Headbanger

by Hugo Hamilton

  This is obscene, McGuinness echoed.

  Coyne took a moment to put the scene into perspective. With a nickname like Garda Suicide, he felt he had been picked out specially for derision. Was this some kind of practical joke? Were these people trying to give him a message?

  What are we going to do, Coyne roared. Start dancing around like we’re in some shaggin’ margarine ad? Come on, get him down out of there.

  The step-ladder was placed under the dead man’s feet and he rejoined the world the way he had left. Found his footing on the top step, slipped the rope over his head and descended the ladder like a ghost helped back to life. Coyne’s attention was then drawn to the man who appeared to have shot himself, with half his head blown off. Blood spilling from his mouth and a gun hanging loosely in his hand.

  What’s wrong with him, Coyne demanded.

  That’s just a wig, the director explained, showing the flap on the man’s skull, a bit like what Moleshaver had on his head. You see there’s a built-in hinge and it just explodes.

  Do you have a licence for that firearm?

  It’s decommissioned.

  Coyne took possession of the gun. Said he would have to confiscate the weapon and have it examined. Told them to put an end to these antics. Couldn’t understand the logic of these aesthetics. Did they not think there was enough of this kind of thing happening around the city?

  It’s the only sub-culture left, the director said.

  Snuff movies, Coyne muttered to McGuinness. But the whole incident seemed to have a depressing effect on him. He turned back to the director and raised his voice again, menacingly. Do you want us to charge you with disturbing the peace?

  And wasting Garda time, McGuinness added.

  Gordon Sitwell went to Irishtown Garda station and lodged a complaint against Coyne. Said he had been attacked. Verbally abused and assaulted on his own doorstep. When Coyne arrived for work next evening, he could see by the look on Larry McGuinness’s face that something was wrong. Before he could find out anything, Superintendent Molloy said he wanted to see Coyne in his office. Moleshaver could hardly wait for Coyne to close the door before he hissed at him in a kind of half-scream, half-whisper about a serious breach of Garda rules.

  What the hell were you doing at that man’s home in Blackrock, Coyne?

  I was investigating a suspected burglary, Coyne replied.

  Investigating your arse, you were. It’s way off your beat. And I don’t see it on the duty report. We’ve had a serious complaint from a gentleman by the name of Sitwell. Said he was assaulted outside his own home by a Garda with a description that bears a remarkable resemblance to you.

  Coyne feigned a sort of puzzled expression. As though the gentleman in question must be out of his mind to make such an outrageous complaint. He stared at Molloy and got the impression that the mole on his face was flashing on and off in warning, like a little pilot light. Do not exceed recommended temperatures.

  He’s a crank, Frank, Coyne tried to say.

  I’m near disbelief, Moleshaver uttered with a shake of the head. You better have a good explanation for this. I don’t know what you have against this man, but you can tell it to the enquiry. In the meantime, you’ve left me with no option but to suspend you from your duties until further notice.

  Somebody else had already replaced Coyne on the beat in the squad car. And Superintendent Molloy was strangely dignified about the whole thing to demonstrate that it had gone out of his hands.

  This man Sitwell is pressing charges, Moleshaver added in an official tone, shifting documents on his desk. Suspension without pay, that is.

  I need protection, Coyne suddenly said.

  Moleshaver was dumbstruck.

  I need protection for my wife and family. She was abducted by Drummer and his gang. They assaulted her and threatened her.

  Don’t start entertaining your emotions, Coyne. What’s that got to do with this?

  She needs Garda protection. Her life has come under threat from the Cunningham gang.

  Molloy smiled to indicate how ridiculous this request was. He looked at Coyne as though he had gone soft in the head. Living in some kind of fantasy.

  Look, if you need protection for your wife, then you go home and protect her. Is there something going on between you and the Drummer gang?

  No way. Coyne hesitated. They just abducted her and took her to the Phoenix Park. Subjected her to inhuman and degrading treatment.

  Like what? Molloy demanded. The story had become too far-fetched and he was already picking up the phone and dialling a number, as though Coyne didn’t matter any more.

  They made her perform Riverdance. She needs protection, Frank. Who knows what they might do next.

  You can tell that to the enquiry, Molloy finally said in the hope of dismissing Coyne out of his office. He didn’t want to listen to any more extracts from Coyne’s imagination. He was too busy.

  But…

  Stop looking for sympathy, Coyne. You know where you can find sympathy, he said, holding his hand over the phone. In the fucking dictionary, between shite and syphilis. You’re suspended.

  On the way home again, Coyne called in to Fred and explained the whole Sitwell situation to him.

  It was all the art stuff that got to me. I went out to investigate his house and what do I find, a nude painting of my wife. I’m telling you. A nude painting of Carmel, he has. Then he has the nerve to report me, the bastard.

  You’ll have to talk to her, Fred advised. Just tell her the whole story. She’ll sort it out. Maybe she can get him to withdraw the charges.

  There’s going to be an enquiry.

  Fred thought long and hard. Drawing inspiration from the soggy brown corpse of a marshmallow he was pulling up from his tea.

  I’ve never heard of a door closing without another one opening at the same time, he said.

  Coyne tried to work that one out. As far as he was concerned, there were too many doors opening and closing. It was all too much like a revolving door for his liking.

  It’s an exit I’m looking for, he said in despair.

  Ah, now take it easy, Pat. Don’t be talking like that. Explain the situation to Carmel. She’ll go and sort this Sitwell fellow out for you.

  By the way, Fred said, changing the subject. That girl was on the phone looking for you.

  Who?

  Naomi, the one you told me about. Hangs around with Drummer. Said she was looking for Vinnie Foley. That’s a pal of yours, isn’t it?

  Sure. He’s my friend.

  Fred got up from his seat and went over to Coyne, placing his hand on his shoulder. He stood staring at the yard outside the dusty blinds. One of the arc lights was shaking on a pole in the breeze, throwing unstable shadows around the parked trucks. Making them look like they were beginning to reverse slowly.

  You’ll have the last laugh, Fred said after a while. The doors are beginning to open. Go home and talk to Carmel.

  But Coyne could not go home. He drove back through the city aimlessly, merging with the lights of night-time traffic, drifting around slowly in his own car as though he was still driving the squad car. For once he had changed out of his uniform at the station, but he was still vigilantly looking at people on the pavement, taking in all the tiny details. He was still a cop, and the fact that he had been suspended had not yet sunk in. He stopped at a pub and drank aimlessly, one pint after another. Moved on to another pub and drank till closing time, then bought a small bottle of whiskey and went back to the car. He couldn’t face the questioning from Carmel, so he parked by the river for a while to consider his position. Drinking down the whiskey, he watched the lights on the far side reflected on the red-brown water, until he became mesmerised by the flow and felt the river had stopped and he was travelling back up into the city.

  His life was finished. He would be dismissed fro
m the Guards and have to take up some job as nightwatchman, like Fred. There was no future for him. He would be a disaster in the eyes of his children. He threw the empty bottle into the river and contemplated going in after it himself, driving straight over the edge. It seemed like a perfect ending. He had always had that passion for endings.

  Instead he drove back into the city, feeling a new anger growing. He wasn’t finished yet. If he was going to be hounded out of the Guards, then maybe he should go out with a bang and make one big, final, heroic act. Something that might even save the day and make the whole Sitwell thing look like a plastic bag in the wind; one of those tattered bags stuck in the trees. He would show the bastards what it was all about. Coyne would be remembered as the man who took on the Drummer. This was the showdown he was waiting for.

  Coyne stopped at a petrol station, one with an all-night shop, where he bought an assortment of odd items. A bizzare shopping list. Sunglasses, packets of steak, chewing gum, pliers, screwdriver, a holdall bag, as well as a T-shirt and one of those baseball caps. All the things he needed on his final mission. Driven by a new mood of optimism and complete fearlessness, he placed them in the boot, all except the items of clothing, which he put on. He needed a new image to go with his make-or-break role. Wearing red sunglasses and baseball cap, along with a brand-new T-shirt with Madonna staring lasciviously at an angle out from his chest, he drove up towards Leeson Street and parked in a quiet street close to the Fountain nightclub. He calmly peeled back the wrapper on a piece of chewing gum, allowed it to fold over neatly in his mouth and got out of the car. He was chewing vigorously as he walked towards the club.

  Drummer was having a slight problem with the builder, Brendan Barry. All the work that had been done on renovating the club had not been paid for. Builder Brendan was coming to the club every night hassling Drummer about some kind of instalment plan. But Drummer never liked to part with cash and was trying to encourage the builder to invest in the nightclub business. He was buying champagne and telling him he could have shares in the Fountain instead of payment.

  Look at the place, Bren. You’d be doing the right thing, investing.

  I need the money, Builder Brendan kept saying.

  Don’t worry so much about money, Drummer said, pouring out more champagne. We have different ways of settling our bills.

  He looked away towards the dance floor where Naomi was dancing in one of the elevated corrals. She was wearing a short blue skirt and a belly top that was hardly more than a bra. She had retreated into her own internal world, rocking herself like a baby.

  Builder Brendan had a face like a dartboard. Looked like he was into sailing, wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons and a matching red, pockmarked face. He had the mentality of a mechanical digger but he also had all the attributes of respectability that Berti Cunningham admired. Lived in a white mansion in the foothills of the Dublin Mountains that had a Doric porch and a tennis court out at the back. Drummer wanted him as a silent partner. Some true redneck gobshite who was as clean as the Pope’s underpants and would keep his mouth shut at the right time.

  Let me guess, Drummer said at one point. You do a bit of sailing.

  But Builder Brendan said he was more into flying. Looked up as though he’d spotted a Cessna tracing across the ceiling of the night-club. Said he already had hundreds of flying hours behind him.

  When you’re up there, man, it’s like holding Sharon Stone by the hips, he said. From behind.

  Into the aeronautics, are we?

  I’m just waiting for the day when I get a young one up there for a bit of in-flight service at two thousand feet over Glendalough, the builder bragged.

  I think I’ve got somebody in mind for that, Drummer said, looking away towards Naomi again.

  Coyne entered the Fountain by stealth, linking up with a group at the door, shifting around, hopping a little on one foot, and blending in with the real clubbers as though he couldn’t wait to get inside and start dancing his head off. Are you buzzing, they all kept saying to each other. The usual bouncers in tuxedos were standing outside, and Coyne recognised the men who had beaten him up. He felt quite drunk and didn’t care. But he was only interested in getting past them so that he could hit his real target. The disguise was perfect and he was sluiced through the entrance with the flow of the crowd.

  The dance floor inside was packed. A spawning mass of arms and legs shifting and jerking to a never-ending beat. At first it looked like a heaving jar of tadpoles, bursting to live and give life again. Get your rocks off, Honey, get your rocks off… flashes of coloured lightning illuminating individuals for one or two seconds at a time in a thunderstorm. What was it in music that caused such democratic epilepsy? Some electrical interference with the human pulse that made the nervous system jump. Coyne jittered through the crowd, manoeuvring his way towards the far corner of the dance floor from where he could see the whole nightclub virtually. Through the shifting mass he could catch glimpses of Naomi at the bar. She was there with Drummer and some of the other men, dressed in a provocative skirt. Coyne couldn’t take his eyes off her. The shape of her nipples was printed out through the little belly top and her legs beamed mercilessly at him like a flashing WIN sign in an amusement arcade.

  Drummer was introducing her to Builder Brendan at that moment, letting them shake hands and get to know each other. He was like a matchmaker, a one-man dating service.

  Have you ever been up in a small plane, he asked her. He explained that Builder Brendan with the red neck and the Pope’s underpants and the stupid, South Country grin on his face was an expert in the air.

  She gave Drummer a forced smile. The dual meaning of his words was not lost on her. She read them like a threat, looking the builder up and down with a mixture of contempt and nausea. Pass the bucket.

  Naomi would love a trip, Bren. All around Wicklow. Show her the round tower.

  But Naomi was happier to stay on the ground. She said she had a lifelong problem with altitude. Anything higher than the third floor was tricky, unless it was something injected. So Drummer put his arm around her and promised he’d provide her with a parachute. Then he squeezed her in his vice grip to give her a subtle, sub-verbal message. You’re a natural air hostess. Then he dragged Builder Brendan out on the dance floor and set them both afloat among the sea of dancers. The perfect couple. Builder Brendan in his navy blazer with a little flap at the back that looked a bit like a cat door when he put his hands in his pockets. And Naomi with a belly button that swivelled and swung like a hypnotist’s watch.

  The builder was already drunk on the champagne. His sense of rhythm wasn’t bad, but he moved as though he was lifting breeze blocks in his arms. His feet were stuck in concrete. Arse like a swinging sandbag. And it was only when he tried to introduce the aeronautics theme into dancing that he really took off, flying around her in a drunken figure of eight, arms stretched out like a fucking cement mixer that had been converted into a glider.

  Coyne watched all this from a discreet distance. He waited a while until he saw Cunningham and Chief retreating to the VIP lounge. And when he spotted the builder futt-futting around her again with his tie flung back over his shoulder in the wind, Coyne decided his moment had arrived. It was time for action.

  He took off his baseball cap and danced over towards them. Stood before Naomi and took off his sunglasses. She seemed to recognise him through a myopic stare.

  Let’s go, he commanded, taking her by the hand.

  He began to pull her away and she said something that he didn’t hear. She didn’t offer any resistance. It was only the builder who thought of putting up a struggle, trying to hold on to Naomi by the shoulders. But Coyne turned back quite lazily, bringing the builder down to earth with a neat punch in the stomach. He doubled over and swayed back into the crowd vowing horrific ramifications. Everyone looked on in amazement as though they were watching a trailer from a movie. Coyne pulling h
er towards the exit. Naomi tottering on her high platform shoes behind him.

  Outside, the pack of Neck Decks were only concerned with people getting in and seemed to ignore those who were leaving. Coyne did it with great chivalry, escorting her out silently on his arm, but then, when he saw a look of suspicion in one of the bouncer’s eyes, he began to push her up the cast-iron stairs towards the street. Somewhere close to the top, she lost one of her shoes and it fell all the way back down into the den of dickheads below, just as they started to come up the stairs after him.

  Where do you think you’re going, mister?

  Coyne managed to get her out on to the pavement. Fuck the shoe, he thought. The men were bounding up the steps, holding the hand rail in one hand and their chicken curries in the other, keeping the jackets tucked in neatly around the stomach to maintain their dignity. Coyne had time to notice their dickie bows and the dainty buckles on one of the men’s shoes. Then whack! Just as Coyne was getting ready to say he was a Garda from the Special Branch, taking this girl away for her own safety, he realised there was no point and simply stuck the boot into the first groin that came up the steps, followed by a smart crack of the fist on the nose. He felt his hand had turned into a packet of sausages with the impact. Tit for tat. It had the desired effect of sending the bouncer back into the arms of his companion and both of them crumbled down the steps under their own weight as though it was all choreographed in advance. The first man laying his cheek softly against the railing, loosening his dickie bow and moaning to his friend to go after Coyne.

  But Coyne was halfway around the block by then, pulling the limping beauty behind him. He got to his car and bundled her inside. Left the lights off as he drove away, just in case they might get his number plate. He had struck deep at the heart of Dublin’s crime empire.

  Coyne drove around in circles. Now that Naomi was in the car with him, he had no idea what he should say or do. He was drunk, and as the tension of the escape wore off, he tried to think of his next move. Stopped the car by the canal and left the engine running. Asked her where she lived, but she gave a cynical grin to indicate that it would be suicidal. The first place Cunningham’s men would go looking. Coyne had got her out of a potentially nasty situation at two thousand feet over Glendalough. She was expecting him to take her somewhere interesting. Her legs were stretched out in the car, recently rescued written all over them.