Angels in the Moonlight_A prequel to The Dublin Trilogy

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Was this your big plan?”

  “Well, to be honest, I thought he’d have a gun.”

  “How disappointing for you.”

  Lopez glanced from Bunny, to the fight unfolding between Gringo and Frock, and back again, the gun still resolutely trained on him, allowing Bunny no opportunity to try anything. “I think we shall let this play out. If your friend wins, I’ll shoot him. If my man wins – well, it’s just one more body to bury.”

  “No offence,” said Bunny, “but you’re not exactly a people person, are ye?”

  As they rolled down the hill, Gringo lost all sense of geography. His whole world now consisted of him and the man he was grappling with. He attempted to fire a knee into where he hoped his opponent’s groin was, but a twisting leg deflected the blow. Frock’s left hand was down around his ankle. Gringo saw the flash of steel. His instinctive movement stopped the knife from embedding deep in the meat of his leg, instead only slicing the edge of his thigh. The focus shifting again, he desperately clamped his hands around Frock’s left wrist as they rolled down the hill. His opponent was bigger, stronger and armed. Gringo was running out of ideas.

  They rolled and rolled again – Gringo’s head slamming into the leg of a wooden picnic table as Frock’s knee simultaneously drilled into Gringo’s groin. Instinctively, Gringo released his grip on his opponent’s arms. He saw Frock over him, fire in his eyes as he drew the knife back above his head.

  Frock roared in frustration as a female hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him backwards.

  Gringo kicked his legs, freeing himself from under the bigger man.

  Frock turned, his knife slashing through the rain and catching Simone’s arm, momentarily painting a slash of red blood across the downpour, accompanied by her plaintive scream.

  Gringo hurled his full weight against Frock’s back, sending his opponent slamming chest first into the picnic table, sandwiching Frock’s blade-wielding hand between the table and his body.

  Gringo felt the sickeningly sweet squelch as the knife passed through the resistance of the other man’s chest to the heart below.

  With a gurgling gasp, Frock’s last breath passed from his body.

  Gringo fell backwards onto the soft wet grass and lay there gasping. The other man’s body rolled off the table, the knife still protruding from his chest.

  He looked up to see Simone awkwardly trying to use her handcuffed hand to stem the flood of blood from her upper left arm.

  “You OK?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “That is very unlikely.” Lopez’s voice carried through the rain. Gringo turned to see the gun pointed directly at him. “I mean, on the upside, you have saved me from paying Mr Frock the second half of his fee, but still. Too many people, too much complication. Time to revert to plan A, which is to prove to my employer that Miss Delamere will never be a problem.”

  Lopez’s chain of thought was interrupted by the sight of Bunny in his peripheral vision. “Are you quite alright, Detective?”

  Gringo looked across. It did appear as if Bunny was, well, showing undue interest in his own back passage.

  “’Tis the cold,” said Bunny, “It’s playing havoc with my haemorrhoids.”

  Lopez grimaced. “We can’t decide when we go, but we can decide with how much dignity. Goodbye, Detective.”

  “Sláinte!” shouted Bunny, falling backwards.

  The last thing Mr Lopez saw was Bunny McGarry, his legs spread wide as he fell backwards, his right hand appearing between his legs, followed by a bright flash from his groin area.

  Then a 130-grain bullet travelling at 685 feet per second, producing 111 foot-pounds of ballistic energy, entered Mr Lopez’s brain via his right eye, and put a severe crimp in his plans for the evening.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “Up your arse?!”

  Bunny, still shivering under the sheepskin overcoat he’d borrowed from a dead man, looked at Gringo. “Would you please stop saying that?”

  The rain having finally stopped, the three of them were sitting at one of the picnic tables in the near-darkness. Simone was trying to warm Bunny up as best she could, holding him tightly, running her hands up and down his body. He was cold – numb, in fact – but the feeling of her close to him was warming him in other ways. Gringo had found the keys to the cuffs in Lopez’s coat, which Bunny was now wearing. Gringo had gone back to his car and returned with a bounty that included a first aid kit, two powerful torches, half a pack of Jammie Dodgers and a bottle of whiskey that he had in the boot. He had also brought his used and smelly football kit which Bunny was currently squashed into, his own clothes having been turned into a sodden mess by the rain. Simone had used the first aid kit to bandage the wounds on her own arm and Gringo’s thigh as best she could, though both would need stitches. Then they had sat in silence and passed the biscuits and whiskey around.

  “But where did you even get a derringer pistol from?”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “Up his ass. Get over it.”

  Gringo stopped, a Jammie Dodger halfway to his mouth. “Had it . . .”

  “What?”

  “Had it been up there a while?”

  “What are you yammering on about?” said Bunny. “Do you think I’ve been walking around for ages with that” – he pointed at the four-inch long, one-shot derringer pistol that was now lying on the table in front of them – “stuck up me port tunnel? No! I put it up there when these guys gave me fifteen minutes to turn up outside my house with a tape I didn’t have. I figured it was the only advantage I had – surprise.”

  “I was surprised,” said Gringo.

  “Exactly.”

  “Because you pulled it out of your arse.”

  “Gringo – how many times have you frisked someone for weapons?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “And have you ever checked their arse?”

  “No.”

  “Quod erat demonstrandum,” said Bunny, with a wave of his hand.

  “Although now I’ve seen you pull that trick . . . I’m still not checking arses. I’d rather just get shot. I mean – up your arse!”

  “Oh Lord,” said Simone. “I’m starting to miss being tortured.”

  Bunny gave her a squeeze and a quick peck on the forehead. While Gringo had been gone, she had reluctantly given him a few details about what the last day had been like. She had only cried when explaining why she had given them his name, speaking through sobs. “It was either you or the sisters or Noel, and I figured you might be able to defend yourself.”

  He had told her she’d made the right decision. The thought had popped into his head that the sisters were a lot more capable of defending themselves than anyone might imagine, but he left it unsaid.

  “By the way, on the subject of what happened outside your house,” continued Gringo, “where did you learn to pull a punch? You nearly broke my jaw.”

  Bunny smirked. “I had to make it look realistic.” He took a slug of whiskey and passed the bottle to Gringo.

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “What?”

  “The derrière pistol. And you should totally copyright that name, by the way.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get my lawyers right on it. It was a present from my uncle Bunny. I think he brought it back from the Spanish Civil War or something.”

  “Wait, Uncle Bunny is real?”

  “Of course he’s real, sure, haven’t I been telling you about him for years?”

  “I thought he was someone you made up to liven up boring stake-outs in the car.”

  “Do you think I make up family members to entertain you, ye clueless gobshite?”

  Gringo drummed his hands on the tabletop excitedly. “There really are a long line of Bunny McGarrys? Like through history?”

  “Yes,” said Bunny, exasperated. “Haven’t I been telling you about them for years?”

  “Well, now I have a whole lot more questions.”

  “Hang on to them
,” said Bunny, standing up. “We need to start sorting this mess out.”

  The light was rapidly fading and there was work to be done. Gringo and Bunny had only exchanged a couple of words before Gringo had gone back to the car, but he had been running it through in his head, and he could tell Gringo had been too. If Simone’s past was to have any chance of staying hidden, they couldn’t go through official channels. If the people chasing her were as powerful as she feared, and what had happened over the last couple of days certainly seemed to bear that out, then there was only one option.

  “There’s something else I don’t understand,” said Gringo.

  Bunny leaned on the table. “I’m not going through it again.”

  “Not that,” said Gringo, nodding at the derringer, “although, yes, also that. No. I mean the tape.” He pointed at the Arnott’s bag sitting in the middle of the table. “What the hell is this tape?”

  “Never mind,” said Bunny. “All you need to know is that this isn’t the one they were looking for. This is the 1992 All-Ireland final between Kilkenny and Cork.”

  “Did Cork win that?”

  Bunny gave Gringo a sour look. “Course not, I wouldn’t risk a tape of one of the ones we won, ye lunatic.”

  “Right, that is the first thing you’ve said that does make sense.”

  “Come on,” Bunny said to Gringo, before placing a kiss on Simone’s forehead. “You stay here, love.”

  “Are you sure? I can help.”

  “You’re alright,” said Gringo. “This is ditch digging, it’s what his people were made for.”

  “Yeah,” said Bunny, “and this gobshite is overdue an honest day’s work.”

  They had never directly said it, but when Gringo had returned from the cars, the decision had been made. He’d taken the keys to Frock’s silver Audi and returned with two shovels, requisitioned from the dead man’s car boot along with two newly-purchased torches. A full gravedigging kit.

  They looked around and then Gringo pointed in the direction away from the steps.

  “Makes sense,” said Bunny with a nod. “I guess we keep walking until we find a spot. Dig the hole first, and . . .”

  Gringo nodded, turning on both of the torches and handing one to Bunny. They then each picked up a shovel. “There’s that many bodies buried in these mountains, we’ll be doing well to find a fresh spot.”

  Bunny looked over at Simone. “We won’t be long.”

  They walked into the woods, scanning the ground before them with their torches as they went.

  “Do you think she’ll be OK?” asked Gringo.

  “Yeah,” said Bunny. “She’s tougher than she looks. And I’m going to take care of her, if she’ll let me.”

  “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “We’ll see. Hey, I’ve a question for you. How come you didn’t have a gun?”

  “Jesus, amigo, I’m on compassionate leave after what happened with Dara. They gave me the number for a counsellor; they’re hardly going to let me take a gun home.”

  “Ah right,” said Bunny. “Yeah. Course. Sorry. How’s all that going?”

  “Counselling?”

  “No. Y’know, the Carter stuff . . .”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I don’t, but look, I owe you for this. You’re . . . whatever help you need, you just ask.”

  “No,” said Gringo, shaking his head firmly. “The kind of debts we owe each other never get wiped away, we both know that. But this – this you don’t do.”

  “For God’s sake, you’re in the middle of helping me bury a couple of bodies.”

  “Yes, amigo – of two bad men who had come here to do a very bad thing. Two men who I accidentally led to your door. We’re both members of the blessed Garda Síochána and, regardless of the views of a court, what we just did and what we’re about to do are the right things. I’m fine with that. Hell, it’s good to be back on the side of the angels for a little while. The nightmare I got myself involved in by joining up to somebody’s get-rich-quick scheme is nothing to do with you and I’m not having you dragged down with me.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You’ve not just got yourself to take care of now, and she, God help her, deserves you. And you deserve her, for that matter. I’ll fix what I have to, but you stay out of it. That’s the final word, alright?”

  “Alright.”

  They came to a small opening amidst the trees, sheltered on one side by a looming rock face. Someone had graffitied a large clown’s face on it.

  “Clowns give me the creeps,” said Bunny.

  “Can I remind you that we’re here to bury some bodies.”

  “Fair point.”

  Gringo tested the ground. “Seems soft enough.”

  Then the clouds parted and a soft silver moonlight fell down upon them, illuminating the clown’s fading grin.

  They both started digging in silence for a couple of minutes, until . . .

  “Seriously though, up your arse?”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Butch didn’t like it – any of it.

  They had been watching the newly re-opened Leaping Trout pub in the centre of the Clanavale Estate for the best part of eight hours now. It seemed the whole estate was in there, except for those who were standing around drinking outside the front doors. The pub sat on what was effectively the central square, with roads leading off it at each corner. Butch, as site commander, had positioned a squad car on every side. She had also requested more support but there had been none available. A couple of Northern Irish politicians were down on a visit to herald the new spirit of co-operation, and the Gardaí had to make sure none of the numpties got anywhere near them and set Anglo-Irish relations back a generation.

  Her orders had been very clear: be respectful, but be visible. Their role here was twofold: firstly, to make sure there were no further attacks from whoever was on the other side of this possible gang war; and secondly, not to let Tommy Carter or Franko Doyle out of their sights. The reality was, Butch hadn’t actually laid eyes on either of them for a good six hours, since she had seen them enter the pub. It had occurred to her more than once that if the place had some kind of tunnel running beneath it, they were going to be made to look like idiots again.

  Last she’d heard, DI O’Rourke had spent most of the day on the phone to the press, vehemently denying Tommy Carter’s accusation of Garda collusion in the death of Jimmy Moran. Somehow, Carter had put them on the back foot yet again. Her and DI O’Rourke’s walk out of the funeral would live long in her memory. The looks of pure hatred, the overpowering threat of imminent danger, regardless of it being in a church. The only experience that came close to it was the time she had escorted a child killer into court.

  Since then, the mourners had been drinking fairly solidly from what Cassidy could see. There had been comings and goings, and an increasing amount of looks in their direction from the group of men congregating outside the doors of the pub.

  She looked across the top of the car at Paul Norman, a uniformed guard so young he still had acne. She tried to give him a warm smile. “Relax. I’ve not seen a fella look that terrified since my one attempt at heterosexual dating.”

  He tried to smile back but looked in danger of ruining his undies. Cassidy internally scolded herself. She must remember that her sense of humour was an acquired taste. God, she missed Dinny Muldoon. The sooner they could nail Carter, the better.

  She looked across at the drinkers sitting outside the front door of the Leaping Trout. The predictably dull attempts at “banter” had been directed her way, but she had long ago become impervious to such things. Once you had slammed a couple down, the rest of the herd learned the lesson. Right now though, she would have welcomed it. Instead, she was getting excited looks and surreptitious conversations held in huddles.

  Sometimes, as a copper, it felt like your fate was entirely out of your hands. You knew what was coming in your very bones, but you were powerless to
stop it. So far tonight, the only thing they’d had in their favour had been the policeman’s best friend: the weather. Persistent rain, often quite heavy, had kept the mourners mostly inside and the Gardaí out of their line of sight. Now, the damn clouds had cleared to a cold crisp night.

  Her mobile rang. DI O’Rourke.

  “Cassidy, how’s it looking?”

  “Not great, sir. The rain has stopped and the locals are looking restless.”

  “Any sign of our two boys?”

  “Negative, sir. They were last seen entering the Leaping Trout at 3:45 pm, nothing since.”

  “Are we sure they’re in there?”

  Cassidy hated the question. “We’ve not seen them leave, sir, so I assume so.”

  “Right. They’ll be closing up soon anyway.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “But the licence—”

  “Respectfully, sir, do we want to go in and enforce closing time in this situation? It’ll be depicted as us not showing . . . Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  A cheer rose from the drinkers. A group of what looked like teenage boys appeared out of one of the laneways off Sunnyvale Road. She was guessing at their ages based purely on their builds, because she couldn’t see any faces.

  “Males in masks, sir.”

  Another group appeared, clambering over a wall into Didsbury Road. Freddy Krueger mixing with a couple of Star Wars Stormtroopers, Homer Simpsons and at least three devils. In another context, they would have looked funny. In this one, they were anything but.

  “What are . . .”

  Cassidy ignored O’Rourke, reached into the car and grabbed the radio handset. “All cars, be alert, be alert. Masked youths, men, coming up Sunnyvale Road, maybe twenty, and another dozen or so on Didsbury—”

  A rock hit the pavement to her left, coming from the crowd behind her on Sunnyvale Road. “Jesus, boss!” exclaimed Norman.

  “We’re OK,” said Cassidy, not believing it for a second.

  She put the phone back to her ear. “Sir, masked men throwing stones. Currently blocking two routes out of the estate. Didsbury and Sunnyvale are closed off and— SHIT!”