The Rage

by Gene Kerrigan

  Bob Tidey took a sip of watery pub coffee. He heard the sound of baton connecting with soft tissue. He looked up and saw a spray of blood fly horizontally away from the mouth of the bigger of the two gobshites. He watched the other one cowering, one hand raised in front of his face, then he heard a scream and saw a baton knock the hand away, then a backhand blow from the same baton smacking the side of the gobshite’s face.

  It lasted twenty seconds tops. Tidey swallowed the last of his coffee, chewed what remained of his ham and cheese sandwich and left.

  ‘Bob?’

  The call came four hours later, when Tidey was at home, watching the highlights of a Champions League match that didn’t have any highlights.

  ‘Derek Ferry, Turner’s Lane.’

  ‘Derek, long time.’

  They’d started in the force around the same time, worked at the same station for a few months.

  ‘What it is, Bob, two of our lads picked up a couple of drunk and disorderlies this evening, down in Brerton’s. One of the lads recognised you, went back to have a word and you were gone.’

  ‘Finished my sandwich, nothing to hang about for.’

  ‘What I was hoping – the two drunks – it turns out one of them’s the son of an adviser to the Minister for Commerce and Enterprise.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘The parents are making a fuss – they’ve sent a photographer down to take snaps of the bruises. Our lads are charging the two idiots with assaulting a Garda. Probably the best thing to do, in the circumstances.’

  True enough. You leave bruises on the son of someone connected, there’s going to be a fuss. Best thing to do is charge him with whatever’s credible, and that puts the parents and their legal people on the back foot. Most likely, everyone agrees to back off and it’s like nothing ever happened.

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ Tidey said.

  ‘The lads were just wondering, if—’

  ‘Sorry, Derek, I was sitting with my back to it all.’

  Ferry hesitated just a moment, and when he spoke he managed to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  ‘We’d better take a statement, anyway, just for the record.’

  ‘No problem.’

  If this thing ended up in court Tidey wasn’t inclined to be a police witness. He’d little appetite for hanging a conviction on a couple of drunken yobs who’d had the bad luck to bump into a couple of coppers equally eager to spray testosterone over everything in sight. On the other hand, to give evidence that confirmed the amateurism of the two uniforms was the route to professional isolation. In some circumstances it might be the right thing to do – but he’d no interest in sacrificing his career on the altar of justice for a couple of drunken fools.

  It’s a rule of life. When fools – in uniform or out – start a stupid fight, leave them to it. And when the two yobs were hit with a D&D charge it should have been a quick fine, over and out. But these yobs’ parents brought in a team of legal heavyweights, and everyone was fearful of backing down, so months later it was about to squander court time.

  Tidey’s statement was so bland that his name wasn’t on the original witness list. Then, the previous evening, he’d got the call that brought him down to the Criminal Courts of Justice.

  Best to stick to the story in the statement. Get on the stand, get off it, get out of it.

  He stubbed the butt of the Silk Cut, popped a Tic Tac into his mouth and went back inside.

  ‘Sergeant Tidey?’

  The tall barrister with the wrinkled face was waiting when Bob Tidey stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor. His first name was Richard, and his perpetually dour expression had earned him the nickname Mopey Dick. He was prosecuting the case in which Tidey was a witness. ‘A word, if you please?’ he said. He was holding a sheaf of papers in one hand.

  Tidey nodded. Mopey Dick led the way to the glass barrier overlooking the massive circular atrium around which the building was designed. He took off his wig, stroked his thin grey hair and put the wig back on. He spent a few seconds carefully adjusting it, gazing down at the small figures milling about the ground-floor lobby. He looked up at Tidey, as a doctor might look at a patient for whom the results were ambiguous.

  ‘We’ve got a problem. Or, to be more precise, you’ve got a problem.’

  3

  Doesn’t get much better than this.

  Bopping down Henry Street, the warm mid-morning sun above and a free day ahead.

  Feeling good.

  There was a swagger to Vincent Naylor’s walk. Ten days since he’d got out of prison.

  The pedestrianised street wasn’t too busy this morning. He caught an appraising glance from a woman with blonde hair and dangling earrings that were half the size of her face.

  And looking good.

  Vincent’s hair was dark and curly. Everything decorating his tall, slim frame, from his Tag Heuer shades down to his charcoal Converse sneakers, he’d bought in the days immediately after he got out of the Joy. Treated himself to some fresh style – blue striped shirt from Thomas Pink, grey jacket from Pull and Bear, Sean John jeans.

  He turned left into HMV.

  Back to the scene of the crime.

  He took off the shades and hooked them on the V of his shirt and went up the stairs two at a time up towards the DVD department. Hang a right at the dog-leg—

  Half expecting to meet the Geek.

  Little bollocks.

  Most mornings he was up early and out, driving down to Clontarf for a run along the seafront – he got a rush from the mixture of freedom, the fresh air and the stretch of muscle and sinew. The body, Vincent often told his brother Noel, is the temple of the soul.

  This morning, he’d skipped the run. Vincent was in HMV in search of a Tommy Tiernan DVD. Noel had recommended it. ‘He’d make a cat laugh,’ he’d said. Vincent was meeting some of his mates tonight at Noel’s house in Coolock. Lift a few cans, a bite to eat, watch a DVD and have a laugh. Part of the fun of getting out of prison was the reunions.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ the Geek said in his prissy little voice.

  That afternoon, fourteen months ago, Vincent Naylor had just arrived in HMV, moved past the new CDs and DVDs, headed for the stairs, in search of the Columbo box set. He’d seen it upstairs here a few days before, reduced to half nothing. His gran doted on Peter Falk. She’d seen most of the Columbo episodes but that didn’t matter. Once she got her hands on the DVDs it’d take a crowbar to get her away from the telly.

  ‘Left side of the stairs,’ the Geek said. ‘It’s the rule.’

  What fucking rule?

  Geek written all over him. Collarless shirt, black waistcoat and jeans, he’s wearing a little Pete Doherty hat and he’s got shades, and – no kidding – the shades are perched on the brim of the hat, which must have seemed cool when he was looking at himself in the mirror this morning.

  They met midpoint on the stairs, just before Vincent reached the dog-leg up to the right, and if the Geek had kept his stupid mouth shut everything would have been fine. Vincent was on the right-hand side, fingers skimming the metal handrail. He hadn’t even seen the little bollocks and if the fool hadn’t made a thing of it Vincent might have stepped around him, all things being equal, though probably not.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked the Geek.

  The Geek just stood there inside his smug little face, looking down at Vincent, throwing a glance towards the security guy up near the front door, knowing he was safe within sight of the bouncer. His face, though, gave him away. Little shade of red creeping across his cheeks.

  Vincent Naylor stared him out, tilted his head to one side, looked right into the creep’s eyes, moved his face forward no more than two or three inches. And the Geek blinked. He let out a small, dismissive noise and he stepped away from the handrail, walked around Vincent, and Vincent turned and watched him go. He knew the little bollocks would look back, so he put a smile on his face and waited, and when the Geek turned and l
ooked back and saw Vincent standing there, it must have been the scornful smile that gave the Geek a dose of the stupids. His face flared as he turned away and headed for the exit.

  Probably feeling he was safe enough now, the Geek looked back at Vincent and shouted, loud enough so everyone at ground-floor level could hear, even above the pounding of some stupid hip-hop shit, ‘Scumbag! Skanger!’

  Vincent came down off the stairs in one jump. The Geek was suddenly moving, accelerating out the door, into the street, turning right and heading up towards the Spire.

  The security guy held up a hand and said, ‘Take it easy,’ but Vincent was past him, leaning forward, legs pumping.

  The Geek was twenty yards ahead, running through the thin crowd of shoppers like his legs were made of flower stalks. Vincent knew the Geek’s mangy little heart was in his scrawny little throat, and his stupid little brain was fluttering like a sparrow in the shadow of a hawk. Vincent’s fury vanished, and he grinned. He accelerated, enjoying the ease with which he could narrow the gap between them. The Geek was barely past the junction with Moore Street.

  When Vincent caught up with him he gave a little push on his shoulder and the Geek went stumbling forward, his knees hitting the ground, then his hands, then his face, his HMV bag hitting the bricks with a noise like something was coming apart inside. His Pete Doherty hat was on the ground and Vincent gave a little whoop as he stood on the Geek’s shades,

  ‘What’s your hurry, smart-arse?’

  He kicked the little bollocks in the ribs. The Geek rolled to one side and flattened his right hand on the ground, to lever himself up to one knee. His scream was girlish when Vincent stood on his fingers. Vincent’s next kick broke the Geek’s nose and that was when a gum-chewing security man from some shop or other pushed Vincent aside and said, ‘That’s enough.’ There was a second security man off to Vincent’s left and he raised a hand and said, ‘Back off.’

  Vincent nodded and said, ‘Sure,’ and drew back his foot and kicked the Geek in the ribs one last time, hard. Then he turned, ready to do a fade, and found a copper six feet away and closing fast. Someone stuck out a foot and when Vincent turned and ran he tripped and went down.

  He looked up at the Garda and – like he was showing off a magic trick – the fucker was suddenly hefting a baton. The Garda said, ‘Give me an excuse.’

  Six months later, Vincent’s solicitor put down his fountain pen, leaned back in his big chair and said, ‘Your best bet – you were provoked by his remarks, you felt that you and your family had been deeply insulted and you don’t know what came over you.’

  ‘I’m not pleading guilty,’ Vincent said, and the solicitor shook his head.

  ‘Twelve months,’ the judge said when it got to court, and Vincent was out in eight.

  Now, upstairs in HMV, Vincent looked at the Columbo box set. Cheaper than ever. No point buying it, though – his gran had shuffled off three months before Vincent got out. When that happened he applied for compassionate parole but – seeing it was just two days after he spat in the face of a screw who’d been asking for it – there was no fucking point.

  He searched the comedy DVDs and had a look at the Tommy Tiernan. Seemed OK. For just a moment he found himself casually scoping the place. Just the one spotty loser at the cash register. There was a wide, deep pocket inside Vincent’s jacket.

  Daft.

  He went to the register and paid up.

  Only losers risk a stretch for the price of a DVD.

  Sooner or later, Vincent Naylor knew, he’d be back in jail. It was part of the game. You play the odds and most of the time, if you’re good enough, you’ll go free and clear with a profit. Sooner or later the odds run out and that’s the dues you pay. But that thing with the Geek, no more shit like that. No percentage in it. The months in the Joy had cooled his blood, given him time to think it all through.

  Doing the Geek was fun, but the reward wasn’t worth the risk. No more emotional shit – all business from here on. Vincent Naylor knew that with all the care in the world he couldn’t stop his luck from running out some day. But before then he’d play it smart. No petty shit, no reckless moves. All business. Business is business and fun is fun. And if you do the first one right, you’ll have lots of time for the other.

  Spitting in the screw’s face – that was a bit of a relapse. Vincent cursed himself for a day or two, but what the fuck, he wasn’t a saint.

  The way Vincent saw it, there are two kinds of work. The routine stuff – that’s good for walking-around money. A few hundred here, a few hundred there – jobs that are safe and easy. Then there’s the real thing – maybe not more than a couple of jobs like that in a year. The upside is they cough up the kind of money that takes a while to spend, and that’s worth the increased risk of a stretch in the Joy. The next time Vincent Naylor went to jail it would be for something worthwhile.

  4

  The defence barrister looked over the top of his glasses at Bob Tidey. ‘That is you, isn’t it, Detective Sergeant?’ He was pointing at a large flat-screen television, one of several visible to the judge, the jury and the witness. The picture on the screen was frozen, the image of poor quality.

  Tidey said, ‘It appears to be.’

  ‘And in this image, you’re looking – where?’

  ‘What we’re looking at here,’ Tidey said, ‘is just a snapshot, one instant in a fast-moving event—’

  ‘Quite the contrary, Detective Sergeant,’ the defence barrister said. ‘It’s a video, not a snapshot, and it makes a nonsense of your sworn evidence, does it not?’ He raised a small remote control. ‘Let’s see that again, shall we?’

  Outside the courtroom, Mopey Dick hadn’t used any sugar to sweeten the medicine. ‘They’ve got a video – just a few seconds – of the incident in Brerton’s. Someone got it on their mobile.’ He took off his wig again, draped it over his hand, shook his head. ‘There’s very little to see – a couple of batons swinging. In the normal scheme of things this wouldn’t either help or hurt our case.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘The video moves about a bit, and for a second or two it shows you sitting at the bar, looking towards the action. Then it swings back and the two policemen can clearly be seen striking the two defendants.’

  He held up a sheet of paper.

  ‘I heard a commotion somewhere behind me,’ that’s what you said. ‘By the time I turned round it was all over.’

  Bob Tidey used thumb and forefinger to squeeze his lower lip. ‘How come this is a big deal now?’

  ‘They had no intention of calling your evidence. No point – you didn’t see the incident, according to your statement. Yesterday, one of the defence lawyers was doing preparatory work on the video. The whole thing lasts about twelve seconds, the shot of you lasts one-point-seven seconds – one of his colleagues saw it and identified you.’

  ‘Proves nothing.’

  ‘Your statement says something the court will know was untrue – you did, in fact, see what happened.’

  ‘Still proves nothing, one way or the other.’

  Mopey Dick sniffed. ‘It isn’t always about what you can prove.’

  They went into the court and a minute after Bob Tidey took the stand the defence barrister was reading aloud Tidey’s short statement.

  ‘Those are your words, Detective Sergeant, to the investigating officers, your colleagues?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were the senior officer present?’

  ‘I was off duty, I was in the pub to get something to eat.’

  ‘You were the senior Garda officer present?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The barrister made a big thing out of nodding. He looked around the court, took a deep breath and held up the single sheet of paper. The theatrics signalled to the jury that something significant was on the way.

  ‘And, tell me, if you would, Detective Sergeant Tidey – here, in this court, having sworn a solemn oath – do you stand by that statement?’

>   ‘I told the investigating members what I remembered, and I stand by that.’

  The barrister looked up at the bench. ‘I think now would be a good time, Judge.’ The court clerk switched on the television and handed the remote to the lawyer.

  After the short video clip was run for a second and a third time, with the picture frozen at the appropriate moment, the defence barrister said, ‘What this proves, Detective Sergeant, is that you clearly witnessed the events that are the subject of this case. Short though the video segment may be, it clearly shows you facing the action.’

  ‘That evening was—’

  ‘And I put it to you that we can conclude from this that – for some reason – you sought to avoid giving true evidence of what you saw. So, you lied and said you saw nothing, is that right?’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘And the first thing you did on taking the witness stand today was to claim – on a solemn oath – that the statement you made about not seeing this incident was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  ‘The whole thing—’

  ‘What are you hiding, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘The whole thing happened in seconds – I wasn’t timing it, I wasn’t taking notes about exactly when I turned round—’

  ‘You saw what happened or you didn’t. What were your two colleagues up to that was so – so criminal, perhaps, that you lied on oath in order to conceal it?’

  ‘I saw nothing, and that’s what I said.’

  ‘What I want to know is whether you conspired with the other officers – officers using their batons in such a flagrantly irresponsible manner – in order to deceive this court about the truth of this incident.’

  ‘I conspired with no one.’

  ‘When the senior officer on the scene tells a lie on oath, it surely follows that a conscientious jury must have a reasonable doubt about any and all aspects of the police case.’

  ‘My statement—’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant.’