Dead Man’s Sins
Caimh McDonnell
Copyright © 2021 by McFori Ink
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Caimh McDonnell
Visit my website at www.WhiteHairedIrishman.com
First edition: June 2021
ISBN:978-1-912897-26-1
Contents
Author’s note
1. You Can’t Trust Writers
2. Homophobia in Suburbia
3. A Better Class of Tea
4. Red Letter Day
5. Castles and Monsters
6. Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?
7. For the Birds
8. Questions Without Answers
9. This is my Rifle …
10. A Quiet Word
11. Under a Blood-red Moon
12. Mourning Has Broken
13. We Need a Bastard
14. Alcopops
15. Meet the New Boss
16. Trouble’s Dawning
17. The Widow’s Words
18. The Irritated Bowels of Justice
19. Boxers in Briefs
20. R A W K
21. Up on the Roof
22. A Baker’s Half-dozen
23. Dinner for One
24. How to Milk a Cucumber
25. Humping Hounds
26. A Lost Soul
27. A Walk in the Park
28. Knee Deep in Shit
29. Dimples
30. So Much Trouble
31. Old Friends
32. No Buses for Ages and Then …
33. Get Out
34. What You Mean by Down
35. That Sinking Feeling
36. Sex Dungeons in Suburbia
37. Under Surveillance
38. In the Rough
39. Finders Weepers
40. Worse Things Happen at Sea
41. The Finger
42. Bad Ideas
43. Batman and Other Batman
44. Person of Interest
45. Boxed In
46. The Final Question
Free Book
Also by Caimh McDonnell
The Stranger Times – C.K. McDonnell
Eagle-Eyed Legends
Author’s note
Dear Reader,
Normally, I use the author’s notes in the front of my books to prepare North Americans for an onslaught of things being spelled ‘correctly’. You know, the Irish way which as far as my Ma (who is the arbiter of such things) is concerned, is the only way. However, this time around I would like to dedicate this note to the subject of chronology.
Dead Man’s Sins is set in March 2000 in Dublin. It takes place a few months after the events of Angels in the Moonlight – meaning it is effectively the sequel to a prequel. I realise that this is incredibly confusing and I humbly apologise for it.
In my defence, the book was written between 2020-2021 when, frankly, reality sucked big time. I wanted to retreat to a simpler time when bats were only mildly unpopular and people wore masks to scare people, as opposed to the other way around. In this golden era the pubs in Ireland were all open unless actually on fire, and even then, it was acceptable to take your pint outside and wait for the fire brigade to finish up.
The point I’m trying to make is, there’s a sixteen-year gap in Bunny McGarry’s story between when Angels in the Moonlight ends and A Man with One of Those Faces begins. This book is the start of that timeline/story being filled in.
I hope you like it!
Caimh
You Can’t Trust Writers
Dublin, 2000
Bunny pulled his coat around him tightly and stared down at the water, the resolutely blue water.
“Howerya, boss.”
He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to.
“Deccie, how would you describe the colour of that water?”
The youngster moved to stand beside Bunny and looked down. “D’ye mean the sea, boss?”
“Of course I mean the sea. What other body of water is there knocking about the place?”
Deccie pointed. “There’s a puddle over there.”
Bunny sighed. Talking to Deccie was never an advisable activity this early in the day. Bunny had woken up hungover at 11am after a night that was longer than it should have been, and he’d not eaten yet. In order to grapple with the peculiar mind of Deccie Fadden, you needed a good meal inside you to achieve the requisite level of inner peace beforehand. If he was like this at twelve years old, heaven knows what he’d grow into.
Bunny waved a hand at the expanse of water before them. “Let’s assume I mean the majestic Irish Sea and not that, or any other, puddle.”
“Right,” said Deccie. “Well, it’s not my area of expertise, but I’d go with periwinkle blue.”
This earned him a sideways look.
“Me granny likes them DIY programmes, and we’ve only the one TV.”
“Right, but definitely not snot green?”
“What? No, course not. What kind of a dipshit would say that?”
“James Joyce.”
“I don’t know him. Does he go to O’Connell’s?”
“Does he … No, Deccie, he’s considered one of this country’s true literary geniuses. His school days are behind him – as are all of his days, for that matter. I’m currently taking yet another run at reading a book he wrote called Ulysses, in which he describes the sea here at the Forty Foot as snot green.”
“He’s clearly full of it, boss. You can’t trust writers. They make up nonsense for a living.”
“That’s an interesting take, Deccie.”
“He’s not related to Fiona Joyce, is he?”
“Who’s that?”
“Girl a couple of years above me in school. She used to be able to belch the whole alphabet, but she won’t do it any more. Says it isn’t ladylike.”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
Deccie nodded. “I just thought of it because she’s always making stuff up, too. Told everyone Darren Simonds shat himself on the waltzers at Funderland, and he never did.”
Bunny looked back down at the resolutely blue water as the low winter sun sparkled off it. “You just can’t trust them Joyces.” He glanced over his shoulder at the spot along the pier where a chip van had just pulled up. “C’mon, Deccie, I’ll buy you lunch.”
Bunny pursed his lips and studied the burger van’s limited menu. “I will have …”
The facial expression of the woman serving made it clear that him turning up and trying to buy something was already a massive inconvenience to her, and the very least he could do was be quick about it.
“… sausage, chips and a can of Fanta, please, love.” He looked down at the assistant manager of St Jude’s Under-12s hurling team. “Deccie?”
“Skinny decaf latte.”
Bunny rolled his eyes. “He’ll have the same as me.”
“D’ye want salt and vinegar?” asked the woman.
“Actually,” said Bunny, “any chance of a spot of mayonnaise?”
The woman pulled a face more suited to the question of whether or not one’s granny is at home to receive gentlemen callers. “Of course. Will sir be having that with the redcurrant jus and pomegranate infusion?”
The woman followed B
unny’s gaze as it fell pointedly on the sign behind her head that read THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT. She gave him a smile with no smile in it.
“It’s covering up a rust spot.”
Five minutes and a monumentally optimistic nod at the tip jar later, Bunny and Deccie sat down on a nearby bench to eat their food.
“What exactly is the Forty Foot?” asked Deccie around a mouthful of chips.
“’Tis a popular swimming spot. People dive in there every Christmas morning.”
Deccie nearly choked, which necessitated a firm slap on the back from Bunny.
“People jump in there? In, like, just a pair of trunks? What the hell is that? Some kind of mass suicide attempt?”
Bunny shrugged. “They love it.”
“We’ve not got the weather for that kind of carry on.”
“’Tis Ireland, Deccie. If we waited for the weather to be nice before we went to the seaside, we’d have to send someone out every few months to check the sea was still there. If memory serves, we used to get a few nudists out this way as well.”
Deccie lit up in the way only a boy careering towards puberty can, his face aglow with terrified, horny excitement.
“Cool your jets,” said Bunny. “A person going skinny dipping in France is embracing the beauty of nature, or whatever. Doing it in Dublin in winter? ’Tis a mental illness. Trust me, anyone who wants to show themselves off around here invariably has the kind of body no one wants to see.”
Deccie tutted. “Fair enough.”
They finished their food in amicable silence. It didn’t taste bad, considering, but then you couldn’t really go that far wrong combining batter, grease and a sausage on a cold winter’s day.
“So, are you no longer a rozzer, then, boss?”
“Incorrect,” said Bunny. “I am, in fact, still a card-carrying member of the Garda Síochána, Deccie. I’m just on sabbatical.”
“Oh right. I didn’t even know you were Jewish.”
“What are you on about? Sabbatical just means I’m taking a bit of a break.”
“Got ye. Is that because your best mate got shot to death and then your girlfriend did a runner?”
Bunny raised his eyebrows and gave Deccie a look.
“Ah, this is one of those situations we talked about, isn’t it? Where I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking?”
Bunny gave him a slow nod.
“Sorry about that, boss. I’m still working on it.”
“Work harder.”
“Right. Noted.”
Bunny reached across and tossed his Styrofoam packaging into the bin. “So, how are things at home?”
“Fine. Grandad gave me a lift out.”
Deccie jerked his head in the direction of the car park. Bunny had already clocked the Opel Corsa parked up there with Deccie’s grandfather sat in the front, his heavy overcoat on, a newspaper in his hands.
“School?”
“Same old, same old.”
“How come you’re not there?”
“Training day. You’d think they’d have already trained the teachers before they let them loose on us, but apparently not.”
“Right.” Bunny watched as a couple of mothers with prams power-walked by. “I guess what I’m getting at, Deccie, is why exactly did you want to meet somewhere so far away from your typical stomping ground?”
“I don’t want to get fitted for no snitch jacket.”
“What have I told you about watching those American cop shows?”
“Life on the streets ain’t easy, boss. I’m keeping it real.”
“If memory serves, you live on a rather nice cul-de-sac.”
“That’s a type of street.”
Bunny’s stomach made a noise that was loud enough for them both to hear. “While I hate to disrupt your natural oratorical flow, Deccie, can we move this along? I’m getting the feeling that sausage is only a short-term rental.”
“Who could have guessed sausage meat bought from a dodgy-looking van wouldn’t be the highest quality?”
“Deccie!” said Bunny, starting to lose his patience.
The boy nodded. “Do you remember how Larry Dodds broke his arm last year jumping off that roof?”
“I do. Made us all sign his cast.”
“Yeah,” said Deccie with a smile. “There ended up being that many cock and balls on it, he had to put a bag over it before that woman would let him on the bus.”
Deccie’s grin fell away when Bunny’s facial expression made it clear that he hadn’t known that particular fact and wasn’t impressed by it.
“Anyway,” Deccie continued. “My point is he was mad proud of it.”
“I know. They had to force him to get it removed in the end. Bloody thing stank.”
“Exactly. Lads that age are obsessed with that kind of thing.”
Bunny frowned. “You do realise that you are also that age?”
Deccie entirely ignored the question. He found half a chip sitting in the folds of his anorak and popped it in his mouth.
“So, what’s up with Larry?”
“Nothing. Larry is grand. It’s Alan.”
“With one or two Ls?”
“One. I still reckon two was a spelling mistake.”
“For the last time, it’s French or Scottish or something. Foreign anyway. Now what about Alan?”
“He’s got a bruise on his arm. Like, a proper belter. Several different colours. The lot.”
“OK.”
“And he doesn’t want anyone to see it.”
Bunny nodded. “Didn’t Alan and his ma recently move in with Gary Kearney?”
“Yeah. The great white dope of Irish boxing. I lost twenty quid on his last fight.”
“You shouldn’t be gambling.”
“Not on that waster’s matches. You’re dead right, boss.”
“And we think …”
Bunny watched Deccie, who turned his eyes away and bowed his head, his normal bravado deserting him. “We do.”
“Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
The youngster looked up at him, incomprehension writ large across his face. “Course not, boss. Who else would I talk to?”
“Fair enough. Leave it with me.”
“Will do. So, what’s this information worth?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a busy man.”
“You are, in fact, neither of those things.”
Deccie ploughed on. “Fifty quid?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Can I pick the team for the next game?”
“No.”
“I’d like a bigger input on tactics.”
“Definitely not. You shot your bolt with your ‘sharpen the edge of your hurley’ speech. I had to check equipment for weeks.”
Deccie raised his eyes to heaven. “D’you know what your problem is, boss? You’ve no appreciation for the fundamentals of the game.”
“I’ll take your criticism on board,” said Bunny, getting to his feet. He buttoned up his coat as Deccie sat there, his arms folded, scowling. “I’ll tell you what, you can pick man of the match in the next game.”
“But it’ll be Paulie. It’s always Paulie.”
“I know,” said Bunny. “And you get to pick him.”
Deccie thought about this, then nodded. “Alright. Good deal.” He held out his clenched hand for a fist bump.
Bunny placed his palm over the top of it. “Paper covers rock. One–nil. Tell your grandad I said hello.”
“Will do.”
Bunny’s phone started to ring. He fished it out of his pocket, looked at the screen and groaned.
“Who is it?” asked Deccie.
“Nobody you know.”
“Ah, ignore it, then. I know everybody important.”
Bunny almost put the phone away but at the last second, his guilt got the better of him. He sighed and answered it. “Hello, Mrs Spain …”
The flurry of panicked words that burst forth from the earpiece almos
t caused Bunny to yank the phone from his ear.
“Alright, calm down. I’ll be right there.”
Bunny hung up. “Do you reckon your grandad will be up for giving me a lift to Clontarf?”
“I’m sure he …”
Deccie didn’t get a chance to finish as Bunny was already halfway to the car park.
Homophobia in Suburbia
The drive from the Forty Foot over to Clontarf was nothing if not educational. Bunny was not in a very chatty mood, which was just as well as, with Deccie and his grandad in close proximity, there was absolutely no room in the conversation for anyone else. Not that it was actually a conversation. Bunny soon realised it was more like an endless spouting of opinions from both ends of the family tree as the pair spoke with absolute certainty on absolutely everything, seemingly paying almost no attention to their interlocutor.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with Japan …” began Grandad Fadden.
“Raw fish,” continued Deccie. “Ye can’t be eating raw fish.”
“The cars are good, but they don’t look like they’re good.”
“How busy are they that they can’t cook the fish?”
“Yeah, they’re fuel-efficient and probably very safe, but they don’t look very safe.”
“I mean, you’re not eating any other animals raw, are ye?”
“It’s like the reason lads get tattoos. You stay out of a fight by looking like you’ll win a fight.”
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