Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

  “What makes people think fish can’t kill ye? Just look at Jaws.”

  “Now, the Swedes, they make a car that looks like it’s good.”

  “I don’t get the fuss about meatballs, though.”

  “You could hit an elk in one of them and still walk away.”

  “It’s just meat shaped like a ball. Get over it.”

  “And if you hit an elk, it’s yours. Could be a nice little earner, that. Worth a few bob, your elk.”

  “Come to think of it, the name itself is suspicious. ‘Meat’. Go up to someone on the street and ask them if they want some ‘meat’. They’ll run a mile. It’s dangerously unspecific.”

  “An elk is basically nature’s version of a deer with tattoos.”

  “I’d not eat elk meat. Or alpaca or kangaroo, or anything like that.”

  “Big horny buggers, though. I’d not want to hit one in a Japanese car.”

  “If kangaroo was nicer than cow, then we’d have fields full of kangaroos already.”

  “Japan’s problem is their wildlife is too timid. Couple of elks knocking about and the cars would improve soon enough.”

  “It’s like they’re trying to rerun an election we already had. Cow won, get over it.”

  “The problem with French cars is they’re made by the French.”

  “Snails. There’s another one.”

  “They’re too into pleasure.”

  “Snails don’t taste of anything; I ate one as a bet that time at that summer camp. They’re just a bit wriggly.”

  “If Pierre or François think it’s a nice day, they’ll be off to sit under a tree and eat chocolate bread. That’s how you end up with not enough bolts in your car.”

  “They’re just pretending to like stuff to be awkward.”

  “That’s the French for you.”

  “Yep,” agreed Deccie. “That’s the French for you.”

  The pair continued in this vein for the entire journey. Two parallel streams of consciousness spewing forth opinions and intertwining only occasionally. It would have been oddly hypnotic only Bunny wasn’t able to relax. Diana Spain had sounded distressed. Her irate calls had become a regular part of his life, but this one had been different.

  As they got closer to Clontarf, Bunny gave directions to Grandad Fadden, who managed to follow them without breaking his seemingly endless monologue.

  They pulled up to the house on Williams Street and Bunny was out the door before the car had come to a stop.

  Two men were standing at the front door of the property. One was big and broad-shouldered in the way that looked like that’s what got him the job. The other man was by no means small – about the same size as Bunny, in fact – but his companion made him look dinky by comparison. The not-small small fella was holding a clipboard – the brains of the outfit, evidently. They were both wearing suits, the kind that looked as if they were fulfilling a minimum requirement, and were quite obviously the cheapest you could get without trawling charity shops, hoping someone had died in your size.

  Neither of the men noticed Bunny as he made his way through the garden gate. The big lad was trying to wring some water out of his suit while Clipboard was shouting abuse through the letterbox. “That’s assault, ye mad old cow. You’ll be up on charges for that.”

  “What in the feck is going on here?” asked Bunny.

  Both men turned around to look at him.

  “None of your bleeding business,” said Clipboard.

  “Wrong answer. Have another go.”

  “Who are you?” asked the big wet lad.

  “He’s Bunny McGarry,” came a shout from behind.

  Bunny turned to see two generations of the Fadden family now perched on the bonnet of the car, watching on.

  “I’ll handle this,” said Bunny.

  “I’m handling this,” said Clipboard. “Nobody asked you to get involved.”

  “Two grown men hassling a couple of defenceless little old ladies? I decided to get involved all by myself.”

  “Defenceless?” said the big guy. “The mad old one just turned the hose on us.”

  “Well, you do look like you could do with a wash.”

  “Excuse me,” came Deccie’s voice. “Can I just check – neither of you knows who Bunny is?”

  Clipboard pointed. “Who’s the little fat kid?”

  “Hey,” said Grandad Fadden. “That’s my grandson and the assistant manager of St Jude’s Under-12 hurling team. He’s not fat. He’s big boned.”

  “Lads,” said Bunny to his cheerleading squad, “could you let me handle this, please?”

  “Fair enough,” said Grandad, before Deccie added, “We’re here if you need us, boss.”

  “Boss?” asked Clipboard.

  “Bunny’s the manager of the St Jude’s Under-12s,” chipped in Grandad, which earned him a glare from Bunny. “Right. Sorry. Shutting up now.”

  “Whoever the fuck you are,” said Clipboard, “you and your hurling team can piss off.”

  “Hurling is a stupid game an’ all,” said the big fella.

  “Oh Jesus,” said Deccie with barely suppressed excitement in his voice. “You should not have said that.”

  “There’s only one way this is going to end,” concluded Grandad.

  Bunny tried to block out the closest you’ll get to the two old lads from the Muppets in real life and turned to Clipboard. “This house belongs to a good friend of mine.”

  The big fella, seemingly not keeping up with the conversation, turned to the gallery. “Hurling is only a bunch of faggots with sticks, chasing a ball about.”

  “Right, that’s it,” said Deccie.

  “Leave it, son. Bunny will deal with it.”

  “No, Grandad. I’m not standing for that kind of homophobic language.”

  “Deccie!” snapped Bunny. “Will you shut up?”

  “Right, boss. Sorry, boss.”

  “Now,” said Bunny, “like I said, this house belongs to a good friend of mine.”

  “Well, he’s not paid his debts so now we own it.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “It’s a fact,” said Clipboard.

  “Wait a sec,” said the big fella. “‘Faggot’ isn’t whatchamacallit?”

  “Homophobic,” supplied Grandad. “And it is.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about this debt,” said Bunny.

  “So?” said Clipboard. “Ask your friend about it.”

  “I can’t. He’s dead. He was a guard, shot in the line of duty.”

  “My heart bleeds for him,” said Clipboard with a sneer.

  Such disrespect was met with a sucking-in of air from the gallery.

  “Forget the hurling thing,” said Deccie. “You’re in for a whole other world of hurt now.”

  “Some things you just don’t say,” agreed Grandad.

  Bunny took a step towards Clipboard and lowered his voice. “I’m going to say this only once. Leave the paperwork, and if this is legit, I will sort it out.”

  “No. I have instructions. We own this house.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Suits me.”

  “Hang on,” said the big fella. “I can’t be homophobic. I’m gay.”

  “Oh right,” said Grandad. “That puts a different spin on it, alright.”

  “Does it, though?” said Deccie.

  “Rory,” snapped Clipboard, “you dozy poof. Shut up!”

  “Now that,” said Deccie, “we can all agree, was homophobic.”

  “Agreed,” said Grandad.

  “I’m a guard,” said Bunny.

  “Show me your ID, then, officer?” said Clipboard.

  “I don’t have it with me,” said Bunny. “I’m on sabbatical.”

  “You don’t look Jewish,” said the big fella.

  “It means he’s on a break, ye dozy eejit,” said Deccie.

  “So, you’re not currently a guard, then, are ye?” said Clipboard. He pointed at the front door. �
��That woman is getting out of there today. This house belongs to us.”

  “Let me see that.” Bunny snatched at the clipboard but its holder wouldn’t release it and the pair began to wrestle over it.

  Bunny had been in more than enough fights and sensed the big fella’s haymaker heading in his direction. As he ducked, it glanced off the top of his head and mostly made contact with Clipboard instead.

  Right before all hell broke loose, Bunny heard Grandad Fadden behind him, shouting cheerfully, “And they’re off!”

  A Better Class of Tea

  Bunny was peering into the bottom of his Styrofoam cup of tea when the door opened. He glanced up. “Detective Inspector O’Rourke, as I live and breathe. This is an unexpected honour.”

  Fintan O’Rourke took off his overcoat and walked across the room. “Bunny, always a pleasure.”

  “I had no idea you were working out of Clontarf Garda Station now. That’s a bit of a fall from your lofty role in charge of task forces and what not.”

  “Oh no,” said O’Rourke, pulling out the chair opposite Bunny and sitting down. “I still have the lofty role, alright. About to be bumped up, in fact.”

  “Congratulations. I’m glad to see the work we did on the Tommy Carter task force has paid off for you. So, what in the fecking hell are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, Detective.”

  “It’s just Bunny. I’m on sabbatical.”

  “Indeed you are. Which does rather bring us to the question of what you’re doing getting into fights in Clontarf of all places.”

  “Sure, I can’t get into scraps around where people know me. All the gobshites there have wised up to what a bad idea that is.”

  “Well, from the provisional report I’ve just read, it sounds like it won’t be long before your reputation spreads. It certainly will if Messrs Rory McDaid and Martin Dean have anything to do with it. Those are the names of the two men you kicked the crap out of – in case you didn’t know.”

  “They started it.”

  O’Rourke nodded. “I’ve no doubt they did. I’ve also read the witness statements provided by Declan Fadden Junior and Declan Fadden Senior.”

  “I didn’t know Deccie’s grandad was a Deccie too. Family tradition, I expect.”

  “Yes. I’d imagine if this were to go to court, they’d be quite the double act.” O’Rourke pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and unfolded it. “The younger’s statement, while hitting the same key points as his grandfather’s regarding your total innocence, is still quite the piece of work. Here’s my favourite bit: ‘The big gay fella swung for Bunny and missed but hit the homophobic fella, who took a swipe at Bunny. Only then did Bunny defend himself by smacking the homophobic fella right in the face and then kicked the big gay fella right in his big gay meat and two veg. He didn’t mean that in a homophobic way, it was just to stop the big gay fella from walloping him.’” He looked up. “It goes on like this for quite some time …”

  “Deccie has quite a way with words.”

  “That he has. By the way, your opponents – whose sex lives the Fadden family seems to know a remarkable amount about – have no serious injuries. Bruising, a sprained wrist, some cuts, and, one assumes, a tender big gay meat and two veg.”

  “For the record, I’d have much preferred to boot the homophobe in the knackers, but ye have to go with the flow in these situations.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Bunny picked up the now-empty Styrofoam cup. “Have you tried the tea here, Fintan? ’Tis incredible. I don’t know if it’s because they’re nearer the sea, or if they just have nicer teabags owing to this being fancy-pants Clontarf, but, honest to God, with a cuppa this good, why would you not get yourself arrested?”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, but while we’re on the subject, when the locals turned up at the site of your little contretemps, why didn’t you just tell them who you were?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  O’Rourke rolled his eyes. “Christ, you’re an awkward bastard, McGarry.”

  “You’re not the first to say it.”

  “Oh, I know,” said O’Rourke. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Which brings us back to: what the hell are you doing here, Fintan?”

  “One of mine got arrested. When they realised who he was, eventually, they gave me a call.”

  “I’m not one of yours, though. That task force was a temporary assignment.”

  O’Rourke rested his elbows on the table. “But seeing as it was the last thing you did before taking your extended leave of absence, it counts. Now, would you stop being so bloody difficult and tell me what’s going on. Why are you slugging it out with two of Coop Hannity’s boys on Gringo Spain’s lawn?”

  “Those two lads work for Coop?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  Bunny shrugged. “We were never properly introduced. Things escalated quickly.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed they have a tendency to do so when you’re around. So, what was going on?”

  “They seemed to be of the opinion they were owed some money and I was endeavouring to find out what was going on. Gringo’s ma is living there now with her friend. She rang me.”

  O’Rourke raised an eyebrow. “I met his mother at the funeral. She gave me quite the bollocking.”

  “Yeah. She does that.”

  “You and her are close, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “That there is a mutual dislike there, and if we could turn it into electricity it would be enough to power the entire east coast.”

  “And yet,” said O’Rourke, “when these guys turned up, she called you and not the police?”

  “Evidently.”

  “And you came running?”

  Bunny tried and failed to keep the irritation from his voice. “Of course I fecking came. She’s Gringo’s ma.”

  O’Rourke nodded, then paused for a few seconds and ran his hand along the edge of the table. “I thought all of Gringo’s finances had been sorted out?”

  “So did I.”

  When he died, Tim “Gringo” Spain had been in the middle of a divorce. He’d also had debts up the wazoo. Mary – the soon to be ex-wife – and Bunny sorted things out. She’d waived her right to Gringo’s death-in-service benefits on the understanding they went to his mother. Those benefits – minus the monthly repayments, as worked out by the Garda Representative Association’s lawyer with Gringo’s creditors, and which covered an agreed upon 25 percent of his debts – meant that Diana Spain could keep her son’s house and have just enough to cover living expenses.

  Normally, creditors never would have accepted such a deal, but even the banks had the sense to avoid any association with the headline “Slain hero cop’s mother left homeless”. However, that had still left the issue of Diana’s care. She had early onset dementia and, prior to her son’s death, had been in a care home – several of them, in fact – but her dissatisfaction with them all was surpassed only by the dislike the staff had for her. She didn’t want to stay in one, and none of them were overly keen to have her as a resident, but she couldn’t live alone. All of that, combined with there being nowhere near enough money to cover the level of private care she expected, had been a massive headache. Unexpectedly, Diana solved the issue herself, by announcing that her cousin Fionnuala was coming to stay with her at Gringo’s house. Characteristically, she had framed the arrangement as her doing her cousin a favour, even though the reverse was true.

  “Whatever is going on,” said O’Rourke, “I’m happy to help with it.”

  “That will not be necessary. I’m dealing with it.”

  “Yeah. Cracking job you’re doing so far, Bunny.”

  “Well, Detective Inspector, seeing as I’m currently on sabbatical, I would like to take this opportunity, as an ordinary, everyday citizen who is not under your command, to tel
l you to shove your criticism up your arse.”

  O’Rourke shook his head, then looked up at the unnervingly immaculate ceiling. “Gringo is not your responsibility.”

  He jumped back involuntarily as Bunny’s fist slammed down on the table.

  “He fecking well is,” Bunny snarled.

  O’Rourke held up his hands. “Sorry, I meant he isn’t just your responsibility. He was one of us and he died in the line of duty. Nobody is forgetting that.”

  Bunny and O’Rourke looked at one another for a long moment. Gringo, and, indeed, Cunningham and O’Shea, were something of a touchy subject among Garda senior management. While all three officers had died in the pursuit of the Carter gang – a pursuit that had netted Ireland’s most wanted armed-robbery crew along with the largest drug seizure in the history of the state – an awful lot of spin had taken place. The deceased trio had acted outside of the chain of command and behaved in a manner that was, to put it kindly, suspicious – there was an inkling that they might have been more focused on securing a big pay day for themselves than they were on apprehending anybody. Bunny knew for a fact that that had been the case. He also knew that in the end Gringo had done the right thing, and had saved Bunny’s life in the process.

  Burying Tim Spain and company as heroes and not as dirty cops had been something both he and Garda senior management were keen to see happen, and it had. They’d only got there as a result of certain questions not being asked. The last thing anyone wanted was the name Tim Spain coming up again in any capacity other than its appearance on a bronze plaque.

  Bunny leaned back in his chair. “I said I was going to handle it, and I am.”

  O’Rourke shrugged. “Alright, fine. You know where I am.”

  “I do.”

  “Speaking of which, when are you coming back to work, Bunny?”

  Bunny smiled. “Why, Detective Inspector, are you missing my company, or would you rather I was somewhere you can keep an eye on me?”

  O’Rourke got to his feet. “Can’t it be both?”

  Bunny ignored the question. “Am I free to go?”

  “Of course. For Christ’s sake, if you’d have just explained yourself to the locals, you wouldn’t have been here in the first place.”