A stone of the heart imm-1

by John Brady

  "— with tommy-guns," the woman interrupted.

  "— and they think that they have the two of them boxed in. Turn over to Radio Eireann on that box of yours and you'll get it on the news… Hanging is too good for them. You see we're doing fine down here as you can see for yourself, sir. It's that crowd giving us a bad name abroad…"

  "Indeed," the tanned man replied.

  "Well, they have one of them captured so they have. I'd like to get a dig at him myself. In cold blood. What's the world coming to?"

  The tanned man turned to walk toward Kildare Street. He was almost dizzy with the anger. The doorman had said there was a Mercedes involved… It couldn't be a coincidence. Some incompetents in a useless shoot-out. No discipline, probably free-lancing on a bank job. That proved exactly what he had been busting a gut trying to convince them, that personnel like the damned playwright couldn't run things. After getting them to set up a proper garage and a mechanic to do the cars for the couriers, the playwright had blithely turned over one of the cars to some amateur thugs down from Belfast. All the work and preparations and the moron had given them a car, a toy to amuse them. A car gone to waste, weapons probably captured or abandoned. Cops on edge all over the city. He'd have to close the place down right away. If one of the losers knew about the garage and he talked, the cops could be kicking the door in fast.

  The tanned man tried to rescue some benefit from this episode. At least it might divert some attention away from his operation for a few days anyway. When he finished with this part, he'd have the playwright's head on a plate for this.

  Minogue felt light-headed and pukey after the cigarette. It was like learning to smoke all over again. It left him feeling bloated and nervous after even the first few pulls. Kilmartin sat with his elbows on his knees listening to the odd parts of the drama that were interspersed with the other messages.

  The two gunmen hadn't been sighted since the shooting. They had taken off across the gardens. The danger was in cornering them where they might use hostages. Two units from the army had set up in the area. The Special Branch and the Gardai were running down streets and behind houses. There still wasn't enough manpower to get to all the houses and evacuate people. Just over thirty-five minutes, Kilmartin reflected, and the damage was done. There was a maze of streets just south of the cul-de-sac, just a few gardens over. It was likely that they had split up and ditched the guns. Aside from a thick lip and a bang on the head, the driver was in one piece and in custody.

  Minogue decided to phone Kathleen. She'd have heard something on the radio anyway, he guessed. Fair play to her, Minogue pondered as he heard her talking, she's determined not to show anything now.

  "Tis a bad state of affairs to be sure. Lookit, I'm not much help here so I'll be off home soon. Do you want me to stop off at the shopping centre for anything?" Minogue asked her. The phone was greasy in his hand. He smelled his own fetid breath curling out of the mouthpiece.

  "A bit of black pudding and some sausages," she said.

  Kilmartin looked to him as he re-entered the dispatch room.

  "Do you want a few smokes for the way home, Matt?"

  "No thanks. Sure it'll be another while before I take them up again, I'm thinking. They're a great comfort though… I'd forgotten that. I'm off home now. You should go home yourself. The Special Branch lads will have the matter well in hand," Minogue murmured.

  Kathleen Minogue answered the phone for the second time in five minutes. This time she didn't predict right because it was neither Matt nor the children.

  "Em, no. He's due home though. A school reunion? Well, isn't that rich," she laughed. "But sure that's years ago."

  Kathleen thought that the caller must have moved well away from County Clare himself. His voice had a polish to it, deliberate like Richard Burton, with a trace of country accent. "Indeed and you should, Mr…? Mr Murphy. Oh I'm sure he'd be tickled. We have the tea about six. In actual fact I'm waiting for Matt to stop off at the shopping centre to bring home sausages and the like. I wasn't out on account of the rain. Yes, do. About half six and you'll be sure to get him."

  The playwright left the booth and got into the Granada. The car was no more than a year old and it had been in his possession for approximately twenty-seven minutes. It would remain in his care for about another three quarters of an hour, then to be ditched. With luck, he wouldn't leave a mark on it.

  He drove off out the Bray Road, in the direction of Stillorgan Shopping Centre. He was pleased with his performance. It would look like he was giving every assistance to Mr Whiz Kid. The car insulated him from the road and the sights which slowly swept by him as he stop-started in the traffic. He observed the frustration on the faces of people standing at bus-stops. Cars inched by him, then fell back again to pass him again. He made studies of the faces in the cars. Bank managers and accountants on their way home to the vacuum of suburbia. This was the Ireland which we had fought the British for?

  A woman laughed behind glass in a Jaguar. She looked like a carnival mask with that sinister leer. Made up to the hilt and wearing those stupid glasses, copying anything and everything American.

  No one would have the nerve to even think that he'd tip off the Brits. After they'd taken the car apart, the council would know that he'd been wise not to entrust such a valuable weapon to the Yank's scheme. Him and his cars and his couriers. We haven't come through the lean years just to hand over the reins to some jumped-up Houdini opportunist who was trickacting with the Soviets.

  In a room on the second floor of Blackrock Garda Station sat two hefty middle-aged men. One, Galvin, remained on his feet, pacing the room in a measured pattern. Formerly dark-haired, he was now balding. He had found suits disagreeable these thirty years and more and it showed. A shelf of shirt stuck out from his belt and gathered the end of his tie, itself at half mast. Galvin had the face you'd see squinting on the steps of a Sunday church in Tipperary as he'd edge out into the daylight before the end of Mass. When he moved, however, no fat jellied around him. Removed from the company of farm animals these thirty years, nature had compensated him with the attributes of a suspicious bull.

  His companion, Moroney, remained seated. He contented himself with picking imaginary pieces of lint from the knee of his pants. Moroney lacked the physical presence of his colleague Galvin; his body was beginning to sugarloaf at the belt. His face, mounted on thin lips, was completely out of place. Where one could reasonably expect swarthiness and a ruddy, heart attack complexion, a marbled model of cerebration rested atop the collar. To the side of Moroney was a pitted wooden table salvaged from a civil service department. The sole window in the room had been painted over with a heavy cream on the inside. A grid of wire mesh had been screwed to the window frame some years ago. The room smelled of damp and waiting. Under the window, a radiator which looked like a failed bellows tried to heat the air. The floor was made up of cracked and worn lino tiles which were flecked with cigarette burns.

  On the table lay a portable tape recorder with a microphone attached. The seated man sat with his arms folded now. Occasionally he'd uncross his legs and then cross them again. He didn't speak to Galvin who was circling the room like a wrestler before the bout. They had been waiting for ten minutes. Every now and then they could hear the sounds of the building, the ticking of the radiator, steps outside. Five minutes ago, a young Garda had stuck his head in the doorway.

  "Momentarily now, sir. He's on the way."

  Galvin and Moroney had travelled from Dublin Castle. They had made their arrangements for the proceedings in the car. Galvin stopped pacing as he heard footsteps outside. The door opened. Two uniformed Gardai walked in, followed by a young man in handcuffs. Another two Gardai followed in his wake and after an interval a plain clothes Garda, whom neither Galvin nor Moroney recognised, followed.

  Moroney stood up slowly, watching the young man's face intently.

  "Right, thanks," he said to no one. The uniformed Gardai left. The plain clothes stood leaning against
the wall and ensured that the door closed fully.

  Moroney looked at the elastoplast over the man's left eye.

  "Sit there," he pointed to the chair he had vacated.

  Galvin stood behind the chair. The young man turned slightly to look at him. Then he sat on the edge of the chair. His hair looked wet. His skin reminded Moroney of a jail-bird. Which is probably what he was. Moroney put him at about twenty-four.

  The prisoner held his handcuffed wrists up from his knees. Moroney ignored the gesture. Instead, he switched on the tape recorder.

  "Your name in full."

  "Volunteer James Duffy," the man replied with assurance. Moroney glanced over the prisoner's shoulder at Galvin.

  "And where are you from, Duffy?"

  "The Six Counties," he answered.

  Without warning, Galvin grabbed him by the hair and lifted him out of the chair. As Duffy reached to his head with his arms, Galvin punched him under the ribs. Duffy wheezed and tottered sideways as Galvin released his grip on his hair. He squirmed on the floor, his face knotted. His sharp intakes of breath stopped abruptly as he was lifted into the chair. He sat crazily leaning with his eyes watering through the slits of his eyelids.

  "I insist on medical treatment, to be examined by a doctor, that's my right," he wheezed. He was beginning to open his eyes more to let the tears escape. He didn't open them in time to avoid a knee in the side of the face. The blow filled the room with a thock sound just before the screech of the upturned chair. He fell uncontrolled to the floor.

  Galvin raised his eyebrows slightly. He nodded to Moroney who was now standing over the prisoner. Duffy was breathing through his nose in bursts.

  "Up," Galvin said.

  Again he was lifted up by the hair. He was determined to keep his eyes open. Duffy sat shakily, fearfully checking the man standing to his side in the edge of his vision. His body was like a spring, arching away from the threat.

  "We'll try again now. Your rights as you call them don't mean anything here. The policeman who was killed had rights too. Common sense should tell you to say all you know. There's no one else, just the three of us," Galvin said quietly.

  Duffy edged onto one buttock and darted his eyes from Galvin to Moroney standing beside him. He could feel his cheek thickening already, pressing up to his eye. He probed with his tongue and found two loose teeth. A glaucous liquid was leaking into his mouth from somewhere.

  "Don't delude yourself. Your outfit talks about a state of war, so stop playing public house solicitor and bellyaching about your rights. You answer, the questions put to you and I'll see what I can do about you leaving here in one piece," Galvin added.

  "Now. Where are you from?" Moroney asked.

  "Newry," Duffy said thickly.

  "What were you at this afternoon?" Galvin asked.

  "Well-"

  The chair was kicked from under him and he fell heavily to the floor. Before he had time to cover it, Galvin kicked him in the side of the head. A flare of light exploded in his brain and he heard a sound like a waterfall. Dimly he tried to roll onto his knees and get away. Halfway up he felt steadying hands on his back. Then a tremendous kick in the stomach almost lifted him off the floor. As though from a long way off, he heard someone telling him to get up. He decided that he wouldn't. A blinding pain in the small of his back made his legs tingle. He heard a yelp. He found himself back on the edge of the seat. Something was in his way as he looked to the side where he expected the cop to be.

  "What were you at?"

  "As true as God, nothing," a voice said. His own voice, like out of a pipe.

  "Continue." No kick.

  "We're down for a while to get a rest. Fun, a bit of a holiday," he whispered. He looked up into the impassive face of the policeman.

  "Are you part of an active service unit in your area?"

  The prisoner hesitated. Then he recoiled at the slight movement of that shadow to his side which could only be that other cop.

  "I'm a driver," he blurted out. He swallowed more of the liquid in his mouth. "I don't do the other stuff at all."

  The policeman by the door lit up a cigarette.

  "Just a driver," murmured Moroney. He looked at the prisoner's feet as if he were studying them. Then he returned his gaze to Duffy's bruised face.

  "There's no just-a-driver here. Killing a policeman is a capital offence. You did just as much as your friends. That's the way the law looks at it too. Your two pals are singing like canaries. According to them you do a lot more than driving."

  Duffy tried hard not to show some relief. He knew this cop was lying. He kept his head down. Maybe he'd get out of this one.

  "Where'd you get the car?"

  "In Dublin."

  "Where'd you get the car?"

  "Like I-"

  The chair leg shrieked as Duffy rolled toward the wall. The plain clothes at the door kicked him in the shin. As he tried to roll away, Galvin kicked him in the small of the back. His legs went numb. The light in the room began to pulse and run up to him. He remembered the name they gave these cops in the South, The Heavy Gang. He felt himself pulled up and he was left trying to stay standing. He couldn't. He fainted.

  When he came to he was in the chair again. A smell of baby came to him, strong. He had puked down his shirt, he realised. He looked up. Nothing had changed. He tried to turn slightly and check where the other cop was. How much time had passed?

  "Where'd you get the car?"

  "I swear to God," Duffy began. The voice, his voice, resonated through his skull. He was sure it was someone else's voice. He knew what he wanted to say, but his hearing wasn't picking up what he thought the voice was saying.

  "… I came down on the train is all. That's all. I was told to meet the others at a hotel."

  "What hotel?"

  "The Bur… the Burg. The Burlington."

  "When?"

  "The day before yesterday, yes."

  "Who told you?"

  "I just got a phone call. A fella phoned."

  "Where did you meet these two before?"

  "As true as God, I never did. They're from Belfast."

  Vaguely, Duffy wondered if he could control what he was saying. It was like being stoned-you didn't know if you said it or just thought it. He understood he had to keep the shared illusion about the other two being caught. He doubted they'd be taken. They were hard men and they were wanted, so they had little enough to lose. They had made him nervous the way they hardly said a word all day.

  "All I know," the voice continued," is that they told me to lose that patrol car. I remember we ran into a dead end and they jumped out of the car. I remember them shooting. And me trying to get out the door on my side. I was half-way out. I was lucky not to get me leg sliced off so I was."

  "What were you at this afternoon?"

  Duffy hesitated. Like a magnetic force, he could feel the closeness of the cop behind him. His skin tickled alarms.

  "I think it was a bank job. The boys was bored."

  "Where?"

  "Cruising is all. They never told me anything, as true as…"

  "Where have you been staying?"

  "At that hotel. Same as them," Duffy added.

  A light knock at the door. Plain clothes opened it. Galvin left the room. He closed the door gently behind him.

  In the hallway, the Special Branch man whispered,

  "No sign of them or the guns. We think they got out of the area right away."

  "This yo-yo says they're Belfast and that's all he knows. They'll be headed back into the city now. They were staying at the Burlington so set the place up overnight anyway, though I doubt it. Get in first and have a look around. Remember who you're dealing with. They might have handguns."

  "What about your man inside?"

  Galvin stroked his chin.

  "Ah, he's only a dummy. He's not trained at all. He has the willies with Moroney in there."

  "We have the check-points up on the Bray Road and Merrion Road. Nothing
yet. We're starting the house-to-house about now," the Special Branch man said.

  And there'll be nothing from the check-points either if that little shitebird is telling the truth, Galvin added silently. Hard men.

  "Set up something for this fella in the Bridewell, would you. They can't keep him here. We'll be done with him in a few minutes. For the moment anyway. Make sure the door-to-door thing is kept up. And I want every house on our lists visited by a policeman tonight, especially on the south side of the city. Sympathisers, politicos, hangers-on, I don't give a shite. Show the flag. They'll know that they can't hide out there."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And get a bit of first aid for this fecker in here. Maybe a concussion or eardrums. Don't take any guff out of him. He fell down a few times and hurt himself."

  "Yes, sir."

  When Galvin re-entered the room, Duffy looked over to him. Duffy was hunched over in the chair. The room smelled bad. It was hot now.

  "Duffy. In between now and the time we see you again, you have some thinking to do. You should opt for self-preservation if you have any savvy at all. Your mates are in the same boat. And here's something else to dwell on while you still have fond memories of my colleagues here. Your outfit will be told that you're singing away here, so you'll have to square it with them in the clink when you get there. Who knows, we mightn't have you alive enough after that to hang you anyway. Doesn't matter what you say. We have the finger on plenty of your lads here and all we have to do is lift a few of them and drop your name, Volunteer Duffy. You don't know the half of it. Start remembering quick. You're up to your oxters now so all you can do is buy your way into some kind of protective custody. And even that won't mean much unless we see our way to some allowances later on. Remember: you killed a Garda officer. We can have you looking like a Hallowe'en mask at the end of a rope."

  Moroney saw the wariness in the prisoner's eyes. The side of his head was swolleiralready and there was a drying film of blood at the corners of his mouth. Galvin felt a final rush of contempt for this pathetic fool. He thinks he has one up on us because we're codding him about his cronies being in custody, Moroney reflected. No training. Maybe it'd never dawn on him how suggestion worked. We know that he thinks he knows, that's the control. Moroney believed Duffy would get his story in soon enough. He also believed that it wouldn't amount to much.