Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  Jon recalled the dramatic painting in the back office of Darragh’s nightclub. The title was something to do with the wrecking of a ship. He tried to remember what the vessel had been called, but it wouldn’t come. A quick check of the index revealed all manner of names: Annunciada, Bautista, San Esteban, La Girona, Encoronada, Duquesa, Trinidad. None seemed right.

  The shop owner walked back in with a bulb of Blu-Tack in her hand. ‘Here you are. Whichever space you fancy.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen her?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sorry,’ she replied. ‘I wish I could be more help.’

  Jon studied her kindly face. No way she’s being anything less than honest, he thought. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘is there some sort of a pony sale round here tomorrow?’

  She pointed to the junction. ‘There most certainly is. Connemara ponies. Back along the Galway road, just past the Garda station. You can’t miss it – look for where all the horseboxes and four-wheel drives are parked.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He continued his circuit of the town square. Two shops along, his eyes widened. It was an art gallery; paintings on display were moody seascapes. The exact same style as the one in Darragh’s office. Jon squinted at the untidy signature in the corner of the painting. F. Whelan.

  The tall man inside the shop reminded Jon of Roald Dahl’s Big Friendly Giant.

  ‘Fergus?’ the man said in answer to Jon’s question, accent distinctly English. ‘He’s a member of the travelling community. Comes by every so often in the summer to collect the proceeds of any sales.’

  ‘Any way to get hold of him in the meantime?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve no idea where he spends his winters.’

  Damn, thought Jon. The painting in Darragh’s office was enormous in comparison to the ones this man had for sale. It was probably requested specifically by the nightclub owner. ‘I saw another painting the other day. My guess is Fergus was asked to paint it.’

  ‘You’re looking to commission him yourself?’ The art gallery owner was reaching for a pen.

  ‘Well…perhaps. But I’m also very interested to know more about what it depicted. It was of a ship being wrecked on a rocky shore. I can’t remember – ’

  ‘Where was this painting?’

  ‘In that nightclub round the corner.’

  ‘Darragh’s?’

  Jon nodded.

  The gallery owner put the pen down, folded one hand over the other and scrutinised Jon. ‘May I enquire if you’re here on holiday?’

  Jon hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take my advice. Stick to admiring the landscape and enjoying the odd pint in a quiet pub. Steer clear of that club and the people involved in it.’

  Jon acted confused. ‘Really? Why?’

  The other man turned back to the catalogue on his desk. Jon waited a few seconds before deciding their conversation was going no further. ‘Nice paintings, by the way. That Whelan person’s.’

  ‘Aren’t they?’ he replied, without looking up.

  Once out on the street, he called Rick. His colleague’s answerphone clicked in. ‘Hi mate, it’s me again,’ Jon announced. ‘If you get a chance, can you have a little dig around on that interweb thingy? I’m beginning to think there really is some kind of link between the de Avilas and the Armada. And no, I’m not losing my marbles. I saw a painting in Darragh’s office about a ship with a Spanish name being wrecked. That and the RSPCA inspector discovering that the Spanish army used to use Alanos as war dogs. I don’t know – maybe a Google search will throw up something. Speak to you soon.’

  At the entrance of Darragh’s nightclub, he pinned a poster on each door, driving the drawing pins as far into the wood as they’d go. Try prising those back out with just your nails, he thought, walking back to his hotel.

  Up in his room, he resumed his seat by the window, laid both phones on the table and removed the small note from his pocket. The words were neatly spaced and rounded to the point of being slightly childish. He noted how the word ‘tomorrow’ was missing an ‘r’. No full stop, either. Whoever wrote it, he guessed, hadn’t gone far at school. Zoë, he remembered, had spent her childhood in care. Never the basis for a decent education.

  Dropping the note on the table, he sat back and waited. After forty-five minutes, his legs were twitching with nervous energy. He stood and rocked on the balls of his feet, looking restlessly round the room. Pony sale. The words were ricocheting round in his head. What did the message mean?

  If I was at home, he thought, I’d get changed and go for a run. He kicked his shoes off then removed his socks, fleece top and T-shirt. Next he took the large towel out of the bathroom and laid it out on the expanse of carpet at the foot of the bed.

  After circling his arms back and forth, he dropped into the press-up position and pumped out a set of fifty. Chest muscles throbbing, he positioned the desk chair at the end of the towel and adopted the press-up position once again, this time with his feet up on the seat of the chair. He completed another thirty-one, breath becoming laboured and shoulders burning as he forced himself to complete a few more.

  As soon as he reached thirty-five, he shoved the chair away and began a series of squat thrusts. After that, he laid on his back and completed seventy abdominal crunches. On his feet, he shook his arms loosely at his sides, feeling the blood surging through the muscles of his upper body.

  His head turned to the little pay-as-you-go phone. Is the bloody thing working? Picking up his normal phone, he dialled the other handset’s number. Moments later it started to ring and he cut the call. Course it’s working, he thought. Give the posters a bit more time. It’s not like the streets are heaving with people.

  After wiping himself down with a wet flannel, he put his clothes back on and started pacing the room. I can’t bloody stay here, he thought. What can I do? But he knew the answer already. He looked at the jacket slung across the bed. Car keys are in the side pocket. He pictured the narrow, twisting road to Roundstone. You’re off to meet your grandad, he said to himself, scooping up both phones.

  ‘Dad, he’s here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That fucking great peeler. The one from England.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s here?’

  ‘Here, in Clifden. Walking round the place pinning up posters.’

  ‘Oh my God. What kind of posters?’

  ‘Not about the tapes. Missing-person posters.’

  ‘Zoë?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old man moved the phone to his other ear, got slowly to his feet and walked stiffly to the plate-glass windows of the restaurant. Beyond the faint reflection of his fleshy face, the streets of Dublin were busy. Lunch hour was almost over and office workers were heading back to their desks. His beady eyes settled for a moment on his Maserati parked directly opposite. A bastard warden was peering through the windscreen. Check all you want, he said to himself, knowing the disabled badge was on the dashboard. The beauty of having a doctor keen to show his gratitude, he thought.

  ‘I’m on my own here, Dad. You’re in Dublin. Fuck-knows where Devlan is. The guy walked straight through Conor. What if he comes back to the club tonight? I need Sean. Where the hell are they?’

  ‘I’m having trouble getting hold of them.’

  ‘Well, I’m not opening the club. If it’s not open, he can’t get in.’

  He moved towards a quiet corner of the restaurant, away from the smattering of other diners. ‘You’ll be open as usual. Clear?’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Clear?’

  ‘Yes. Where are they? I pay Sean’s wages, not Devlan.’

  ‘Manchester, apparently. I’ll get hold of them, don’t worry.’

  ‘You need to. Quickly.’

  ‘They’ll surface soon. The fight’s on Saturday. No way they’ll miss that.’

  ‘Those damned dogs. If he spent more time on proper business – ’

  ‘It is business. You know your brother’s not good with books, like you
. But these fights aren’t just a sideshow, Darragh: that’s why I let him keep organising them.’

  ‘So what’s this tour of England achieved?’

  ‘Spreading the word, Darragh. Creating interest. Soon as we have a litter, we’ve got potential buyers in Newcastle and Birmingham, is what he said. Meanwhile for you son, it’s business as usual. A tan – and one here on his own – is not a problem for us. No one can be allowed to think that.’

  ‘He’s also police.’

  ‘I know. But it’s still business as usual. I’ll get you Sean back.’

  ‘OK. And I need to talk to you about Anderson Court. The bank called me back – there’ll be no more loans – ’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘You said that last time.’

  ‘Listen, I’m about to meet some people about these properties haemorrhaging us money.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Turkmen.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They’re from Turkmenistan. They’ve got cash.’

  ‘What kind of cash?’

  ‘They control a supply route coming out of Afghanistan – ’

  ‘Heroin, you mean?’

  ‘They’re drowning in cash and they’re looking for places to invest. They’re also very interested in the Alano – so I’ve invited them to the fight on Saturday. VIP treatment, the lot.’

  ‘Dad, I wish you’d mentioned this. I need time to think. The whole point of my business plan was to move us into legitimate streams of revenue. Whoever these people are – ’

  ‘Time is something we don’t have, son. If we can seal the deal with these guys, we’re out of the woods with those bloody buildings it was your stupid idea to buy.’

  Chapter 24

  The circular tablet inscribed with the word ‘Roundstone’ came into view. Jon felt his palms moisten. Why, he asked himself, are you nervous? You’re meeting your grandad; he’ll be pleased to see you. He nodded. Course he will be. You’re family. But it’s not only that, another part of him responded. This is the first step in discovering what happened with Mum.

  He got out of the vehicle and studied the sky. On the horizon, a few shafts of sunlight had broken through, mottling the distant ocean with a silver sheen. Slowly, Jon walked along the high street, crossing over when he reached O’Dowd’s. The lights were on and he could see a couple of figures at the bar. I could pop in, he thought. A quick pint to gee me up. He regarded the steep side road. No. Best to do this with a clear head and no alcohol on your breath. First impressions and all that. He walked up the incline, the little bungalow gradually coming into view.

  There was a car parked on the driveway. A battered old red Nissan, brown patches of rust discolouring the wheel arches. Jon stopped at the foot of the drive and looked at the windows. The curtains in one room were closed, the rest of the house dark. He took a quick breath and approached the porch. The door was ajar and the old armchair Malachy had been sitting in was empty. Jon looked at the moth-eaten old blanket stretched over it, and as he reached through the gap and knocked on the inner door, he realised his mouth had gone completely dry.

  After a few seconds he could see a figure approaching. The door opened to reveal a kind-faced woman somewhere in her fifties. Her brown hair was cut short and swept to the side. Jon saw a few strands of white running through it. She was wearing dark blue trousers and a white tunic with some kind of badge.

  Jon glimpsed the name Eileen Mahon. One of Mum’s sisters is called Eileen, he thought. Possibly the youngest. She was looking at him with a quizzical expression. ‘Yes?’

  The muscles round his mouth felt stiff and unresponsive as Jon tried to smile. ‘Hello.’ He gestured behind him at the road. ‘I was…I’m here, because I was – ’

  ‘Is it Jon?’

  He met her eyes and saw a range of emotions in them. Pleasure, surprise, alarm. ‘Yes.’

  She looked at the empty armchair. Then her eyes went to the road, as if searching for someone else.

  ‘I’m here on my own.’

  Her gaze went back to him and a muscle beside her eye twitched. ‘Look at me, just standing here. Come in, come in.’ She stepped back and waved him into the little hallway. ‘The kitchen is in front. Will you have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Jon stepped inside, recognising the same dusky smell that had permeated Mannion’s Bar. He continued towards the doorway at the end of the corridor. There was a room on his left with an old sofa, a television and a wooden sideboard. A multitude of framed photos covered it. He heard the chink of cutlery in the kitchen and looked uncertainly over his shoulder.

  She waved him on. ‘Kieron, my son. Kieron? We have a visitor.’

  Jon stepped into a small kitchen that appeared unchanged from the fifties. A cast-iron stove took up the middle part of the far wall. At the stone sink in the corner, a man somewhere in his early twenties was washing up. Heavy features and thick black hair.

  ‘Hello there,’ he nodded.

  ‘Hello.’ Jon checked the room again. Where, he wondered, is Malachy?

  Eileen stepped round him. ‘Kieron, this is your cousin, Jon. Mary who lives near Manchester – it’s her oldest son.’

  Jon saw the other man’s eyes widen a fraction before he turned to remove a tea towel from the thin metal bar running along the front of the stove. He dried his hands slowly then turned back, now in control of his face. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Jon.’ A hand was held out and they shook.

  ‘Good to meet you.’ He turned to Eileen once again.

  Seeming to read his thoughts, she nodded at the doorway. ‘Your grandfather is having his nap. I call in each day to make his tea. Kieron works nearby, so I feed him, too.’

  Jon glanced at the clock on the wall above the window. Ten to five. They eat early.

  She took the tea towel from her son’s hands, wrapped it round the handle of a huge kettle sitting on the stove’s hotplate then poured boiling water into the teapot on the middle of a small table. ‘Sit down,’ she said, gesturing at one of two chairs as she replaced the kettle.

  Wedged in the gap between the ancient-looking stove and the row of cupboards lining the adjacent wall was an old wicker chair. Beneath it was a basket filled with hard lumps of peat. On the floor on the other side of the stove was a blanket on which a black-and-white Border collie lay. It looked up at Jon with a semi-interested expression.

  Jon unzipped his ski jacket. The kitchen was warm as toast. Hanging it on the back of a chair, he turned round. ‘Sorry to just turn up like this. I’m actually staying in Clifden and drove over on the off chance. The lady in your village shop told me this is where Malachy lives.’

  Eileen smiled. ‘So you’re alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jon sat down, brought his knees together and slid his palms between them. ‘Mary doesn’t know I’m here.’

  Eileen’s face tightened. ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you, so it is. It must be over thirty years. How old are you now, Jon?’

  ‘Forty-three.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ She rolled her eyes, removing another cup from the shelf near the sink. ‘You were knee-high to a grasshopper when I last set eyes on you. For Martyn’s christening in Scotland. Jeanne’s oldest? He lives in Boston, now.’

  Jon gave a little shake of the head. ‘Sorry, I don’t remember. Jeanne is the oldest sister, is that right?’

  Eileen’s smile slipped a fraction before she spoke. ‘It is. Jeanne, then Una, then Mary, then Nial, then me.’

  ‘So Jeanne lives in Scotland?’

  ‘Yes – near Glasgow. Her husband works on the oil rigs.’

  ‘What about your other sister and brother?’

  ‘Well, Nial’s still in Roundstone. He runs the hotel.’

  ‘And Una?’

  Eileen removed a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, tore it open and tipped the contents on to a plate. ‘Una died back in 1982. A traffic accident out in Guatemala where she was working for a mission.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jon dropped hi
s head, thinking about his own Mum’s devout Catholic beliefs. Suddenly, a thought occurred: are they even aware my brother’s dead? ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know about Grandma either – not until I found her grave in the little cemetery by the beach.’

  There was silence for a few seconds. ‘Mary didn’t tell you?’

  He looked up to see troubled expressions on both their faces. ‘She doesn’t talk about this side of the family. Never has.’

  Kieron looked to his mum for a response. She became aware of the plate of biscuits in her hand. ‘Here.’ She put them in front of Jon. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’ She picked up the little jug next to the teapot.

  ‘Just milk, thanks.’ As she poured, he took the opportunity to look around the kitchen more carefully. Kieron had gone back to washing up and Jon took in his muddy overalls and stout work boots. The young man’s shoulder muscles bulged through his clothes and heavy forearms protruded from his rolled-up sleeves. Nailed to the wall above him was a crucifix.

  ‘So are you in the medical profession?’ Jon asked Eileen as she slid a cup towards him.

  ‘That I am. District nurse for the area south of Clifden.’

  ‘Same as Mum,’ Jon said. ‘Though she worked in a hospital. Did you train in Manchester, too?’

  Eileen’s eyes clouded as she turned away. ‘No. Galway for me.’

  How come? Jon thought. If the family was happy to send Mary away to train in Manchester, why not you as well? After all, you could have shared a flat. Unless Mary being in Manchester is somehow part of the rift that opened up. Along with her getting married to a non-Catholic from Salford. ‘I actually came past last Sunday morning. Malachy was sitting out in the front porch. We didn’t speak, but he seemed well.’

  ‘Oh, he is that.’ Her tone was that of a teacher referring to an unruly kid. ‘He’s slowed down a lot since Mum died. Mind isn’t what it was. But he still gets about – drinks beer in O’Dowd’s often enough.’