Where the fuck is he? a man shouted.
He’s out, Carmel said instinctively.
But then one of the men reached into the room towards the bed to drag her on to the floor by the hair. The sudden pain made her want to scream: leave us alone. But she was too frightened. Or maybe she had made an important calculation, that any sign of her fear would impact on her children and send them into hysterics. She was hoping that Mr Gillespie next door would have woken up with the noise.
Then the phone rang and nobody would go to pick it up, even though it was ringing for ages. It was Fred, trying to contact Coyne.
The man standing over Carmel in the bedroom was wearing thin pink rubber gloves. She had heard a squeak as he pulled her hair. His mate was quickly going through the jewellery case on the dressing-table but was obviously disappointed because he threw it on the floor along with all her underwear.
The man with the gloves pinned her back to the wall and showed her the gun, with its matt black gleam along the side. Moved it slowly from her face down along her body. She had fallen awkwardly, naked from the waist down, and felt the gun making its way swiftly along her thigh, between her legs, seeking out a place of invasion. She tried to move away and prevent it. Sitting up straight in order to assert her decency, keeping in mind that she must not scream. Must not frighten her assailants either, even as the cold tip of the gun entered her. He stared into her eyes, then drew away the weapon and sniffed it. He took out his mobile phone and made a call.
He’s fucked off somewhere, he said, and waited for instructions.
We’re going to wait here, he then said to her. If we don’t find him, we’ll get you and your kids. You’ll get my bullets, missus.
Jimmy stood silently in the doorway, as though he was there to replace his father. Ready to protect her.
Coyne was already driving towards Leeson Street. He had decided he was not going to let them come to him. He would have the showdown on his own terms. He had driven around the streets of Dublin aimlessly until one side of his face was cold from the broken window, until he was hardly in touch with the physical elements any more, like an amphibian whose body didn’t matter. He had stopped twice for coffee. Hardly talked to anyone, except for one man who recognised him and said: Goodnight, Guard. Then he drove up to Fred’s place, but failed to get inside. Found it strange that Fred was not there, as though he wasn’t letting him in any more. His old world had suddenly become out of bounds. Coyne was in exile.
He had no alternative but to bring the battle back to the Cunninghams. He drove past the house in Sandymount and found it empty and moved on to the nightclub, where he left the engine running and stepped out. From the street, he shouted down at the bouncer below in the den of dickheads. Get that bastard Cunningham out here.
Realising that it was over his head, the bouncer obediently decided to refer this personal message directly on to the boss, who was inside in the VIP lounge at the time, idly pushing the stem of a broken champagne class into Naomi’s breast, asking her where she’d just been to.
I was starving, I went for chips, she said.
Chips, me arse, Chief said. You can’t trust her, Berti.
They were waiting for Mick and the men to come back with Coyne. But Coyne had come to them instead, like a fool surrendering himself voluntarily. Coyne the noble islander, giving himself up and presenting himself for due punishment when told to.
But when Drummer and Chief came out to the door of the nightclub and looked up the cast-iron stairs, Coyne was raging like a possessed cleric from the railings above. Cunningham would love to have had a gun in his hand at that moment, but it would not have done justice to the hatred he felt for Coyne. He held Chief back with his hand and waited to see what Coyne would say.
Berti Cunningham, you’re the greatest piece of dried-out, calcified shite that was ever shat on the streets of Dublin, Coyne shouted down from his pulpit. So lyrical and full of passion, it was like a bard’s curse, like something Seanchan would have roared at the woman who stole his socks.
You’re nothing but a donkey shite and a puffing hole, Coyne added, so that it almost sounded like he wanted to be Cunningham’s friend. Look, you can’t even spell. Nightclub. It’s N-I-G-H-T, night.
Coyne had said all that in front of some late-night customers going along the street and then added the further libel of an ignominious spit which landed like a cheap demoralising coin at Drummer’s feet. Then Coyne got back into his car and drove away again.
Dried piece of calcified shite. Drummer Cunningham, the archetype of all Irish waste, had been called many things in his life before, but the graphic eloquence of this defamation made him feel like so small, so basic. This was tribal. He had been slandered on a sectarian scale and could not rest until he had put an end to the author of such abuse.
They pulled Naomi out of the VIP lounge and got into a Mazda 626 parked on the street. Mick had taken the Pajero. Drummer didn’t have to go far, however, because Coyne was waiting for him at the end of the street, revving the engine of the Ford Escort, throwing his arm out the window as though he had some kind of death-wish. With the Mazda in pursuit, Coyne drove through the back streets, down laneways, across car parks, showing off his command of Dublin cartography. He led them on a chase through the least travelled arteries of the city, even managed to pass the laneway where he had made love to Naomi, hooting his horn in three short barks like a coded signal to her as she sat in the back seat beside Drummer. Coyne was leading his killers down to the river. The two cars raced along the docks past the cranes and containers, with the river flowing like a slit wrist out of the city, red and yellow lights reflected along the surface.
Coyne considered another duel along the docks, like the one he had conducted with Joe Perry. He was sure to win this time. But the thought of Naomi in the car made him think again. In any case, it was impossible to put enough distance between the two cars, they were right up on his tail all the time. He drove along the quays, giving a kind of farewell speech to his audience.
Telling his inner public what he would like to be remembered for. The warnings which nobody took seriously. His prophecies.
Drummer Cunningham considered firing his gun at the car in front, but felt it would attract too much attention. And Coyne had already done a handbrake turn and driven into a sort of corral, where he found himself trapped. A fatal choice. He had half expected to find another opening at the other end of the quay but discovered only chains and bollards blocking his exit. Coyne had given himself up.
Amid shouts and commands from the back, Chief took the opportunity to drive across the opening of the corral with the Mazda. Coyne was cornered at last. He had reached the terminus, parked the car in a dignified and orderly way along the quay and switched off the engine. He got out of the car and thought of making a run for it, but Drummer and Chief were already stepping out of the Mazda. So he got back into his car and sat looking out at the river, pulsing by beneath him. At least he had made the swing for his kids.
The men walked as if there was no hurry, approaching Coyne’s car with all the time in the world from two separate angles. Berti Cunningham with a gun in one hand and the other arm in a sling. Now we have the bastard. Come here, fuckhead. Come here and feel pain.
Naomi was left behind in the car watching this final show-down and waiting for the order to come out and dance. The dance of dockland is what it would be, in among the containers. Or maybe Berti had somewhere else in mind, like the VIP lounge back at the club. She lifted up a mobile phone left on the front seat of the Mazda and quickly dialled a number.
Drummer opened the passenger side door of the Ford Escort and found Coyne sitting inside, looking up passively. He seemed to have surrendered everything now, just waiting for death. Drummer pointed the gun in at Coyne, looking him over cautiously to make sure that he was unarmed.
Watch her, he said to Chief, and then got into the
car beside Coyne. Chief walked back towards the Mazda.
So you want to talk to me about spelling, Drummer said to Coyne.
Coyne sat motionless in the car, hands on the steering wheel as if he was waiting to be told where to go. Like he was going to be Drummer’s chauffeur from now on. Drummer hit him across the side of the head with his gun, then slammed the butt into Coyne’s stomach so that he let out an involuntary grunt. He was winded.
OK, you have two choices, my friend, Drummer said. We can settle this here and now by the river. Or you can come back to the club and settle it there in comfort.
Coyne looked back at him with a stoic expression, defying the pain in his eye from the blow he’d received. Ready to demonstrate his hatred for Cunningham.
That’s one choice, he said. You’ve got it wrong. Two choices would mean three different things to choose from at least.
Well, that said everything! That summed up human existence all right! It was clear that Coyne had given up any respect for his own life at this point, because there was no choice. He had been cheated out of his extra choice, so he would accept nothing. Drummer just laughed at him. Thanked him for the information and told him he might like to know something else.
We’ve got your wife and kids, Coyne. Come on. Let’s go, he said, and Coyne obediently started the car with the point of the gun sticking into his heart.
Outside Coyne’s home, there was a large force of Gardai. Several squad cars parked at angles across the street and three men were being led away from the house, among them Mick Cunningham.
Inside, Carmel was sitting in her dressing-gown in the front room, with her three children around her like refugees. A number of uniformed Gardai and detectives were in the room with her. And Fred was there too, holding her hand, trying to assure her that everything would be fine. The Gardai were taking care of it. But their presence in the house and the shock of her ordeal left her pale and frightened.
He’s in trouble, she said.
It will all be right in the end, Mrs Coyne, Fred kept saying. The Gardai will sort these people out. Wait till you see. Fred was the fountain of authority and reassurance. Offered to make tea.
I’m afraid Pat will do something, Carmel said.
He’ll do no such thing, Fred insisted. Pat is a good lad. He’ll be all right.
Naomi saw Chief coming back and dropped the phone. She was talking to the Gardai. She had that look of betrayal on her face.
You fucking bitch, Chief shouted as he reached the car. But in the same moment, he turned around and looked behind him at the Escort. Heard the engine racing with an angry whine. Coyne had reversed back, but instead of coming towards the Mazda, he put the car in first gear and raced straight towards the edge of the quay, rushing forward with a desperate grin on his face. Drummer had no time to react and sat in the car like a helpless passenger as Coyne’s car went over the side into the river. Mr Suicide, bejaysus. Chief ran back to the edge just in time to see the roof of the Escort sloping forward at an angle in the water, headlights shining down through the thick, green-brown river. The engine acted like a plumb weight, pulling the front of the car down. There was a dull gunshot from inside the car as the red wounds of the brake lights began to disappear. It was all over within seconds, it seemed. Bags of air escaping to the surface containing the echoes of Drummer Cunningham’s final curses.
Coyne felt the impact of the water. First like a concrete wall. Then like a soft pillow on which the car sank down swiftly. Berti Cunningham shouted beside him, holding the gun up towards Coyne’s head. But Coyne ducked instinctively and in the moment of crisis judgement, the shot fired aimlessly out to sea, smashing through the windscreen, bringing the river right in on top of them. Drummer then tried to free himself from his sling, certain that he wouldn’t need it any more in the water. Tried to open the door but was prevented from doing so by the pressure of the water which rushed in all around them like a cold bath. Pockets of air remained trapped in Coyne’s clothes. His foot was still on the accelerator and his hands were on the steering wheel as though he was going to carry on driving wherever Cunningham wanted him to go, as soon as the car settled on the bottom of the river. He felt the cold water reach his armpits.
The engine cut out. So did the lights. It was utterly silent and Coyne could only think of Carmel right then. There was an extraordinary moment when his body began to panic and fight against the invasion of water, releasing his mind into a strange state of tranquillity where he thought back to when they were making love, only hours ago. He could see it clearly as the water rushed around his head and up his nostrils – Carmel’s presence, the unforgettable absence of words, the lucid feeling of eternity as he felt her belly against his. I love you, Carmel. The words he had never been able to say before, the words he had substituted in a million different ways with a million other gestures, hurried up in tiny urgent bubbles to the surface.
The force of the tide turned the car over. Even before it crashed into the slimy silt floor of the river, it had drifted some distance seawards, finally coming to rest on the bottom, lying upside down on its roof. Coyne felt Cunningham’s hand on his arm in a dead man’s grip, like they were going to be the best of friends from now on and into eternity. He struggled in the sheer darkness to get away from this new companion. His legs kicked involuntarily and he reached out through the window, clutching at the door. The priority for air had eliminated any other thought at this stage.
Coyne felt the water churning around him. He was unable to move, surrounded by millions of beige bubbles, like the ascension in a pint of Guinness. He was escaping from this world into another, floating up into a higher state of being – a creamy head. His soul was leaving his body, swallowing black mouthfuls of the river. Carmel, I love you.
Chief ran to find a lifebelt and came back to the rim of the quay. A head had surfaced on the river like an unsinkable water rat. He heard the hoarse shout of Drummer in the water, a hollow, desperate sound, which echoed back from the far quay and lodged in the tall corridors between ships and wharf. He threw the lifebelt out and began to rescue his leader. Had to drag him along in the water to the next set of steps where Drummer could come back out again.
By then, however, the blue lights of squad cars were already flashing across the surface of the river, racing along the docks to where Naomi stood on the quay beside the Mazda, waving.
Drummer appeared over the edge, wet and exhausted, only to find the Gardai waiting for him. The river and the whole of dockland had become festive with the amount of lights. Squad cars everywhere. Drummer told himself not to panic. He’d survived worse scrapes than this. Gave himself up, knowing that his grasp of the constitution would save him again.
But then he saw Naomi being escorted away by a Bangarda. He looked back at her, just as they placed the handcuffs on him and pushed him into the back of a squad car. Their eyes met and he knew that he had been betrayed by her in the end. Shivering and coughing up the oily water from his lungs, he understood the depth of her infidelity. He knew that she had made love to the law.
At dawn, with the grey light seeping up from the mouth of the river, the Garda subaqua team located the vehicle on its roof, already half submerged by silt. Mobile cranes were brought to the quay and the car was eventually dragged towards the bank. Carmel was there, waiting. She had left the children with her mother. Fred and McGuinness stood by her for support.
Other people had gathered there too. People on their way to work stopped to see what was going on. Two young men with a video camera set on a tripod, waiting for the crane to start lifting. And as the chains tightened and the wheels began to emerge, Carmel first thought this was the wrong car because it looked so dirty and discoloured. Plastic bags and slimy, grey debris clung on, making it look like an ancient wreck. The roof was dented and crushed down so that she could hardly see anything. Expected to see the shape of her husband upside down inside, slumped over the
steering wheel. But as the water gushed out through the windows and the doors, she saw nobody. She could identify the registration number alright. But Coyne was missing.
He had managed to climb up a steel ladder along the wall of the river. He had hidden himself among some of the containers, saw the lifebelt going out to Berti Cunningham and ran through some of the side-streets leading back towards the inner city. He had coughed up so much salty water and spit that he felt light-headed. Felt as though he had swallowed black washing-up liquid. A bad pint maybe. Thought he was already in the afterlife as he dragged himself along the deserted streets, all wet and dripping. Trousers clinging heavily to his legs as he walked. Frozen with the cold.
He had shed his old persona. As he wandered through the early-morning streets with the commuters flooding in to work, he was absorbed by a feeling of personal triumph. Coyne was a new man. He had survived. He had abandoned the one possession which had troubled him most. He had shed his private car like a shell. He could now make a new beginning.
At a men’s shelter in the city, he was given a change of clothes. Nobody recognised him out of his uniform, even though he had often delivered homeless men to the door. He was given breakfast and stood there surrounded by these familiar faces, drinking his tea with them and talking to them about the river. He was one of them now and they were listening to his story, how he had dragged himself up the ladder, how he had been washed clean. Told them he had abandoned his car. In the river he had become a new man, because he had got rid of that burden. There was too much privacy, he told them. We are all victims of somebody else’s privacy.
They were dumbfounded. Each of them chewing quietly or muttering to himself in agreement. Somebody hummed The Rocks ’a Bawn, then stopped again. Each man preoccupied with his own troubles, deep in his own exclusive thoughts. Coyne’s message washed over them like the words of a prophet. He was saying what they had all discovered for themselves many times over, but were no longer able to express, because it was so long since anyone wanted to listen to them. They were a silent bunch of people, not used to saying much to anyone any more, except to ask for the price of a drink, or a cigarette. They watched Coyne, the voice of the new homeless, talking about laughter. It was all about who was laughing at whom. They sat or stood around gazing at him in such silent agreement. Some shuffled around, thinking about that. Laughter! None of them was laughing. One man stood with a stack of newspapers under his arm, eyes wide open in complete amazement, waiting for him to say more. Coyne had found his audience at last.
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