  Good God.

  If you’ll allow me to accompany you into the house Mr…

  Sitwell. Gordon Sitwell.

  Mr Sitwell, Coyne said in a whisper. Perhaps you’d better let me have the key. For your own protection. I would like to satisfy myself that the house is safe.

  Sitwell thanked him and Coyne opened the front door of the house, signalling to Sitwell to stay outside for the moment. Walked into the iniquitous mansion with his torch shining ahead of him, lighting up the interior art world which he had held under suspicion for so long. He soon found the extension at the side of the house where Sitwell had his workshop.

  Even as Coyne shone the torch into the studio, he felt the nauseating shift of betrayal rise through his body like a fever. He saw the little podium and the props used by the models. Then like a kick in the stomach, the beam of his torch fell across a painting on the easel. It was Carmel, reclining on a gold green chaise-longue with nothing on except a loose crêpe de Chine shawl draped over one of her breasts and along her stomach. She was absolutely naked otherwise and her auburn triangle seemed to be darker than he’d ever seen it before. Her nipples redder. Her skin pink and glowing, like it was after a hot bath. The painter had given her a slightly masculine nose. But they were Carmel’s eyes. No fucking mistake about that, Coyne thought.

  He stood over the painting, admiring her with a helpless feeling of betrayal. He had never known her to look so beautiful, as though seeing her through another man’s eyes was like a critical revelation. Here, pinned on to Sitwell’s canvas, she was stunning. For the first time in his life he could watch her like a voyeur, without having to make conversation. He loved the blue markings along her body with a flood of passionate jealousy. Beside her stood an Irish harp. In the grassy background landscape, a round tower.

  The Pajero drove through the Phoenix Park, pulling off the main artery on to a side-road towards a more remote area of the fifteen acres. It progressed slowly, then stopped at a quiet intersection close to a stand of trees. In the distance, the orange glow of the city had discoloured the sky, steam from the Guinness brewery adding a touch of grey. The headlights of cars continued to pass up and down along the main road through the park, and it struck Carmel how far away civilisation could be, even if she was staring straight at it, only three hundred yards away. The only thing that separated her and those people in their cars were some trees.

  The doors of the Pajero opened and she was pulled out. There was nothing rough about the way they were handling her, which increased the sense of fear. It might only make things worse if she started screaming now. Nobody would hear anything out here.

  Chief took her by the arm and walked her a few paces towards the trees so that she stood directly in the beams of the Pajero. Light shining through her legs, giving her a luminous appearance. She felt cold and could only think the worst. Maybe she should try and run.

  Drummer put some music on the tape deck in the car. Irish music. A reel ripping through the night air with fiddle and accordion, flute and bodhran, belting the living daylights out of a simple melody. Suddenly it felt very homely in the park, and Drummer looked at Carmel as though he expected her to know what he wanted her to do.

  Go on, dance, he ordered with a hint of impatience. Waving the gun at her legs.

  Give us Riverdance, Chief added.

  She stared at the three men and slowly began to obey. Made an attempt to hop and kick out her legs. Kept her arms stiffly by her sides. Her hair bouncing off her head. But in doing this, she realised that her knees were so weak with terror that she was ready to collapse. She danced like a marionette, with rubbery legs and rigid upper body. Stopping and starting again to show that her heart wasn’t in it.

  A h-aon, do, tri agus h’aon, do, tri… one of them shouted. But there was nothing fluid about her movement. It was the worst humiliation she had ever felt. The dance of fear. The dance of servility and introversion. Of chastity and repressed liberty. They watched her with great amusement for a few minutes, then got back into the car and drove away. Before the Pajero had gone very far, however, it stopped and reversed all the way back to where she stood on the grass, petr
ified. The door opened and her portfolio came flying out, landing at her feet.

  If you talk to the Gardai about this, we’ll come back and kill you, Chief shouted.

  The Pajero disappeared and she stood for a long time, crying and staring at the leaves which had begun to blow across her portfolio.

  Coyne could not look at the painting any more. He switched the torch off and made his way back outside. He wanted to say nothing, go straight home and talk to Carmel. But when he emerged from the house he found Sitwell standing on the granite step with his arms folded, anxious to see what the Garda had to report.

  Mona Lisa lost her clothes, Coyne said.

  I beg your pardon?

  You’re a painter of some sort, aren’t you? Coyne asked, indicating that the danger of intruders had passed.

  Yes I am, actually, Sitwell was proud to announce. I teach night classes at the VEC – Painting for Pleasure.

  Well, there’s too much pleasure and not enough clothes, if you ask my opinion. Coyne pointed back into the house. There’s too much nudity in this painting business.

  What are you suggesting, Garda?

  Boom-she-boogie. That’s what. You’re nothing but a fucking piss-artist, Mr Sitwell. Coyne knew that he had broken through the barrier again. He’d lost his cool. Sitwell gazed back with enlarged eyes, neck throbbing with indignation.

  This is outrageous, he said. Get off my property.

  Coyne watched Sitwell getting worked up, moving towards him, as if to whoosh Coyne down the path off the premises. And Coyne just couldn’t allow himself to be expelled like this, so he put out his hand to stop Sitwell. Coyne had lost all respect for his own uniform.

  You couldn’t paint shite in a basket, he delivered as a final blow.

  There was hardly any physical contact at all. It was more like a rapid gust of wind between them giving Sitwell enormous problems with his own centre of gravity. His body lost its sense of balance, as though he was being sucked back into a vacuum behind him. In a slightly ungainly fashion he began to flap his arms backwards to try and regain his upright integrity, while attempting to cross his legs at the same time. What the fuck? Coyne thought, as he observed this strange acrobatic performance. But then he understood what Sitwell was attempting to do. There was a low box hedge running along the path and Sitwell looked like he had decided it was a good idea to sit down on its flat, perfectly sculpted surface. Be seated, Mr Sitwell. Still flapping and already looking comfortable with his legs crossed, he lowered himself down on the green wall, which supported him for a moment, but then gave way with a multiple crack of little twigs. It sounded more like the rip of an involuntary fart as the hedge parted to allow his weight to take its natural course. Sitwell disappeared and his legs went up in the air. Feet with slip-on shoes sticking up out of the wrecked hedge.

  Coyne could not stay on duty that night. He drove the squad car straight back to the station and said he felt ill. Drove home and found that Carmel wasn’t home yet. Mrs Gogarty gave him a dirty look as though she was going to accuse him of being a cat killer or of some other asocial misdeed. Said she was mildly worried that Carmel wasn’t back, but didn’t want their mutual concern to lead to anything closer than that.

  As soon as she left, Coyne began to search through stacks of Carmel’s sketches to see if he could find anything incriminating. There they were; a half-dozen drawings of nude men. Sitwell, no doubt. Large as life and bollock naked, grinning back with his lascivious half-shut eyes. Well, Coyne admitted, it was the head of Sitwell all right, but the body a hulk, with massive pectorals and brawny arms. It was Sitwell with superhuman genitals. Not the fat specimen of a man he had just knocked over the hedge.

  Coyne paced up and down the kitchen. Every now and again he went back to take a look at the paintings, just to keep his sense of betrayal at its peak. Just to gaze at the sheer obscenity of Sitwell’s oversized genitals, allowing himself to descend into a deep depression.

  When Carmel eventually returned home she walked into the kitchen to find Coyne standing there in his uniform, with his arms folded. She looked pale, dropped her portfolio on the floor and sat down, exhausted. Before she could say a word, she met a tirade of accusations.

  I need to have a word with you, he said, talking to her like a child.

  What?

  I have reason to believe you are fooling around, Carmel.

  Carmel placed her chin in her hands and gave Coyne a look of weary disbelief, followed by a sort of laconic half-laugh.

  I don’t think I heard that, she said.

  Is it true? Are you messing?

  Pat, what is wrong with you? she said, looking at the male nudes spread out on the kitchen table. Are you going to take me down to the station for questioning or what?

  It’s true, isn’t it. All this art business is just a cover-up. Isn’t that so? You’re up to something.

  Jesus, I don’t deserve this, she sighed. You’ve got this all wrong, Pat.

  If it’s true, Carmel, I swear I’ll kill myself. If you don’t stop all this painting for pleasure, I’m serious, it’s the end. I’ll do myself in.

  Carmel’s head sank down. Her shoulders began to shudder and it took Coyne a moment to realise that she was crying, not laughing. He looked at her quite helplessly. Then went over and sat beside her, taking her hand. She was shaking. Tears rolling down her face as she looked up.

  These men attacked me in the street, she finally said. Three men just jumped on me and took me away in a car.

  Coyne put his arm around her, as if to offer some belated protection. He felt miserable. Could not believe how cruel he was to accuse her.

  Where? What happened?

  I couldn’t scream for help or anything, she explained. They just drove me to the Phoenix Park. I thought they were going to do something. Jesus, I was really scared, Pat.

  She burst into tears again and he pulled her close. His face wet on one side from contact with hers.

  Are you all right, Carmel? What did they do, love?

  They got me to do Irish dancing. They made me get out and told me to do Riverdance. It was horrible, Pat. Right in the middle of the Phoenix Park, near the Pope’s Cross. They told me not to go to the Guards.

  What did they look like? Coyne wanted to know. Did you get the registration?

  No, she said. One of them was big and fat, with braces, and a shaved head. And a young guy with a baseball cap. I’ve never been so afraid in all my life.

  Coyne held her in a fierce grip of remorse.

  You’re all right now, he said, pushing the male nudes away with his elbow.

  From then on it was war. He would have to deal with the Drummer direct. Back on duty the following night, the whole city looked like it was going to commit suicide. Saturday night mayhem. Coyne and McGuinness came across a teenager who had died from a drug overdose. They went to a flat where the occupants were so stoned they were trying to pretend the victim had merely dozed off, when it was clear that he was as dead as a mouse with a hatchet in the back. Then they came across an old man, staggering in the middle of the road outside the New Jury’s hotel with a limp hand held out, just in case some motorist might accidentally stop, or money came falling out of the sky. So blind drunk, the hoor couldn’t even see a coin in his hand. Reeling all over the street with the cars dodging him left and right, as though it was some kind of rugby international in which everybody denied they had the ball. Until he did a late tackle and half attempted to grab a Saab by the aerial, spun around like a whizzing turnstile and fell down flat on his back, blood pumping from the back of his head, like a broken jug.

  What was going on? Coyne no longer understood the logic of ordinary life. Where he had once been reassured by his role in protecting the nation from itself, he now felt subjected to a new wave of cynicism. Somebody sprinting across the toll bridge with a car stereo. Some students banging like shite
on the door of the Hare Krishna Temple, saying they had a message for Harry. A bunch of girls waiting for the Nightlink bus, singing their heads off and screeching I want you back for good. Some gobshite extraordinaire trying to conduct a moral campaign against prostitutes, and a bunch of kids trying to make a horse swim across the canal like it was the wild west, with the animal’s head out of the water, grinning with fear.

  Coyne went ballistic. He spewed Exocet lyrics, effing and blinding as he drove the squad car around the city. In his head there emerged a new obsession with the idea of operating outside the law like a real extremist. Where Coyne had once derived his sense of belonging from his uniform, he now felt it to be the principal barrier in his internecine war with Cunningham. From now on Coyne felt he would have to operate outside the nation.

  Later on that night, they got a call to a house in Ballsbridge where somebody had committed suicide. Walked around to the back of a semi-detached house and found a man hanging from one of the trees. The bright security lights shone down, giving him a gaunt, agonised appearance, swinging on the axis of the rope, head leaning to one side and the feet searching for solid ground. His beige trousers soiled with a spreading stain around the crotch. Self-murder.

  Jesus, Coyne said, involuntarily taking his cap off. But in the same instant, just as McGuinness was about to say a brief prayer, the deceased man suddenly spoke up.

  Jesus, Billy, it’s the Guards.

  Coyne and McGuinness jumped back. It was only then that Coyne realised there were other young men in the garden too, standing behind a video camera on a tripod. Another seemed to have his face covered in blood.

  What the hell is going on here, Coyne shouted.

  Get down from there, McGuinness said to the dead man, lifting a step-ladder that was lying on the grass.

  He’s OK, one of the men behind the camera said. He’s in no danger. He’s got a harness around his neck. We’re just making a film.

  Well, you can’t be doing this kind of thing in the middle of the night, Coyne announced. We’ve had a complaint from the neighbours.