The Rage

by Gene Kerrigan

‘What’s the story?’

  ‘I’m heading off tomorrow – I might need a favour.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘These people, they’ve got me flying out from Belfast airport. Bit of a nuisance, but they’ve done it that way before and they say it’s cool. And they’ve booked a ferry from Larne, just in case.’

  Liam smiled. ‘Fucking volcanoes – a bit of dust in the air and the airlines take the day off.’

  ‘Either way, I’ll need a lift.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You’re a star.’

  ‘That other thing you’re doing – all done?’

  Vincent smiled. ‘One last loose end – tomorrow.’

  ‘All this trouble, you sure it’s worth the bother?’

  ‘Start something, you have to finish it.’

  ‘That’s that, then.’

  Vincent said Liam should leave first, that Vincent would wait ten minutes.

  Liam said, ‘What time you want to set off tomorrow?’

  ‘They’ll know tonight if the airports are going to be open – then, eleven o’clock in the morning, I have to go to Mass.’

  ‘Mass?’

  ‘Yeah, in the Pro-Cathedral. After that, I’m free and easy. Let’s say we meet here two o’clock.’

  *

  Bob Tidey lit a cigarette and after a couple of puffs he noticed he hadn’t finished the previous one, perched on the edge of his ashtray. He stubbed them both out and stood up. He’d long seen his apartment as perfectly matching his few needs, but today it seemed as small as a cell. He pulled on a jacket, pocketed his cigarettes and lighter and left the apartment. He’d been walking for ten minutes, going nowhere in particular, his stride a little longer than was comfortable, stretching himself just a little, when he got a text from Holly.

  Tonight?

  Tidey doubted he’d sleep much tonight, and he wouldn’t be up to conversation, or anything much else. He sent a text back, saying he’d be working tonight.

  Roly Blount said, ‘It looks solid enough. Two people say this Naylor fella did a favour for Mickey Kavanagh – swatted a chancer who was skimming.’

  Frank Tucker’s suit was better cut than Roly Blount’s, his face softer than his lieutenant’s.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘By name. Small-time tosser.’

  Roly was chewing gum faster than a football manager in injury time. Frank was as still as a painting.

  Frank didn’t say anything for a moment. One thumb idly stroking the corner of his lips. ‘This whole thing – this Naylor kid, he’s in the cop’s pocket, and he maybe pulls Mickey in after him. This could go south very quickly.’

  Roly said, ‘Mickey’s mouthpiece went in to see him. Mickey says the cop started the fight, set him up for arrest.’

  ‘We’re working blind. Get on the phone. You and Dermot and Stretch. I want to know where this Naylor fucker lives, who he lives with, who he works with, who his friends are – everything. Where he drinks, who he’s screwing on the side, which hand he wipes his arse with. And I want to know all that this evening.’

  Vincent Naylor rolled off the bed and spent fifteen minutes washing the whore’s perfume away. When he came out of the shower she was still on the bed. He said, ‘You still here?’

  She said, ‘You finished?’

  ‘Where you from? China?’ He began dressing.

  She said no, and she said where she was from, but Vincent didn’t catch it. He’d already paid, but now she asked him for taxi fare and he said, ‘Sure,’ and gave her a twenty. He asked if he should walk her to the bus but she didn’t get the joke and said, ‘Not necessary.’

  When she was gone he took the magazine out of the Bernardelli. He’d worked his way well into the sixteen shells, so he figured it was best to swap this one for the second magazine. After doing the bitch nun at the Pro-Cathedral he’d lose the Bernardelli – no way he could take it with him on the trip.

  James Snead was considering whether it was too late to go out. Go to the pub, it’s noisy, crowded – by the time you start to get a buzz the staff are banging glasses on the counter and telling everyone it’s time they pissed off home. These days, more often than not, he preferred to have his own four walls around him.

  The doorbell rang and when he opened up Detective Sergeant Tidey was standing there, taking a bottle of Jameson out of a paper bag. ‘I could do with company,’ Tidey said.

  They were on their second drink when James said, ‘What kind of trouble are you in?’

  Tidey just looked at him.

  ‘It’s all over your face.’

  Tidey thought about saying something, then said, ‘Nothing more than usual – it’s a pressure job.’

  ‘Maybe you should have stuck with the Simon Community.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  An hour later, Tidey was sitting on the floor, his back to the sofa. James Snead was in an armchair, there was a lot of air in the bottle and there were long silences between them.

  ‘This thing,’ James said, ‘you want to talk about it and you don’t want to talk about it, that right?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve put your finger on it.’

  ‘Something you’ve done?’

  ‘Something I’ve started – how it ends, that’s something else.’

  ‘Tell me this – can you do anything about it?’

  ‘The wheels are turning.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. We know the wheels are turning. Can you stop them? Do you want to?’

  ‘It’s too late now.’

  ‘Then, what the hell – you don’t have a problem.’ James poured some more whiskey into both glasses. ‘You’ve done it, whatever it is. Now, all you have to do is live with it.’

  62

  Vincent Naylor finished his toast, refilled his coffee cup. It being shortly after ten o’clock on Sunday morning, the Kylemore Cafe on O’Connell Street wasn’t too busy. Vincent was sitting at a table beside the large window looking out onto North Earl Street. Outside in the bright sunlight, early-bird tourists were taking photographs of the James Joyce statue. First time he saw it, Vincent thought it was supposed to be Charlie Chaplin.

  Take care of business, then meet Liam Delaney at the safe house at Rathfillan Terrace. They’d be out of Dublin shortly after two o’clock, on his way to Belfast – the airports were defying the volcano ash – and by this evening he’d be in Glasgow, just a short step from London and Michelle.

  Vincent unfolded a wrinkled front page from the Irish Daily Record and flattened it on the table beside his plate. ABUSE NUN IS SHOOT-OUT HERO. Since it was published he’d stared at the photo of Maura Coady several times a day. With her short white hair and her stupid buck teeth, he’d have no bother spotting the bitch nun among the faithful plodding their way to the Pro-Cathedral this morning.

  When Rose Cheney asked to be put through to room 327, the receptionist at Jurys Inn said, ‘That’s Miss Clark’s room?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Oh, she’s been gone a few minutes.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was speaking to her not five minutes ago. She wasn’t sure of which way to go, so she asked me for directions. She’s on her way to the Pro-Cathedral – eleven o’clock Mass, she said.’

  ‘Shit.’

  His mouth was dry, his hangover tolerable, but Bob Tidey awoke enveloped in a full-fledged cloud of dread.

  Tidey had slept in James Snead’s spare room, the room that used to belong to James’s murdered grandson. James had long ago stripped the room of all personal belongings – no sign that Oliver had ever been there.

  ‘Either that, or turn the place into a shrine,’ James had said. The session ended when James shook the upturned Jameson bottle, to drain the last few drops.

  Naylor.

  There was nothing more to do, no way of knowing what would happen or when. He felt like someone who’d bet his life on a horse race run at some undecided course, on some unspecified day. Last night’s drinking was a bad id
ea, but it wasn’t the only bad idea he’d had lately, and in the circumstances it was fitting. He tried to get his thoughts straight, to ask himself for the thousandth time if it was too late to stop this Mickey Kavanagh thing, if it was too dangerous, too reckless, too wicked – or would stopping it be worse? For the thousandth time, measuring his conscience against the circumstances, he decided there was no going back.

  He was getting to his feet when his phone rang. His clothes were in a heap on the floor. He bent and groped in his pockets until he found it.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Maura Coady’s on her way into the city centre,’ Rose Cheney said. ‘She left the hotel. She’s off to eleven o’clock Mass at the Pro-Cathedral.’

  ‘Christ sake.’

  ‘She should be OK – I mean, this Naylor guy, what are the chances he’s going to spot her on her way to Mass?’

  ‘He’s killing people. He’s been very good at it.’

  ‘And you want me to—’

  Tidey was reaching for his trousers. ‘Meet me at the Pro-Cathedral.’

  As he left the flat, unshaven and unwashed, he could hear James snoring. He found his car, started the engine and motored away. Five minutes later, at a traffic light, he reached into a pocket and realised he’d left his cigarettes behind.

  After her toast and tea Maura Coady looked at Rose Cheney’s business card and thought about ringing her. It seemed over-fussy to bother the policewoman at home on a Sunday morning. Mr Tidey wanted her to stay in the hotel room, but that couldn’t include wanting her to miss Sunday Mass. The eleven o’clock Mass, the Latin version, with the high ceiling of the Pro-Cathedral echoing back the sounds coming up from the children of the Palestrina Choir. It wasn’t just about fulfilling her devotional duties. The solemn surroundings, the exotic language of the Latin Mass, the splendour of the choir, the beauty of it all, kept her spiritually recharged right through the following week.

  Her watch said ten thirty, now – plenty of time, lovely sunny morning, the city looking splendid. She was on her way down along the quays, through a city centre she hadn’t seen in a long time. She wondered if there could be any more white stone, marble and glass left in the world, they’d used so much of it in Dublin these past few years.

  Vincent Naylor left the Kylemore Cafe, unzipping the top of his shoulder bag. He walked down North Earl Street and turned into narrow, sunless Marlborough Street. He climbed the steps to the raised surround and stood beside the railings at the corner of Cathedral Street. From here, he could keep an eye on all three approaches to the church. If she came down from O’Connell Street, that might be a problem – the sightlines were difficult. But the old bitch – white hair, buck teeth – the queen of the kiddie-fiddlers, shouldn’t be too hard to spot. Things have a way of working out.

  Vincent was aware that his grief for Noel had changed. Not lessened, it was just different. There was still an ache every time he thought of his brother. Sometimes he saw or heard something and thought of telling Noel and there was a moment of dizzying loss – then the aching wave rolled over him, strong as ever.

  What was new was the feeling of achievement. Instead of falling to pieces when Noel was murdered, he’d done what needed to be done. He’d rebalanced things. He’d shown his respect – he’d done what Noel would have done. He hoped that, wherever he was – however these things work out – Noel knew that.

  And it was almost all done, now.

  Bob Tidey came off the North Circular, driving down Summerhill in sparse traffic. He got through the lights, into Parnell Street, approaching the Asian and African shops. There were barriers across the street, a mechanical digger and a few men in work clothes, two yellow trucks off to one side – a diversion sign pointing towards Cumberland Street, on the left. Tidey wrenched the wheel, turned left and travelled ten yards, then ran the car up onto the pavement.

  Tidey was out of his car, locking it – back into Parnell Street running. Less than a minute later he was turning left into Marlborough Street, the Pro-Cathedral in view.

  *

  Vincent stood on tiptoes. Making sure the bitch nun wasn’t among the small cluster of old biddies shuffling up the steps of the Pro-Cathedral. His phone vibrated in his pocket. As he thumbed the phone he glanced down Marlborough Street, one way and then the other, then he looked at the text.

  Shit.

  Ten more minutes, max, he’d have had the bitch nun cooling on the pavement. The temptation was huge – hang on, do the job, then hurry to meet Liam.

  Meeting, the text said. Liam needed him at Rathfillan Terrace.

  No one called a meeting for piddling reasons, and backing each other was too important to start messing with the drill. You get a text, go to the safe house.

  Hurrying away, Vincent was thinking about options. Could be he’d come back to Dublin a month from now, take his time, enjoy showing the bitch the gun before doing her in her own house. Better still, Sunday in the Pro-Cathedral, not just an ordinary Mass – special productions for the Holy Joes. These things drag on. He might be able to deal with Liam’s problem and get back here before the Mass ended.

  Bob Tidey’s breathing was stressed, he slowed to a walking pace. Up ahead, he could see Rose Cheney, one arm linked with Maura Coady’s. By the time he reached them he was just about able to talk without coughing.

  Cheney was smiling. ‘Maura would like to stay, hear Mass, listen to the Palestrina Choir – she wants to know if that’s all right.’

  ‘Best not,’ Tidey said.

  ‘It’s almost started,’ Maura said. ‘What’s the harm?’

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Cheney said. ‘I’ll leave her back at the hotel.’

  ‘Please,’ Maura Coady said.

  Tidey sighed. He looked at Cheney. ‘Go home – you’ve got a family, it’s Sunday. I’ll stay with her.’

  Maura Coady took her rosary beads from her pocket.

  63

  Vincent Naylor closed the front door of the house at Rathfillan Terrace and said, ‘Hello?’ He went into the living room and there was a stranger sitting upright in the armchair facing the door, his face a mess. Vincent’s hand went into his shoulder bag, taking hold of the Bernardelli, and another man, coming in from the kitchen, pointed at Vincent and there was a muzzle flash and something very big hit Vincent in the chest. When his eyes opened he was lying on his back and the room smelled like a whole lot of fireworks had gone off. He didn’t know if he’d been out for two seconds or two hours. Apart from the stranger in the armchair, there were two men in the room – the man who’d shot him and a smaller guy, a man in his thirties with a bad case of acne.

  Vincent levered himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall. He said, ‘There’s, look, when—’

  Vincent could tell he’d been shot low down in the chest. No sucking sound, his lungs were all right, this was—

  Vincent recognised the stranger in the armchair.

  Liam Delaney, a piece of silver tape across his mouth, a large bloody mess where his right eye should have been. Liam was sitting upright, his feet tied together, more silver tape, and his hands were tucked behind him. Liam’s left eye was wide open, staring, his chest heaving, nose flaring. There was blood leaking from the silver tape across his mouth.

  Vincent said, ‘This, it’s not—’

  The taller of the two men picked up Vincent’s shoulder bag. He took out the Bernardelli, showed it to the acne man. The acne man took it and shot Liam in the forehead. Then he put the muzzle of the gun under Liam’s chin and when he squeezed the trigger the room vibrated with the noise. The taller man was standing over Vincent, leaning down. Vincent looked up into the dark muzzle of the man’s small silvery gun.

  Maura Coady said, ‘The young voices, the ancient music, the beauty of it – if ever I have doubts, I think of that sound. It’s a foretaste of something beyond all this.’

  They were in her room at Jurys Inn, Maura was sitting on the edge of the bed, drinking tea. Tidey was standing. She seeme
d thinner than ever, fragile, diminished.

  ‘It was lovely,’ Tidey said. ‘But I want you to stay here until we know there’s no more danger from this man. I know it’s boring, cooped up in the room, but this man somehow traced a policeman to his home and tried to kill him.’

  Maura looked around the room. ‘I spent most of my life in a convent, Sergeant – this might be a little frightening, but it’s certainly not boring. Next Sunday morning, though, I’m afraid, I’ll insist again on my little choral treat.’

  Tidey said, ‘Let’s take it a day at a time.’

  She put her cup aside. ‘Thank you for everything.’ She stood up. Her face seemed paler, a rawness around the eyes. ‘I sometimes wonder – when I think about all the awful things that were done, the lives we destroyed – whether I’ve a right to ever take pleasure again in beauty and innocence.’

  Tidey held her elbow. ‘What you did, it’s not all you are. And if there’s a way of getting through this world without doing something wrong – I don’t know about it.’

  ‘There are some wrongs that are worse than others.’

  Out in the corridor, a couple of people were arguing loudly – something about a radio show.

  Tidey said, ‘You confessed – you believe in absolution?’

  After a moment, speaking slowly, being careful with her words, Maura said, ‘All my life I’ve believed in the sacrament of Confession, but I’ve always wondered if it wasn’t, well – a little convenient.’ Her smile was rueful and brief. ‘No one has a right to wipe the slate clean, except the people we harmed. And they’re out there somewhere, struggling to get on with their lives – our guilt is not their problem.’

  ‘There’s no redemption?’

  ‘And there shouldn’t be. There’s just living with it, I think. Owning up, and living with the things we do.’

  64

  Carefully placing his feet, Detective Inspector Martin Pollard entered the room and paused. He’d dealt with scenes like this in the past and he had a way of coping. He looked down, his eyes closed, and he emptied his mind, let his emotions settle. When he opened his eyes his demeanour was as detached and cold as he could make it. He took out his notebook and first did a rough diagram of the room. Technical had already been over the scene, but Pollard needed his own notes. When the diagram was done he flicked over the page and wrote quickly and neatly. He heard a noise and glanced up and there was a uniform looking into the room. Pollard shook his head and the uniform went away.