"Out in Seapoint."
"Right. A road called Sandy Way, by any chance?"
"Yeah, how did—"
"Bunny's tracker just came back. It's showing he's on that road."
"What? But…"
Paul couldn't think. None of this was making any sense. If Bunny had been standing there at the press conference where he'd been announced as being the Púca, somebody would have surely mentioned it.
"I'm heading there now," said Brigit, "assuming I can ever get out of this bloody traffic jam."
"Phil is already there."
"Why is—"
"I'll ring him now."
Paul hung up, hit “recent numbers” and pressed on Phil’s. The phone rang three times before answering.
"Did you hang up on me?"
"Look – is Bunny there?"
"What? are ye mad?"
"Just, have a look around. Are there any parked cars? Maybe he is in disguise or… I dunno."
"But why would he be—"
"Just do it, ye fucking idiot."
"All right" said Phil, sounding hurt. "There's no need to be all—"
Paul lost the rest in a clamour of sudden noise on the line.
"Phil?"
Phil was shouting to be heard over a babble of indistinct voices. "Sorry. Yer man Maloney, the little fella, he has just come out and they're all trying to ask him questions and that, and—"
Paul pulled the phone away from his ear, as what sounded like a large explosion issued from it.
"Phil?! Phil?!"
Paul could hear screaming, another explosion and then the line went dead.
"Phil?"
"PHIL!"
Chapter Forty-Three
"Explosion?" said Burns, "What kind of explosion?"
She was sat leaning against the window, the glorious evening sun throwing her long shadow across the carpet.
"I don't know," said Wilson, "I just got here and it's… pandemonium. Hartigan's house just… it just blew up, it …"
Wilson's voice faded out, and raised voices and alarms could be heard in the background.
"Wilson… Wilson!"
"Sorry, sir… it's just…" Wilson's voice dissipated into a coughing fit.
"Wilson, are you all right?"
Assistant Commissioner Michael Sharpe, having caught enough of her call to temporarily pause from berating someone else at HQ, leaned into her eyeline. Burns turned to block him out and moved a few steps away.
"Wilson. Talk to me."
"It's… there's people wandering about. I don't know how many injured or…"
She could hear movement, and then Wilson speaking to someone with a foreign accent. Only snatches of their conversation filtered through.
"Are you OK… I don't know… I don't know… over there… wrap something around… I don't know."
Burns could feel her own panic rising. "Wilson?"
Movement and Wilson's voice again, closer now, if not exactly present. "Sorry chief it's… still on fire, so much smoke and…"
"Are there other officers there, Wilson?"
All Burns could hear was the background noise, and Wilson's ragged breathing.
"Susan."
Burns glanced around to see Sharpe standing behind her.
"Not now," before adding into the phone. "Wilson, you need to talk to me, OK?"
"I demand to know—"
"Shut up, Michael."
Sharpe reared back like he'd just been slapped in the face. "How dare you—"
"Wilson?" Burns racked her brain. She normally had a great memory for detail but Sharpe yapping was distracting her. "Donnacha?" Saying it once gave her the confidence she'd recalled it correctly. "Donnacha?"
"I am your superior officer—"
Burns wheeled around. "And for how much longer exactly do you think that'll be?" She waved her free hand at the window. "I don't know if you noticed, but you started a fucking riot Michael, and I've sat here for two hours listening while your political friends have avoided your calls. One of my officers needs assistance, so shut up and let me do my job, you sanctimonious prick."
Sharpe's mouth flapped open like a landed fish. While she had the advantage, Burns moved past him and strode towards the other side of the office.
"Detective Wilson, answer me!"
Brief pause. "Yes, ma’am."
"Good. You are in the middle of a situation. Make sure everyone is safely back from any burning buildings or possible secondary explosions."
"Yes, ma’am."
"Then Wilson – and this is important. That is also an active crime scene. Nobody leaves unless they're doing it in an ambulance."
"Right, ma’am."
"Anybody gives you any shit – just keep quoting the Terrorism Act 2005."
"Is that for—"
"Anything. They don't know what’s in it. Do whatever the hell is needed, and I'll cover your ass."
Burns could hear sirens in the distance. "Also… Wilson?"
"Yes, ma’am?"
"Tell the fire brigade it's an active crime scene – foul play. Preserve where possible. They know what to do, then."
"Yes, ma’am."
"Good man."
"Sorry about—"
"You're fine, Wilson. I'd be freaking out too, but it's ‘go to work’ time now, all right?"
"Right."
"Call me back in fifteen minutes with an update. I'll inform the team and get others out there with you."
"Yes, ma’am."
"And look at it this way. At least you didn't throw up this time."
Chapter Forty-Four
"Come on, come on, come on, come on…"
Paul held the phone to his ear and paced back and forth in the doorway of the Savoy cinema, as Maggie sat placidly watching him.
Click. A pause. "You have reached the—"
"Fuuuck."
Paul hung up the phone. It took every ounce of his self-restraint not to hurl it off into the great beyond.
Calling him a fucking idiot; that had been his last words to Phil. Paul looked down at Maggie.
"He's fine, he's always fine. He's Phil Nellis, for God sake. When they drop the big bombs, the only thing left alive will be cockroaches and Phil Nellis."
Paul felt the phone vibrate in his hand. Brigit.
"Brigit, there's been some kind of—"
"I heard something on the radio. What is—"
"Phil was, Phil was—"
…and then the phone went dead.
Paul looked down at it in disbelief. No signal. He'd had four bars a second ago.
Then he looked up to see that, amongst the crowd, there were other people looking at their phones and holding them up in the air.
Chapter Forty-Five
Gerry: Ah for— I can’t believe this! I’m looking out the window, folks, and my car is on fire! What the hell? That’s just mindless violence, that is. That was a new Audi! You shower of fucking fucker fucks – no, Tina, I won’t shut up, I won’t! I’m sick of this crap! Some prick set my beautiful car on fire, you animals! You—
"Phillips, Mills and Naylor have all gone out to assist Wilson. We need—"
Burns looked down at her phone. No service.
She sighed. "Damn it."
Burns put her phone away, and walked into the large open-plan area where most of the building's current occupants had assembled. These were the people unlucky enough to have been inside when it really kicked off. Burns needed a glass of water, as she was developing one hell of a headache and she'd managed to locate two paracetemol at the bottom of handbag. The space looked like it had been a family area back when the building had been the ‘Ark’, at least judging from the display of crayon drawings stuck up on the wall. That had been about six hours ago, but it felt like a whole other life.
Somebody had made tea. It was the Irish solution to any problem.
There were about twelve people in total. Clustered around the room were a few civilian staff from the Technical Bureau, two doctors, the ambulance cr
ew who had first attended to Franks, the Garda ombudsman and a couple of his staff. All of the Ark's previous tenants had been shipped out to Cathal Brugha Street Garda station for processing. The ombudsman was a man called Charles Delacourt, and something about him reminded Burns of the tortoise she'd had when she'd been a kid. It wasn't that he moved slowly, it was something about his neck. From the brief moments she'd not been on the phone in the last couple of hours, she'd also noticed how much his attitude towards excessive use of force by the Gardaí had changed since he'd been barricaded into a building with a howling mob outside.
Several people were waving their phones about and looking slightly bereft.
"I wouldn't bother," said Burns. A woman gave her a confused look. "They've shut down the mobile networks. Standard practice now in a riot. Stops them communicating."
"Us too," said someone at the far end of the room.
"Well, yes," agreed Burns, "there is that."
"Isn't there a landline we can use?" asked Delacourt.
Burns shook her head. "This building hasn't got any. We cut them. I'm sure they'll be coming to get us out of here soon."
Burns had said it because she knew it was expected. She felt considerably less optimistic than she was trying to sound. Last she'd heard, there was extensive rioting from here down into O'Connell Street and Henry Street, and it had now crossed over the Liffey. Somebody had noticed two crucial facts: there didn't seem to be anywhere near enough Gardaí to stop a mob, and Grafton Street has much nicer shops. The crowd outside their windows right now were the people who either didn't know or care about the bargains on offer. They wanted answers about Franks, and nobody inside the building had an answer that was going to make them happy.
"So we're totally cut off?" someone asked.
"No," said Burns, "the armed response guys will have radios. There were a couple of them here still waiting to give statements, weren't there?"
Delacourt nodded.
Just then a ragged cheer rose up from outside.
"Christ," said Burns, "what now?"
She moved to the window. A group of men were proceeding through the crowd carrying a telegraph pole.
"Oh for—"
She stopped herself as she realised Delacourt was standing beside her, licking his lips nervously.
"They've—" he started.
"Yes," she finished, "they've found a ram."
A thought suddenly struck her. She really hoped she was wrong.
"Where are the armed response guys?"
"I believe Assistant Commissioner Sharpe deployed them somewhere.
"Shit."
She was starting to hate being right.
"Everybody come with me."
Chapter Forty-Six
Paul was running again.
He was still heading in the general direction of the office, but that was no longer his primary motivation.
‘Don't be a fucking idiot!’ Those had been his last words to Phil. The fella who was his best friend, who'd been trying to help him out, whom he'd put in harm's way. ‘A fucking idiot.’
They were on Cathal Brugha Street now. The crowds had thinned out as there were considerably less desirable ‘shopping’ options up this end. Maggie still trotted beside him.
The only other time he'd gone looking for a phone box was a couple of months ago, when he'd been supposed to meet Brigit to go to the cinema and he'd forgotten to charge his phone. It'd been a nightmare to find a working one then, and – unsurprisingly – the riot had done nothing to improve the situation.
He just needed to ring him, find out he was all right. Of course he'd be all right. He had to be all right.
It was then he noticed the three blokes in the midst of booting in the door of the bookies on the corner. Paul guessed a bookies would have had a strong door to begin with, but it wouldn't have been designed to withstand a sustained assault from people fearing no consequences. These lads had obviously been putting the work in, as it was all but off its hinges. They were figuring that, being a bookies, it'd have cash. Paul was betting that it'd have a phone.
He moved over and stood behind the group. A muscular bloke in a United strip was door-booter-in-chief. Things would have been going quicker if he hadn't insisted on throwing in the odd roundhouse kick, clearly keen to show his range. His two shirtless mates were cheering him on; one of them had the body to pull the look off, the other definitely didn't. A woman in her forties stood back and smoked a cigarette. As Paul walked towards them, she turned and sneered at him. "Fuck off, this is ours."
"I just need to use the phone."
"Tough. Get out of it."
She pointed Paul in the direction he'd come. He stood his ground.
"I'm using the phone."
"Oh are ye?" She turned and raised her voice. "Here, Deano, this prick wants in."
The one who wasn't beach body ready turned and looked at him. He had a large tattoo of Bob Marley on his left man boob that was probably not how the man wanted to be remembered.
"Get out of it, ye bleedin’ vulture."
"I don't want any trouble," said Paul, "I'm just—"
"Doesn't want trouble, Deano," the woman chimed in. "Sounds like he's got no respect for you neither."
"This street is mine, ye fuckin' reading me, pal? I own it."
"Yeah, course you do."
Paul was surprised when those words came out of his mouth. The only explanation was that he was stressed, emotional and tired. Normally he wasn't the type to speak truth to power, never mind sarcasm to violence. Paul registered two things simultaneously; the rage on the fat man's face, and the delight of the woman standing behind him as she beamed a sour grin.
"Ah man, he's straight up fucking dissing you, Deano. He ain't showing a brother no respect."
In normal circumstances, Paul would have found this Dublinised bastardisation of American street slang humorous. Those circumstances, however, would have included him not being at the centre of this little play.
"Look, I—”
The big bloke moved with surprising speed, lunging forward and grabbing Paul's shirt with his left hand, while slamming his right fist into his face. There was a bright flash of impact, and then Paul ricocheted off a nearby lamp post before stumbling to the ground, landing hard on his knees. Behind him he heard Maggie's bark and some swearing, then an avalanche of humanity drove him into the ground face-first and forced all the air from his lungs. The fat man lay on top of him, trying to fend off an irate German Shepherd as Paul squirmed to free himself from under his immense bulk. His vision was blurred, and there was a metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Paul turned his head to see Maggie sink her teeth into Fattie's lower leg, who instantly howled in agony. Then Maggie let out a sickening yelp, as the bloke in the United jersey connected with a vicious kick that sent her hurtling out of Paul's field of vision.
The fat man started raining punches into the back of Paul's skull. They had not got much force behind them, but the cumulative effect was making his head swim. Paul twisted his body as vigorously as he could with his arms still pinned. The fat man shifted his body to counter. Paul’s panic grew and grew. He could not breathe. He bucked and twisted with a desperate ferocity. He managed to partially turn his body. Bob Marley appeared before him, and he sunk his teeth into the tattooed flesh. He tasted suntan lotion and salt, and then other things he would rather not think about. The fat man screamed and pulled away. Paul heaved in a gasping breath and then coughed out a lump of flesh that was not his.
As he hauled himself up onto his knees, all around him was chaos. Maggie snarled. Several voices shouted over each other. Flashes of sky, legs, pavement. Someone kicked him in the head but mostly missed, only delivering a glancing blow. The fat man was screaming a lot now.
Paul retched but nothing came. Then somebody kicked him again. This time he took the blow in the stomach. He felt something crack, but he hung onto his attacker's leg, tumbling its owner messily to the ground with him.
Someth
ing hit him in the back.
More growling.
Someone kicked at his legs, then there was motion as that person stumbled across Paul.
He saw a flash of fur, and heard more screamed invectives.
Then the fat man staggered to his feet, and started limping away.
"I'm out of here."
Paul managed to turn himself around again. The trio of men and the woman were now moving off. Two staggered, and all of them were bleeding from somewhere.
Maggie limped after them, snarling.
"Maggie," said Paul.
She kept going.
"Maggie!"
She stopped and looked back at him. Then she turned. The fight gone out of her, she limped slowly back towards him, holding her front left paw off the ground.
Paul sat on the pavement, holding his aching ribs as Maggie hopped over to him. She licked his face.
He rubbed her on the back of the neck.
"Your breath really stinks."
He felt dizzy, and as adrenalin flooded out of his body, pain seeped in. He closed his eyes and wiped the blood from his face, trying not to think about it. He did not deal well with blood; his own or other people’s.
He sat there in silence with his eyes closed, with nothing but Maggie’s panting breath for company. He felt his head droop forward. Maggie barked beside him.
“Right, yeah. Right.”
With difficulty, Paul pushed himself up the wall and limped gingerly over to the door of the bookies. It had been all but kicked in. He was able to squeeze himself through without having to do any further damage to it.
His feet crunched on broken glass as he stepped inside. The walls were lined with half-tables with pens chained to them, and gaming machines that flashed in garish colours. What space that left was filled with wide-screen TVs. At the end of the room a half-wall of thick glass protected a counter. Behind it stood a woman in her fifties. She held a large kitchen knife out in front of her in both hands.
"I'm not going to hurt you," said Paul.
"Yeah? Well… I… I'm going to hurt you. Get out now or I'll cut ye knackers off."
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 26
