‘Answer my question.’
‘I don’t know why. Whoever he is, she never brings him home. Carl saw her in town once with some guy on a motor bike. These days Christine moves in circles I wouldn’t want to know about.’
‘How did you find me?’ I asked.
‘This fiddler guy is pretty famous. Everyone in Donegal knows he lodges in Glencolumbkille for January, then goes into some hospital in Letterkenny until the spring comes.’
‘Luke said no one knew where he went.’
‘Ask Luke for the time and he’ll make you think he’s the only person on the planet who knows it,’ Al said. ‘I tried to follow you this morning but you know that car of mine.’ He paused, ruefully. ‘I ran out of petrol.’
‘For the love of God, Al.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m incompetent on a good day.’
He reached across to take my hand and I took a step back.
‘I’ve bad news,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know how to tell you.’
‘Luke’s dead, isn’t he?’ Al replied. ‘I saw an ambulance and two squad cars tearing out from Killybegs and followed them into the arse of some glen. His car was sealed off with tape. There was no sign of it having crashed so I guessed he’d been killed. What I couldn’t see was how many bodies they were taking out. I was so relieved when you walked safely out that door.’
‘They shot him in the head.’ I said. ‘I saw it happen.’
‘That’s not possible. They would have killed you as well.’
‘I was there.’
‘Did anyone else see you?’
‘Not at the moment it happened.’
‘Then you know nothing until the police tell you,’ Al cautioned. ‘Tell the police you fought with Luke and ran away. It’s important, Trace. They don’t leave witnesses.’
I reached for Al’s hand. ‘That isn’t all I have to tell you. Al, I’m sorry, but your father was shot at lunchtime driving a van in Waterford.’
Al didn’t speak and his face didn’t even register a change of expression. It was like he was frozen.
‘This trip to Donegal was just a decoy,’ I explained.
‘My father was clean,’ Al said. ‘All he ever fiddled was the VAT. He stayed out of their business and kept me from it too. He was their kid brother, they looked after him. It was the one thing Christy would have killed Luke for if he’d …’
Al stopped. His ginger hair was so different from Shane’s that it was only now I noticed how similar their features were.
‘They took whatever he was carrying in the van.’
‘They had no need to kill him,’ Al said, almost to himself. ‘He wouldn’t even have been armed. Da was an amateur. Ringo the Joker. Everyone knew that.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘How often did they shoot Luke?’
‘Twice. In the back and in the head.’
‘One for each brother,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Twice wasn’t enough.’ He let go my hand. ‘For your own sake, tell the police nothing. They know you were just his … that you weren’t involved.’ He stopped. ‘Why were you asking about Christine?’
I was scared. This was the moment when I had to decide if I trusted Al. He could have known all along, maybe he was even Christine’s partner. Carl had said they were kissing cousins once. Could Luke’s beating have changed him or might he be trying to revenge Christy’s death? He had seemed so anxious to get me away from Luke last night that maybe I was the bonus he was playing for.
‘And why did you ask about my mother and that bastard?’ Al was shaking. I sensed the grief he was trying to hold at bay and I felt sure he was innocent. He had travelled here for my sake, understanding even less than I did about what was happening. But now for his sake I couldn’t tell him the truth.
Luke was certainly a gangster, as Al claimed. No doubt he had planned major robberies in the past and ran a cigarette racket with Christy. Yet even in this, I suspected he was really minding Christy, knowing his brother could never cope on his own. There probably was money waiting for Christy in some off-shore account, if Luke could have only broken his obsession to hoard and borne to watch Margaret blow it. But Luke would never have hatched such a plan as the robbery on that security van. A proper gambler only bets when the odds are right, and besides, Luke wouldn’t have the contacts to steal plans from the Bypass Bombardiers. I didn’t know if Christine’s boy-friend was a Bombardier member going solo or just some hood who hung around the fringes of crime. But for once Christy had stopped listening to Luke and had listened to his daughter instead.
I stared up at the dark mountains, realising that Luke hadn’t been lying. This operation really had nothing to do with him. He was just sorting out another family mess, organising the shipment which Christine had been incapable of setting up, while his niece used him like she had used her own father. I didn’t know if Christine had arranged Shane’s killing as well, whether she was being double-crossed in this by her boy-friend or if the Bypass Bombardiers had finally caught up with them both. She was Christy’s daughter with Christy’s brains and a reputation to live up to. I wondered if she might be lying dead in some other ditch by now. Even if she wasn’t, Luke had been right in saying that it was only a matter of time before she was laid out in the same funeral home as her father.
‘Why won’t you answer my questions?’ Al almost shouted and we both became aware of the child in the doorway.
‘Does Christine always wear White Musk?’ I asked.
‘My father’s dead and you’re asking about perfume.’ Al was angry. I could sense the news of his father’s death starting to sink in. He looked so out of his depth that I wanted to wrap my arms around him. Al the pal. The sort of friend I had always hoped would be out there for me one day. But now I held back, because I didn’t know if Al was strong enough to resist the lure of his family name and I refused to let myself be destroyed alongside him in that underworld.
I should be dead already, I still didn’t know why Christine had spared my life as she stared from behind that visor. Then I remembered Luke saying that he’d only ever slept with someone younger than me once: the most experienced of the lot who had seduced him and been impossible to escape from. Maybe even Christine felt that she owed him one favour, or else she was under instructions from her boy-friend. Luke’s murder would cause no more stir than the mundane everyday deaths of strung-out young junkies in those Dublin ghettos Al had shown me. But killing a tourist would bring the police and politicians and the newspapers down on their heads. No would-be mafioso wants to draw that attention.
‘Your mother was never unfaithful,’ I said.
‘How the hell would you know?’
‘Trust me. I just do.’
‘She’s alone in Dublin. I have things to sort out there,’ Al said. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘Don’t try to sort them out, Al. They’ll tear you to pieces.’
‘Legitimate things,’ he said angrily. ‘Funeral details, insurance, the running of the shop.’
‘Sell the shop. Don’t let your mother follow another coffin in six months’ time.’
‘What are you saying?’ Al asked. ‘That I’m a wimp, like everyone claims? My father’s dead and I should just forget it.’
‘You know who killed him,’ I lied. ‘Luke used us all. Even his own brothers meant nothing.’ Al had come to Donegal to rescue me, now I wanted to do the same for him. ‘Luke is dead. Bury your father, then go back to London. There’ll be a bed for you in my grandfather’s house, if you come in the next few days.’
Al was quiet for a moment. ‘What would I do there?’
‘Find a job.’
‘But I’m a Duggan,’ he said, almost scared. ‘I wouldn’t know how. I’ve no skills, nothing. Luke always arranged everything.’
‘I’m going back to college in the spring,’ I said. ‘You could probably do the same somewhere.’
‘Do you think so?’ His voice was full of self-doubt. ‘There’s things I would still need to sort out first. They mig
ht take a while. Can I call to your flat?’
‘I won’t be there after next weekend.’
‘Where would I find you?’
I said nothing. Luke would have tracked me down, but Al never could. I wouldn’t stay in Harrow for ever, but maybe with Grandad and myself there Gran could come home some weekend. It was like Luke’s death had spurred me to start living again. I didn’t know yet what I wanted to do with my life, but it was time to find out.
‘I’m not sure how long things will take in Dublin,’ Al said. ‘I’ll try.’ He leaned across the gate to put his arms around me. The last person to kiss me was dead. I had no way of knowing if Al would follow him. He stepped back.
‘If you’re going you should go,’ I said.
Al nodded. He didn’t want to leave now.
‘Your flat then,’ he said.
‘I won’t wait for ever.’
Al got into the car and started the engine. The girl came out of the hostel doorway to watch the car lights disappear.
‘Is he your boy-friend?’ she asked.
‘What do you think, Molly? Should I let him be?’
The road was in darkness again, but we saw the lights appear at a bend further up the hillside.
‘He’s all right, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But wouldn’t you prefer someone a bit more rugged?’
‘I don’t know if I would.’
‘My Daddy was rugged,’ she said, ‘frightened of nothing. They say he drowned. Bits of the fishing boat were washed up and two other bodies, but I know he’s out there.’
I looked down. She was staring solemnly out at the dark waves.
‘There’s every class of foreign boats out there that don’t even have phones. With a life belt you’d float for days. If you were strong enough it wouldn’t matter how bad the storm was, would it?’
I didn’t reply. I don’t think she wanted me too. I took her hand and we walked back across the gravel.
TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK when I reached Cunningham’s pub. If I was going to be picked up for questioning then I decided it would be better there, rather than with Molly watching me being put into a squad car from her bedroom window at the hostel. The pub looked like any other old house on the street, except that it was slightly larger and had the name Cunningham painted on the grey stone above the door. Once it would have stood at the very edge of the village, but now further on, beyond the final streetlamp, I could discern the shapes of modern bungalows lighting up the dark. A car passed and returned the street to silence. I entered the pub, although I wasn’t sure if the fiddler was really going to play here, without a poster or anything.
Fewer than twenty people were gathered in the bar, most of them elderly men togged out in dark nondescript clothing. I could spot the car drivers among them reluctantly sipping lemonade. Only one or two people nodded, but my presence had been taken in by them all. A cluster of men at the far end of the bar discussed the purchase of land or cattle, while a local ancient in a peaked tweed cap sat alone, slowly nursing a whiskey a few stools away from them. Two married couples on stools talked to the woman behind the counter, whom I guessed was Mrs Cunningham. She detached herself from their company and approached as I took a free stool beside the old man. She eyed my face and then my shaved head so carefully that I thought I was about to be barred.
‘You’re the girl from the hostel,’ she said. ‘Noeleen, the hairdresser, mentioned you when she was in earlier.’
I ordered a vodka and tonic and she went to fetch it. A hard-backed chair had been set out a few feet from the wall at the far end of the room. It reminded me of the one Luke had sat on during our first encounter in London. There were no lights or microphones but I knew why it was there.
‘Is there going to be music?’ I asked the ancient beside me.
‘Aye. Maybe later.’ The reply was soft spoken but it felt like drawing blood from a stone. You could spot the unmarried men like him by a solitariness in their manner. I could only guess at their lives alone on the surrounding mountains, listening to sheep and the wind and voices in their heads. Mrs Cunningham returned with my drink and seemed about to say something. She contented herself, however, with rejoining the married couples who kept glancing at me as suspiciously as the woman in the hostel had first eyed me up.
I sat in the corner to avoid them all and waited for the police to arrive. Luke would soon be laid naked on a slab. I could imagine every detail of his body, his scar, the silver in the stubble which kept growing for a period after death, the slightly twisted shape of his knees. But it wasn’t Luke I saw in my mind as the pub filled up: it was my mother as I had never known her. That girl with long hair and a sun hat in a badly printed photograph. This pub looked unchanged for years. She must have sat in one like it, idly curious about the music to be heard and never imagining that her life was about to be irrevocably changed.
Within the space of ten minutes the pub had become crowded with maybe forty customers now and a quiet sense of anticipation. Mrs Cunningham walked over to a half-open door which led back into her kitchen. I waited for her to open it fully and herald the entrance of the fiddler, but instead she closed it over to block out the noise of a television there. She took a fiddle down which had been hanging behind the bar and handed it to the old man at the counter to whom I had already spoken. He walked over to the chair and sat down, running the bow across the strings and making minor adjustments.
‘You’d want superglue to keep that tuned, Proinsías,’ someone said and there was a quiet laugh at what was obviously an old joke. I stared dully at my father. Somehow I had imagined our first meeting would be a moment of blinding perception. Yet I was already in his presence for twenty minutes and we had even spoken without either of us recognising each other. Suddenly I felt I should never have set out on this disastrous journey. If I had wanted to tell him about his wife, I could have contacted the Irish police from London. There was a terrible sense of deflation. I already had a family I had only ever hurt.
Through a tiny gap between his socks and grey trousers I could see a pair of faded long-johns. He looked so old that my childhood feelings of disgust came back at the thought of my mother coupling with him. I was the result of that mismatch but I wanted to leave because I knew we could have nothing to say to each other. Then he began to sing:
One night I was tipsy from drinking strong whiskey,
The bumpers were passed right merrily round,
The toasts they were listed and no one resisted
And Terry his fiddle did cheerfully sound …
He raised the fiddle and as he began to play the room was silent. His chin and his eyes were the only still parts of him. It seemed impossible for any old man to play so fast and so strong. I sensed every customer watching his bow hand drawing grace-notes and the tiniest ornamentations from the spaces between notes. The sound was so rich that it seemed more than one fiddle had to be playing, with three and four notes existing at the one time. I had never heard playing like it, not even from the crackling field recording Luke had given me. The applause was loud but also restrained as if out of respect. The fiddler put his head to one side and closed his eyes. Every muscle in his face seemed animated now. If I had gone out and come back in, I wouldn’t have recognised him as the man I had spoken to at the counter. His foot tapped on the floor in a rhythm which only he heard until he began to sing again;
Good luck to you all now, barring the cat
That sits in the corner there smelling a rat,
O wheesht your philandering girls and behave
And saving your presence, I’ll chant you a stave
He had opened his eyes and they were staring straight at me, with none of the shyness he had displayed at the bar.
I come from the land where the pritties grow big
And the boys neat and handy can swirl in a jig
And the girls they would charm your heart for to see
Those darling colleens around Tandragee
; Some of the older men sitting at the bar joined in the chorus.
So here’s to the boys who are happy and gay
Singing and dancing and tearing away
Rollicksome, frolicsome, frisky and free
We’re the rollicking boys around Tandragee.
I could imagine my mother in such a pub, relishing the abandon in those songs after the strictures of that house in Harrow. His voice was cracked now and older, but it had a lilt which could still carry anyone away. He moved straight from the song into another set of tunes on the fiddle, growing ever faster and more furious. I remembered a story about him which Luke had told me on the plane.
When his father was dying in some public hospital Mac Suibhne had gone to visit him, thinking music might cheer his spirits. He was said to have played his father’s favourite tune as well as he thought he had ever played it, but the old man rose from the bed to snatch the fiddle in annoyance and launch into the tune himself, playing it with a frenzy Mac Suibhne had never heard before. His father finished the tune, handed the fiddle to his son and laid his head back to die. At that same moment a fiddle in the family home fell from a nail on the wall and burst asunder. Before now I couldn’t imagine the story being true, but, watching him, suddenly I would not have been surprised if the fiddle burst into flames in his hands.
He finished and held the bow still, as though the applause was an intrusion, before starting to play a slow set, filled with an almost unbearable sense of grief. I looked around at the listening faces and wondered what they heard. Maybe they knew each tune and what it meant, or maybe the notes drew out some private loss within themselves. Luke would have loved to hear this lament. I thought of the police and the ambulance up on the hill and Luke being zipped up inside a body-bag. I saw the photograph of my mother again, laughing under a sun hat. I saw Gran strapped into a hospital bed and drugged for the night. And Grandad alone in Harrow waiting for the call from the hospital that would finally come. Only when I lifted my hand to my face did I realise that I was crying for all those lives caught up in the notes of that slow tune. Nobody seemed to notice my tears. The fiddler stopped at last and there was silence for ten or fifteen seconds before the clapping began. People took the chance to drift to the bar, ordering drink in low voices.
Father's Music Page 36
