 
Paddy Nemesis

By

Phil Cone

Copyright Phil Cone 2013

Published at Smashwords
This book is dedicated to Dylan and Finley and their endless opportunities
Chapter 1

"Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you."

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Ballymun was a blot on the landscape. Languishing and festering inside its boarded up prison, it should have been knocked down in 2008, but there I was; up on the tenth floor of Pearse tower, pissing in bottles, working on my tan, waiting to be the catalyst that blew the area to bits

For the last eight weeks, like a cockroach without a home, I'd been searching the remaining six towers for the most opportune angle. I had recorded to memory a list of all the residents that remained, and what floors would be vacant. I knew what flats were cytexed and what flats had been broken into by squatters. I knew what time of day they left, what time they entered, and what time they went to score some smack.

Connolly and Clarke towers were the only two blocks that were occupied by official residents. Not sure why, as they were neither south facing nor had views of the expansive industrial vista beyond the estate, just a view of the surrounding decay of 1960's social housing. They were also the only two blocks with electricity and running water.

I was frozen, sat down behind the balcony wall, looking down the corridor at the stairwell, the wind whistling around the concrete columns, so cold my bones ached, I crushed the top of my spine as I looked back behind me, over the wall, I could just see a metallic grey cloak of cloud promising rain and further depression. My stomach was growling with hunger, I hadn't eaten for days, and the last thing I ate was a stale slice of bread I'd found in one of the flats when the squatters were out getting their fix.

Ballymun was like Compton on a bad day; abject poverty that wasn't mirrored anywhere else in the country. Heroin was the biggest commodity around the damp stairwells and underpasses. Most of the lads up at the 'Joy were either in there for using, dealing or thieving. Most of them came from Ballymun.

I was tasked with killing Brian O'Connell or "the Judge" as the Sunday World had nicknamed him. O'Connell was the poor man's "General". He ordered the poor man around, made him do things he never thought of doing then became judge, jury and executioner of the poor man, the disenfranchised, the vulnerable and the weak.

He ran Ballymun. Nobody else wanted it. Nobody gave a fuck about it. He was reported to have killed key members of rival gangs, a "turf war" that could spread over the north-side, just so he could control Ballymun. In actual fact my contact in a rival gang had laughed this off, saying that if any member of his gang had been shot, he would have been shot off the back of an internal dispute, nothing to do with O'Connell.

He would have been more interested in what the papers had to say. It was probably himself who called up the papers "that fella who was nailed to the ground in the sign of the cross, it was that O'Connell's lot who done for him". My contact said nobody in their right mind wanted Ballymun, sure it was all going to be knocked down anyway, but that's been said for the last four years and there's no money to knock the blocks down, let alone build anything in its place

And therein lay the problem. Dublin County Council believed if O'Connell and his band of merry men went, then it would be a lot easier to get the remaining residents out. No heroin, no point staying. Just move, and buy it somewhere else. So their Chief Executive spoke to someone at my end, and I picked up a package at the usual collection point at the lockers in Connolly Station, and that's how I wound up here.

I followed O'Connell for the first week. I could have followed him for two days: he was a creature of habit. A broken record of violent sex with his wife, breakfast, out with the boys for a tour of his wealth, arriving in the forecourt at Ballymun at 10.30, and sitting in his blacked out Land Rover while the boys went out and dealt. This normally lasted for just over half an hour, dependant on the queue. He always had a sentry outside the car whilst he spent his time on the phone. The sentry had two handguns inside his waistband at the rear. He thought he was Nicholas Cage in Face/Off and was clearly a wanker.

I became friendly enough with one of the dealers, friendly in so much as I had cash on the hip, and he didn't kick the shite out of me - it's all about blending in. So, I let my hair grow longer, dark and unwashed. I let my beard grow, ginger and ragged. I starved myself to go for that emaciated, user or hunger-striker chic. I had created a good enough back-story: I told the dealer Anto had sent me. There was always an Anto on a drug dealer's lists of contacts. My accent was inner-city Dub, with a drawl like a Southern States redneck. I had a twitch in my eye, like a laser pen was constantly being fired at it. He never told me his name whenever I asked for it, I guess just for the rudeness of it at first - he liked to tell me to fuck off when I tried to engage him in conversation. All I was doing was reconnaissance. I was biding my time, looking up at the towers to see where I could find a nice clean line of sight for the whole of the forecourt. I always carried my rucksack with me whenever I ventured away from my hide. In the guttering under the balcony, I placed my SR25 rifle, wrapped up in waterproof plastic. In the rucksack, I had the carrier for the rifle and my piss bottles, pouring them out into the overgrown communal gardens to be used again.

I had taken the small bag of smack off of the dealer as per usual - after I paid €80 for the privilege. Because my body was all compressed from sleeping up against the wall, my legs took a while to recognise I was walking, though this helped with the whole method acting, as it looked like I had suffered from a Polio attack overnight. I hobbled past the Land Rover as the sentry opened the door, and I could see O'Connell on the passenger seat - talking loudly on his phone. There was somebody else in the rear of the car behind the driver's seat, somebody new, someone smartly suited, looking out of the passenger window - somebody who was going to die very soon, along with every individual in the surrounding area. As I made my way back - in case I had eyes on me - I walked into the communal entrance of Clarke tower, before breaking into a run. I slipped over on a pool of piss, not mine, and was disgusted at how un-human humans could be. I opened the bag and poured the powder into the puddle, dropped the now empty bag, and ran towards the rear door, aimed my shoulder at the point where it was locked, and it broke so easily, it was a wonder it was locked at all. I turned right, and ran to the edge of the block - quick peeks round the corner, back onto the forecourt - business as usual, nothing malign had appeared on their radar. Pearse was just over the way, and I made it in a fraction of a fraction of a second into the back doors and took the steps two at a time. By the fourth floor, sixteen years of smoking had set my lungs on fire and they were ready to explode out of my chest, but I could die later, as long as I did this now. Keep going, ignoring the sweat, not even an option to stop and have a breather.

Focus.

Eighth floor, I would love to have a lie down after this - feel like I'm going to puke. Tenth floor, a crawl along the floor, wall for cover, snail pace, worried they could hear my heartbeat, the most unprofessional professional. Grab the package and unwrap the plastic; the rifle - already prepared - was taken out and rested against the wall to my left.

I heard movement coming down the stairwell above me, something squeaky and being wheeled. I took out the Glock 17 from my inside jacket pocket, aiming at nothing, but ready for whatever it was about to come into my sight. It was a pushchair with an 18 month old boy in it.

And I thought I looked dirty.

I slipped the gun back inside my jacket. His mother wore a green velour tracksuit, a rip in the crotch which revealed a pair of what would have been at some point white knickers. Her fingernails were caked with dirt as if she'd been scraping at the ground like some wild animal. Her face was hollow and her eyes so bloodshot I couldn't tell what colour they were. She looked through me like I wasn't even there. Her child looked like he had never been given a bath.

She rolled her sleeve up and got her hand in under the pushchair and pulled out a make-up bag. She opened it up to reveal the necessary ingredients for a smack head, rusted Uri Geller spoon, syringe, strap, lighter and a bag of white powdered gold. She took the strap and tied it around her upper arm swiftly, not a novice in any sense of the word. The dead veins and tracks were too hard not to notice, a good five year's worth of addiction, I'd guess.

That her son hadn't been taken off her by the State was a tragedy.

She started heating the powder in the spoon with the lighter, clearly not caring about her son's discomfort, as he was battling to get out from under the straps and beginning to whinge. She didn't notice when he started crying, obviously having witnessed this sequence many times before.

\- Shut up!

She started tapping her forearm to try to get up any vein to pump the poison in. Her son started screaming louder and tears streamed down his red cheeks.

\- For fuck sake - shut up.

This only encouraged him more, it was torturous. I couldn't move because I'd spent the last few days working out the angle of the shot from here, not the 9th or 11th floor.

O'Connell' or his lads were surely going to be able to hear this screaming. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She had drawn the liquid into the syringe and brought it to her vein, which she punctured it and drew some blood in. The child was screaming blue murder, and without saying a word, she took her right hand off the plunger and slapped her son across the face with the back of her hand.

\- I fucking said shut up.

I brought up some vomit and spat it into the drain to my right. I looked on in disgust and anger as she went back to pushing the plunger down, as if what had just happened hadn't happened. Her eyes opened briefly, pupils massively dilated and she looked at me and smiled then leaned backwards, the smack taking instant effect.

I looked at her son, massive welts from her fingers on the left side of his cheek, she had knocked him unconscious: she was some vile cunt. I checked his pulse and breathing, all normal and I opened his mouth to see if there was any food in there or if he'd swallowed his tongue, he hadn't. He didn't need a life like this. I was just about to un-strap him, abort the mission, wait till tomorrow, I was gonna take him to the social and report his mum, give him a better chance. I couldn't do anything with her in the state she was in.

I was getting him out of the chair, getting the strap of the rucksack off my shoulder, ready to pack everything away, needed a quick exit, so O'Connell's dealers wouldn't see me leave the tower with an unconscious baby in tow. I didn't even question how I get myself into these situations.

I looked at his mother; her skin was a waxy yellow, barely stretching over the bones that were all that was left of her body. There was a milky-white substance coming out of the corner of her mouth and left nostril. She was OD'ing. Her kidneys must have begun to fail months, if not years ago. How she was ever big enough to bear a child, God only knows - she looked like a famine victim - just with fewer flies and no songs of lament to be sung.

I could literally see the other organs beginning to fail right before my eyes. The heroin must have been an anaesthetic of sorts, or she would have died in a screaming agony - the most disgusting death I have ever seen - and I've seen plenty. Her groin was soaked where she wet herself, her body expelling all waste products, the needle still stuck in her vein.

This had changed things.

Regardless of the success of what I'm about to do, the baby was coming with me, atonement is a great way to clean my conscience even if I didn't feel guilty. There was too much of a risk to his safety if he was left here. I had a close friend, John, who worked in the Mater and would ensure no questions were asked, knowing that I would have had good reason to bring an unconscious child to him. In a few days, I would be able to create a brand new identity for the child and ensure that the State doesn't end up being responsible for him

I looked over into the forecourt, O'Connell's dealers were on the other side in the underpass between McDermott and Ceantt, nothing unusual there, and the sentry was walking around the car as per. I looked out behind where the car was parked and there was oil on the ground. O'Connell mustn't have wanted that shite on the wheels, there would be no grip and the car would have slipped on the road like Bambi on ice.

I may have watched too much A-Team as a kid, but I could feel a plan coming together.

I put the baby back in his chair, grabbed the rifle and rested it over the wall, sun behind me, no reflection of the scope and realised I'd about a minute to do this in.

I checked her pulse and breathing first, nothing. If there was a de-fib here, I wouldn't have used it. She was brain-dead enough, but the lack of oxygen would have killed off the remaining brain cells, and I would have chosen to not resuscitate her. I may be playing God - but then the real God was a pussy, and should have killed her off years ago. I lifted her up by the arms and dragged her over to the view-point.

Fuck me, why are dead people so fucking heavy?

I looked over and the two dealers had a queue, the sentry looked bored. The moment was now.

I lifted up this waste of space, junkie mother, and pushed her up and over the gap and let gravity do the rest. It wasn't a peaceful fall from grace, she spun round 360 degrees and it wasn't slow in my mind at all, quite the opposite. Before she hit the roof of the car, I got the rifle, and aimed it at the two lads in the underpass. I had them both in my sights. An almighty crash - exploding glass, a shriek from Nicholas Cage and the two lads look up towards the car, their customer's star burst and the lads begin to run towards the car. First shot hits the guy on the left, just above the bridge of his nose, a mist of blood and brain out of the back of his head and before he's fallen, I've swivelled round to the guy on the right, who's instinctively ducked down from the first shot but is still running. The second shot enters his skull at the top of his hairline, peeling the skin on the top of his head back. The flaps of hair-covered skin revealed - for a fraction of a millionth of a second his skull- and the bullet travelled down through his brain and exited at the top of his spinal column. Paralysed and dead but no need for a wheelchair to take him to his grave.

I wished for an element of luck as I brought the scope down to the oil, the ground around it wasn't wet so I figured the bullet ricocheting off the tarmac would create enough sparks. I fired, and the whoomp of the flame followed by the bang of the sudden expulsion of oxygen made me move back from the scope. Funny thing is, when a bullet hits the ground, it doesn't bounce back off it, it travels along the ground at a greatly reduced speed.

Before the second guy had fallen, the third bullet had shattered his right foot, I stood up, the sentry had turned into a statue, only his head moving from the junkie flesh on top of his boss' car to the sudden explosion behind the land rover. The fourth bullet entered the top of his head, it exploded like a melon being dropped from a great height, the bullet travelled through the upper part of his body, pulping all vital organs, and exited through the back of his thigh. I swivelled left, and O'Connell was just getting out of the car - stupidly. The roof of his car was caved in and the explosion had tempted him out of his sanctuary. I saw a tattoo of a Fighting Irish Leprechaun on the back of his left ear and fired at it, the back of his skull came away and his brain slid out the hole. One last bullet, I fired it into the bonnet of the land rover and I hit the jackpot, it blew, sending bits of scorched flesh across the forecourt and up in the air, the heat was intense. The passenger in the back of the car was fucked.

I knelt back down, bagged the rifle, picked up the spent cartridges, out them in my pocket looked around me to make sure I hadn't left any litter or anything that would have my DNA on it. Nothing. I grabbed the still unconscious child out of the chair, and headed towards the stairwell. This lad was some lump, but at least I didn't have to go higher. I was on the ninth floor landing and I could hear the rear communal door crashing open and heavy footsteps. I looked over and down the stairs to see if anyone was coming up, and they were, three of them, armed police.

Chapter 2

Never be complacent is the rule of thumb, I guess. Although I wasn't expecting the unexpected, I hadn't just been looking for the best location in which to kill five people. I'd made provisions for this type of situation - escape routes that didn't mean taking the stairs or the lift. I had hoped that I would never have to use them. I checked that there weren't any more officers coming up the stairs - no talking or shouting or radio communications. I ran back up to the tenth floor, over to the balcony facing out to the rear of the block, looked at the surroundings - no other officers visible, one police car with lights off.

I'd been fucked.

I ran back over to the front facing balcony, and looked down to the forecourt at the burning metal and singed flesh - nothing living. I looked over at Connolly block, directly in front of me, and saw the reflection of the scope caught in the sun. I rolled my back around the concrete supporting column as a shot hit the corner of the pillar and flung out shrapnel and dust, scratching my face, choking my lungs. The baby, still out of it, was hugged into my chest, my shoulder trying to shroud him from any further damage. Whoever the shooter was, he would be unable to see the stairwell as I went back down the stairs to the ninth floor, let the baby down and peered round the corner of the pillar - hoping the shooter would be able to see that I was going downstairs rather than up. I slid down the balcony wall, not wanting to wait any longer to be fired at. I kicked the front door to flat 901 open. The shooter saw this - the shot went over my head and hit somewhere inside the flat. I then crawled back along to the stairwell, grabbed the baby, climbed the stairs, sticking to the wall, avoiding any line of site from the opposite block.

I climbed up to the twelfth floor and looked down. I could see that the officers had not yet reached the ninth, but were only a floor or two behind. I didn't want to stop, so climbed up to the top floor, the fifteenth. I peeked around the corner, could see the gunman on the tenth floor of Connolly block, aiming towards the lower floors of the block I was in. Two of the officers had split from the group, they were on the ninth floor, obviously searching 901 and any other flats that took their fancy. The other one was doing the whole text book procedure for a lone, armed officer - taking his time, not rushing, sweeping his line of sight and moving slowly towards me. He was either new to this, or else he wasn't from Dublin. He put his finger to his ear, listening to the radio, stomach in my mouth time, said something into the receiver moved back down towards the ninth floor – a little reprieve.

My arms were starting to hurt from carrying the baby as I tried to move him more over onto my shoulder. I was down on my knees, crawling in the dirt, like I've been doing in different variations since I was a teenager. I turned over onto my back, manoeuvring the baby round onto my stomach, and pushed myself along - toward flat 1512 - the furthest flat along the corridor. I hid in the shadow of the overhanging roof. The door wasn't locked shut, it was on the latch. I had spent part of the week cleaning these corridors of all the syringes and used condoms, ensuring I got to the other end without anything stuck to my head, or stuck in my arse cheek. I pushed the door open with my head, and got the both of us in with the door only slightly ajar.

I got a few metres into the flat, laid the baby on the carpet and shut the door as if I hadn't a care in the world. Then I locked the deadlock, the Chubb lock and put the three chains across the door. I put my ear up to the door - just heard the sound of the burning wreckage below. I looked out of the spy hole, nobody outside - nothing. I spun round into the hallway, checked the baby was still with me, as I put him in the recovery position. I don't know if he was sleeping or unconscious, same thing, but at least he was breathing, his cheek still flushed red. My hatred for the mother was on par with whoever was shooting at me outside the door.

I walked into the lounge - the carpet and the underlay were rolled up and in the corner of the room. Floorboards were piled up under the closed curtained window. I peered into the hole, and the mattress of a double bed was below me in 1412. There was a box of large latex gloves by the hole and I grabbed a pair and put them on. I went back out to the hall and into the kitchen, opened up all the drawers and cupboards, and found two tea towels and threw them out into the hall. I went into the bathroom, behind the door was a large, very thin and much worn bath towel, but it would do. I pulled it down so hard off the door that the hook came off and pinged me on the forehead, under any normal circumstances, that would have annoyed me so much that I would have taken the door off its hinges, because I felt that it had some kind of a grievance against me.

I wrapped the three towels around the baby, the bath towel went round him four times, with that and the tea towels, he was more cushioned than a cloud pillow. I put the straps of the rucksack over both shoulders, grabbed the baby, and put him over my right shoulder in the style of a fireman's lift.

This wasn't the most sensible idea even when it was just me I had to worry about, and now I'm shitting myself for two. I sat on the edge, legs hanging over as I hear the front door of the flat down the corridor being kicked in. Like Elvis said, it's now or never. I went to push myself over the side - every instinct in me telling me to not be so fucking stupid. But, dropping twelve feet may have been crazy but it was necessary. I was worried about the child and his need for medical attention. I pushed off with my left arm, baby held firm with my right, and I dropped through to the fourteenth floor. I landed on the mattress and bounced off to my left hand side.

My fucking back.

I looked up at the hole we'd just jumped through and still couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary.

The baby was still fine. Sleeping like a baby.

I looked down into the hole a couple of metres away from the mattress. The mattress in 1315 was covered in aged piss stains and burns from cigarettes; it was the best of the bunch in the flat.

I couldn't do this all the way down. On a good practice run, it had taken me just over four minutes to reach the ground floor from the fifteenth.

No time to weigh up options: Child – Needs – Medical - Attention

Clasped to my chest like the child of one of those tea leaf pickers, we dropped down onto the thirteenth. I really should have sprayed Fabreeze - couldn't even think about breaking a smile at the apparent wit.

We dropped down into 1215, entering the only flat in the drop down that looked like it had been looked after. They couldn't change the exterior, so the tenants took pride with the interior. I'd bet these former occupiers wouldn't have had a family member in the 'Joy, or threaten repo men with knowing someone in the 'RA who'd kneecap them if they came knocking again. This wasn't a place where repo men had visited. This wasn't a place of violence or crime – in this flat you'd feel warm and welcome - even in the cold of winter with the heating off.

I was glad the tenants weren't here to see me change that,

I laid the child in the recovery position and got the rifle out of the rucksack. I stood up by the front window, behind the netted curtains and peered through like a nosey neighbour.

I didn't see much, because the window had been cytexed externally, but daylight was still coming through. I got the handle of the Glock and tapped it against the corner of the single glazed window. The wooden frame was rotten, and the pane dislodged from it and landed flush up against the cytex. I made a grab for it, before it dropped down the gap and smashed on the concrete floor outside. I managed to get hold of it, and brought it back into the flat and laid it down on the mattress.

The cytex hadn't been drilled in properly, and was pliable enough to be pushed out. With about as much tension as I could muster, listening out for any possible anomalies, I pushed out the panel, allowing me a view of the balcony and Connolly block. I then realised I'd just wasted my fucking time.

I could only see the twelfth to fifteenth floor of Connolly - the shooter was on the tenth. I would have kicked myself, but what use would that have been - probably would have missed anyway. At least I had allowed more light into the flat and was able to see a bit more clearly.

The front door was easy enough to open and the cytex plate had been drilled into the wooden frame.

The baby moved - I swear it did - looking, distracted. I hoped to fuck that it didn't wake up now and start to cry, I redoubled my efforts, clawing at the frame, trying to peel it away from the brickwork like it was Panini sticker. There was definitely movement - momentum was being gained. The frame was so fragile, it would have been easy enough to remove that and the door, it was the boarding up of the cytex that was causing the stubbornness of the frame to budge much more.

-C'mon ya bitch.

I felt movement. As the creaking and the warping intensified I pulled the door and the frame. Finally it gave. I stumbled back and fell back on my arse, the clattering of the frame was loud enough for me to stop breathing momentarily in case it had alerted the lads outside or the baby in here with me. I couldn't decide if he was a baby or a toddler or a child or what - but - what in the fuck was I thinking?

Standing up, I grabbed the cytex. The metal plate covering the door, now not having anything to lean up against, was likely to fall out - landing against the concrete wall causing a loud enough bang they'd be made to not investigate.

I moved it to the left so it was leaning against the front wall of the flat - giving me enough room, if I breathed in, to get out onto the balcony. I went back and got the rifle, crouched down and stepped out onto the pathway. A door was being kicked in somewhere below me, they were still on the ninth, no time for floor by floor searches, fairly amateur shit.

I got to the stairwell on the twelfth, stood up, swung round, looked through the scope, directly opposite and counted two down. The sweat was matting my already greasy hair, my forehead damp, droplets streaking their way down my cheeks, hands firm on the stock of the weapon, latex ensuring that the grip is solid, sweeping my eyes across the tenth floor opposite and, there he is, stood up in full combat gear, looking down at the ninth floor of Pearse, through the scope on his firearm and then down to the forecourt and back.

How easy it would be to just pop a round into his head. The helmet protects the top of the head, but I can still see most of his face and his neck. Pop one into his throat, jugular artery is hit and he'll bleed out in ten minutes.

But I'm not a monster; I don't kill good guys pretending to be bad or bad guys pretending to be good. I just maim them. Bringing the scope down to follow his right arm, elbow pads hindering upper arm shots, further down, no gloves – amateur I compress the trigger, the internal mechanisms are eager and ready to show me how good it and I can all be, combined together.

The holding of breath, the trigger pressed down, the bang, the slight recoil, still fixed, target down, still alive but in a lot of fucking pain and unable to wank for the foreseeable.

Then I run. Back into 1215, the baby still in the recovery position, and still breathing. I bag the rifle and take out a smoke grenade from the rucksack, run back out onto the corridor, down to the stairwell, pull the pin and throw it back up the stairs towards the thirteenth floor. I run back again to the flat, grab the rucksack and put it over both shoulders, grab the child and jump down onto the eleventh floor. Back - ready to give up the ghost. I hoped that I had caused enough of a disturbance in the force for the three officers to come up and investigate. I also had hoped that they hadn't gotten to 915 or they would have seen two suspect holes in the ceiling and floor. I also hoped that I'd win the lottery or find a decent woman, but hoping is just lazy wishful thinking.

With the front door open, I peered outside and could hear three sets of booted feet running up the communal stairs, past eleventh without even looking down to see if there was anything untoward.

Good to go.

I ran to the communal stairs, didn't stop to listen to the sounds above me, bolted down them, right hand on the banisters helping me swing round as I turned the corners, breathing heavily, the pack on my back was aching, the baby was now stirring, typical with one floor to go before I reach the ground. He started pulling a face like he was very pissed off. I would be if I were him. I just hoped that he wouldn't start crying.

Near the doors leading out the back, the cop car was parked up with the engine still on. Idiots, didn't they realise the risk. I went over to the driver's side of vehicle, opened the door, took the key out of the ignition and pocketed it. Took note of the registration plate, looked back up at the building, no sign of the stooges, walked away. The baby started to cry and attempted to remove himself from my grip on him.

Shit, the pushchair. Left up on the landing, my pace quickened as I got over to the boarding which separated mankind from Ballymun and followed it round, looking back behind me at the block, baby still crying.

\- Shut up youse

That was for anyone who saw or heard and who wasn't a Gard, it wasn't meant for the baby, but said in the way anyone from the Northside would have.

I looked at the boarding that I had gained access through weeks ago - it didn't look like it had been tampered with. I agree, why would anyone break in here? There only just appeared to be one way out and we took it.

Chapter 3

We walked down the Ballymun Road towards Glasnevin, sirens coming from all directions like the Ride of the Valkyries. We just kept on trucking, with me - modelling the latest unkempt look - straight out of Inner City Dublin, carrying a screaming child of equal scruffiness. Walking rather than running, passers-by looked at me and smiled as if putting themselves back fifty years when they had to look after their young babies, then looked sad as they could see that the tiredness in my eyes -must be from the sleepless nights. My car should hopefully still be parked on Glasnevin Drive.

Some old one, pushing a shopping trolley, stopped, made a big sigh, heaving every bit of heavy flesh around her short frame and put her arms out to hold him - even though I didn't know her. I needed to free my arms and get the blood flowing back around them.

She was the perfect decoy.

\- Ah the poor little fella, c'mere, let me have hold of him, while ya get yourself sorted out there.

\- Are you sure? Thanks a million, he's been like this for the last hour. She said she'd only be a half hour, but sure, women, what can you do? She's got the buggy left at her sisters, so I'm fucked.

\- Ah your poor father. Your mother should be ashamed of herself, so she should.

Cut to me, biting my tongue.

\- I was just down the shops, and had to leave because he was screaming so much, with me out of work, she thinks I can do all the things she's good at. I'm learning, but not as fast as I should be.

\- Were you in Aldi?

\- We were, did you hear us?

\- Well I heard himself in the next aisle, screaming his poor little headeen off.

\- I remember seeing you actually. You reminded me of my aunt and she was a fine looking woman. Were you chatting to one of the staff by the fruit?

\- The butchers?

\- That's it.

\- He was trying to say he gave me eight slices of ham when he only gave me six, the cheeky bastard.

\- Jesus even the cheap supermarkets are cutting corners, what next, it'll be more foreigners coming in stealing our jobs and making you pay more for your ham.

\- Fuck me, don't I know it. Ah now, he's quieting down now see, just needed a bosom to rest his wee head on.

\- You're a star, are you sure you don't wanna keep him?

Me being deadpan

\- Listen, my cars round the corner, let me give you a lift home, save you having to drag all that shopping and you seem to have had the magic touch with him. I'll get the trolley if you're still ok holding onto him?

\- Well if you're sure son. What's his name?

Quick as a flash -

\- Michael, I'm Cormac.

\- Bridie. Let's get him in the warm then.

Then there were three. To any passer-by, it appeared like three generations of the same family, been out on their shopping, on the way home. Nobody would notice I had enough ammunition in my rucksack to make the 'RA jealous.

We made small talk along the way. She was moaning about the weather, and I acknowledged this with the obvious fact that we were Irish, and lived in Ireland, how God put these things in our way to test us. She asked Jesus why there were so many sirens around, I said the noise isn't helping Michael sleep. I made my face look like I was laughing at everything Bridie said. She couldn't see me because I was a step behind her as the pavement wasn't wide enough. She would have thought I was insane if she saw what I was doing. Any squad cars driving by would see that something must have tickled me, this surely couldn't be anyone who had anything to do with the massacre - he's too happy and carefree to be our man, plus he looks like a knacker, our man must be better dressed for the occasion.

How very Machiavellian of me.

The car, which I bought for two hundred euro, was exactly where I left her. Silver Astra - 03 plates, not a massive mess but in need of a wash. I opened the boot and put the rucksack in, my shoulders were sore and I gave them both a quick rub just to get the feeling back in them. I got the shopping bags out of the trolley and placed them over the rucksack.

\- Fuck me, someone's had the child seat away, the bastards. Ah, that's my fault, I didn't lock the bleedin' door.

I kick at the ground, squeeze my eyes shut and look up to the sky as if the answer was up there, not trying to ham it up too much and make me sound anymore suspicious than I am.

\- Now, there's no baby seat in the back, would you be ok to hold him until we get to yours?

\- Of course I will. You can pack him in pillows, I'll give you a lend of some of mine, I've no use for them since he's been gone.

\- Oh, I'm sorry

\- Don't be, he ran off with the neighbour fifteen years ago. Right - am I in the back or do you want me in the front with you?

\- In the front is grand, we can sort it out once we drop you off at yours.

I was already in the driver's seat, car started, wrapping my fingers on the steering wheel. I opened the windows to try and get rid of the smell of weed, closed the ashtray, threw the rizlas under my seat and prepared my smile.

She got in, fat arse first - I was mystified at how Lycra can stretch like that – she pivoted round, grumbling and huffing, then landed so hard on the seat I thought the springs would break. The baby was jammed between her heaving, saggy breasts, staring at me with a "get me the fuck right out of here, I'm shit scared and I want my mother" look. I returned it with a "what do you want me to do" look. I grabbed my seat belt and pulled it round me, clipping it in, ignoring the heavy breathing of Bridie, which was beginning to grate on me. What with her massive saggy tits, she clearly didn't look after her chest and I wanted to just boot her out whilst driving down the M50.

She started laughing.

\- You'd pull the belt round me if you were any sort of gentleman.

\- I'll drive slow enough Bridie, you're grand as you are, just hold all three of you in place.

\- Wha?

\- Nothing. Tell me where I need to go.

\- To the top of the road and turn left.

Mirror, signal, manoeuvre - out onto the road. I was cool as a cucumber, nothing around us, nobody knows us, nobody knows what I've done. I was taking slow breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth, heart rate normal, no psychosis, more desensitised.

I turned left, filtered into traffic.

\- Here we are now.

\- Are yis fuckin serious?

The lazy bitch made me drive five hundred meters up the fucking road. I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose, head hung low, needing to get out of here as soon as possible, tiredness slung over me like a cloth sack.

\- Here, let me take him.

I'd stuck on the hazard lights and was tempted to kick her fat arse out of the car with my size twelves. She passed me "Michael" covered in the towels I'd wrapped him up in, face blotched red from tears and weariness, doing a good job of playing it semi-comatose, like mother like son.

Bridie pushed herself out of the car, her grip so white-knuckle hard on the door frame, I thought she was going to crush it. She was wheezing like a train being pushed into sidings, a pack of twenty Carrolls on the verge of falling out of her jacket pocket. Quick as a flash, I reached over and grabbed them, pincer like and stuck them under the towels.

\- I'll be in now to get some extra padding for the ladeen.

\- Grand so Bridie, I'll wait here for ya. He seems to have calmed down now. I couldn't borrow you when he kicks up again?

\- Don't think your woman would be too happy you sharing a bed with another woman.

\- I was only...

And she chuckled to herself, her body moving like a human larva lamp, turning away up the path to her tenement block.

Leave it thirty seconds, not long enough for her to get to the window, foot on the clutch, lean over onto the passenger side and put the baby in the footwell. I grabbed my North Face winter jacket off the back seat for additional cushioning, wrapped round Michael, clearly now not giving a fuck. I grab the handbrake.

\- Fuck she's left her shopping.

My hazards were still on, I unlocked the boot from inside, got out, pushed open the boot, grabbed a couple of the bags and launched them over the fence into the front garden of the block. I then banged the boot shut, got back into the driver's seat, turned the hazards off, threw the handbrake down and took my foot off the clutch too quickly - the car stalled. I gritted my teeth.

\- Fuck sake.

Kids and young ones with pushchairs are already scavenging around the recently disposed shopping bags, another fortunate distraction.

Focus.

The car starts up again and I indicate out into traffic, check behind me and I pull a U-turn so that I'm heading into town and towards the Mater Hospital.

I keep to the speed limit, radio on, window down. I fast forward to track eleven, the opening beat to I am the Resurrection matching my heart rate, as I lift myself up off the seat, getting my hand in underneath to get my phone out of my back pocket. I keep my eyes on the road, the mirror, the baby. I grab the phone, rest it on my lap, unlock it, search through the contacts, thumb scrolling through as quick as possible. Too far, back up, got to John's name, press select, and highlight his mobile number, hoping I could get him on that rather than his work phone. I press to dial, then select the loudspeaker icon, keeping the phone between my legs, static silence meant his phone was on but he was out of any decent reception area. Please fucking ring.

\- Hello?

\- John? The phone didn't even dial.

\- I just picked it up as it started, who's that?

\- Fiachra

\- I thought you was dead.

\- Ah that's lovely that is isn't it?

\- Well I haven't heard from you in an ice age.

\- You know how it is.

\- Not really, you'll have to tell me how it is.

\- Listen I'm driving, so can't talk for long. Are you at work?

\- On my break. Why am I not going to like this?

\- I need a massive favour. Last one, promise.

\- Heard it all before Fiachra , I nearly got in the shit last time you needed a favour, had police coming in asking a shit load of questions about that girl and Dermot Kay.

I was smiling, I'd nearly forgotten about that one.

\- I don't know what your referring to m'lud

\- You wouldn't would ya, she comes in raped in every hole, needing three blood transfusions, I give you a name on bit of paper found in her purse and then he ends up with half his face missing in a puddle on Grafton Street.

\- Did he fall? Ah I remember something about that now; I was down that way doing a bit of Christmas shopping, I couldn't get to College Green cause the cops had sealed off the road.

\- No he did not fucking fall, he was fucking shot.

\- Really? Look, I really had nothing to do with that, I saw it on the news though. What are those senior officers going to do now, with none of Kay's girls being able to accompany them on their weekend retreats?

\- Find another fucking supplier.

He had me there on that one, there was certainly a demand for thirteen year old Eastern European girls.

\- Has your mother told you, your language has got worse since you moved to Dublin?

\- It got worse when I met you. I'm not going to get rid of you am I?

\- Nope.

\- What do you need?

\- Can you help me, I have a small package.

On cue the baby starts making this noise that's in between chatter and crying.

\- What was that?

\- The small package.

\- Good God, you've been sent here to persecute me, where in the fuck did you manage to get one of them?

\- You American's always seem to associate everything with God, it's like you have a fucking complex about it. I'm just your friendly fly in the ointment, the monkey in the wrench.

\- There better be an amazingly good story as to why you even thought to bring me into this.

\- Ah there surely is, one last favour John, this is serious.

\- Where are you?

\- Outside.

Chapter 4

A couple of minutes later, John came out of the Mater dressed in scrubs a pack of twenty Marlboro Lights in hand and a green disposable lighter. He'd put on a bit of weight since I last saw him, but his six foot eight height and brick shit house rugby player frame covered it well. His hair was a mess of brown Japanese Knotweed, his eyes were sunk into a face covered in three day's worth of stubble.

I got out of the car, laid my arms on the roof, took out one of Bridie's stolen Carrolls, lit it up, inhaled deeply, and exhaled the creamy smoke through my nose. He did the same on the opposite side of the car, a brief smile exchanged between us - a "here we go again" smile.

\- Where is he?

\- Footwell.

He crouched down to look inside the car at the baby.

\- Holy shmoke boy.

\- Your accent's still shit. Listen, it doesn't look like it, but it was the absolute right thing to do.

He stood back up, short quick drags from his cigarette

\- Go on.

\- You know the drill John.

\- Fuck sake Fiachra , I helped you write the drill. No questions, personal safety, public safety etcetera, etcetera

\- Right. I was tasked with a job up at Ballymun, it all went south, his mother was shooting herself up, slapped him unconscious when he wanted some attention off her, OD'd and died in front of me as I tried to get us all to safety.

\- Shit.

\- That's right. I was trying to get him down the stairs when someone flung her body off the balcony. I saw her spiral man, and she hit a vehicle parked in the concourse, then there was a shit load of gunfire and then the vehicle exploded. Armed Gard's were there...

\- How the fuck did they get there so quick?

\- Set up man, I was fucking set up. I couldn't stay around there any longer, couldn't begin to search for any of the kid's next of kin - didn't want to, can you imagine what they would be like, since they've allowed his mother was able to do that to him?

\- So, what do you need me to do?

\- Not put him anywhere with "State" in the title. Your sister - wouldn't she be able to do it?

\- How long for?

\- Couple of days. I can get a birth certificate, hack the social, get a record of him where it counts.

\- I know for a fact that more than half of that is pure fabrication, for my benefit or for his. This has to be the last time Fiachra . My family aren't here for the purpose of taking in the waifs and strays you pick up along your sordid journey.

\- It's only the second time, man.

\- Two more than I care to remember. We will always be grateful for what you've done. I will always be in your debt but this isn't a way to pay it back.

\- I know man, I know. I'm sorry, I had nowhere else to turn and maybe between us we can give himself something more than bruises and a shit childhood eh?

\- He got a name?

\- Whatever you want it to be. Maybe you should go into private child care, must be better hours than you're doing now?

\- Where would the money be in that? I'm already eighteen hours into a twelve hour shift, no end in sight.

\- You've a reason to go home now. Can I leave him with you? I don't think that mark on his face will turn into a bruise, but best get some arnica on it.

\- Thank you Doctor.

\- No, thank you. Seriously.

\- Door open?

\- Should be.

With that, John flicked his still lit smoke in my direction, I was prepared for it and stepped to the side and muttered "prick" under my breath. He crouched down, opened the door and spoke in soft, easing tones to the baby. It was all going to be ok, he told the baby, and his name was John.

I had heard enough, I stepped back and turned away, smoking the fag down to the butt, thinking about the next steps. I wondered why my contact hadn't been in contact, how the cops got there so quickly, looking for me, not even phased about the carnage on the forecourt. It was like someone had thrown a jigsaw up in the air and I needed to sit down to piece it all back together again.

I needed to get back to the safe house in Raheny.

\- Will you contact me?

I turned to see John had taken the baby out and was holding him with ease under his right arm and shutting the car door with his left.

\- I will yeah, couple of days. I need to lay low for a bit but I'll drop you all the info you need and put something for you in your account.

I got back into the driving seat and lit up another smoke, the need to chain as many as I could before my lungs collapsed. I leant over and pressed the switch to let the passenger window down.

\- I miss her too you know. I see her sometimes out of the corner of my eye and when I turn to look for her, she's gone. She was always good at hide and seek.

That stopped him but I hope I hadn't said too much. He turns round like a grainy video being played in slow motion, the big reveal.

\- She'd would have been eight next month.

\- I know, I'm going to go up to the graveyard and see her and then go and piss on his.

\- What's the point?

\- Just letting him know he'll never get any peace, even if he is in hell.

\- You sent him there.

\- True enough but what are godfathers for? I've gotta hit the road, I'll talk to ya. G'luck. Christ, I think he needs changing.

With that and the sounds of a broken American/Irish accent swearing in my general direction, I was back out on the road, Erin playing hide and seek with me in the rear view mirror.

\- I didn't count to a hundred Erin, can you do it?

I looked back into the rear of the car, knowing she wasn't there, but just in case, wishful thinking, nothing. I wiped away the tears, focused on the road and how dim light gets when someone close dies, I may as well be driving in the dark.

My phone was still on my lap, waiting for a call that appeared like it was never going to come. I'd convinced my contact, who worked for a shadow organisation called the Irish Government, that it would prevent any issues or concerns about me being compromised if they called me every once in a while . Code words would be exchanged and from that, they would be able to garner if I had succeeded or not. They would then tell me to wait for a call back, where I would either be told to stand down and await further instructions, or to stand down, lay low and then wait for further instructions. Either way, it involved a lot of crouching.

I had given them specific instructions on the timings. When O'Connell would be in the forecourt, when I would have taken him out and I had given them a small window of time to allow me to extract myself from the location. They should then give me a call. Normal protocol for such a public display of affection means the cops are deployed elsewhere, allowing me further time to get myself the fuck out of there. It was not hard to figure out what had happened. I'd been fucked. Paranoia allowed me to come up with several reasons for this and what might happen next.

I considered the possibility that I had been followed all along, but dismissed it. It couldn't be the case because I'm so cautious I should be walking on thin ice.

That couldn't be the case, I would have seen, I would have known.

The more plausible explanation - because it's never my fault - is that my contact had either been compromised himself, or he had fed me to the dogs.

Or it could be his boss - whoever that might be. But, no - he doesn't know who I am, thanks to another stipulation of mine - micro cells -only one person knows who I am, and I only know one person their end. The contact does not divulge anything personal that can drag to me higher up the chain.

The orders come from somewhere though, and my contact wouldn't have the brains to be able to orchestrate these jobs, there is the possibility that I'd been fucked by his senior. The armed cops wouldn't know who I am, just that there is some mad fella up on the tenth floor shooting at people and throwing drug addicts over the balcony.

The thing is though, whoever is higher than my contact has to be at least a cabinet minister, has to be, or else he's the Gard Commissioner - as useless as a condom machine in Mothercare, but he's on his way out and I'm just clearing up the rubbish that he couldn't be bothered to address.

I decide I can't just sit here in silence making assumptions and giving myself a headache, when I can just go and make the phone call. I turn right off the Howth Road, onto Maywood Crescent, Maywood Grove, then Bettyglen. Go to the corner house, looking over the bay. The tide's a good way out and there are a few walkers making their way across the strand. I press a button on a little fob on my key chain and the garage door opens, I slowly drive in. In my mind's eye Erin's in the corner, hidden behind boxes of paperwork that need to be incinerated, I caught her peeping around the corner. I get out of the car, sagging under the weight of tiredness.

\- I'm not playing now Erin, go find my Dad, he'll play with ya.

I walked round the house, checking in every room, every window frame, any space where people can conceal themselves. The hatch to the attic was still locked, I was satisfied that I was alone in the house. I went back downstairs into the kitchen, emptied the kettle of stale water, turned on the tap and let it run for a few seconds then filled the kettle up and switched it on. I looked out across the bay, opened the back door out onto the patio, walked outside and lit up another smoke. All the time I was looking at the phone in my other hand, not sure of who to call, as if looking at it was going to encourage someone to call me. I stuck the phone back in my back pocket, not before I ensured that it was on "loud" setting, tempted to look at my reflection in the window just to see how the impersonation of Bobby Sands was going. Instead I walked the length of the garden, the sun just about visible behind the cloud, smoking and thinking, thinking and smoking.

Ring for fuck sake, ring.

I got the phone out again, just in case I didn't hear it ringing. I unlocked it, went through it to see the most recent phone call and it was to John. I started walking back up to the house to see if the kettle was boiled and then the phone started to ring, loud enough to wake the dead. Didn't recognize the number but that didn't matter, it was nice to be wanted.

\- Hello?

Whoever it was, they were breathing heavier than a serial murderer masturbating into a victim's sock.

\- Satan, is that you, I thought I told you to stop calling me.

\- Fiachra, Fiachra it's me.

\- Who's me?

\- Code: Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?

\- Response: I am. Where the fuck have you been? I've been fucked.

\- You've been fucked? We've both been. I've had to burn the office, who have you spoken to?

\- Me? Don't fucking blame me, I wasn't even out of the building and armed cops were charging up the stairs to flush me out. Where are you?

\- Dame Street. What have you done?

\- What the fuck is this, broken record time? I did exactly what you asked me to do.

\- They are after me.

\- Who are?

\- They are after me.

\- I fucking heard ya, who are after you? Will you stop running and calm down you're making me nervous.

\- You have no idea what you've done have you? It's all over the fucking news.

\- I'm not surprised, you know how the press loved The Judge?

\- Not him, nobody cared about him. The Minister. Shit, I...

The phone went dead, just before it got cut off, I heard screeching tires and a thud. I stared at the phone, the kettle began to whistle in the background. I left it on as I bounded into the front room to stick on the TV, the phone still gripped in my hand.

RTE 1 had the words "Breaking News" plastered all over the screen. A furrow browed newscaster was talking to a news correspondent at the scene, I could see Connolly tower behind her and black smoke rising from the burning car. The sound was on mute but I didn't need to hear anything as the words were scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

"Minister for Finance, Gerry Daly murdered in car bomb....."
Chapter 5

Ah fuck no, no fucking way, fucking fuck.

You know that feeling you got when, as a child, you were stupid enough to get your head caught in the railings at your school, and you think you're stuck, and nothing will be able to get you out. The pressure of those two iron rods, pressing against the back of your neck, you turn and turn and turn and turn and your stomach sinks, and you realise your whole life is fucked - because there is no way you're ever getting out of this fucking situation and you don't want to move because every atom inside you hurts.

That's how I'm feeling right about now, my funk soul brother.

I may as well have pulled my trousers down and lubed up my arse to be royally fucked. The whole thing was a fucking set up, it had to be.

The Minister. He was the rear seated passenger, the third gunman on the grassy knoll. How the fuck had I not clocked who he was? 'Cause he had his head turned away from you, shit head.

What if I'm being watched?

What if they know where I live?

I need to get out of here - like now. Shutting the back door, locking it tighter than Fort Knox, I went round all the windows on the ground floor to double check they were locked tighter than a nun's flange. The front door was bolted shut. Once I knew I was locked in, I grabbed the rucksack from the bottom of the stairs and then ran up them, two at a time. Placing the rucksack on the ground underneath the loft hatch, I went into my bedroom and got the step ladder out of the wardrobe and the key for the lock from inside my suit jacket and brought both back out onto the landing. I kicked the rucksack out of the way, set the ladder up, climbed up four steps, leant up, unlocked the padlock and slid the hatch over. Dust and fluff fell from the opening, covering my face in dead skin. I wiped my face as I climbed down, grabbed the rucksack, climbed back up, hands either side of the hatch as I pulled myself up and into the loft.

I switched the light on, the flickering halogen bulb casting shadows of paranoia across the wooden beams and the boxes covered with a dust sheet. I pulled the sheet off, knowing exactly what box to look for, carefully considerate of the explosives in the top box, I treated it like a new born baby and laid it oh so gently on the floor. The plastic container I wanted was on the bottom of the pile, I knelt down and opened it, grabbing ten clips for the Glock. I unzipped the rucksack, pulled out the rifle and laid it next to the container. I stuffed the clips in, went back to the box, got out a brown envelope containing British, Italian and Australian passports, threw them into the rucksack with three larger, A4 sealed envelopes. The envelopes were marked with 15k Euro, 20k USD and 25k GBP. The sterling was in fifty pound notes, the euro's and dollars in hundreds and all were non sequential, in the rucksack. Last and by no means least, I collected a bag containing ten small sealed clear plastic bags with five grammes of first-class Colombian nose powder, all in the rucksack.

I placed the explosives box back on the container, not sure whether I should take some flash bangs, but I was going to be carrying enough weight and I didn't really fancy starting any wars, not just yet anyway. I put the dust sheet back over the boxes, put the rucksack over my shoulders, switched the light off, took one last look around, then went down the ladder and into the bathroom. I stripped fully, looking in the mirror at the shadow starring back at me. My beard was unkempt and annoyingly ginger, my hair was slick with grease, tidy as a birds nest and nearly over the tops of my ears. The weight loss had defined the muscles around my stomach and shoulders, I needed to eat badly. I placed the Glock on the sink within reaching distance of the shower, switched the shower on, left the door open and washed facing out towards the room, the water drowning the floor.

I towelled off, not wanting to look at myself anymore, left the towel on the floor to soak up some of the water, grabbed the gun and went into the bedroom. I grabbed a handful of t shirts, tops, my black Cold War overcoat, and put them on the bed. I got on a pair of dark blue jeans, a black Led Zeppelin t shirt, black socks and a dark blue pair of Adidas Gazelles. I got my coat on and turned the collar up as if I was about to face a snow storm, packed the clothes in on top of what I got out of the loft. I went to grab the framed picture of Sarah off the bedside cabinet, but I didn't want to break the cracked frame or scratch the picture. With regret, I left it where it was, bleached from sunlight and creased from years in my wallet. I unplugged the phone charger - because I'd seen enough TV programmes to know how ridiculous it is to imagine I can go through a day, using my phone, without the battery dying, God knows how long I'd be away for, and I would imagine that I needed to make a shit load of calls.

That was me sorted upstairs. The rucksack was heavier than I had anticipated; I pulled the straps tight, unsteady feet - not because of the weight, just top heavy with adrenaline. Back down stairs, hand on the railing for support, in the kitchen, cupboard open, pint glass, cold tap, necked, down in one. Tap still running, filled up again, slower drink because my stomach was full of air, glass down, slow burping, regulated. I opened up the fridge to see if there was anything consumable in there, a jar of beetroot, a couple of pieces of vegetation that I think were once red peppers and half a loaf of green bread. I got the jar of beetroot out, unscrewed the cap, couldn't even be bothered with a fork, got my fingers into the vinegar, grabbing three slices, smelling them to make sure they weren't off, and scoffed them down. I looked out the back window, crunching the beetroot down. Wondering, who's out there waiting for me, is anyone out there? All looks quiet, too quiet, need to get of this fucking house, feeling the walls are closing in around me. Vinegar on my chin, I fill up the glass again with water, drink half, throw the rest into the sink, splashing back off the side, I'm out of here.

Unlocking the door and peering out of it like a nosey neighbour, coast clear but you can never be too sure of what lurks in the dark hiding places of suburbia - or in my mind. With the coast clear and not wanting to look too suspicious, I make a break for it. I lock up as per normal, turn down the path, put my hand to my forehead like I'm blocking out the sunlight that isn't even there, walk towards the gate, open it, grab a smoke out of the pack, light up and start walking with no idea of where I'm going. I keep my head down, smoking away, containing my anger, letting it simmer nicely, walking like I have meaning. Like a shark, I have to keep moving.

I have to go to Dame Street, see what happened, see who else is at the scene. It could give me a lead, or just someone to punch, something that can give me any clue as to who stitched me up. I can only imagine the worst, that my contact has died, he would have called me back to fill me in on what I need to know. It's as good a place as any to start. Nobody else knows who I am or what I do so I will just look like another rubber-necker, following the traffic jam up to the point of the collision. It would be nice to think that it was just an unfortunate accident, but in my job it pays to not be that complacent and believe that things like that just happen. If this was the conspiracy theory that I was hoping for, the driver would either be long gone or arrested, or there would be a sudden lapse in memory for the witnesses in regards to describing what the driver looked like. CCTV was certainly an option.

\- Fuck it.

I'd forgotten my laptop. Only at the corner of the road, too risky to go back, but I do need it. I turn round, hurry back, keys already in hand, looking at nothing apart from the cracks in the pavement. I head up the path, open the door, straight upstairs, into my room, unplug the charger, shut down the laptop, into the rucksack. I had enough cash on me to get a new one, but if the house got raided, regardless of the encryption, they could have some lad like Gary McKinnon working on breaking the codes, and I wouldn't want them finding out about my keys. In a world full of locked doors, the code breaker is king.

The wind got cold, finding nooks and crannies to cut me with arctic cold knives. My hands felt like ice blocks, red raw, stuffed deep into my pockets, ears numb and sore, wasn't like I was expecting a heat wave but it would be nice to just not feel so fucking cold just for once.

All it was doing was just exacerbating my anger.

Traffic was flowing normally, people were walking by, braced against the wind. That didn't mean that they were all innocent, one of them could have a syringe filled with anthrax ready to sink it into my flesh, or a knife or a gun or a camcorder following my every move, waiting for the opportune time to throw the net over me.

I had to hide in plain sight.

Walking into the DART station, colder on the inside than it was out, I went up to the ticket booth. The young, spotty lad behind the Perspex was talking to an older colleague on the desk behind him, he didn't even acknowledge me when he turned to see who was waiting, just carried on the story about last night's GAA game. I looked up at the display, telling me what time the next train destined to Bray would be in, two minutes, a tannoy announcement told me all the stops the train would be stopping at. Swearing under my breath and shaking my head wasn't going to cut it, neither was making a scene, that would just encapsulate a really good witness statement. I knock on the window.

\- Excuse me, I really need to get that train that's coming in or I'll miss the boat.

He turns to me with a face on him like I'd come into his house on Christmas Day and pissed on his mother.

Cue breathing techniques enabling me to keep the rage buried.

\- Sorry to disturb you matey, can I just get a single ticket to the port please.

Keep that smile exactly where it is, he types on a keyboard, prints off the ticket like it is such an effort with me interrupting his clearly-more-important-than-work conversation.

\- Anything else?

\- No, that's it thanks.

\- €3.50.

Hand in pocket, smiling away, I grab a handful of change, one minute until the train arrives.

\- Here's two, three and fifty.

Placed onto a revolving plate, ticket on the other side, he pulls a lever, the plate revolves and the exchange is complete, grabbing the ticket.

\- Ah yeah, there was one more thing.

\- What?

Still smiling.

\- Does your dick reach your arse? 'Cause you can go fuck yourself

Oh it had to be said. I know it's cruel, and he's just a kid but he was frankly very fucking rude and I'm frankly very fucking angry. In fairness, he did get off lightly. As I put my ticket through the automatic barrier, I can hear his words of well-wishing echoing in my ears as I bound onto the platform. The green DART train pulled into the station, packed as usual. I run down to the rear, still packed, the joys, step on, slightly deranged look as I knock into people too ignorant to get out of my way, which just notches up my anger levels even more.

God, I need a smoke.

So I'm stood at the back. The other passengers had moved themselves away from me, like oily water after a drop of washing up liquid had been put in it. Another calming technique was to focus on something unique and sterile for a prolonged period of time, that in itself should negate the rage.

In my head, I was humming the last five minutes of "Free Bird", the multitude of guitar solos keeping me calm, eyes closed, content in my own little bubble. The train slows down and stops outside Harmonstown. I peered out the window at the grey of the world, listening to muted conversations on the train, trying to make any of them out. Looking back around me, at all the faces, all potential killers, where are their hands. Over in the corner, head up against the window, listening to her iPod, there is the most attractive girl I've ever seen since the last time I saw the most attractive girl I'd ever seen. I was always told that I fell in love too easily, but so what, it was just so much easier to take them to bed if they believed that I loved them, and I did, if only sometimes for one night. I couldn't see her bottom half from where I was stood but she looked nice and curvy, a fitted yellow t shirt under a tanned red leather jacket. Her boobs were really large and full, she wasn't thin but she wasn't fat, that didn't really matter to me anyway. It was her face, man, her face was just so pretty. Her skin was the complexion of skimmed milk, I just wanted to taste it. That's what the Irish sun does for you - 364 days of cloud and rain culminating in a unique, pasty white skin .Then you get one day of cloudless skies and a hot sun. Everyone rushes to the shops to get something that looks relatively summery and by the time you've got in your bikini or Hawaii shorts, the sun has stuck its two fingers up at Ireland and gone on holiday to Greece or Australia, anywhere that isn't here. Her eyes were like small green plates and she had these amazing blow job lips. Her hair was natural blonde and tied back, she looked up at me, like she could sense that I was looking over, I smiled, it was the decent thing to do, but she just looked through me, smiled as if it was painful to do so, then went back to looking out the window.

I know why, I know it's not an issue I should be upset or concerned about, I looked an absolute state. I couldn't go over and say hello, where would that get me? I didn't want to keep on looking, because it would just freak her out but I couldn't help myself.

We had gone through Harmonstown, the next stop was Killester, she stood up, this was either her actual stop, or where she thought she'd wait for the next train because I just couldn't help myself and look at her and I was freaking her out. The t shirt was cropped, there was a little fat hanging over and under the thin line of material from her black G-string. She quickly pulled her dark blue jeans up, I pretended like I didn't notice. She was a study in white, a really beautiful girl, and I couldn't do a thing about it to let her know I was totally not the person she thought I was. In some ways, I was even worse. She probably thinks I'm a knacker, when in actual fact I'm a killer pretending to be a knacker. Man, that G-string - It cut into her flesh, like cheese wire wrapped round a big Edam, her arse was sexy. There was a middle aged male passenger sat across the way from her who was so blatant in his staring, really unnecessarily at her chest like he'd never seen a pair of tits before. I was tempted to just walk on over and gauge his eyes out. She got her bag and swung it over her shoulder, nearly hitting the middle aged lad in the face, so he had to take evasive action. I hoped it was intentional, I hoped she was as intelligent and as independent as I imagined her to be.

For someone so nervous looking, she had a real complex. I wanted to go over to her and say it's all ok. Not with this mask on though. I wanted for too much.

But this look; this was a grunge thing.

It was not fun looking like this, for me or your woman. If I had looked semi-civilised, she might have smiled at me.

It's all an act.

She did indeed get off at Killester, head down and out the doors. The bra she had on must have been expensive because those boys did not move at all. How nice it would be to wake up to her spooning me, I'd tell her I like the back of my neck kissed, and ask if she wanted some breakfast in bed

As the doors shut, I saw a skinhead waster in a shiny blue tracksuit and crap Reebok runners, with a face as white as the moon and heroin red mascara round the eyes move out of the shadows, making a grab for her arm. She turned in surprise and let out a little yelp. She tried to flick him away as if a wasp had just landed on her arm. Some other passengers looked on, but didn't want to stop reading their books or interrupt the conversations on their phone.

She was making a go of it, pulling away, fighting back using her weight as leverage. The skanger wasn't having any of it and punched her in the face. It shook me: Felt sick; fought back the bile. Reminded me of family life; going to my room, head under the pillow, hands of love round mum's neck, my old man, my anti-hero.

I wanted to do something, anything but I needed to get into town and sort this massive shit storm out. I just wasn't allowed.

Keep to the plan.

The skanger was on her now, trying to rip her handbag off her. I couldn't afford any more trouble. The doors shut. I leant on the window to see what was happening. She was on the concrete. Still like a statue. He had got her bag from under her arm and was running along the platform, the same direction as the train was heading, smiling. I banged on the window, both hands flat against it.

I banged harder.

He stopped, looked at me and gave me the wanker sign. My hands became numb. I cracked the glass. I felt like I was loosing the vision in my left eye it was twitching that much. My hands started to bleed. My voice started to scream. The glass looked like a spider web.

I saw him smile; his mouth was chipped teeth and bleeding gums. The cunt thought there was a joke somewhere. I couldn't see the funny side. I wanted to smash that face of his in, grab his neck, stop him breathing. Pin him up against the wall. Keep punching his head. Let him spit on me. Make me more angry. Let him laugh at me. Keep punching until I hit brick.

Fuck it.

I pulled the emergency cable. Clawed at the door, pushed into it, barged through it. He stares, laughing, hysterical, hyena. She was still lying there. I got a few fingers into the rubber seal and the driver came over the Tannoy.

\- This is the driver. Is everything ok?

\- Open the fucking door now, female passenger assaulted on the platform.

Nervous stutters, gasps from the passengers. Enjoy the show, you cowardly fucks. The skanger was just staring now, wondering why this agitated tramp was desperate to get out of the train.

Then came the sound I had been waiting for all along, the sound of the door opening.

It was like I could see again.

Before he had time to realise what was happening in front of him - he was either on a fix or desperate to get another one - I had got my shoulder out the door, with the rest of my weight behind it, and knocked whatever teeth he had left in his mouth onto the floor.

I wasn't doing it for the girl, or for the passengers on the DART. I was doing it for me, putting the boot in. I wanted him to know he couldn't get away with it; no one had the right to take what wasn't theirs. I couldn't stop. I wanted to turn him into pulp, destroy him, kill him, kill them all. No recognisable features, kick his teeth out, no dental records to identify the pile of flesh and blood.

My anger was healthy, my anger was free.

I didn't want there to be an open coffin.

Kill him.

Make him sorry he ever thought of heroin, kick his face in, stamp on his chest, crack his ribs, let them dig into his vital organs. The girl screamed, I carried on, thought, shut up, it's no concern of yours, I'm saving your life by destroying another one. More screams - for fuck sake, stop. I caught my breath, looked confused. She had screamed for me to stop. The train driver must have had the brown scared out of him because the train was starting off and out of the station. The open fish mouths of the passengers stared back at me, phones dropped from their ears, books on the floor.

I shout out at them

\- You wanted a show didn't you?

This was for what happened in Ballymun.

This was for what happened on Dame Street

The last man standing. I picked up the girls handbag, put the spilled contents back into it - makeup, tampons, an open purse with a passport sized photo in it of her kissing some lucky bastard, I closed it and put it back in the handbag. She didn't back away, she was stuck there with a fixed look of fear on her face. I wiped the skanger's blood off my Gazelles, onto the back of my jeans and I tried to get my breath back. I didn't consider the violence witnessed by the poor girl. Fuck it. I felt good, and I hadn't had a decent work out like that in a long time.

What was the point in saying anything? Her back was against the wall, so to speak, and there was no way of talking her down. No one else at the station; broken streetlights. The shadows were moving in. I held my hand out to pick her up, knuckles split, threads of dead skin hanging loose ready to be picked off. Wouldn't be surprised if she didn't take it; never thought that I could be seen as intimidating. It wasn't like me at all. John Bonham's slowed down in my chest just playing "Since I've Been Loving You" rather than the middle eight of "Dazed and Confused".

I really couldn't be doing with this, trying to talk her into trusting me. No thanks - no point. From the struggle with the skanger, her t shirt was ripped and pulled down to show more of her than I had bargained for, it was showing disrespect to look, so I just pointed it out to her and she closed her jacket over herself so quickly, I wasn't too sure of what I saw at all.

Like an egg timer, the grains of sand beholden to gravity, being dragged through a minuscule gap, eventually leaving nothing but a memory . I felt like a husk, hollow and drained.

Another train was pulling in, she just looked despondently at me. What did she want me to say? She got her bag back, I'm in a shit world of trouble, I saved her life and all. She just looked petrified of me. What else could I fucking do? It's not my fault.

I turned my back on her and got on the train. Hopefully never to see her again. Thank God she didn't know who I was or how I made a living. Hopefully she wouldn't be able to clearly identify me. The CCTV on the trains and stations was shite anyway. I was going underground, sleeping in the dirt, growing roots. Becoming part of the earth, becoming the scum.

The train pulled into Connolly.

I fell out of the doors, trying to stand straight and stop the adrenaline shakes from knocking me over. I didn't bother walking 'round people, kept in a straight line, ten pin bowling. Didn't listen to the insults, kept my eyes fixed on the floor, didn't want any more trouble. Just want to get done what needs to be done. Beating the shit out of that skanger was a kind of cleansing, but I still felt as sick as a plane to Lourdes.

The positive feeling I normally get from dishing out that kind of justice, the one that everyone thinks about and wants to do but is too shit scared to do, was negated by the lack of appreciation from the girl. She had looked at me with the same contempt I give to gangsters who claimed to be freedom fighters. I couldn't understand why my view of justice had appeared warped to her.

I would never question my motives, my reasons. As far as I was concerned, it was clarity, it was black and white. I was helping, I was taking these bad fuckers out of the picture.

Fuck it, what was the point in going over it, analysing it, till there's nothing more. No more flesh to pick at. Figured I may as well carry on doing what I was doing, and fuck the consequences. That wasn't what my shrink thought - but I didn't want to do any Tony Soprano monologue about why I was being forced to do it. I wasn't; it was off my own back. For a while, if I hadn't had her to talk to, I'd have been found hanging from the light fitting in my bedroom. But, I hadn't seen her in a good while, didn't need her at the moment, I was a lot better than I used to be, a lot calmer and happier with myself.

I was like a squirrel, burying my nuts around town, going to these hiding places once I got hungry. One of the hiding places was in the storage locker room. Once inside the room, I got to my locker which was on a three year lease to a GAA team in Longford, smirked at the number, 69. Childlike, stupid, no one else saw the joke. No one around. I turned round and made sure no one is having a nose, stuck the rucksack in there, pulled out my Glock 17 9mm and stuck it in my inside coat pocket. There was no real additional weight from the gun; it was one of the lightest around and I had made a few additional amendments to it. I drilled some holes in the muzzle. It allows the air to be released rather than being fired out at extreme high pressure behind the bullet - a home-made suppressor.

I skipped down the stairs into the bowels of the station. Past the Allied Irish ATM that was always broken, past some homeless drunk auld fella, with cracked skin and the same deranged look in his eyes as I had in my own. He asked if I had change. Yes I had, thank you very much, but I wasn't going to give any to him. I didn't know why he asked me, to be honest, I looked like his Dorian Grey - or maybe he looked like mine.

Out - into the bright light of Amiens Street, sauntering my way between two airport coaches and narrowly missing a truck heading for the port. Couldn't wait for the tunnel to open, if there was ever any money to finish it off, and get them off the road, too many RTA's caused by them. They were too noisy, and just cluttered up my city. Those austerity measures really stuck it to the flattened pedestrian.

I had a little route in mind, cut down Talbot Street, across O'Connell Street into Henry Street, cut through Arnotts onto Lower Liffey Street, across the Ha'penny Bridge, into Temple Bar and get onto Dame Street by the Central Bank. I was going to conduct a thorough enough reccy without getting clocked, then assess the situation and see what the next move is to be reconciling myself to the fact that sooner or later I'm going to have to break cover to get answers.

I lit up another smoke, rotating my shoulders, trying to alleviate the aching from the straps of the rucksack, turning left into Talbot Street, I walk by an electrical store and do a double take, seeing my face on the TV, thinking it's one of those camcorders that films people walking past, encouraging them to look in the window but it wasn't.

It was breaking news on RTE with the words "Male who Gardaí want to talk to urgently" and they had a grainy CCTV image of me.
Chapter 6

In all honesty they hadn't captured my best side. A side profile pic from the stairwell in Connolly Tower. Me - running at speed - baby being carried in swaddling clothes. It was blurry as fuck, but I knew the technology exists that'd be able to clear that picture up.

I turned back towards the train station, my stomach in knots, needing the toilet to either shit or puke.

There's a pharmacy just inside the main entrance to the station so instead of taking the side entrance, I walk round to the front - forgetting for a second that the Luas runs out of Connolly. I step down onto the tram line, then back up, as the tram slides past me, the driver telling me I'm something or other, my heart pounding, sweat dripping down my back. There were seats under a shelter for passengers of the Luas, I stumbled back onto them like a drunk, unsure of where to go next. The world was spinning around me, left to right. I tried to remember what the best solution was to stop this unbalanced feeling, closing my eyes and looking back in the direction of the spinning. It never fucking worked when I was pissed, so I doubted it was going to work now. The best solution I'd found at those times was to run to the toilets or behind the pub, stick a couple of fingers down my throat and puke up what I'd paid for, and that which put me in that fucking situation.

That might work.

I took the steps, three at a time, crashed through the main entrance doors, ran across the concourse, looking for a sign to the toilets. They were in the far right of the station. I ran in through the door, I was not going to make the cubicle, so I reached the sink: fingers, throat, heave ho. Sweat was dripping off my forehead - beetroot coloured puke. I was retching so much I thought I might bring up my ring. I needed to piss, nobody in the toilet with me, piss in the sink, wash away the sick, button up. My stomach settled – it had zero content. I moved to the sink next to me, ran the cold tap, splashed water on my face, cooled right down. I gripped the edges of the sink for balance, retched some more, spat out the taste. The tap was still running, I cupped some water to gargle with and spat it out. Fuck, I forgot my toothbrush, but it was hardly a priority at the time, didn't think I'd be on national TV did I?

I walked back out onto the concourse, under the spotlight, squinted eyes. I walked as normally as I could into the pharmacy, handle of the gun pressing up against my ribs, too easy to grab. But, not this time, there's nobody shouting at me to get down, I know exactly what to get.

I headed up to the counter with a pair of scissors, razor, foam, hair clippers, soap, toothpaste and toothbrush. I left with a brown paper bag and a lighter wallet. How can poor people expect to live when bare essentials cost so much?

Back, into the jacks, I bypass the sink I'd puked and pissed in. In the sink two down, I open the hot tap letting the steam coat the mirror in front of me. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. My devil came out roaring as I went to work.

I used the scissors to cut all the hair off the beard, the running water washing all that ginger down the plug hole. I got the shave as close to my face as possible without cutting skin off, I looked like Frankenstein's monster, patches of hair and a face I once used to know. Running the razor under the piping hot water, heating up the blades so they could cut through my stubble like a hot knife through butter, no need for the foam. I'd picked up the wrong one anyway, non-sensitive, need to take care of the face, as the face takes care of me. I shaved the way I had taught myself - my dad was never sober enough to show me - with the grain, then against to get a closer cut, sluicing the razor every now and again to wash out the hair clogged up inside it.

I wasn't sure how to sort out this birds nest atop my head, but went at it as best I could with the scissors, just chopping away at it. Clumps of hair were falling into the sink, blocking up the plug hole. I kept going until I thought the clippers could do the rest, grabbed the cut hair out of the sink, it felt like cold spaghetti in my hands. I walked up to the flip-top bin and disposed of the hair. Condensation covered all of the mirrors. I looked like that lad on the CCTV images who'd just had an extremely awful haircut. I wiped my hand over the mirror, so I could get a clearer view of the transformation, dried my hands on my jeans then plugged the clippers in, safety first. I never liked my hair being too short, the scars looked like a dyslexic girl doing dot to dot, badly. I attached a number three clip to the shears and went to work, back and forth, hair falling like confetti, pressing down hard, really paying attention to the back of my head as I'd no mirror, the hair tickling and itching my back. Clippers off, I rubbed my hand over unfamiliar territory, brushing off more hair. The sink was a mess, I splashed water up over the porcelain, getting as much of the hair as possible. All washed away. I unwrapped the soap bar, got it wet under the tap, rubbed it over my hands then gave my face a real good scrub. I splashed the soap off with the hot water, turned on the cold tap, splashed my face again, gotta close the pores. I wiped my hand across the mirror again. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

Another DART had come in, passengers flowing through the tickets gates, onto the concourse. I thought an hour or so would give me time to locate an appropriate temporary office for the next couple of days. Part of the training I'd had, many moons ago, was to be able to blend in, hiding in plain sight, changing my appearance was only part of it, I had to be seen but not remembered, visible but not noticeable. I sifted myself through the crowd, surrounded on all sides by people too innocent to see the guilt within. I didn't look into the pharmacy, give the girl who served me any need to be suspicious of me. The dry retching was still there, stifled by a closed mouth so it looked like I had a bad case of hiccups. Back out through the main doors, the cool air felt nice and tingled my face, down the stairs, confident, head up, there were a few Taxis parked up at the rank, I didn't have time for a smoke, thinking to myself isn't it about time to give them up? Maybe I'll just keep hold of them, rather than binning them so I can prove to myself that I don't need to smoke them? Really logical and sensible way of thinking there, Fiachra ,

I get up to the first taxi in the cue and crouch down by the passenger window. The driver was an old lad, white tufty hair, three quarter length black leather jacket, open-necked shirt, white chest hair, blue eyes, pockmarked face, teenage acne, skinny as a bean pole, no problem. He wound the window down.

\- Jury's Christchurch please.

\- Get in.

As I'm sitting in, he's already started the meter up, door closes and away we go.

\- How's it going?

\- Ah it's been quiet today. Sure, you wouldn't know with this weather would ya?

\- You certainly wouldn't, I was just up in Howth meeting a couple of mates for a pint and we were sat outside it was that warm.

\- You're joking, really?

\- I wish I was, just a shame it couldn't be more than the one pint, now look at it, looks like it's about to piss rain .

\- Fucking Irish weather man.

\- Fucking tell me about it.

We were going at a snail's pace across Butts Bridge, of course I knew the reason for this.

\- What's with all the traffic?

\- Some fella got knocked down and killed on Dame Street, hit and run.

\- Shit man, when did this happen?

\- Eh, 'bout half an hour ago. Radio's going mad about sightings of the car but I would say it's long gone.

\- Do they know who it was who got knocked down?

\- Nothing's been confirmed but one of the lads was saying that he's a big wig Civil Servant.

\- Oh fuck, that's not good.

\- Well as the fella says, it's not fucking good for anyone. I'm going to have to the long way round, are you in a rush?

The long way round.

The light above my head went bam, it was so stupidly obvious. Get out of town. I'd been right there at the station, what time was it now? Just coming up to midday, I can get the 13.05 train.

It would meaning stepping foot in Boyle, something I haven't done for over eight years, it would never be expected by anyone here and certainly not expected by anyone in Boyle. It is a reckless idea, the reasons are obvious, too many people like Sarah, Glen and my mum who just would want to pound my head into the ground for leaving in the first place. I hoped they would have understood my reasons if I had ever kept in contact with them. It's not like my Dad being shot and murdered was a reason to stay, but engagement to Sarah was, working as a Gard with Glen was, trying to stop mum from topping herself was.

But what about me?

Sat in the now static traffic, I wondered whether it was going to be worth it. I don't have to see them though do I? Even though the town has a tiny population of two thousand, there will be some people there who won't recognise me. I don't have to go out, just lay low in a Bed and Breakfast outside town. Maybe if I just sit them down and explain it to them, why I had to go, maybe I can atone for what I did?

Fuck it.

\- Do you know what man, drop me off at Tara Street, I'm going to see if I can head back up to Howth, the bag packing can wait for another day.

\- Are ya sure now?

\- I am, just this waiting around when a man could be having a drink.

\- Fair enough, here we are.

\- What's the damage?

\- Four Euro.

Digging deep into my pocket, enough change , but I wanted to give him a note, crumpled paper, I need a red ten.

\- Here you go pal, don't worry about the change.

\- Ah you're a gentleman, enjoy your pints.

Seat belt off and out the door.

\- Cheers man, here's hoping for a bit of decent weather again.

Door shut and walking towards Tara Street, taxi driver is still stuck in traffic.

I wanted to keep the conversation short and to the point. I didn't want to harp on about the hit and run because I didn't want him in any possible witness statements to say that it was something that I couldn't stop going on about, even though I wanted to bleed every last bit of information out of him. I could just pick up their radio frequency online when I'm on the train up. If I can get a registration number, even a partial, I can start enquiring along with the cop car in Ballymun. Instead of going up the stairs towards the station, I turned back down Luke Street, left onto the Quays and back across Butts Bridge. Looking at my watch, I had enough time to get my bag out of the locker and hopefully a seat on the train, the new trains looked nice and were air conditioned but they were short trains. At least you could get a seat on those old rickety orange trains and smoke in between the carriages, the window slid down whilst trying not to be dragged into the toilets by your horny girlfriend, then just giving in, going with the flow.

Sirens in the distance, not for me clearly, cutting round by the Bus Station so I can just get near enough to Store Street Cop Shop without being dragged inside, it all looks quiet on the Western Front, not a single boy or girl in blue, chasing me down the road.

I've been in the train station three times within the last hour, it's ridiculous, that alone could be enough to arouse suspicion off the staff or just one of the passengers waiting on their train. It's all right pretending like there is nothing go on, not trying to do anything that would unnecessarily alert people to me, but the fact is, I needed to sit down for a couple of hours and think of a plan for the short, medium and long term. Someone, somewhere knows something about this and I hate being in the dark about it.

I don't really want to spend more time in Boyle than I have to. It's not like it's a holiday or anything. I know the temptation, especially with Sarah, may be too much, and I will want to go out and see her, even with everything going to shit in Dublin. The thought had never occurred to me to take her away, don't be so fucking stupid, like she's not going to either give me a good hard slap across the face or even allow me in the house. I so desperately want to see her now, it's like all this has just kicked up the ground of dead and buried feelings.

The queue is too long for the man behind the ticket counter so I get one from the machine, the train hasn't been announced yet but there is a train sat there on platform three with no destination on it.

Thirty five fucking Euro for a single ticket -thieving bastards.

I don't even know if she's in town, one simple way to find out I suppose.

The Public Address system lets out a bing bong to announce that the train to Boyle is ready to board, so I found myself walking nonchalantly through the ticket barrier, through the automatic doors, the train roaring into life, diesel fumes filling my lungs.

Christ almighty, I'm going to Boyle.

I'm going to fucking Boyle

Chapter 7

There was a four-seater available, two seats on each side of a cream, plastic table, there was a plug socket imbedded into the rim of the table by the window. How nice to be able to watch the world go by whilst using the laptop to cause mayhem and destruction. I squeezed myself in, like the space is only big enough for size zero models, breathing in, then pirouetted round facing the same way as the direction of the train. I put the rucksack on the seat next to me, opened it up, got the laptop out, plugged it in and waited for it to load up. What John needed could wait until I got to Boyle. I needed to first gain access to the council's CCTV imaging, to see if I could get some decent images of the vehicle that knocked down my colleague. Then I intended to run the plates through the PULSE database, see what that comes up with and take it from there. I'll also check the database for info on Ballymun, the Minister and see what I can find out about the officers involved. I hope that by the end of the journey, in two and a half hour's time, I'll be in a far better position to know exactly who to take out, and how to clear my name.

An automated message came on, over the speaker letting the passengers know this was a Sligo bound train, then listed off all the stations on the way to it. Boyle was second from last, oh happy days. Face pressed against the window, the condensation was very welcoming as it cooled down my overheating head. I was looking out at nothing but the commuters running for the train, why bother. The train started making creaking noises as if resisting the drivers intention to start the journey. Slowly waking up. Then a whistle blew somewhere, the doors shut and seconds later it started moving. There were creases that I had no idea how to iron out, but there was fire under the surface of my skin, neurones and electrical pulses shooting around my central nervous system, waiting for the right time to unload.

Peeling my face off the window, I typed in my password on the keyboard, the desktop was encrypted, if you were to look at it now, it had icons for MMOG's, social media and porn. If you clicked on them without entering the encryption code, the whole hard drive is wiped, every icon except porn.

There was no window that popped up, I just had to type in several inconsequential numbers, which may or may not be date of births for myself, Sarah and Glen, the three stooges. A short while later, I was viewing the live feed of a taped-off Dame Street, blues and twos from three cop cars and an ambulance making it hard to see what was going on the road itself. I could see the entrance into the Castle and up to the Dail, rubber-neckers with their phones out filming whatever was going on behind the ambulance, sick fucks. There was an option to scroll back in five minute segments. I brought the clock back ninety minutes, just a normal free flowing view, tourist pricks wearing green Paddies Day hats like that's the Irish thing to do. The Irish thing to do is drink. Checking my phone to see what time the phone call came in at, ten minutes further in, skipping forward, too late, he was already on the ground, his arm bent at an unnatural angle behind his back, option to scroll back in thirty second segments, sweat dripping down my back, eager to see if there was any point to this, time of the essence in case the CCTV lads realise they have a hacker, they'll pick up an IP address in Jakarta anyway but it won't take them long to trace.

There he is, walking out of The Castle, on the phone, looking quite animated, I place my hand on my phone as I view, panning back, as he steps out onto the road without looking then stops. What the fuck's he doing, playing chicken on one of the city's busiest roads. He turns back round to the Castle, nods, was it a nod? Rewind that bit back, zoom in so much I can see the sweat pouring off him, his face at forty five degrees, looking back around into the entrance. The nod was unmistakeable. I can't see who he is nodding at, he steps back onto the pavement, looks back down towards College Green, still on the phone, the road free of traffic, getting impatient with me on the other end acting the prick, still looking for something, why isn't he crossing? Ah Christ no, surely fucking not. He then steps out as a black Mercedes C Class is flooring it up towards Christchurch, smacks into him, throws him up in the air, clips the roof of the car, and lands near a central reservation. Bile rose in my gullet, I swallowed it back down as I rewound the tape and zoomed in. The screen blinked for a fraction of a second, they're onto me, Jakarta then to New Orleans, frame by frame as the car appears from the bottom right hand corner, click, click, click, number plate clear as anything, screen blinks again. New Orleans to Helsinki where I bought the laptop. What the fuck, a Northern Irish plate, write it down on the back of my hand, then a red exclamation mark appears on the screen, the innards of the laptop make a grating noise, ah shit, the monitor goes blank, frozen on the image of the plate, then the laptop shuts down.

Well that's just fucking great.

I slam the top down so hard that sparks jump out at me, shove the laptop into the rucksack, get on a pair of latex gloves, pull out the plug, flip the laptop over, remove the casing, take out the now destroyed hard drive and a little vial of hydrochloric acid. I open the train window, cold air and rain coming in and splashing my face, open the vial, carefully, sitting back so as not to breathe in any fumes, pour a couple of drops onto the hard drive - which instantly starts to burn and fizz, corroding the plastic and the mettle, like I'd want to do to that fucking Merc, picking it up between my index finger and thumb, standing up and then pegging it out of the window.

Two grand for a piece of shit, fruit laptop, wish I'd kept the fucking receipt. After all that safeguarding and encrypting, two minutes hacked into Dublin Councils CCTV system and they corrupted my hard drive.

Bastards.

That's darkened my mood somewhat.

The smell of burning plastic was intense and twisting my melon. I took off the gloves, memorised the numbers and letters I wrote on my hand, licked my finger and rubbed off the ink. Elbows on the table, head in hands, what the fuck was I going to do now.

Some young one was coming up the aisle pushing a refreshments trolley. Erin was holding my Da's hand behind her, she looked impatient, hopping from one foot to the other, like she needed the loo. With my head still down

\- You don't need to piss in Heaven darlin'

I rubbed my eyes with the balls of my palms, looked up and they were gone. But the young one with the refreshment trolley was still making her way towards me cans of beer stacked on top like they were put there just for me.

She was nice looking, just eighteen I'd say, sweet face with cheeks that looked pinched from heaving that trolley from one end of the train to the other. Her green blouse was a bit too small, puppy fat still trying to keep its hold on her, she had red spots on her chest around her necklace, something from her debs that she still wore even though she was allergic to the metal, she must love her boyfriend. I felt like I wanted to go and shake his hand, tell him to not fuck her about. I wanted to smile at her when she turned to ask me if I wanted any refreshments, I didn't look angry or feel that was how I conveyed myself too her but her smile soon dropped and her nose turned up when she caught a whiff off the burning plastic.

\- Have you burnt something on the train sir?

\- No, this smell was here when the train started up at Connolly, that's why I've the window open and getting soaked for the privilege.

\- Right.

\- Seriously love, it's been here all the time I've been here. There isn't a seat anywhere else is there?

\- Not really, it's packed.

\- No bother, the window should get rid of it soon enough. Can I get four cans please.

With the briefest of smiles, the mutual understanding of hardship passed between us and she smiled back at me. I got a feeling she didn't believe me but customer service prevails. She turned back to the cart and grabbed four cold cans out of the portable fridge.

\- Would you like a bag?

\- Ah no, you're grand, I'll have them drunk before we get to Boyle

\- Next stop's Longford. That's twenty Euro.

\- How much?

\- Twenty Euro

\- Captive audience eh?

\- Absolutely, you should see the price of the sambo's

\- We're a drinking nation, not an eating nation, unless you count all the obese alcoholics.

Trying to hide a smile, too hot for TV

\- Ah now, don't be mean.

\- Here's a twenty and a five, keep the change.

More giggles as our smiles were cooking nicely.

Was this flirting as good as it got? She put her left hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle which reminded me of Erin when she said "fart" or heard me say "feck" and all that flirting just drained away, the smile was never even there.

\- Thanks now, hope the rest of your journey doesn't have you dealing with more tricky customers like myself.

She knew I'd switched off and her face dropped to serious mode, she made a tutting noise and began to push the trolley back down towards the front of the train. I cracked open a can and looked out at a green nothingness of fields and mountains. I caught her out of the corner of my eye turning back to look at me. Could have either been a good or a bad thing but I didn't acknowledge it.

I was still angry.

We got into Longford. My eyes were only open halfway and as it was Longford, there was no point in opening them fully. Unless I fancied admiring the petrol bombed houses, wannabe-gangsters and the fall-out of a nuclear bomb. Longford was designed by folk who just didn't get irony. It was a place I'd only ever driven through with my eyes closed and it wouldn't be in my top 100 list of destinations. It was so bad, even Cavan beat it, getting in at 98.

Longford was plagued with drug users and drug pushers, with a small percentage of normal people stuck in the middle of the biggest shit-slinging contest known to man. Every other evening on the news, it was the same thing. The Corporation grey of the estates, the luminous yellow crime-scene tape and the virginal white of the forensic officers. Some fella getting shot, some young one getting knee capped, some Polish girl found bound and gagged in someone's boot. Gunfights, knackers with machetes running through the town, blah blah fucking blah. A lot of pulp, and not a lot of fiction.

The train down from Sligo pulled in along-side my one going up. The Dublin - Sligo route was mostly one track, so you had nothing to do but wait at fucking Longford, or Mulingar, of all the places, where the track broke into two, and the trains could bypass each other without the usual carnage a self-destructive person like myself would expect. The passengers on that train and the passengers on mine all did the same thing; we stared at each other, like retarded monkeys.

Through the mist on the windows, the rain outside and the misted windows on the other train, I could see a couple of Nuns looking over at me. They were sat opposite each other, bottle of 7 Up filled with vodka, habits askew on their heads, older than my dead granny, pointing at me. They stood for everything I hated, Catholicism and women who just keep on saying no. I slowly raised my middle finger to them and mouthed the words "you fucking cunts." I smile at them and then I repeated the little mantra to them, emphasising the word "cunt". I laughed in a mild hysteria as they turned a whiter shade of pale but that might just have been the rain distorting my view of them, or my psychotic, screwed view of the world. Hey ho, let's go.

Everything had become grey, the heavily leadened clouds bearing down on me, sucking all the colour out of the world. The trees were trying their best to be resolute but even though the leaves were 50 shades of red and gold, it was their swan song before they died, self-important, pompous fuckers.

We got moving again, and after that little pleasant exchange with my new best friends, I pushed myself back further into the seat. Comfortable as sandpapering skin, then rubbing salt into the wounds. I closed my eyes against the madness, the hum off the train gently should have been holding its hand out to me inviting me to sleep, but I just couldn't. Closing my eyes won't help. There was nothing else I could do, no computer to use, nobody to call, patience wasn't a virtue I suffered gladly.

Just daydream, breathing techniques keep the wolves from the door. Eight years since I've been home, had only recently began to build bridges with my Dad, I hadn't really spoken to him or had a recognisable father and son relationship with him for ten years prior to that.

The thing about my Dad was, he was a total cunt.

I didn't actually remember anything positive or endearing about him at all. It was only due to Sarah's coercive hand that I started to begrudgingly to build foundations. I remembered when I was a child, he used to have a beard that was ginger, the total opposite of the ink black of his head hair, like father like son. I remembered his big hand holding mine when we used to walk into town and he would sneak into the bookies before taking me into Rafferty's for a game of pool.

He always got free drinks in there. Gerry Rafferty, the owner of said establishment had always made time for the local An Garda Síochána Sergeant. A fine footballer, as I was told at any given fucking opportunity. A fine fuck-up, I replied. So, when Gerry and me Dad held their little conversations, I was given a pound to put in the jukebox. Only a few years back did I realise; it was to block out any chatter between the two. For a cop in Boyle, or any other small town in Ireland, corruption and protection went hand in hand. So Rafferty's never had any problems with lock-ins, fighting or unwanted knocks at the door from the boys in blue. He used to challenge me to a game of pool once they'd sorted out their dirty business. He would let me clear a few balls, then just come back and wipe the floor with me - every single time. You've to learn to lose, son, he always used to say to me, so my earliest memory of him was actually of hating him with a passion.

It didn't really improve from there, 'cause I developed a mouth that could turn Châteauneuf-du-Pape into vinegar. Anything I was told to do, I would do the opposite and answer back \- fuck him. That was when puberty hit - and so did my dad, on a very fucking regular basis. My mother told me about the amount of times she'd find me cowering in a corner, with my lovely Da laying into me with his hands, a belt, a slipper. You name it - I apparently got it. I had no memory of that time. I remember getting bullied at school by Dave Finnegan - the cunt - who used to spit on me and slap me round the neck. Nobody stopped it. I didn't say anything at home, I didn't say anything at school. I went into myself and felt a need to die on a daily basis.

One Friday night, when I was about 15, I was up in my room, trying to have a wank over the television programme Eurotrash, cheap Friday night soft porn for teenagers and lads home from the pub without a woman. Da came in, blootered, shouting, all slurred and thick with cigarette smoke. I couldn't turn the TV up to drown out the noise of downstairs 'cause some European bird was getting her back doors smashed in by some auld fella and she was making a bit of a racket. So I was trying to get it on with myself, when I heard this scream off my mother, a slap and then silence....silence....silence. Then I heard footsteps coming upstairs, my dad's. I flicked the TV onto standby and pull the boxers up over my cock and then the duvet over me, and squeeze my eyes shut. He went into his room, I heard the wardrobe opening, I was thinking, he's packing a suitcase or something, but then the wardrobe shut again. There were stumbling drunken footsteps, silence, then footsteps going back down the stairs again. Then I heard the belt slap my mum's delicate skin at least three times.

Each slap was broken up by a scream and the breaths of effort coming from my Dad. I was stuck to the bed, not knowing what to do and I held my breath and held it and hold it... fuck it. I leaped up, stuck on a pair of jogging bottoms. I tripped up in them as I was trying to get downstairs as well as dressed. I looked over the banister and could see that my dad was trying to take off mum's jeans and she was trying to fend him off. He kept slapping her hand away, putting his meaty hand on her neck and whispering something into her ear.

She saw me over the back of his shoulder, turned to him and said my name. Without looking at me, he told me to go back to bed. I said "No". I had defied him again and I wasn't going to let him at my mum. So, I picked up my stomach, which was down by my ankles, and went downstairs. I could have ended up anywhere; the adrenaline had turned my legs to fleshy jelly, breaking my concentration even more, as I now had to focus on not falling down the stairs. That would have caused such a distraction; the folks would laugh at me being silly, go to bed and we could all be happy families again. Yeah and I was Fidel Castro. I had to do this, whatever this was, and even though I know now that this had started me on the journey, I wasn't aware of how much of the ripple would turn into a tsunami - wiping out everything its path.

I got halfway down the stairs, or - if you want to be all Dante about it - the fifth level of hell - and froze. He turned his gaze on me, and I guessed he wasn't too impressed for many different reasons; the disobedience, the awkwardness of trying to rape my mum and give her a few slaps, with his son watching on. Kinda put the kibosh on things. Mum looked at me, looking for salvation, pleading with me not to stop, to carry on down. He turned away, losing his grip on her fragile neck, and came up the stairs towards me. She shouted out to him to leave me alone, but her voice was fucked. He towered a foot above me, and grabbed me by the shoulder, trying to force me onto the floor. I tried to grab his wrist and force it away, and he used the back of his other hand to slap me across the face. The sudden flash of pain, the humiliation, then tears suddenly sprang up like newly-discovered oil.

He smiled at me, because he'd won again, over both of us. He told me to go back to my fucking room and stay there. This is where the split personality in me must have entered the room. Because I didn't go: "yeah ok Dad, I'm bruised and beaten, and I'm actually going to allow you to go back down and continue on beating the crap out of me ma"; Through the tears and the snot and the stinging face, I gritted my teeth and said "No". This wasn't just defiance, this wasn't a smart comment, this wasn't me trying to get one over on him. This was me confronting a monster.

\- You fucking waste of space shit.

I didn't reply.

Couldn't think of anything fast enough, too young to be able to come out with a witty retort such as coming from the same gene pool. He was now standing two stairs below me, pissed and pissed-off. So I just pushed him, didn't think it would actually do anything. It was more a "handbags at ten paces" push than a "get your fucking hands of my mother, you cunt" push. He must have forgotten that he was on the stairs, 'cause he stepped back into thin air, putting his weight on the back foot and tumbled backwards and crumpled into a pile with a low thud.

Panic set in. I looked at Mum, who ran past him and stood in front of me, with both hands outstretched, she whispered

\- Get out of my house.

He tried to stand up, but fell again, the left side of his face grazed from rubbing it on the wall as he fell. Mum turned her voice up a wee bit and repeated the mantra.

\- Get out of my house.

He stood up and looked in the mirror, checking himself out because you don't wanna look like a fool in the station next morning, when his colleagues asked him what happened. He looked at us with such contempt I thought his eyes were going to burst into flames. My mum repeated the line, louder again.

He must have just thought: "Fuck this for a laugh", as he walked back out the door he had only entered, like, five minutes beforehand. The engine of his car roared into life, the gravel being churned up under the wheels as he fucked off out of our lives never to return back here as a husband or a father.

Me and me Ma looked at each other with a what the fuck do we do now look on our faces. She patted herself down, doing up her belt again. She came over to me and hugged me so tightly I thought my ribs would break. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and just said;

\- Would you like a cup of tea?

Not am I ok or am I hurt. A fucking cup of tea. All I could say was;

\- Yeah ok

And then there was two.

That's what I see when I close my eyes, that night, I'm just a conduit for the dead, they surround and envelop me.

The train announcer let us know we are about to arrive at Carrick on Shannon. My stomach was trying to force its way out through my feet, a combination of drink, drugs and nerves.

The next stop after Carrick was Boyle. The next stop was only 10 minutes away.

It wasn't like being nervous was a new concept to me. It wasn't like I enjoyed repeating myself at all. But what could you do?

The rain bled across the outside of the glass. Some old couple got off, a few school age kids mitching got on. The doors were about to close, last chance to make a run for the hills. The doors closed. I was trapped. I was definitely going to Boyle now.

I looked into my bag, just to check everything was there. Felt more comfortable knowing that I had the gun, cash and enough coke to kill a small donkey. I came to the conclusion that I fancied a little toot before the train arrives in. My day had just got a little bit better. It was similar to that feeling when you found a fiver in a jacket you haven't worn in a while, with the added benefit of being able to get completely off your tits. Squeezing my way back out onto the aisle, the toilet was down between this carriage and the next. Not many passengers left on the train, although they all seem to be sat on aisle seats, not that I care as I knock into heads, shoulders, knees and toes, there's a man in need of a line here.

I got into the cubicle, locked the door, put the seat down on the loo and chopped up a fat line by the sink, roll up a crisp 20 and away we go.

Those first few seconds of fireworks dispersed and I was thinking: get another one of them down me, fuck man it's Boyle. Rubbed my nose, opened and closed my eyes and checked the husk in the mirror. I'd seen better days but I'd seen worse. Flushed the toilet to make it look as if I actually went. Rubbed the remaining powder off the sink and licked my gums. That was much, much better. Slapped my face a couple of times, got back out, stood by the door and closed my eyes. Patience, wait.

I saw the Carrick Road, I saw St Joseph's Church. I was about 30 seconds from the train pulling in; it went under the bridge, slow, slow, wheezing brakes, imitating my breathing. Then it stopped. The green light by the side of the door turns on and there were a few people behind me itching to get off. I just stood there. A hand came over my shoulder to press the button, cheeky cunt, and I grabbed his hand and squeezed the fuck out of it. He squealed and stood back.

\- I can do that my man, I said.

I press the button, the door opened and the cold blast of air mixed with diesel fumes engulfs me as I stood down onto the platform. I don't really like the Pope, but you know when the last fella went back to Poland and got down on his knees and kissed the floor when he got off the plane? I kinda liked the whole idea of that, so I got down on my knees, knelt forward and kissed the gravel.

Your man with the Jeremy Beadle hand called me a wanker, but you know, maybe I was. I was off my face on coke and didn't really wanna get into a fight only five seconds off the train. He looked at me as he walked over the footbridge to the exit on the opposite platform. I got up off my knees, brushed the dust off, didn't wanna be too conventional and use the footbridge myself. The train was making its way down the track to Sligo; the tracks weren't electric, so I jumped off the platform, crossed the rails and climbed up the other side. Didn't care who was looking, cause I knew they were, just walked out of the station and up the approach into town.

Chapter 8

Fuck, town had changed. It wasn't like you wouldn't have a clue where you were, but there was a big fuck-off Super Valu between the station and the Plunkett Home which wasn't there last time I was here. Shop signs were telling me everything must go. There was a new mobile phone shop set up in what used to be the tourism office. It looked like a house of cards about to collapse in on itself, no fucker in there apart from the zombies staffing it. I lit up a smoke and noticed that the pubs I walked past, that were here 30 years ago, were still open for business today. The place to drown your sorrows when you foreclosed on business loans wasn't with stones in your pockets, but in the pub, cause there was always tick if you were a bit short and why go home to the wife who'd bust your balls when you could just set up camp in one of the 35 or so bars in town and dream of a better tomorrow. I still to this day could not work out how all the pubs had survived while Rome burned.

I crossed over by the clock tower and saw Dave Finnegan and his cronies standing on the corner of the old Super Valu at the top of the Crescent. They were dressed like they had time on their hands. They were dressed like eight years has passed in the blink of an eye. I didn't recognise any of the other bucks he was with, but they all had the same deranged look of boredom on their faces as they looked into the every car that drove past to see who the driver was or clocked every woman walking by then made some sneering comment with a thrust of their hips towards the lady. I was on the other side of the road.

They didn't notice me.

A few days after the incident with my folks, I had concluded that I could no longer go back to being the person I was. I had to protect Mam and myself from all the evil beyond our house, because evil had found a way of just walking in the front door. So every morning before school, I did five lots of 20 press ups, 10 lots of 20 press ups every evening and on the weekends an additional five lots of 20. I used the history of numerous slaps from Dave Finnegan as encouragement to carry on even when my arms felt like they were on fire. A couple of months later, I snapped. I really did, it was like someone had just cracked a massive branch in my head. I was coming out of a science lesson and he was outside the class waiting to go in. The room was at the top of the stairs, going down towards the playground. He blocked my path and said:

\- Money.

I said nothing, just practised my seven mile stare. He pushed my shoulder and then grabbed the collar of my shirt.

\- I said fucking money

A circle of classmates and hangers on for Finnegan had been created and they all stared at me. Fact of the matter was they and Finnegan didn't know what to do, because I just stared and said nothing. He let his left hand down off my collar and I knew he was going to punch me, I brought up my left hand, which was open, and caught him in the middle of the throat. I wanted my hand to travel through his neck, grab his spine and rip it out of him. I wanted him dead. The circle then fractured and broke up. I pushed a very surprised Finnegan back. I had the momentum.

I like to think I said something along the lines of,

\- Don't ever talk to me again, you cunt.

Or I could have said nothing, the adrenaline preventing any words from coming out. But I had him round the throat and was pushing him back. I didn't know where we were going to end up, but I found out soon enough. The lads who were behind him had moved out of the way, as we were getting ever nearer to the top of the stairs, only a metre or so away, and he looked at me. I carried on moving, pushing him backwards, the weight I'd gained and the momentum kept chugging us both along. At the top of the stairs, I stopped for a fraction of a googolplex of a second. The old me in its dying breath trying to get me to see reason, but there was nothing but reason.

I shoved Dave Finnegan down the stairs.

No remorse; no guilt. I took away from that, once I was told I was suspended and informed that Finnegan had broken his arm, that I didn't have to just sit there and take it anymore. I could fight back and these bullies, these moronic idiots, who fed off fear, would simply be my targets, and I so wanted more than to break their arm.

\- Dave? I shouted across the road.

One of his friends looks up but I had the stare all fixed on Finnegan.

\- Dave?

His mate said something to him and he turned to see who was shouting out his name. Seconds ticked by, wait for it, he'd get there soon enough. His eyes widened, the penny dropping.

\- Hey Finnegan, how's your bowling arm?

I smiled and carried on walking, not once looking back, I was sure I would see them again.

It was a sad thing to see, as I meandered through town like the river, the town and the people in it never changed.

But the smell, oh the smell of burning peat from the numerous chimneys, the triggers of memories of warmth and Raeburn's and throwing old milk cartons onto the fire. I used to help my granny get the fire ready in the morning by raking out the old ashes vigorously with a poker, bringing them out into the garden and thrown in a bin, then I'd get some sods of turf, bring them in, throw them into the Raeburn with a block of a grey fire-lighter and that would be my jobs done for the day. The smell of being out on the land, out on the bog, long summer nights, flicking away midges and drinking from a two litre bottle of cider. Shifting women, confused hands searching for areas you only heard about from other lads. Ah the mamories. So many secret places in town to take them away from prying eyes, climbing the ladder of sex knowledge.

Billy Forty Coats, fuck me he was still alive and hadn't changed in the slightest. He was one of very few homeless in town. The name was reflective of the large collection of winter jackets he amassed and wore all at the same time. Nobody ever counted 40 off him, who would want to. The town quietly nicknamed him that and nobody ever knew who created the name, it was now folklore and the accepted name. There were rumours he used to hang out with some auld hoor who would do anything to ya for a quid or a can of moonshine. Fuck knows where they came from or where they spent their nights but I was told under no circumstances to go near them or walk along the banks of the river behind Termon Road at night because rumour had it that's where they slept, counting their change and adding to the littered river. Like fuck did I listen to that bit of advice and I never saw them when I walked late at night along the river, counting my change and throwing rubbish into the river.

Billy was a dirty fucking knacker and as I walk passed him, he was pitched up against the side wall of Dalys, pissing on his worn shoes. Once he did himself up, he then opened up one of his many jackets and hacked up some phlegm into it.

I guess some things would never change. In a sad, pathetic, even morose way, I liked the man, he had shtyle. He was anarchism personified; he didn't conform to such things as hygiene or fashion. He didn't vote, he drank turps, he'd walk down the middle of Bridge Street and claim it was as much his right to travel on the road as the cars and lorries honked and shouted abuse at him. It was claimed years ago that as well as by the river, he also lived in the sewers, with the shit and the rats as his only company. I dismissed these tabloid claims as nonsensical, utter "wank" and said he probably just enjoyed shitting himself. Two fingers up to the man, the woman and the child. The nut house up above in Sligo wouldn't take him, so he was just left to fester, the only true vein of anarchism in a conformist cave. I admired him, but from about fifty metres away and with a down wind.

I was about to turn right onto the Carrick Road, just ahead of me was the main bridge over Boyle River, just before you go over it, on the right hand side was the once luxurious Royal Hotel with its bold Tudor style exterior, deep red leather seats, winding stair cases and a bar with impressive views over the river, especially after a heavy shower as the water rushes past.

Now the Royal looks like something out of 1980's Miami, pastel pinks and yellows, the old sign had been replaced with neon, fluorescent green lights. I had to cross over the road, outside Dalys just to get the full picture in my head. The main door had been replaced with one of them revolving door Superman jobs. Lighting up a smoke, shaking my head at the garishness, totally out of place in Boyle let alone Ireland feel anything but disgust to it.

What in the fuck had happened here?

I turned right onto the Carrick Road instead of going over the bridge. I followed the traffic round this mental one way system, just to see if I could get my chemically-enhanced brain around the fucked up and pointless concept. In an effort to take lorries out of the town centre, prevent the bridge from weakening more, and ease access to the By-Pass, Roscommon County Council had put the one way system through a residential area, with the pleasure grounds and schools giving over-tired truck drivers a bountiful supply of target practice.

I leaned on the low wall opposite the Shell Garage, breathed deep and looked up at the metallic sky, breathed out like a punctured squeeze-box and had a nose in at who was in the garage.

I didn't recognise anyone on the forecourt. Not the buck filling up the engine, not the drivers, impatient to get the fuck out of Dodge. There were a group of three lads stand outside the shop. One had his hand squeezed round a bottle of something carried in a brown paper bag. They were dressed like knacker clones: zip up track suit tops, ripped jeans or joggers and runners out of Dunes. They were the walking dead, all addicted to whatever was in that bag - and from the look of things, that wasn't the only drug of choice. They didn't even try to conceal what they were doing, the dirty, brazen cunts.

Two girls, about the same age as the lads, jump over the wall from the Pleasure Ground, a small park and playground next to the garage that appears to have recently had a refurb, and into the forecourt. Another one walked around the front into the forecourt as she couldn't jump over the wall cause she was about six months gone. She spat out into the road. The same corporation cloning was being used, apart from white crop tops and greasy hair. They all looked about sixteen, maybe a bit older, their childhoods were already washed down the drain. The groups began shouting at each other, not aggressive but it was conditional learning from the parents, and it appeared to be the only way they know how to communicate - apart from fucking without contraception.

When the two groups met, they were all over each other, kissing and touching. The haze of hormones off them made me nauseous. When the pregnant girl yanked the brown paper bag out of the hand of the fella who had his empty hand on her bump, and inhaled, the nausea turned to bile rising. I stepped off the wall, took a quick couple of drags, threw the smoke into the gutter, looked to my left to check that the road was clear and jog over. The lads were as high as kites; the muscles that kept their eyes in place were loose and spongy. I drew my fist back, then thought, hang on, they're kids. So I carried on jogging and I feigned a trip. As I put my hand out to save me face landing first on the tarmac, I knocked the bag out of the pregnant girl's hand, and it smashed on the floor, soaking the paper. As I landed, I got a whiff off the fumes. They smelt like paint stripper, a quick easy fix.

\- Ya stupid cunt.

This was how the pregnant girl said hello. I got up onto my knees and look at the palms of my hands, dimpled with gravel. Waves of relief washed over me, I was glad I hadn't hit any of the lads and had avoided knocking into the pregnant girl. Apart from the young fella who had been holding the bag, the other two bucks had made a run for it, back towards town, back to their mammies. The girls stayed.

I was seething.

I stood up, faced the fella. The spots on his forehead and cheeks looked ready to erupt. His breath reeked; he had clearly gone to the same dentist as Shane McGowan. My jaw is clenched, and I was taking short sharp breaths in and out of my nose. The pregnant girl grabbed at my shoulder. I looked around at her, my stare burning into her glazed, angry eyes and her hand drops.

I turned and grab the scruff of the young lad's top, pulled him in close to me.

\- Are you the father?

\- Wha'?

\- Are you the fucking father of that girl's baby?

\- Ya, so?

\- Cunt.

Silence, fear, stunned. I whispered so only he could hear.

\- Cunt.

I pulled him closer, breathing hard, and then pushed him onto the floor. Didn't take much, the little prick. He started to scramble away, backing into the Calor gas canisters, I stood over him.

\- Cunt. Now fuck off, before I rip your tongue out.

I turned away from him and heard him chase after his cronies. I walked over to the two other girls, ignoring the pregnant girl, who just looks away at her boyfriend. The drivers filling up their cars just stood there, maybe glad that someone could do the job that they were too scared to do.

\- Is she your friend?

\- Yeah.

\- Not very good at it, are you? I'll be around town for a while, I don't wanna see you doing anything else, apart from looking after your friend and her baby.

\- Would ya ever fuck off? I'm gonna tell my boyfriend about what you gone and done. You ain't my father.

Nice to see they don't teach this shit in school

\- No, that's right. I'm not. I'd be so fucking disappointed if I was. I'm glad I can sleep soundly at night without the knowledge that I have a skank for a daughter, who'd be happier sucking cock for a fix than looking after her pregnant friend. Now fuck off.

It certainly had the desired effect. She started blubbing and the other pal hugged her, and then they both did as I requested.

And then there were two.

Me and a very angry girl, six or so months gone, who'd just seen me assault her waster of a boyfriend and suggest her best mate sucks cock for treats.

\- I don't normally pick on kids, but what in the fuck are you at snorting down the fumes, and you in your condition?

\- Fuck you

\- Can you not consider stopping this now. This isn't the life for you or your baby.

\- Sure, what other life is there. You're not from Boyle are ya?

With that, she tutted and walked off after her friends, and I was left alone, again, with a damp shirt from the liquid in the bag. The drivers carried on filling up their cars, so I went into the shop and got a bottle of Rock Shandy. The lad behind the counter, who must have seen what was going on outside, looked like he fancied the idea of jumping the counter and caving my head in with a tin of beans. I smiled, shook my head and said:

\- Don't even think about it, man.

I headed on up the Carrick Road, past the pleasure grounds. The playground was no longer a square of chipped concrete and skin from scrapped knees. It didn't look too bad actually, something the kids would actually enjoy going to, but looking in the bins, with the empty cans of Bulmers nearly falling out, I think that it actually hadn't changed that much. All the underage drinkers and winos still congregated and made it difficult for anyone else to use the facilities. The little grass area around the playground led down to the river, and there were plenty of trees for cover. To duck out of the rain and not get seen from the road when you were shifting any girl who'd say yes to ya, and you thought taking them to sit under a tree by the banks of the river is romantic. I'd lost count of the amount of girls I fingered down there. I smelt a couple of fingers on my right hand and all I got was a dizzy sensation from the turps.

The incident with those kids in the forecourt had really unnerved me: the disregard for their lives, for the unborn child, just the whole air of desperation about it. They saw themselves incarcerated in Boyle. Whatever was in that brown paper bag was their equivalent of Prozac. The whole concept of leaving town, moving away to the big smoke, getting over to Knock, and flying out of there seemed alien to them. They felt happy enough to wallow in self-pity, to be born of parents who didn't give a shit, and bum around a town where no one gave a flying fuck about them. And I don't know why. They could obviously get cash for cheap fixes; they must have been getting an income of some sort probably from the Dole office. In a town where there were no possibilities, no opportunities for development, fuck-all jobs and an ever present blanket of molten cloud. There was no defined social class for these kids, these bit-parts from the original Dawn of the Dead, in actual fact, to be described as the walking dead was wrong, 'cause you would have needed to actually be alive to start off with.

As I turned left onto the old Sligo Road, I had to admit that it wasn't out of anger that I had got involved. Well, it sort of was, but not at them - too young and naïve to even think about contraception, let alone the damage those fumes must have been doing to their insides. I felt sorry for them, the lot of them. At that age, the future should have been something bright to behold, in general terms. It didn't happen to me but that didn't mean I would have wanted anyone else to follow in my footsteps. There should be a vibrancy that comes with being eighteen, you're ever closer to the sky. I wanted them to have the endless opportunities that I wanted to have and never got round to enjoying.

I was angry at whoever sold that young lad that liquid. I was angry at whoever gave their sex education classes; I wanted to give them a kick up the hole 'cause they obviously didn't teach that shit at school. I was angry at whoever was selling them all the other gear that was either being injected or snorted or smoked. And I forgot for a second my stupid, idiotic fucked-up mission, the moral quandary it put me in. A casual user, a murderer, a thief and yet an advocate of proper fucking education, and putting the dealer of these drugs into a very deep hole.

Funda-fucking-mentally, I was angry at whoever created this disenfranchised underclass, oh yeah, it was my fucking employers. It was us, the people who just didn't give a shit, because we were just too wrapped up in our own self-worth.

Jaysus, this coke was immense.

It wasn't even 4 yet and I had had just about enough of Boyle, again. I took a left onto Military Road, just beyond the Abbey.

The cop shop, set back from the road, caught the corner of my eye. I resisted the temptation to look over at it, in case Glen was there at the window, or the ghost of my Dad or the ghost of me. I was hoping not to darken its doors ever again. It had certainly been redeveloped since the last time I was in there, five floors of floor to ceiling windows, it looked like something you'd see out of the IFSC. The car park looked freshly tarmacked, the gardens had some corporate style lump of rock made to look like a modern interpretation of the famine, it was bullshit. Strange how the only things that had been modernised in this town and looked massively out of place were the cop shop and the Royal Hotel which looked like and maybe even was a whore house.

Back into town, and all the empty shop fronts depressed me. Military Road merged into Main Street. Smiths the Tailors where I got my suit for the Deb's ball. Sarah was my date; she looked amazing. We were drunk on booze and love and I had to use a wet, warm cloth the following morning to wipe the stains off the front of the trousers. It was a shell now, had been for years. The "for sale" sign was faded from the weather, the revolving door that I used to rush around in, thinking I was Clark Kent and then fall into the shop like a dizzy gobshite, was fixed shut. Kinda summed up my life now.

I got to the crossroad with Green Street, Patrick Street and Bridge Street. I looked up Bridge Street, to the Crescent, where I had been walking down off the train not even half hour ago. The only person recognising me was Dave Finnegan who I'm sure had started to spread the word that Boyle's lost son had returned.

There was no point heading up Green Street. I looked at how steep the road was, thought about how fucked my lungs were. Then I'd have to walk up an even steeper road up the Curlews to get to the family home and explain to my mum things I didn't even know the answer to myself. Later, much later, I thought.

I carried on straight over and onto Patrick Street. Only just realising it, the homing beacon had kicked in. I'll go to Sarah's first, then if she says no to letting me stay, I'll go to my mate Joe. Glen would be too much of a risk to both of us if he's still a Gard. I would start to question where his loyalties lay if I asked him to cover for me.

Didn't know if Sarah would still be there, didn't even know if she was still in town. Didn't think she'd be the most welcoming but I had to atone, or at least try to. I just wanted to see her. I hoped my memories of her hadn't tainted how beautiful she really was.

What could I say to her?

It wasn't exactly 5th Avenue; the roads were quiet enough and there was hardly anyone walking about, no hustle and bustle. The people I walk past in Boyle, unrecognisable to me, seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, grey and unfamiliar. When it wasn't too bad in town, before Dad got killed, it wasn't Sunshine City, but people would acknowledge ya, say good morning to ya and stop ya for a chat.

It wasn't like today I was ready for the chat \- how's ya been? Ah you know, busy enough - paid to kill people, kill people for fun, drink more than a thirsty elephant and take enough drugs to kill a small donkey, the usual. But I wouldn't have minded an "afternoon".

I walked by the graveyard perched on the side of the hill overlooking the river. I tried to see where my Dad was, but I couldn't help but notice how crowded the graveyard looked now. The field next to it, which was just a piece of empty land when I left, was now nearly full of bright white marble and onyx black. The priest must be loaded with the amount of backhanders he got for saying quick funerals.

Patrick Street turned into Mockmoyne Road and became unpaved as I head out into the country, walking along the side of the road, looking for any cars heading out towards Sligo that I could hitch a lift off, because I really couldn't be fucked walking everywhere like some loner going cross country, getting into trouble for the pure craic.

There was an old Ford Fiesta van coming out from town and I stuck my thumb out, giving the driver enough time to see me pleading for a lift. He indicated that he was slowing down. He smiled at me; he had a fucking sheep in the back of his van. Opening the door, the wall of smell hitting me made me wanna retch. The driver was in his 60's; the suit he was wearing was in its 70's and the temperature inside the van was in the 80's. Thank fuck it was only a couple of mile down the road.

What was it with auld fellas and their teeth? I couldn't look at him - or the sheep.

\- Just up the road to Kiltycreighton, are ya going that way?

\- Oh I surely am, boy. Get in.

I sat in, the springs had gone out of the passenger chair and I nearly fall back in with the sheep.

\- Ah you need to sit forward like, nearly want to put your head up against the windscreen.

\- Are yis fucking serious?

\- Sure I always have himself up here with me, he never seems to complain.

\- Fuck sake.

I perched at the front of the seat, leaning forward, bag on my lap, seatbelt dangling to the side, hoping the road was dry and the tires weren't flat or bald.

\- So who's up above?

\- Friend of mine that I haven't seen in a while.

\- You from Boyle then?

\- I am, haven't been back in a while though.

\- Oh right. So where ya been then?

\- Dublin.

\- Ah good man yourself, big city boy.

He was a friendly enough auld fella, I didn't wanna be rude and tell him to fuck off, no matter how tempting it was.

\- I guess so. What's with the sheep?

\- Taking him to Tubbercurry and putting him into the fair.

\- Fuck, does that still go on.

\- Like time itself, as the fella says.

I closed my eyes just by the turn off towards Gurteen and thought of my Dad. The way he was left out in a ditch, half his face covered in mud, the other half splattered across the ground. More than likely, it was a .22 that was placed up against his right eye, pushing it back into his skull. The single shot blew out his eye, cheekbone, part of his brain, the top of his skull and his hair. The rest of the clip was fired into his chest, arm and legs post mortem. Just for the sheer fuck of it. Whoever pulled that trigger was always going to die by my hands. The same hands that pushed Da down the stairs.

I still had to reconcile myself with the fact that I was his flesh, and - regardless of whatever crimes he committed against his family – Through moral imperative, divine intervention, I had to rip his killer's lungs out. And even if this was a wild goose chase and I was being fucked over by the powers that be, there would soon be more blood on my hands, it wouldn't be mine and I'd finally be able to close this.

\- Are you OK, son?

\- Yeah, just thinking, always thinking.

He just looked at me. He must have realised it was pretty futile to engage me in conversation. We turned off up towards Kiltycreighton and I asked to be dropped off so at least I could take a few minutes to figure out what the fuck I was going to say to Sarah. She would more than likely tell me to fuck off back into town as soon as she saw me, but I had to hold out for something, just not open arms.

\- Whatever is going on in that mind of yours, young man, I hope to Jesus nobody gets hurt.

\- That's not going to happen I'm afraid.

\- I recognise you now. I knew your father. I'm sorry for your loss. You can only be back home for that reason, sure there's fuck all else to be here for. She's still up in that house, you know.

\- Ah no, I'm here for a break for a few days. Not a wasted journey after all then, yet.

\- I think it might be.

With that, I was out of his van, with the sheep shitting in the back, sticking his fucking nose in. I needed a clear head.

\- Thanks for the lift, g'luck.

\- G'luck, so.

And off he went. He wasn't able to get the van over 40.

I could see the house from the road, Sarah's old man had bought the derelict building which was a school in the early 70's. A farmer was going to buy it, rip out the inside and use it as a barn for cattle. Fortunately for Sarah and Glen, their old man paid a few hundred quid more than the farmer was willing to pay and he spent the next 10 years turning it into their family home.

I felt sick, walking so slowly I might as well have been walking backwards. I wondered if she'd recognise me. That old cunt did and I didn't even know him. I actually couldn't think of what to say. No point in planning anything to say, There was a chance I might not get the time to say a single word. Sure, she might not even be in.

I had one last smoke to calm my nerves.

I get to the drive, look up at the window that used to be her bedroom, there is a teddy on the windowsill, that wasn't there the last time I was here. Fuck me, feels like such a long time ago. Feels like it cause it was I guess.

When we were together, I wouldn't even use the front door, just head round the back and straight in the kitchen door, my second home. My girlfriend and best friend lived there. When I slept in Glen's room after we came in from a night out on the rip, we'd make a bacon sandwich or have a bowl of cornflakes then head upstairs and have a debrief of the nights events. We would listen to a radio show called Cruise to Snooze and they always seemed to play Albatross by Fleetwood Mac and we'd be half asleep laying in our beds, warm with the silence, me thinking of Sarah next door.

After a while, realising it was pretty serious and then having to meet Sarah and Glen's folks again in a whole new light, I'd swapped rooms from the single bed in Glen's room into a warm double bed in Sarah's. This was only allowed to happen when their folks were away on holiday or overnight. Then I think everyone just got tired of us tiptoeing though the house in the middle of the night to steal a kiss or a bit more if we could risk not getting caught and realised that it was the saner option with the embarrassing twist of being asked to have a sit down where the parents tell us they've had a talk and think it's better if I had slept in with Sarah. I liked to think that one of the reasons for that was as soon as we started going out, I slept on the sofa rather than in Glen's room so we didn't have him gawping at us when we got in from a night out. As a regular Guinness drinker, the room the following morning always stank of my arse and required a deep clean from people wearing masks like those lads in ET. So I could only imagine how bad it must have been the next morning when Mr and Mrs Doyle came down for their breakfast. Maybe they thought their daughter was just in love and nothing they could do with regards to house rules would have kept us apart.

It was just too weird to head round the back of the house this time, so I stepped into the porch and ring the bell.

Chapter 9

I turned my back to the door after I pressed the bell, wanted to check nobody was walking down the road. Also just the whole notion of "surprise" seemed the justifiable thing to do in a completely unjustified situation. I tried to prevent my head from dipping, resenting myself and just pure ashamed. I kicked at a stone on the porch, I kicked fuck out of it, it went about half a metre into the drive, turned to face me and said, "fuck you".

Chain rattling behind the door - when was that put on?

So I turn as the door opens, expecting to see Sarah and I'm facing a wee lad of about seven - scruffy dark hair, grubby face from the garden - wearing an Italia 90 Irish soccer jersey, looked like one I used to have. He smiles at me and says

\- Hello.

\- Hello, is Sarah... sorry, your mammy in?

Turns, yells up the stairs

\- Mammy, there's a man at the door for you........

\- Mammy..........

\- MAMMY

From upstairs - recognisable straightaway but half asleep.

\- Yes Michael, I heard ya.

Michael? Lots of archangels around

Michael runs out into the kitchen and a few seconds later I hear the back door shut, and I stand there like a fucking fool. I'd just woken her up so it's not like her happiness levels towards seeing me will be high. I listen to the creaking of the floorboards, and my stomach's trying to force itself out through my feet.

The hallway doesn't look any different from the last time I was here. There's a photo on the wall - obviously taken by a professional photographer – Michael down in front, sitting cross-legged, big cheesy smile, five years old, and gaps in his teeth, dimples and his mother's eyes. Behind him was Sarah, sat on a garden bench, hair longer and dyed dark brown with copper highlights, her hair used to be bobbed and blonde like straw, still smiling the smile I always said made me want to thank God for being alive, her face looked thinner but weirdly enough she still had the curves, 36J and a size 12 - the shit I remember. She has a little scar over her left eyebrow just under a centimetre in length from where she fell off her bike when she was eight. I liked to kiss it when she said she had a headache. There is a beauty spot on her neck, near her clavicle which always used to catch on her blouses, I liked to kiss that just to piss her off. I couldn't describe her in normal words, or in words that made any sense. You see the meaning of a word in the dictionary and you only get two lines. None of these words could ever do her justice, radiant, dazzling, angelic, I could go on, but they would just be the tip of the iceberg. She looked stunning. I wondered if she'd ever smile like that to me.

Then I see what made her smile, behind her, standing over her, grinning but with no dimples, in an open shirt and chino combo - wanker, the father of Michael and husband to Sarah. This is a bad idea being here, anger combining with bile combining with adrenaline. Walk away.

Then she makes her way downstairs - in a towel dressing gown and pink panther pyjamas. She looks at me; I was thinking it's like gone four in the afternoon, what's she doing still in those clothes? And she's got a full face of makeup on. I look at her with a weak smile and concern in my heart as she carries on walking down the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving me exposed in the doorway.

\- I'll come in then?

\- Do what you want, nothing normally stops you.

Pretty much what I expected. I walk in, shut the door,check my bag to confirm its all zipped up and the contents protected from prying eyes. I walk in to the kitchen, a large oak dining table to my right and Sarah is in at the left putting the kettle on.

\- Sit, you're making me nervous.

So, I sit without replying, not sure if the cold atmosphere is from the ceramic tiles or her. I didn't expect open arms, but from watching her get a couple of mugs from the press, instead of admiring the curve of her arse, or drowning in her eyes, something else is bothering me. She didn't look unwell, she just looked drained, it was like she was permanently running on a low battery. I wanted to walk over to her and wrap my arms around her and not let go until she was my Sarah again not this diluted version.

\- So, where have you been the last eight years?

Direct enough.

\- I had to see a man about a dog, got lost, ended up working in an unofficial Government shadowy organisation, and now I kill people for a living.

\- Still full of shit then.

\- Only about the dog.

Kettle boiled, she still hadn't turned to look at me.

\- That your husband in the picture?

A slight shudder, what's that all about?

\- He's not my husband

\- Oh right.

Relief at least. Like facing a firing line, they all miss but you see them reloading.

\- He still around?

\- Yeah, he's still around.

She starts rubbing at her nose and I'm really hoping my instincts are wrong. She brings over the tea, hasn't forgotten how I take it, squeeze fuck out of the bag and a tiny splash of milk. She sits down opposite me, the gap between us like a crevice in the ice cap.

For the first time I get to look at her as opposed to a side on view. I figure she's a mild user. She hasn't lost the curve of her body, still noticeable even under her pyjamas \- a heavy powder user may as well be anorexic. What the fuck has happened here? He says forgetting himself –pot/kettle. She looks into her tea, won't acknowledge me. How long has she been this way, what caused her to use Class A when she had been vehemently against even smoking. She's a mother for fuck sake, what about the fucking father the gobshite. I look at her trying to find answers. The lights are on.....

\- What are you doing here, why did you come back?

\- Long story.

\- I've time - you don't deserve it though.

\- I know. Did you see the news this morning?

\- Nah not interested in that shit. Anything I should know about?

\- No, no not at all

\- You look like shit.

\- Ah that's all the fashion in my line of work

She looks up at me, eyes watery, like someone's poked them.

\- I had to go, what with everything going on with the old fella. I couldn't stay here a day longer. I ran away, I...

\- You left me here, why did you leave me?

\- Sarah... I couldn't even look after myself; you knew how I was...

\- Still using?

\- What?

Deadpan stare...

\- Are you still using?

\- Sometimes - when did you start?

\- That obvious?

\- Yeah, that obvious.

A single tear pushed its way out of her eye, streaked down her face, I wanted to lean over and catch it.

\- I don't know - don't want to. Why are you here?

\- Work, see you, how old's Michael?

\- Seven - going on 27.

Smiles, thinking, seven?

\- Is he the father?

Sudden flash of anger.

\- Got over me quick enough didn't you?

Silence, more tears.

\- It's always about you isn't it?

\- What do you want me to fucking say? I've been gone eight years Sarah, didn't take you fucking long did it?

I can see Michael looking in the door at us.

\- He's not Ronan's.

\- Ronan? I knew the cunt would have a gay name.

Michael's coming in the door.

\- Out!

Without saying a word, he goes back out but looks at me with hatred. More tears from Sarah and Michael keeps within sight of us. The makeup is starting to streak and she smudges it even more with her hand and winces.

Quiet whisper...

\- Is he mine?

Silence, time dragging out in slow motion then the slightest of nods, like it didn't happen

\- Is he my son?

\- Yes Fiachra . Why are you back here?

Pipe bombs, smashed glass, disruption, synapses firing all through my veins. I thump the table, want to splinter the wood, my son the secret love child the tabloid scandal, the universe expanding in a fraction of the time it takes for me to love someone new. Michael comes back in.

\- Out - I said, out!

He stands there, facing up to me a braver child then I ever was.

\- Sorry Michael, don't worry 'bout me - just very tired.

He ignores me and comes over to Sarah, arms round her, and buries his head in her chest, protecting his mother from his father.

\- Just go Fiachra , please. Life has moved on.

I feel like vomiting, my family - scared of me - and I'd only been here for five minutes.

\- I've work here in town; I'll be gone straight after. We need to talk.

\- No we don't

\- Sarah...

\- Fiachra . You can't just walk in and pick up where you left off.

\- Can't I?

\- Eight years - where were you?

\- I would have come home.

\- Your dad would have still been dead.

\- One of the reasons I'm back.

And I saw the reason for the makeup - the bruise unmistakeable, the wincing obvious.

\- Who the fuck did that to you?

Michael looks at me - feel immediate guilt for swearing, wanted to say sorry to him. He looks quizzically at his mum. She stares at me, bemused, shocked, first family time and its ending like this. She shakes her head, snot pouring out and her face crumples, beauty being destroyed.

\- Michael?

\- Don't you talk to him!

Scared silence decay, someone had hurt the one I love, one of the two. I did not want to show them the monster pushing at the inside of my chest. My hands were under the table clenched and splitting the skin on my palms.

\- Where is he?

\- Don't know

\- Where is he?

\- You can't save me, you know – you couldn't save your own mother.

And there it was, the sucker punch. I let it pass through me like wisps on dense poisonous fog. She was wrong - she knew it, but she was hurting and I'd backed her into a corner. Blows coming in from all sides and she had one last knockout punch.

I'd told her about my folks, she played with my hair as I cried when I told her about the attempted rape - standing up to my old man and the fear that came with it. I told her everything. I told her I would never be like him, to her or our children. She held me as I buried him, knew I felt guilt for not doing enough when I was just a Gard, or even when I was a spotty teenager and scared shitless of him. She'd never used that against me like she just had.

\- Is he in town?

Tears all dried up and empty stares.

\- Is he in town Sarah?

\- Fiachra , do whatever work you have to do and go back to Dublin – please.

\- You're scared?

\- Of course I'm fucking scared, he could be home any moment.

\- Daddy won't be home.

\- Ronan you mean.

\- Fiachra !

\- Can I talk to you in the hall for a minute?

\- Why?

\- You know why. Michael can I talk to mammy for a minute please.

Shakes his head at me.

\- It's OK Michael, I'll just be next door, I'll leave the door open.

Reluctant nod and I get up and out in the hall, before they stand, make this quick.

Find this cunt.

Whispers in the kitchen then laughter, his sweet little laugh and I can't even begin to think of what to say and she comes out to me.

\- I should never have gone, this would never have happened

\- Well, it has fucking happened hasn't it. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.

\- Yes, it fucking will be. Do ya love him?

\- No.

Straight up, no thought in the answer.

\- Why then?

\- Sure, what else have I got?

\- My son.

\- He's a good father.

\- He's not his father, does he hit Michael?

\- No - God no.

\- Does he know he's not the father?

\- No.

\- I'll break the cunt's heart as well as his skull. Where is he Sarah, it ends now.

\- It can't. You can't just come here and expect things to be the same.

\- I don't. Fuck, I love you, always have, always will.

\- Words Fiachra , words.

\- Let me back in, please.

\- I can't - he'll kill me.

\- Trust me, trust me

\- He'll kill you.

\- No he won't.

And I kiss her. Grab her hand, and she entwines her fingers in mine, and I use my other hand to wipe the dried tears away.

\- I'm not going anywhere, I fucked up, I want to tell you everything, but - where is he, Sarah?

Her head hangs low, tormented, she has no idea of what I've become but knows I won't give up.

\- Sarah?

\- Raffertys.

Chapter 10

I turned, and was out the door and running back up the road.

I can't hear any cars coming down the road. I don't think I'll be able to run all the way into town - not without either bringing up a lung or a having a cardiac arrest. Fuck it - the adrenaline can only get me a certain distance. So, the best thing to do a combination of walking and running, fifteen steps of each should do it, I hope.

This Ronan cunt has taken over from where I left off, thinks he's the father of my flesh and blood and he's sucked the life out of the only thing I ever loved more than myself. The arrogant fucking cunt, smiling away in that photo, probably forcing a smile out of Sarah or she'll get another slap. That sneery fucking smile, what right has he to think he could get away with it. In the mix of this, and - something unmissable – Michael. It's not like the day could get any better, the happiness of finding I have a son is tarnished by his not knowing me, I'm a stranger to him. Having a steward standing in for me, beating his mum and providing her with Class A, either to keep her contained or submissive so she won't walk.

It's an easy thing to fall in love, but it's a fucker to forgive. This will be the beginnings of atonement for Sarah, ease the route to reconciliation.

What has to happen has to happen quickly and not eat into any more time than need be. Cave fuck out of Ronan's head and warn him off Sarah. I would like to give the whole Darth Vader "I'm Michael's father" schpeil, but I left the lightsaber at home and my Jedi mind tricks needed more practice. Nothing like good old fists and a gun.

What the fuck had Glen been doing to allow this to go on? A fucking Gard, her fucking brother. It clearly isn't a recent thing, I would lay good odds on the last few years, the frailty of Sarah, her life drained. His Sister, his nephew. When I see him, we'll have to be having words.

When I thought about coming to Boyle, I knew what I had to do, keep my head down, not raise it above the parapet, investigate what went down in Dublin, clear my name, kill whoever had set me up. Simples. No way on earth was I ever expecting this insane shit. It felt like seeing her again was like sticking wet fingers into a plug socket. That photo in my room was different, I couldn't have a conversation with it and remember that the tone of her voice was like listening to hummingbirds. Of course I would never say no to her, how could that thought even pass through my mind, especially now. The thing in Dublin and this with Sarah and Ronan are comparable for requiring my urgent attention in both incidences, I'm making up for lost ground on both. Neither of them are going to be cut and dry but I do wish I hadn't come back to see Sarah, left it as it was, best way. But then I wouldn't have known about Michael, is it going to be any better for him knowing I'm around. Where's the coincidence that I called that young boy this morning Michael? Now I had the bit between my teeth, I did see Sarah, I did fall in love again, I saw our son and fell in love with him. I saw that if I didn't do what I'm about to do then she'd just become a husk and if I'm honest, I wanted to see if there was a chance if I could spend the night with her. One in a million probably but that's still a chance.

The shit state of the roads in this town. Pot holes creating chicanes to avoid mangled axles. Pot holes that are older than me, and will no doubt be there after I die.

Fucking politicians.

My sense of morality after seeing Sarah faded after I dabbed a bit of sherbert on my thumb and have a sniff, I'll use the cheapest excuse in the book and use tiredness as purely the only reason, keeping me alert and ready to rock 'n' roll.

I keep my head down – focussed. Keeping everything within the ball of pure rage - venom, hell-spawn enveloping. Then the clarity seeps through my pores, I see Rafferty's over on the right hand side and I slow my pace, allowing the coke to peel away the shadow and make my adrenaline gland do what it's paid for. I stand by the department store, Boles of Boyle and look over at the door to the pub. I can't see inside the frosted windows unless I'm stood right outside, and I'd rather head straight on in and cause unannounced violence rather than face any pre-empted retaliation. Who knows how many cronies Ronan had in there. My beef wasn't with them, but I would be quite content to engage then in the Irish Queensbury rules, where anything goes.

Finnegan walks past me, looks up and I feign a slap, he ducks, my work there was done.

I look to see if there's any traffic coming up – it's clear. I cross over, bee-line for the door, couple of empty barrels out, waiting on the drayman and I step onto the porch, and in the door on the left, leaning my right shoulder in to open it, so my left hand is free to punch the fuck out of whoever comes out at me.

As soon as the door is open my chest is compressed by the baseline of Poison by the Prodigy. The bar was where I always remembered it, but it obviously hadn't been cleaned since the last time I was there. The young one behind the bar was Rafferty's daughter. Late teens, and high as a kite, watching the TV high up on the wall, picking at scabs on her arm to detract away from the scabs on her face. She didn't notice me come in, neither did the three lads playing pool out in the back. The pub looked bleached of its entire colour. A photo negative of a kitten being drowned.

What the fuck was going on? My old man would have never had this, he'd have bollocked old man Rafferty and made sure that the right patrons were inside quietly drinking and listening to Christy Moore. I sit on the stool that looks least likely to stab my arse with a rusty spring, and when the daughter finally acknowledges me I point at the Guinness pump. I turn round to the right to see the plastic gangsters shouting shit, and banging their hands on the table to the beat, great fucking tune and the bass mixes with my adrenaline and I put into practice a plan of action. There in front of me was a mixture of steroids and coke, throw in some old-skool rave and I know I'm gonna come out worse off.

One of them walks 'round the table, lumberjack shirt, rolled up sleeves and muscles that had been chemically enhanced. His limp was a giveaway, his left leg trailing behind the right, his knee must have been caved in at some point and that would be my first point of attack. Hopefully that would cause a few seconds of shock and confusion, enough for me to get a boot into one of the other's bollocks and then just wing the rest. That's only if these fellas were with Ronan. The other two were smaller in stature than the one with the limp, but that doesn't mean they would go down any easier. Just as the jacks door behind the pool table opens, the cue ball gets kicked off the table and bounces in my direction, hitting me on the leg, causing a wee annoyance more than anything and as the lad says sorry, I pick up the cue ball and rub my shin bone at the same time.

The cue ball is heavy enough and I look at the lad coming out of the toilet wiping his nose. Ronan, the coked-up cunt, looking at me, not a clue who I am. I didn't know the other three - not local lads. The fella with the limp comes over to get the ball, not apologising anymore and four pairs of eyes are trained on me now, I move the ball into my left hand, the bass-line of Poison fading, and the jukebox plays Setting Sun by the Chemical Brothers, they may be morons but they had good taste in music.

Mr Limp stares at me and I'm casually looking at Ronan, the man, the legend. Hitting Sarah, playing football with my son, and I look at Mr Limp and say

-Sorry, you want your ball back?

Boot him straight in his right knee and goes down like a house of cards, screaming in agony.

\- Here's your fucking ball back.

And I launch a baseball pitch at the nearest of the other two goons, hits him flush on the nose and the blood pours as his hands raise up to his face and he goes down as well. If only I'd a camera to capture Ronan and his pals faces - a Kodak moment. I'm on my feet and walk straight over to the third man, picking up a cue from the rack. My hand turns it upside down so I can swing the fat end. I boot the third man in the bollocks so hard it felt like the nutcracker suite and he bangs himself down hard on his knees, and I see Sarah in my mind, hands up to protect herself as he weighs in with punches, and I swing the cue and catch him on the side of his head, knocking him off to the side, his eyes roll back. I drop the cue and grab his shirt, close enough to kiss

\- You're not welcome in Kiltycreighton anymore, you're not welcome in Boyle anymore. Stay the fuck..

He blacks out, I slap his face with the back of my hand and he wakes.

\- Stay the fuck away from Sarah or I'll flay your skin off you.

And then I kiss him, my forehead splitting his nose and I drop him onto the floor, I turn to walk out and pass back through the bar - now totally vacant, the young one on her knees behind the jump, her favoured position. As I shut the door behind me, the sound of Setting Sun still drumming out its beat is audible outside.

Chapter 11

Monsoon shower refreshment - I've exorcised some of the demons and built up an adrenaline reserve that could fill up the Hoover dam. The problem is though - if I've to head back to Dublin after this, it would mean leaving Sarah and Michael vulnerable. Ronan doesn't know he's a fucking jaffa, but I'm sure as fuck when he gets out of casualty he'll gun for her. This job needs to be fucking quick - like now quick. Talk about going off map, I created my own landscape. Cartographers would have a field day with my mind.

I head into the newsagents on the crossroads, get another 20 deck and light up as soon as I'm outside. I look back up at Raffertys and nobody's coming in or going out.

Like a maelstrom, I had kicked up a whirlpool and got the fuck out before drowning.

I wanted to rip Glen's eyes out. If he was supposed to still be a Gard in this town, what exactly had he been guarding? I couldn't just pop into the Cop Shop now could I? I might as well just be handing myself in. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

The economy in Boyle now seemed to rely only on drink and drugs, the auld triangle had certainly been mangled beyond recognition.

It would be fair to say that I was a confident mixture of anger and bemusement. Boyle never had that much going for it, the same as any small town in the arse-end of nowhere. The population was small, the houses were painted in vibrant colours and the front doors were always open. Crime? What crime. When I was growing up, before my old man became a wife-beater and I thought Brunch ice creams were the only thing to eat, there was no crime. No burglaries, drugs or fighting. Childhood memories of the Herald having nothing to report - apart from turf-cutting championships and the local Rose competition. Crime would be driving offences - and piss-poor ones at that. Now? My town has been infected with a carcinogen, the corner boys wired for fucking sound.

The state of the young ones - addicted and desperate. Raffertys turned into a cesspit. Sarah – a vapour trail of the woman I once knew, but still loved immensely. The town had been raped, and then kept in a drug-induced state - being pimped out to the anyone who wanted to fuck it for money. I've just appointed myself as the remedy. Sure who the fuck else would. The Gards are clearly doing fuck all - surprise surprise. And, if I hear the excuse of budget cuts or austerity measures I will poke my thumb into their eye until it pops 'cause they were clearly in need of a white cane.

There were weekend nights when you'd go into any bar in town and see a friend, a family member, the woman of your dreams...now it's a bucky bottle in the face and a fix to send you on your way. Reminds me of those Clint Eastwood westerns. The lost son returns and the evil cow-rancher has corrupted the town, the gold-rush too good an opportunity to miss. He fills the town with whores and whisky joints. Old Clint comes riding into town, isn't exactly happy with the situation and ends up executing the rancher.

Do I have the time to do it though?

Whilst I debate the yin and yang of life's entangled tapestry, the pros and cons of atonement against fuck-all time to atone in, a blue Honda Civic, polished to such a high spec I could see my reflection in the bodywork like I was looking into a mirror, chrome rims with a pointless spoiler on the back, drives past then slows down, it's windows were blacked out so I couldn't see the driver. Fucking boy racers.

Ronan's backup?

I begin to walk towards the Cop Shop, just in case, not one to start a firefight. If the driver was going to do what I expected him to do, he'd go round the one way system and come down Military Road again, that wouldn't take long at all. With my rucksack now just over one shoulder, walking along by the high wall rather than the kerb, head down but looking at the oncoming traffic. The cop shop is fifty yards away and I can see that the civic has turned left at the roundabout, driving towards me, not where I want to be now, not wanting to chicken out but just give me a break for fuck sake, I can hear from his exhaust that he's picking up speed, don't want to run but I'm walking so fast I may as well be bolting it, the passenger side window is sliding down, fuck sake a drive by in Boyle, whatever next? I automatically go for the Glock, spin round to face the open window, keeping it concealed behind my coat, crouch down.

\- Fiachra Clancy, what in the name of fuck are you doing?

Nobody in the passenger seat, a face all too recognisable in the driver seat, even though he's lost all that puppy fat.

\- Joe Doyle, ya prick, ya scared the fuck out of me.

Standing up, safety first, clenched fists to stop the shaking. Walking over, looking up and down the road to make sure nobody else either heard or saw or fancied trying it on with me. Bending my knees to get a better look in at him, what with the car being lowered, this was bad for my arthritis.

\- Let me in there will ya?

Shoving my hand in to shake. Once he had a grip

\- Is it cold outside, have you been in the wars again, Clancy?

He'd turned my hand round like he was about to kiss it but he was inspecting my most recent wounds obtained from Raffertys.

\- Ah you know me, was never the peaceful type. Am I coming in?

\- Get in ya daft cunt.

I took my rucksack off, opened the passenger door, leant in and through it onto the back seat, looked around again, then got in, finding the switch for the window and wound it back up.

\- Well horsh, how are ya fixht?

\- Let's drive and talk Joe.

\- You ok man?

\- Just need to get out of here. Just had a run in with some cunt called Ronan and some of his boys in Raffertys.

Driving off now, I put my hand over the stereo as he instinctively went to turn it on.

\- Sarah's Ronan?

Wincing at the thought.

\- That's the lad.

\- Holy fuck boy, how long since you've landed?

Looking at my watch.

\- Two hours ago.

\- You got in at half three?

\- Yep.

Turning left, driving past Raffertys, the girl from behind the bar is outside shouting at someone on the phone.

\- Don't slow down, don't open the fucking window ya prick.

My finger firmly on the close button.

\- Ah you're no fun, was only gonna ask her if her client cancelled on their meeting in the Royal.

\- You're still a funny cunt aren't ya?

\- Sure I've fuck all else going for me.

\- New wheels man, you must have a bit.

\- Why, do you want some?

\- You?

\- Fuck all else to do my man. I only deal a little to get me by, only weed ya know, tops up the dole money. Anyway, forget that shit, what in the fuck are ya doing back stranger, and how the fuck did ya get into a tear up with that prick?

As we drove out to Abbeytown, I told him that I'd been made redundant from my work in Dublin as a security guard in the IFSC. How the money was good, but the hours were shit, mostly nights - just doing nothing apart from sitting behind a desk and hourly patrols. I'd left the Gards, after what happened with me old man - couldn't hack it anymore, kept having nightmares. I told him I had post-traumatic stress, had to leave Boyle, no goodbyes, drinking heavily, couldn't get out of bed in the mornings, blah, blah, blah. I knew when I was in Dublin that I'd fucked up, when I got told what kind of a pay-out I'd get from the firm, I concluded I wanted to do what I'd been thinking about for the previous God knows how many years - I was going to come home to see if there was something worth coming home for.

\- Sarah?

I told him that was a big factor, but that I missed me mates too. I'd had a nice enough group of mates in Dublin, but you know me, always the mischievous one and they just didn't get that about me but Joe and Glen did.

\- That prick.

I let that one slide as there was always bad blood between them, even when we were kids. I had become friends with Glen because of Sarah, whereas Joe was a brother from another mother. So here I am, back in town, hungover from one last night on the rip in Dublin, I thought I'd catch up for old time's sake with Sarah and then end up battering her fella.

\- Still some piece of work eh?

\- You know me.

\- I saw her in town the other week, we were talking about ya.

\- Really, what did you say?

\- Just that you were a fucking bastard for leaving us.

\- So you really missed me then?

\- Always fishing. You need to give that up my man. But yeah, that was us saying it without actually saying it. Would you say town has changed much since you last graced us with your presence?

\- Apart from all the young ones off their faces? Nah, not really. Never was going to expect affluence travelling this far west. Well apart from the Royal, what the fuck happened there?

\- That shit heap? The only place to be seen now round town. Some lads from the North bought it for a couple of Euro.

\- A couple of Euro, get away ta fuck.

\- I'm serious, it shut down about six years ago and was just vacant for eighteen months, who'd have it, the country was going to shit and nobody was investing anymore. So they sold the lease for a couple of quid, nobody batted an eyelid, everyone was happy enough, promises of developing the town further ya know yourself and all they did was rip out the interior, totally fucked it up, big sports bar and cocktail bar downstairs, penthouse rooms, all the money in Amsterdam.

\- Lads from the North? That's gotta be some dodgy shit?

\- You'd think so wouldn't ya? Big Russian lads, big as barn doors fucking bouncing, packed in there every weekend with people from Sligo and Carrick coming down, nobody from town bothers to look in, too fucking expensive. Nobody has a clue what goes on in there but there are enough rumours. I've been in myself a couple of times, the women are unreal but sure, who have I to go in there with and the dole money doesn't stretch that far to a bottle of Rosé.

He's looking at me.

\- Is this where I chip in and say let's go there tonight?

\- I never said that now did I?

\- You didn't have to, but I need some sleep.

Joe had turned right onto a new estate that was a building site when I left, in the middle of some boggy field, fifty or so houses of no real significance or distinction, less than half occupied, a testimony to post Celtic-tiger Ireland.

\- Am I ok to stay here for a couple of days, man?

\- Man, there is no need to ask that, mi casa es su casa.

We pulled up outside Joe's house, driving round abandoned kid's bikes and up onto what once was a lawn. The house was certainly in need of a lick of paint, some new windows and the roof looked like it was about to fall off but who was I to complain.

\- Here we are now.

Grabbing my bag off the back seat, I still can't quite fathom today's events, bordering on the ridiculous, I should be back in Raheny, debriefed, putting my feet up, waiting for the next job. Instead, I'm back here in Boyle, somewhere I never wanted to go back to out of choice, met with my ex, beat up her fella and am about to go into my old school mates house, catch forty winks and head back into town later for drinks that I'm likely to pay for.

The porch smelt damp, several mismatched pairs of trainers, cluttering the area and the mat which looks like it may have once said Welcome. The main front door had an amber coloured piece of frosted glass running down its length. Joe rattled with his keys like there were so many locks to open. There was only one lock and I could have broken in, in quicker time. As he turned the key in the lock, he looked at me and smiled in a whole, sorry about the mess, but I wasn't expecting visitors, way. I smiled back with an 'I'm being polite' vibe.

With the door now open, looking into the hallway, I was surprised at how surprised I was. We stepped in, the staircase in front of me with the carpet ripped up off it, nail tacks, glimmering in the light, note to self, if I need a glass of water in the night, put my shoes on. The hallway was just bare, the walls had been skimmed but there was no paper hung on them.

\- Were they planning on coming back into finish this, or have you given up on the old decorating.

\- Funny man. It was like this when I moved in. That's why it only costs me two hundred a month.

\- Costs you or the State?

\- Ya know where the front door is.

Opening the door under the stairs.

\- Here's the downstairs toilet, only if you're three foot tall like.

\- Just yourself here?

\- Except when I can convince some woman to come back here with me, but she normally goes after she wakes up, must be my cooking.

\- Must be.

\- Here's where I spend most of my time.

As the door opened, the smell of cannabis was obvious, nothing worth gagging over but I can see why many women wouldn't be keen on hanging around. The lounge had varnished floorboards which didn't look too bad, the fire place opposite had more rubbish from the kitchen in it than actual coal but I couldn't wait to get that fire going. It was colder in here than it was outside. The furniture looked more at home in my Granny's house, hand me down chairs and a sofa that was once thrown on a skip then ended up here. There was a nice oak coffee table in the middle, covered with newspapers and unopened debt collector letters. The ash tray was like a tiny mountain of dog ends.

\- Would you fancy a cup?

\- If there's one going, I'll get the fire on?

\- Work away

Joe went through the lounge out towards the back and into another room which I guess was the kitchen. He shouted in to me.

\- Make yourself at home man, it's so good to see ya.

\- You too Joe.

I scrunched up some of the pages from the newspaper and put them in at the base of the fire, get the lighter out of my back pocket, lighting them all up, once they catch well, I get a smoke out, light up and crash back down on the sofa. I had resigned myself to the thought that nothing much else could be done today regarding what had happened in Dublin, that could wait until tomorrow.

Watching the fire take hold, I wasn't excited about what tomorrow held for me, I was demented for it.

I couldn't help but be so aware of the fact that my team had not just been compromised, but massively shafted. Why did my boy look like he was expecting that Merc to come steaming up the road and take him out, who was he nodding at back in towards the Castle? I needed to look for that car.

Joe was coming back in with two steaming mugs of tea. I was getting myself comfortable, the warmth off the fire was making me sleepy, it was nice to have a smoke without the big rush, my eyelids hanging heavy.

\- Here you go man.

\- Cheers bud. Fancy one of mine?

Offering him one of my smokes.

\- Thanks man. When was the last time we were out for a drink?

\- Ah now, I never said I'd go did I? Fuck me, that's scalding. Ah Christ man, I can't remember what happened this morning let alone what happened years ago. We used to go out, the four of us didn't we, me and Sarah, you and what's her name?

\- Oh fuck yeah, what was her name? But I don't mean that, I mean just you and me?

\- Fuck knows, we did a good few times since college though. Didn't Sarah have to go to Spain for a family funeral or something?

\- Could be, she had you under the thumb didn't she?

\- I didn't mind being under that thumb in all fairness. Suzanne Coleman.

\- That's her, she got married to some fella from Drumshambo after I broke up with her.

\- When did you break up?

\- About six months after your Da passed. When you left, I lost it a bit, wanted to fight every man in the pub, anyone who said anything about what had happened. She told me I was being a daft prick or whatever, so I told her to fuck off.

\- Mate, I'm sorry.

\- Ah sure what can you do. There's some warmth off that fire eh?

\- It's lovely, I could fall asleep right now. I don't know why I went straight into see Sarah, curiosity, whatever but it's like those eight years had never happened. I just conditioned myself to not think of her. I didn't forget how much I loved her but I'd forgotten how to tap into that emotion. Then there's Michael.

Joe starts laughing.

\- Ah man, Ronan is gonna be so fucking pissed when he finds out you were up at the house and saw his lad too.

\- Michael's mine. Fuck, that's still hot.

Staring over our cups of tea, steam from the cups was masking our views of each other. For someone always known to be on the go - Duracell was his nickname at school - that had certainly stopped him in his tracks. It was like I could see into his mind, see him putting pieces of the same jigsaw, I was playing with, together.

Just to reaffirm and clarify.

\- It happened on the night Dad got killed, I was away a week after wasn't I? Have a think about when the news broke, I bet you thought she was a slag for getting pregnant so soon after I'd gone.

\- Now you come to mention it, there were some rumours which Ronan soon trampled down. He didn't even know ya, but he already hated me.

\- Well. I've sorted that out now haven't I? Now he knows me.

\- It all beginning to make a bit of sense now. When it was his christening, I was pissed from the night before.

\- Thanks for turning up to my son's christening pissed. Fuck sake man.

\- Would ya ever listen, I was saying to the young one I brought with me..

\- Fuck sake.

\- ..That he looked like you, and Glen, who was sat in front of me - turned round, all quick as a flash like and told me to shut the fuck up otherwise he'd stick me in the cells for the night.

\- Glen? He wouldn't know about this would he?

\- The way he is, I wouldn't put anything past him, he's as shlippery as a shnake, that one. Fuck, where are my manners, congratulations man.

\- Let's celebrate tonight will we?

\- One reason is as good as the next.

We drank some more, now the top layer of skin had been removed from the inside of my mouth, there was a tingly sensation every time I took a mouthful. I sat back in the most uncomfortable chair in the world, the heat of the fire acting like a blanket, I forgot about the aches and pains, the grazes and the bruises, I leant over to the side and put the cup down on the floor, hoping it didn't melt through the wood.

\- Think I'm good for a quick shleep man.

\- Knock yourself out, I may join ya.

\- I'll put me feet up so ya can't sit next to me.

\- Funny.

We didn't speak anymore, with my eyes closed, left side of my head pushed into the cushion, I could hear the flames, flicking up into the chimney, crackling heat, the right side of my face being ever so slowly cooked. I could hear kids playing outside, more than likely the owners of the bikes, I couldn't make out what was being said in any shape or form but they didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders. The floorboards were creaking, sounded like Erin had come in from the cold, walking ever so lightly across the floorboards, like a drunk father coming in trying not to wake his family, and was warming her hands by the fire.

\- Don't get too close to the fire.

\- Sorry?

\- Nothing.

Scratching from the wall that sounded suspiciously like mice running in the cavities then up over the ceiling, they were grand, running around as per, they didn't have the weight of the world on their shoulders either.

Erin was stood by me now, her teeth were chattering, she always told me she hated the cold, I said do you know anyone who did like the cold, she said Eskimos, outfoxed by an eight year old. I moved myself back, into the sofa, creating space, It was there if she needed it.

A sleep, a chance to dream.

Boy did I dream. I never knew when they were coming but like Halley's Comet, the dreams always returned.

It was Erin's christening - but the priest was holding a six year old Erin. He was putting holy water over her lifeless body, dress torn from where He had tried to rape her in his van. She'd kicked him in the mouth and knocked out a filling, she was like an animal trapped in a hot car, He had the keys to more than the lock. I was screaming at her in the church, so was John and his late wife Katie, not screaming to wake her up, but it was like we were out on the strand still looking for her. A cop told us to be quiet, they were doing all they could to look for her. I told him to fuck off, I'll look for her. Asked where was her friend's mother, why didn't she keep a closer eye on her? The cop said it was my fault. Like Sarah said, I couldn't even look after my own mother. Katie held my hand down, but it was John who hit the cop. Then all of a sudden we were out on the strand at midnight, I was topless from where I had put my shirt over Erin's body, but we were still looking for her. Then it was just me by myself, screaming out to anyone who could hear me - then I felt a little hand in mine, both squeezing together, I looked round at who was holding, it was Sarah, then I did a double take, it was Michael. I asked what he was doing out, he said he was looking for Erin, did I know where to find her, then with all the curiosity he could muster, head tilted to the side, he asked me if I was his Daddy, I said I supposed I was, now get home before your mammy before she catches you out of bed. Then He was there. I asked what He did with Michael, He asked who Michael was.

Don't give me that old shit.

He turned to walk away from me, with half the back of his head missing. Then he turned and asked if I had paracetamol - I'd given him a headache. I hunkered down and brought up a mixture of blood and bile on the sand, then I went down onto my hands and knees, digging through what I'd brought up, through the sand, come on baby, I know you're down there somewhere.

Can somebody help me.

In the court, giving testimony to twelve individuals of sound mind and body, I never address Him by His name. I will acknowledge that it is his name, but I will never utter those words, for fear of my heart breaking even further than it had before. Yes m'lud, it was broken once before, yes I can see her in the court, that's her over there.

Can somebody help me.

Feels like I'm digging down to China.

No Dad, I don't need your help, sure what help did you ever give me ya cunt, it was all your fucking fault, and I've got the same fucking genes as you.

Keep digging, grab a clump of brown hair, oh baby, oh Erin, I've found something. I didn't want to scratch at the sand in case I caught her skin, flash light over me, heaven opening up and her face, grainy with the sand, blood and vomit.

Don't nobody touch her.

Then I'm carrying her across the threshold, down to the Irish Sea and a filling falls out of her shoe, I crouch down, pick it up and put it into my mouth, keep walking us into the sea, crashing up over us, let's play flotsam and jetsam, let's play hide and seek. Deeper in, splashing up over my face, it's boiling hot but I don't care, close to submersion, she wakes up and tells me I couldn't even look after my own mother.

Eyes open, back in the real world, strong smell of Cannabis, Joe sitting opposite me smoking, thick wafts of grey smoke emerging from his mouth. Shit.

\- Give us a toke on that

Chapter 12

Joe stuck on the Emersion heater as I finished off the joint, there wasn't much crumbled resin so it felt like a nice mellow hit, calming rather than monging me out. After my David Lynch style dream, I didn't need to feel anymore paranoid than required and to at least try and keep my wits about me

\- I'll head in first as it takes me an age getting ready.

\- What could possibly take you so long, there's fuck all to ya to wash?

\- Gotta look my best for the women.

\- Ah, this mysterious group of people you keep on about, fabled and legendary. Shall I compare thee to a summers day?

\- Ya wha? Dublin hasn't half made you talk an awful lot of shite.

\- An educated man

\- That rules out the possibility of you being a field agent.

\- Actually, I am a field agent.

\- Really?

We did used to like our action films when we were growing up, anything quotable Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and one film in particular that rocked our world was The Rock with Shir Shean Connery. We used to eventually piss everyone off quoting large chunks of the film in our very bad mock Scottish accents. Even after such a long hiatus of non-contact between the two of us, we were falling back into the familiar routine, like it was yesterday we last me rather than eight years ago.

\- Right, make yourself comfortable, smoke away, I've loads of the shtuff.

\- Don't use up all the hot water

\- Take it eashy.

He gives me the two fingered salute and heads upstairs, an area I wasn't familiar with. I stub out the joint and take one of my normal ones out of its pack. The front room was roasting, would be nice to have a smoke outside, walking into the kitchen, the patio doors looked like they'd never been cleaned, the windows covered in a thick layer of dirt and dust, made looking out into the garden like I was looking through a portal to the past. I tried the handle but it was locked tight, looking round for a key wasn't something I was going to bother doing, I was getting tetchy with the heat, fuck it, I'll head out the front.

I pulled the welcome mat onto the ledge so the front door would jam up on that rather than shutting me out.

This was the forgotten Ireland, ghost estates, occupied by the living dead, the mothers of the children playing out front would be indoors, laying up on their sofa, which they got on tick, in their pyjamas or velour track suit, smoking cheap cigarettes, counting their benefit money whilst trying to find some lad desperate enough for a fuck to get them pregnant again. The children, unfamiliar with their fathers, looked broken down and desperate, finding street furniture to play with and destroy because there was fuck all in the house apart from cheapness and the smell of damp.

Nobody cared for them, snobbery ensures that we would question why we would want to, it's their own fault, they chose to live like this, would the people of Dublin or Cork or Limerick even want to bother doing anything else apart from caring for number one.

Would I for that matter want to care for them?

Not really.

The kids playing out on the street didn't notice me, I didn't want to be noticed. I wasn't even looking at them, I was looking at what they were doing, trying to grab the tail off some manky looking black and white cat, looked like one of the young lads had a pack of fire crackers, the cat, obviously pissed off that he couldn't go about his business, turned and scratched at the arm of a young girl who wasn't actually doing anything, just laughing and following the bigger kids, she pulled herself back and started screaming, the kids she was with started laughing, I carried on smoking, there was an awful loud bang on the front window of the house opposite me, a walrus banging her big fist, repeatedly and shouting out "Leanne". When the young girl, face wet with tears, who I now know to be Leanne, ran to the house, arms open for a hug, to be picked up and loved by her whale mother, she was told to shut the fuck up, loud enough to hear from over the other side of the road, through a double glazed window. I fixed Bruce Valanche one of my looks, something I had practiced since I was sixteen, Finnegan knows that look, the smack head knew that look, even my Dad for a while knew that look. She thankfully closed her dressing gown across her heaving chest, gave me the fingers and snuck back inside her hovel to eat cock with cheap wine.

The sun was penetrating through the passing low level cloud, bathing me in warmth then cold then warmth, Joe was peering out of me through the window, a towel that had seen better days wrapped round his waist, giving me his impression of the gun show, the fucking John Derringer gun show, his skin was almost translucent, stretched across a frame so skinny, so gaunt from a diet of lazing around, smoking drugs rather than eating food. It was pathetic but it made me smile, he appeared not to have a worry in the world, it showed by the lack of care and attention for the house but that wasn't such a bad thing for him, it wasn't about aspirations for him, it was just about living from one day to the next, there wasn't the job related stress, there wasn't the worry of loving someone more than you loved yourself, there wasn't the burden thinking everything you touch, eventually dies in a way where it isn't as nice as dying peacefully in your sleep.

I stepped back into the hallway, walked into the front room, I'd gotten used to the smell of cannabis, the heat in the room had been ventilated so it was just a nice, comfortable, room temperature.

\- What time do you want to head out?

\- Soon as you're ready I guess, I'll be sorted by the time you're out of the shower, will I call a taxi?

\- How do you normally get in?

\- Walk or hitch a ride.

\- I'd suggest we walk but that would be eating in to our drinking time, get one for half hour?

\- Grand so

\- Where's my room?

\- Er, turn right at the top of the stairs, door straight ahead of ya. The bathroom is the door on the left, the heating should be on and warm enough in there.

\- Nice one, roll me up one if you've time in your busy schedule.

\- Fuck you man.

The shower looked like it was about to fall off the wall, the floor covered in sodden towels from where the screen wasn't doing what it was supposed to, keeping the water on the inside rather than the outside, it was also freezing in here.

I turned the shower on, there were two dials, simple enough, one was on the on, off dial the other said hot or cold.

Simples.

The shower head, so clogged up with limescale was pissing water out everywhere, I was dancing round in the bath to try and at least get of water on me.

It's nice not to think.

It's nice to know that the water was still warm enough. It was nice in a way to know that tonight I may just be able to switch off.

I didn't bother changing into a new set of clothes, sure what was the point? A splash of brut was all that was needed. None of the lads in this town dressed smart, there wasn't anything to dress up smart for, even it was on a weekend and they had a woman hanging off their elbow.

I wasn't too fussed about this new batch coming in from Carrick and Sligo, it would be curiosity for me to see where the affluence came from, to see if these patrons were living in sin, on the run from NAMA or even darker forces. The nature of my business ensures that there is never any time off, not that I was looking for a couple of weeks annual leave, not that I was really looking to do anything my head felt like a perished elastic band,

I fancied a drink, I didn't expect it to be here, but I can only deal with the cards I've been dealt with.

By the time I got downstairs, into the front room oven, Joe had rolled me a fat joint, too big for one, so he was taking big lungfulls of sweet Jamaican gold leaf.

\- Don't even need to have a smoke on that man, fuck what's in it?

\- Fuck knows, I think it's a blend of Kentucky Bluegrass, Featherbed Bent, and Northern California Sensemilia.

\- Nice. Where's the taxi?

\- Outside, the cunt was late in picking me up from Carrick the other month so I'm just letting him know that two can play at that game.

\- Just smoke up that shit and do what one shepherd said to the other.

\- What's that?

\- Let's get the flock out of here.

There was someone beeping their car impatiently outside.

\- Who the fucks that?

\- Taxi lad?

\- He needs to reign that shit in.

It certainly wasn't Ocean's 11, it most definitely wasn't Reservoir Dogs. I didn't think it would be appropriate to say to Joe to walk out to the taxi in slow motion, with him in his jeans, brown brogues, white shirt and sports jacket, looking like an anorexic male model for Penneys , but I was looking forward to getting shit faced and I thought we looked smooth enough to be able to get away with it even though we were a couple of Herbert's, one a penniless drug dealer and the other a once State authorised assassin.

The taxi, a Silver 05 Skoda Octavia was parked up in the middle of the road, the driver, a lad around twenty, bulked up from too many burgers and steroids was gripping the steering wheel like he was strangling it, he was looking at Joe probably imagining he was having a hold of his neck, with the slightly slackjawwed, distant look, I couldn't really see him imagining the hand in hand workings of religion and science, I could see that he only thought with his fists and his itty bitty cock but thought he had a complex that he was the big man around town.

\- I'll sit in the front Joe.

\- Ah he's grand you know, don't worry about that cunt.

\- I'm not, just let me in the front. Shotgun

\- Ya prick.

Sat down with a crash.

\- How's it going man?

\- Fucking time do you call this?

\- I haven't me watch on me, what time do you think it is?

\- Twenty minutes after you should be in here. Hey, you, what time do you call this?

\- Are you a broken record or a taxi driver? Fuck up with acting the prick and get us into town, do it in less than five minutes and this fifty euro note is yours. Anyone else who calls you for jobs tonight, tell them you're busy, anyone asks where you are, tell them you're out of town. Park up in town, by the college up round Church View until I call you again, give me your number and at the end of the night, you'll be three hundred up.

\- What's the catch?

\- No catch my man, you've just been appointed my personal chauffeur, what do you say, three hundred euro a night? Ah, there's just one more thing, a catch if you will, if I do find out though that you've let anyone else know about our little contract apart from the people inside this car, I will burn it with you inside with bullet holes where your knees used to be, so it's in your best interests isn't it?

Silence.

\- Do you maybe want to think about starting the car first, there's men dying of thirst here. What do you say horse, do we have an accord?

\- Is that a deal?

\- Only if you want it? If you decline this very generous offer, the same stipulations apply but I'll also bound and gag your mum and stick her in the boot.

\- You don't know where I live.

\- Fuck man, don't try and be smart, how easy do you think it would be to find you? If I actually have to come after you, do you really think it'll just be your car and your mum?

\- Fiachra ?

\- Joe, shut the fuck up, this lad needs to learn some manners and if he does, I'll pay him very generously for his efforts, how fairer can I be?

\- Well you did say you'd kinda kill him and his mum.

\- That's not going to happen though is it? What's your name?

\- Shane

\- Give me your phone Shane

He scoops in under himself to pull it out of his jeans pocket, a shitty breeze block of a Nokia, covered in scratches and dents, the screen was covered with polythene to protect the cracks underneath from shattering the whole screen. I unlocked it, saved my number then dialled it, my phone rang and I cut it off.

\- You've my number saved and it's the most recently dialled number. Ah here we are now, the Royal Hotel, how long was that, four minutes, fuck you know how to drive boy. Fuck me the lights on this place. Have another fifty, I owe you two hundred and fifty later, park up, don't acknowledge anyone. You may think I'm crazy and your probably right I think the best thing for you to do is not find out how crazy I am and also be a bit nicer to my good friend in the back there and we'll be getting on just grand.

I wound down the window then got out of the car, smelt in the diesel fumes and looked over the road at Dalys which had certainly boomed in these austere times, knocking into what was Clarkes the Butchers next door, extending out the pub with what looked like an Off License.

I could hear Shane asking Joe who I was, Joe said he was fucked if he knew. He asked Joe if I was ok like? Joe said I was the son of that killed Gard. Oh fuck was the reply.

Oh fuck indeed.

Joe got out of the car and looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and fear, then started laughing, I looked round me to see what was funny, then got the joke, he thought I was joking, giving it the big bravado when all I wanted was an exclusive man to drive me around town. In fairness all that I wanted to do was get that Shane lad to give Joe a bit of respect. I'm giving killing a wee bit of a hiatus but I'm good at the old threats, mostly because I normally follow through on them.

Of course he'd be on the phone letting his mates know how I tried to have him out for a fight and him telling me to get the fuck out of his car before he beats the shite out of me. He also knows what's good for him, I know exactly where he lives, I remembered his mum, hence the threat, out down by the Wooden Bridge Road, I used to have a thing for her when I was in school I wouldn't harm a hair on her head, she was kind to me before Sarah became more than just a fantasy. I hope that word gets around that I'm in here in town, I hope Ronan knows I'm around for round two, or his lads, or anyone else, I'm not looking for it, but won't say no if it comes up and introduces itself.

\- Fuck it looks dead in the Royal, shall we go for a couple in Dalys? Have they a license for those fucking lights man, are they trying to communicate with Extra Terrestrials?

\- It's a beacon to all those who wanna go talk to aliens.

\- About time someone turned off the power then. Here take a twenty, I'm going for a piss, want something a bit better than a shmoke?

\- What have ya?

\- Enough powder for a bag of flour. Here, take this little bag of the best of wonder dust this side of Colombia.

\- Ah man, I got some good shit in Shligo.

\- Let me go for a piss, get a couple of pints in, then tell me what's the best, Sligo rat powder or something that was taken direct from the coco leaf in Colombia and grinded between the legs of the farmers virgin daughter.

\- Really?

\- No.

\- I'll see ya in a sec.

Joe walked in the front door and I walked round the alley by the side, passed the side entrance to the pub and further up the road passed a building site that was easy enough to break into and should have been destined to become a block of flats. There were smaller alleyways leading off the main path which would take me back round the back of the shops, down onto the river or follow the road directly up on Termon Road. I used to use the alleyways for their main purpose, after dark, with Sarah when we were trying our great outdoors phase and when we couldn't get anywhere else to fuck. Rather than looking at them for a trip down memory lane, I was looking for escape routes, see what alleyways were blocked off or not even there anymore, what would serve as a possible route up onto the roofs or to break in to one of the shops, not that I was looking to either fight or run, I do like to think of myself as always outnumbered but never outgunned.

The night was mild enough for me to take my jacket off and swing it over my shoulder like I didn't have a care in the world.

I heard the splash then the gravel and I turn to, not enough to reach for the Glock, see an arm swinging, arm up to block, the blade slices my forearm I swing my arm and crouch down, I can hear the blade hitting a wall somewhere, I knew what was coming next, it was only this one lad, could be one of many nominees, no time to write a list down as here comes the boot but it's only a trainer, that fucking joint has softened me up too much, kicking me in the chest as I use my arms to protect my face, the fella was shite at fighting, didn't even use his hands, no upper body strength, and kept kicking the same area, getting tired, stepping back to take a run up, I go down to my pocket, grab my keys, have the front door key for Raheny poking out between my index and middle finger, swing a punch into this bucks shin, he screams as I turn the key like I'm opening a door, he steps back, calls me a fucking cunt and hobbles towards Termon, well there's a surprise.

I grab my forearm, pick my jacket up off the ground and walk towards a street light to have a look at how bad it was, apart from my hands covered in blood the wound was only superficial and my chest feeling like your man out of Alien, it wasn't even a kicking, more an inconvenience, one of Finnegan's lads, if I was a betting man. I stuck my jacket back on to cover the cut, I'd wash it when I got to the toilet.

Walking in the side entrance, the same little passageway that I used to walk through when I was a kid, out into the back bar, different decor, lots of open spaces and sat in the corner like a little coven, Joe and Glen. I'm so sure Joe would be feeling really uncomfortable having to sit there, am sure Glen now knows I'm back. Like instinct Glen looked up at me.

\- Glen, just the man I wanted to see

Chapter 13

Joe looked round at me with a "thank fuck you're here" look upon him, Glen stood up, smiled a politicians smile, came over, shook my hand, patted me on my back, still grinning, I couldn't see what was funny. I gripped his hand a little bit harder than I normally would, he kept the smile going, very well practiced but his eyes told me a different story, pupils fixed and the size of pin heads.

Anyone in this town not on the stuff please show me their hands, anyone?

He was dressed smartly enough, a seriously starched white shirt, black tie, top button undone, dark blue jeans with designer bleaching, Prada trainers?

Fucking posers, got to be fake or off the back of a lorry

\- Fiachra , so good to see you, when did you land in?

\- Sometime this afternoon.

\- Seen anyone else apart from the Great Gatsby here?

\- Ah, an educated man.

Joe nods down smiling to himself. Before I could answer him with the details of my fun day in Boyle, he was distracted by something going on down the front, the door opened and in walked Sarah, her hair pulled tight back and into a bun, subtle make up, her face shimmering under the lights, the bruise very well covered, deep red lipstick, she had a figure hugging knee length black dress with a high neck, showing no cleavage, could be a pair of tights or it could be hold ups and a pair of black shoes with a tiny heel on them, she didn't need to be any taller and she couldn't be more femme fatale if she tried. I'd forgotten where I was for a second, it was ten years ago and we are back in New York, somewhere down in the Village, drinking Cosmopolitans like they were going out of fashion, looking forward to going up to the top of the Empire State and showing her the ring I had recently bought in Tiffanies, if only it wasn't for that young schizophrenic lad outside the bar who started shouting that he had a bomb jacket strapped to his chest and the whole area got sealed off. It didn't help when some cunt in the bar said there were a couple of drunken Irish people in there and we got questioned about being in the IRA. Even when I told the Feds I was a fucking Gard.

That's what I'm supposed to do, breathe. Both Joe and Glen were looking at me, Glen looking at me with a mixture of contempt and sarcasm, Joe just smiled and gave me a wink.

\- What?

\- Nothing man, nothing.

Sarah had stalled, looking at me with hopefully the same mixture of emotion as I was to her. This was a weird standoff, which didn't need to happen. So I just nodded and smiled at Sarah and guided Glen back over to where Joe was sat.

\- Let me get you and Sarah a drink, what are you having?

\- Well she was only meeting me in here, we were heading over the road.

\- Who's looking after Michael?

\- How do you know about him?

\- Joe was telling me earlier.

\- You and your mouth Joseph. I think her partner is, Michael's dad.

I could see Joe looking at me with a look of concern, couldn't really do much about that but I was more annoyed with the fact that my beating of him hadn't caused any lasting affects not even a night in Sligo General.

\- Ah right, well now that we have that all sorted, let me get you a drink, sure what harm is half hour?

\- Thanks for the offer but it's fine. We'll see you in there later maybe?

\- Well there's fuck all going on in here. See you in there so?

\- Good seeing you my man, it's been a long time. We'll catch up and have a drink.

\- Sure we are having a drink now aren't we?

\- By ourselves. G'luck.

He was looking at Joe when he said this, what a prick, embarrassing the both of us like that. Grabbing his jacket from the back of the stool, I returned my look to Sarah who was looking and smiling at me, I'm sure she mouthed the words "are you ok?" I nodded back and smiled which was returned back. Glen walked off towards her, saying goodbye once was enough, he looked like he needed another sniff and wouldn't have cared if he was chatting to his mother, God rest her soul, he would have treated her in the exact same way as he had just treated us.

Brother putting a protective arm around his sisters shoulder, she seemed quite easy to manoeuvre round but she looked at me for as long as she could which was only a fraction of a second, just before Glen turned to look at me, but I managed to turn my head away before he realised, that would piss him off that I gave him the idea that I didn't care.

Joe and I looked at each other.

\- What a prick, where the fuck were ya? He comes in and sits down next to me, wouldn't have ever given me the time of day before.

\- He knew I was back that's why. Sorry man, I was out having a smoke then someone mistook me for a football, look at this.

I showed him my arm, making sure the buck behind the bar was down the other end.

\- Fuck man, were you stabbed?

\- Well I wasn't kissed. I bumped into Finnegan with some of his mates when I came off the train, I asked him how his arm was. Might have seen us out the front, me going road the side and whoever did this just came down from Termon. I'm guessing it's one of them, wouldn't be one of Ronan's mob.

\- Finnegan? That prick wouldn't know a knife from a spoon.

\- He mightn't but someone did but I can't see it being something totally separate and I can't see it being one of Ronan's lads.

\- Does it hurt?

\- Not really, what the kicker was that I didn't hear the buck until he was right on me, your fucking pot that is.

\- Good shit that is but don't go blaming that when it's surely your old age. You must be losing your touch if he's back at home looking after Michael, did ya tickle him or something?

\- Glen's either bullshitting or hasn't a clue about what happened earlier. No way is Ronan back home playing happy families. Who knows? If I can get Sarah away from Glen for a minute later maybe she'll shed some light on it. Did you try any of that stuff out?

\- Yeah right, like I was going to that with Officer Buzzkill sat over the way.

\- He would probably want a bit himself, he's off his tits.

\- Really?

\- For a drug dealer, albeit a small one, you have fuck all clue. Get in the jacks now, get loaded before we get in the Royal, I feel a lively one coming on.

\- No need to tell me twice my man.

\- And hurry the fuck up, I need to clean this wound

He nipped into the jacks so quick it would look to anyone unaware of the real reasons, that he was caught unbelievably short. My pint looked like perfection. I picked it up and sat over on the other side so that the wall was behind me and I had a one hundred and eighty view of the bar, nobody was gonna pull the same trick on me twice. The barman was still down the far end of the bar, cleaning glasses, listening intently to Shannonside FM, keeping himself away from the boredom of a dead pub. The refurb did look good, a lot more space for live acts, more tall round tables with stools rather than sofas with springs poking out of them, it still smelt the same as it always did, a mixture of cleaning products, beer and piss but then if you're looking for anything else, that's just snobby. Then I saw something which I never thought they would have in Daly's far too modern and encouraging of a young crowd to come in, a jukebox.

I take a big gulp of beer, fucking gorgeous, walk over to the lad behind the bar.

\- Sorry, do you mind if I put the jukebox on?

\- Work yourself away there.

As he goes over to turn the radio down.

\- How much is it?

\- Two Euro for seven songs.

\- Fucking savage value. Can I get another couple of pints when you're ready.

\- Sure no problem, I'll bring them over

He looked like the most sensible level headed lad in Boyle since I arrived in. He was all of nineteen, foppish hair and a chiselled face, not a sign of stubble, skinny but not in the same way as Joe, this was just his natural stature. He had a plain black shirt on and black trousers, I couldn't see his feet without leaning over the bar to get a look, his footwear wasn't important to me right now, what was important was the hope that they had some decent songs on the jukebox.

I picked Love Spreads by the Stone Roses, Alive by Pearl Jam, Lust for Life by Iggy Pop, Basket Case by Green Day, I Fought The Law by The Clash, I Predict a Riot by Kaiser Chiefs and Monkey Wrench by the Foo's.

Let the psychologist have a field day with those choices.

As the opening chords for Love Spreads kicked in, Joe comes strutting out of the jacks licking his gums, wiping his streaming nose and looking like a poster child for lads who can't handle a decent bit of blow. He obviously hadn't heard the tune, as I get back up on my stool, shaking my head at him, taking another decent mouthful of beer, he realises the song as the drums kick in.

\- What a fucking tune, Love Spreads. Name the album.

\- Second Coming.

\- And the year?

\- That would be the year of Arnold 1994. My old man was into the Floyd and that was all we ever had to listen to, so when you had the album bought, I went out straight away and bought it on tape for me Walkman.

\- Fucking Walkman, how time flies eh?

\- Tell me about it, how you getting on with that gear?

\- Fucking Shligo boys is all I can say, the best shit I've ever had.

\- I can tell, your man is bringing over a couple more pints, I'm going to er powder my nose.

\- Sound man, sound, work away.

The toilets had all been modernised since I was here last, there was less of a smell of piss now more a smell of strong pinewood air freshener trying to cover up the smell of piss. The tiles on the floor weren't cracked or covered in pools of what might be water. There was enough space by the sinks to chop out a couple of phat lines but the area was damp enough to clump up the powder and anyone could just walk in. I firstly checked my arm, still bleeding out a little, it didn't look as bad as it felt, the wound was about an inch long, not very deep at all but it's like a head wound, lots of blood initially makes it look a lot worse. Running the hot tap and grabbing a bar of soap off the dish, I wash the wound, stinging a little as I rub the soap in, once I'd worn the soap bar down to the nub, I switch on the hand drier and stick my arm underneath it, it wasn't as warm as the sun and I didn't believe the heat would cauterise the wound but it dried it off without having to use paper towels which could lead to infection. I stood in front of the mirror, just trying to catch myself out, applying pressure with my right hand to at least stop the bleed. Staring myself out was just plain fucking stupid, but what else had I to look at, those old posters of pelican's promoting Guinness? I saw them when I was first off on the road to drink and it never was good for me, unless someone needed their road tarmacking the following morning. I inspected the wound again and only a little bit of blood was seeping out, that will soon clot, cause a scab and my body will fix itself up. I washed my hands, then washed off the stained blood around the wound, washed my hands again, dried them and now down to the business in hand. The cubicles were like a coke heads dream, no gaps on the floor to be able to see into the next cubicle, thick wooden frame and doors, hard to budge, decent lock on the door, enough space to spin a very small car, a boxed in tank behind the throne, no splinters, smooth as a babies bottom and a decent porcelain toilet seat which looked like it was cleaned daily. So much space, I cannot wait to toot this up with the jangly, cutting guitar of John Squire playing in the background, head swaying, singing under my breath like I'm imagining I'm in the Hacienda, off my tits in front of so many women who want me but I had to turn them all down because there is only ever one.

I cut up two lines on the boxed in tank with an old shitty plastic Copper Face Jacks platinum membership card, sucked my finger, rubbed the card and coated my gums with the remnants. I got out a crisp fifty, never been in circulation, smelt fresh like a daisy, rolled it as tight as I could, bent forward and choo fucking choo, away we go, up for air blink three times, rub my nose and back down again for the second one. This certainly was the good shit, rubbed my hand over where I'd lain the coke, bit left on the palm, too rude to let that go to waste, licked my palm like a retarded child, flushed the toilet to make it sound like I used the facilities for other than their purpose, went out to wash my hands and splash a bit of water on my face. The jukebox was now playing Alive, and I air guitared the introduction within the confines of the bathroom, my chest still sore enough to annoyed rather than in agony. I guess I wouldn't be throwing out any shapes on the dance floor in the not too distant future.

Joe was up on his stool, pretending to be the whole of Pearl Jam, he had the imaginary microphone, drum sticks and air guitar, he was so massively off his tits. The barman was just stood there watching him with a "what the fuck is that lad on" look on his face. I looked at the barman and shrugged, Joe was knocking into the table and spilling beer all over the place. I went over to him, grabbing the back of his shirt, pulling him down into a seating position, which was clearly to his annoyance.

\- What the fuck are you doing man, this is a tune.

\- I know it's a fucking tune but you are acting the prick and its only you and me in here, just calm down man, you're making it too obvious that you're on something. Just be cool ok?

\- I am cool.

\- Right well keep your fucking voice down and drink your fucking drink. Come on man, I haven't seen you in years, don't fuck it up.

\- Sorry man, it's just this is some good fucking gear.

\- Keep your fucking voice down Joe, I know it's good shit but you look like you can't handle it so just sit down with me for a while, drink your drink and let the stuff filter through your system. Trust me, in a while you'll be grand.

\- How long have we to stay in here for?

\- I've put seven songs on the jukebox, we'll head on over after they've played.

\- How many songs are we in?

\- This is the second one I think.

\- Fuck sake.

\- Look I don't want to go straight into the Royal just after Sarah and Glen went in there, it would stink of desperation and they would think we are following them.

\- Isn't that what you want, to see Sarah?

\- Of course it is, but I don't want Glen to know it. I just wanna sit here, have a few beers with me old mate, listen to some decent music, have a chat, then we can go over there, calm as Hindu Cows.

\- I wouldn't mind giving that Glen lad a few slaps.

\- I know you wouldn't but trust me, not tonight and not with you halfway up the wall, he'll nick you for sure. I just want at least part of this day to have some sense of normality.

\- Yeah right. Cheers

\- Slainte. So tell me what's been going on here since I left for distant lands.

\- Doesn't take a genius like you to figure that out. Let's just say in a couple of sentences, the Government fucked us, all the jobs dried up, everything shut down except a few pubs pubs and that Vegas face lift over the road, everyone is either on drugs or selling them, Sarah has had your child for eight years but claimed it was that cunt Ronan's, the power has gone to Glen's head as the wannabe head honcho round here, I'm still the same old same old and I think Mr Clancy that this isn't just a holiday for you.

\- What do you mean?

\- I dunno man, who's this Erin?

\- A friend of mine in Dublin's daughter. She died a couple of years back, she was six. I was her Godfather.

\- Ah fuck sake man I'm sorry, I thought she was some love interest the way you kept on about her when you were sleeping.

\- No man, no way. You'd know her.

\- I would?

\- Yeah, remember a couple of years back the news of that young girl in Dublin who was kidnapped and killed by a paedo lad?

\- Er, wasn't it out on a beach somewhere?

\- Yeah that's right, up on the Strand near where I live.

A couple of big mouthfuls of drink, Joe was always my confident when we were younger, maybe instead of being so unbelievably selfish when Dad died, I should have just taken him away somewhere for a couple of days and talked the ears off him. It's not like we had much to talk about, Sarah was the main topic of conversation, it was all innocent and above board, he just had a way of being able to deconstruct the complex and make it simple. With everything I had actioned and put into place over the last few years, I didn't want to let Joe become either an accessory or to inadvertently pervert the course of justice but this had emotional connotations, he wouldn't even think about letting anything slip because I know that he would have done the same thing.

\- Ok, ok. What I do in Dublin, I'm not a Gard anymore and I stopped being one after she died.

\- So what do you do now?

\- Hold on a second, I'm trying to think myself.

\- Well don't take too long there man, there is a party over the road that we need to gatecrash.

\- I was serving out of Store Street station, just over the road from the Connolly. Erin's dad and I became good mates because he was working out of Beaumont Hospital where I had to spend a lot of my time either investigating or getting patched up. So we started going out after work for pints and the like, met his wife, Kate, who was absolutely gorgeous. It was the three of us, they didn't mind me being a spare part and I wasn't too fussed myself, I always brought over someone new but they knew that it was like me trying to put a plaster on an amputation. She fell pregnant and we were all over the moon, like I thought this was the best news I had ever heard, any positive news for me was seen like the Second Coming. What was even better was that I was asked to be Erin's godfather. Kate's sister was the godmother.

\- Good looking?

\- Not really, she had a tache like Burt Reynolds.

\- Fuck.

\- So it was like I had a family there to look after you know, I took the responsibility of being her Godfather really seriously, like I didn't want her to see how capable people like my Dad could be, I wanted to protect her and love her and just do everything I could do to ensure she had a good upbringing.

\- But she had her parents man, why would you go so over the top, they do that shit for her, not you. It's all ceremonial, you're just supposed to step in, in case her parents are killed, you and Magnum PI.

\- Dunnno, maybe cause of what happened with Sarah or my Dad or I just wanted something tangible to hold on to because I thought I would never be a parent myself.

\- And all this time.

\- And all this time. Anyway, Erin was up on the Strand on July 15th 2011 with a friend from school and her friends mother. It was a glorious day like, proper Mr Blue Sky weather.

Don't go into too much detail, Fiachra .

\- The friends mother didn't see what had happened, she was off getting ice creams, took her eyes off Erin, she was taken into a van and raped about a mile away from where she was taken, her throat was cut. When they found her, her little summer dress that I bought her was torn and dirty and covered in her blood, they never found her knickers.

\- You ok man?

\- I'm grand, sorry Joe.

\- It's sound, man.

\- In her shoe, they found a filling, which she had kicked out of his mouth when she was trying to escape. I got into their computer system after the DNA results came back. The lad was known, only our age but been at it since he was in school. I doubted very much that I'd be able to get at him but I was there at the Press Conference, seen the pain and absolute destruction of normality for that family the gut wrenching, the fact that I couldn't go up to my friend and tell him how I felt about how I felt like a friend could because what they were going through was a million times worse. So I did what they couldn't do, what they wanted, I conducted my own search for him, surprisingly he wasn't at the address we had on file, he hadn't been there for months. So I checked with dentists, hospitals, anywhere where he could have done something to sort his mouth out because the cops hadn't released that information to the press. I hadn't slept in like thirty six hours, then my mate calls me up and tells me that some lad had gone into Tallaght Hospital with a severely infected mouth, bruised cheek and a missing filling.

\- Fuck,

-He hadn't called the cops yet, he gave me half hour grace. The buck didn't give an address, said he was sleeping in his van which was out in the car park, I was given the registration details. I did another search on that vehicle and found out more about him than his mammy would have known and I bombed it down to the hospital, checked the van, he wasn't inside, so I waited, I called up Erin's dad and told him where I was and what I was going to do.

The barman comes over and clears away the two empty glasses and had two fresh ones with him, I didn't realise I had drunk the last pint, Joe gets out a twenty, hands it to the barman without taking his eyes off me, all I can say is thank fuck I wasn't wearing mascara because I'd look like a Panda Bear.

\- Cheers bud.

\- No worries, I'll just get you the change.

\- Don't worry about it.

\- Ah cheers man.

Then silence until he was way back at the bar and drowned out by the sound of Iggy Pop.

\- So what did you do?

\- Waited until he came back, I knew what her Dad wanted, the same as I did, same as Katie did, same as anyone would have demanded because the justice system would have allowed him back out into society within ten years. He came out of the main entrance holding his mouth with his hand, a bag of prescription drugs in the other. I was parked in the bay directly behind his van, it was nice and dark, kept the engine of my car running, as he got to the back of the van and opened it up, I got out of mine, walked over and shot him twice in the back of the head, the inside of the van was covered in his brains and I saw a dirty mattress on the floor covered in one of those protectors to stop piss soaking it up. I knew I'd done the right thing.

\- Fucking right man.

\- I just went back to the car, drove a few miles out of dodge, called up Erin's old man, said it was done and he broke down crying, thanking me. I don't know if he ever told Kate, she was away in her own diazepam dreams. I see Erin out of the corner of my eye, all the time, she's over by that pillar behind you, playing hide and seek, I see my Dad sometimes holding her hand, looking after her, atoning for being such a cunt of parent to me.

I put my head in my hands and started crying quietly, trying to stop my shoulders from shaking. I had to put the plug in now otherwise everything would come out. I could feel Joe's hand on my shoulder, for him that was a big thing, he wasn't in touch with those kind of feelings and it was a comfort to me. Have to get past this for fuck sake. Close my eyes, rub them, rub and erase the tears out of them, grab the pint, big gulps and laugh at how stupid I am, the big eejit.

\- That goes no further man, seriously.

\- Jesus, Fiachra I'm kinda glad you told me.

\- Haha, where do you get your kicks, casualty?

\- Fuck up, you know what I mean.

Then all of a sudden there was prolonged silence, the juke box had finished playing my seven songs, I fucking missed most of them.

Joe was looking at his watch, then looking back at me.

I'd already necked the pint.

\- Come on ya twat, hurry up and drink your drink, I'm going to splash my face.

I went back into the jacks, through as much cold water as I could on my face before it went numb, dried myself of, got a big mound of coke poured out onto my right fist and snorted that up, that's so much fucking better.

Back out into the bar area.

\- Let's hence forth my good man, once more unto the breach?

\- Wha?

\- Let's go to the Royal, fuck sake.

Chapter 14

\- Hold on here for a second let me have a smoke first. Is that the club bit up there?

I pointed up to the first floor, which used to be a function room where we held the wake for my grandfather yonks ago. From behind the reinforced windows came a deep thumping base and a combination of disco lights and lasers were projecting themselves onto the buildings behind us. Couldn't see how busy it was inside, but there was a queue of ten or so waiting by the main doors, women with an unnatural hair colour, fake tans, no young ones, all wearing tight dresses which still showed their pregnancy bellies, which couldn't be shifted without the help of a surgeon. The way they were either hugging up to their partners or chatting amongst themselves, there were no husbands to go home to - or their husbands were totally naive as to where his wife was going. Used to be the blue rinse brigade, now it's the black g string army, sounds like a militia faction of the British armed forces. It certainly wouldn't be a place I would go to, even on an irregular basis, not my scene, not my music, not my people.

\- Is this really happening or do you think there was some hallucinogen in the coke?

\- This is really happening man, see what I mean?

\- I would never have thought in a million years there'd be a load of scrubbers queuing up outside the Royal, the fact Sarah is in there beggar's belief.

\- People are strange when you're a stranger, man.

\- Fuck up. There is no way I'm queuing up for anything, do they have door staff round the back.

\- Not sure, don't think so.

\- Come on, let's do a little recognisance.

We jogged over the road as a blacked out Merc pulled up outside the hotel, causing a wee bit of commotion with the women in the queue, wanting to have a gawp inside. A Northern Irish plate, my stomach jumps for a second but it's a totally different number to the one in Dublin .

\- We'll find out in a bit won't we, come on let's use whoever that is in there as an excuse to get in the back door.

\- Sarah...

\- Don't say another fucking word man.

\- What, what was I going to say?

\- I don't know and I don't care.

We jogged down Carrick Road and turned left just before the Garage where I had that run in with that pregnant young girl and her beau, down an incline which lead into the car park behind the hotel. The car park didn't look like it was a show room for vastly expensive, same price as a house, cars, but it was trying its best. Over on my right I could hear some woman softly screaming, my ears pricked up and I looked around like a Meercat, ready to intervene. Then I saw that the sound was coming from some old one, bent over a Porsche's bonnet with her dress up over her hips, one of her hold ups had slipped down her leg. The fat lad behind her suited and booted, trousers down by his ankles, milky white tree trunk legs pumping his way to a cardiac arrest had his stomach resting on her back, silent, fucking her like he was a mute.

I look at Joe, Joe looks at me, both of us grinning like we were teenagers and had never seen anything like this before.

\- Shall I say something?

\- Say whatever you want man, but try to think of something funny to say instead of "G'wan boyo".

\- Hold on, get that door open.

\- Where are ya goin?

\- Sssshhhh, just go and get the door open.

\- What the fuck are yas going to do?

\- Just watch.

Joe is giggling to himself which starts me off, I make my way quickly across the car park to the back door which is open and unmanned, fucking small town Ireland, all front. The music inside was horrendous just electronic chart topping noise. I could hear women chatting inside but couldn't make out what was being said. I hadn't seen Sarah or Glen walking past, not that I was looking for them especially. More big Eastern European doormen - who didn't understand or bother reading Human Rights laws. I couldn't see Joe, so I shut the back door too, so I could hear more of what was going on outside than inside, as I shut the door, two women came out wearing overcoats which didn't even come to their knees, bare tanned legs underneath, shivering with the cold, pretty enough - but just a tad too much Botox so would never know if they were smiling or not when I offered to light up their cigarettes.

\- Thanks.

\- No worries, where are you both from?

\- Carrick, but Paula is from Sligo.

\- And you come to Boyle for your nights out

\- Sure it's the best place around?

\- Boyle?

\- Well here, not the fucking town, that's a kip.

\- Well kip is a strong word, I would call it progressive.

\- Where are you from?

\- Dublin, used to be from here, sorry I didn't catch your name.

\- Paula.

\- Nice to meet ya.

I held out my hand to shake, which Paula did with her spindly ice cold hands, I could only imagine what she hadn't on under her coat and it wasn't a pretty site. I was in Sarah mode, Paula could have stripped in front of me or tried to drag me round the back of the church to fuck me and I would resist, Joe would be kicking himself that he's missing out on this.

\- Likewise. Never seen you here before though, sorry I didn't catch your name.

\- Sorry, Fiachra I haven't been back here in Boyle for a while, this is all new here to me, I remember when this was just a hotel trying to make its way in the world.

\- It's great isn't it?

\- It's certainly something.

Then all of a sudden, I hear this loud slap from behind me, out in the darkness of the car park, the three of us look round and I can hear Joe screaming at the top of his voice.

\- Get your hands off my mammy.

Silence, I'm laughing and the women are all like what the fuck was that, who's shouting that out.

Joe runs up towards us, out of breath.

\- I can't believe I slapped that old lad his sweaty arse.

Runs passed us, looks at the women I was chatting to, stops, walks back, shakes Jackie's hand.

\- Hi I'm Joseph Buckley.

From out in the car park,

\- Where are ya, you cunt?

This was the woman shouting this out, not the big lad, he was probably on the floor grabbing at his chest.

\- Come on to fuck, let's get in. Ladies, you haven't seen us, there's a drink in it for ya and some very high grade coke.

\- Joe, fuck sake, come on let's get in. Sorry about him, he's only in my care for twenty four hours before I have to take him back to the home.

The corridor leading into what was the carvery area didn't look any different to when I walked down it when I was a child, the same old black and white pictures of town and Forest Park. I switched my head off to the music but the base was thumping, the through way at the top was swarming with packs of young lads, trying to find any female with a pulse who'd give them more than a "fuck off". We had to let several people barge past us on their way to the jacks, desperate for something more than a piss.

\- Fuck this, come on, is that bar still there overlooking the river?

\- Well it's a sports bar now.

\- Great. Come on, there's a couple of men in need of a drink here.

We got to the stairwell which lead up to first floor and bedrooms out towards the back. I looked round to check Joe was still behind me, in a room full of crowded people, the person with the bigger shoulders is king, I was knocking a path through for us, not really caring but not doing it in such a way to cause anxiety because every three seconds I kept shouting out "sorry". As I looked back someone else I thought I recognised was walking up the stairs, slimmer, his hair a bit shorter in a suit with a couple of women in tow, can't be him, although it would explain the blacked out Range Rover.

Can't be him.

What once was a lovely looking bar, aged oak, more bottles of spirits than a distillery, mirrors reflecting the windows looking out onto the wondrous Boyle River crashing past, now had cobbled stones where the tiled floor once was, a brushed chrome effect bar and more TV's covering the back of the bar than you would find in any good electrical retailer. All of those old whisky bottles had been replaced with multi coloured high street spirits, the barmaids didn't wear very much, the barmen looked more chiselled than the statue of David all with a combined intelligence of a retarded amoeba.

There were pockets of people dotted around, drinking either sparkling wine or beer from the bottle, the room smelt like a whore house at low tide, cheap perfume trying to mask the smell of sour dough.

\- And this is the best place to go be seen at is it?

\- Apparently so. Here it's my round.

\- Lets just sit up at the bar, what in the fuck were you at slapping that old lad on the arse.

\- It just came over me, this need to fucking shlap the ride out of him.

\- Well you certainly did that.

There were three lads stood round the bar, blocking off two bar stools, maybe a bit older than us, didn't recognise any of them, but they were looking about the place for someone to fight, staring at any lad to see who would blink first. Just a quick feel inside my jacket, just checking that the Glock was still there, old faithful.

One of the barmen see's us approaching the bar, leans forward to hear what the order is.

\- Two Guinness, two Sambuccas and whatever these lads want.

One of the lads turns round to us.

\- How's it going, my leg here is fucked from rugby training, would you lads mind if I can grab those chairs.

Giving it all the Fawlty I could muster, shrapnel wound, Korean War.

\- You can have a chair, your girlfriend can stand.

\- Ah now lads, I have been civil enough to offer to get you all a drink so we could get at those seats and now you've gone and fucked it up royally haven't you.

I got a good look in at him, thousand yard stare, stocky enough, bordering on obese, vacuum packed into a green and yellow polo shirt and high street brand jeans with black loafers, as about important as Westboro Baptist Church's politics. His two pals were peering round him like he was an eclipse, no point even bothering with them, I had managed to get chatting to the head of the spot. I kept Joe behind me, who mustn't have even bothered to pay attention to what was going on as he was chatting to the old lad next to him about a soccer game being played out on one of the screens behind the bar, I gave him a little kick in the shit, to the point and enough to distract him out of talking bullshit with bar flies. I can feel him turn to bullock me for kicking him, then see's what's occurring.

\- Oh fuck.

\- Indeed. Now listen man, all I am asking for is those two chairs, not asking for a lend of your ma for the evening now am I?

And here it came, like a slow motion replay, fat people can't fight as good as they like to think they can. What they don't know is that my chest is fucked and that coke is pushing my heart up to over two hundred bpm's, but his right hand, not realising how close he was to the bar, came off the underside of the brushed chrome as he swung for me. I stepped back hard into Joe who knocked into the old lad he was chatting to, making him fall off his stool. I moved to my left so that I was creating space for everyone, I didn't want to look like I was in any way, shape or form fighting, 'cause those Eastern European lads needed to get their fighting fix at least once every half an hour, and would be over before I knew it. I didn't fancy getting a kicking, just allow these three enough time to get themselves caught out. I stepped back as his two mates got around the big lad ready to think they could have me, the way they were positioned, nobody behind them could see me, too much going on for CCTV to make anything out, so I push back the opening in my jacket to revel the handle of the Glock, this stops one of them dead in their tracks who puts a hand out to his big mate to hold off on the advance.

\- Watch out.

This came from behind and as I turn, I get a fist right in the face from the fat fella with the slapped arse, the three became four and I had mistaken the big lad in front of me as the leader of the pack. They probably didn't even see the gun any more, just stepping back to allow their pal a good swing. It was a good punch and neurons shot around my body letting me know firstly that it fucking hurt and I was falling back over a small round iron table towards the three, my nose must have been split because I could taste blood as fists came crashing in around me, I curled up like a hedgehog, knees up to my aching chest, my arms covering my head, if only they would let up on the floor on top of spilt drink and broken glass, this was relentless, shouts, screaming.

\- This is for Ronan ya cunt.

How nice of one of them to be whispering sweet nothings in my ear and I can hear the exhalation from whoever it was as they were pulled back off me, his breath rancid and the loveliest noise I had heard all night, shouting Eastern European doorman, pumped up on steroids, coke and bravado. I looked through my hands like I was watching a horror film as the four attempted to fight the door staff to not much effect, as one of them got his nose punched halfway across his face from a knuckleduster and I got hit was a face full of blood, this fighting wasn't even Limerick rules. I am staying exactly where I am, can't see Joe around anywhere but then again I'm not looking for him.

Glen comes in from the right, past where Joe was and helps put the boot in, his poor Prada's covered in claret, really going in hard now, the door staff just standing back and letting him at them, he gets pulled back but easily lets got of the grip and puts the boot one more time into the bollocks of the lad who doesn't know where to put his hands to protect himself.

All I keep on thinking is will someone just turn that shite music off or at least turn it down, tanned bare legs running past on heels liable to snap off at any time, screaming, silence, heavy feet, exertion from swinging punches and kicks, everyone seems to have forgotten about me, I should sit back up and try and find a tub of popcorn from somewhere so I can watch the festivities.

Where was Joe? Hopefully, the fat lad with the slapped arse didn't get a look at who tanned his cheek outside and Joe would just be watching this from afar, he was never a street fighting man but he was as loyal to me like a brother, even though I told him several times I could look after myself and that he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. With enough confidence to think that I was in the clear, I patted my coat just to make sure I was fully intact and armed. Everything was in its right place.

Through my fingers, it was looking like everyone that I knew who wanted to hang me from the bridge had been taken outside for a pasting. The onlookers were moving back across the floor where blood was spilt, moaning about the inconvenience of having to squeeze together and watch on whilst guarding their drinks from elbows and sprays of blood.

\- Can someone give me a hand here?

As I stick up my arm like a silly drunken girl although hoping for some form chivalry from a room full of vacuous cunts, my arm was pulled by the most unexpected of people

\- Will ya stand up, you've been here less than twelve hours and you've managed to piss nearly every person off since you've been off that train.

\- It's called how to make friends and influence people. Will ya watch me fucking arm Sarah, you're going to pull it out of its socket.

\- Still a big drama queen, Clancy.

\- Where's Joe?

\- Here, I saved your drink.

\- My hero. Where's Glen, Joe?

\- Out the back either punching or kicking, then arresting if he can remember he's a Gard.

\- Eh, that's my brother?

\- Am I wrong?

\- No, not really.

\- Whilst you two are bonding so well like this, can one of you pass me a drink. How do I look?

\- A bit red and swollen round the cheeks. You vain prick. How are you feeling elsewhere?

\- Ah I'm grand, a bit sore. What the fuck happened there?

\- That fella with the slapped arse was that bucks old man, guess they were just looking for something to kick off. Also they are mates with your Ronan aren't they?

\- I don't know all of his friends.

\- Where is Ronan?

\- I don't know, he never came home.

\- Well where's Michael then?

\- Yeah where's Michael?

\- He's staying at his friend's house tonight.

I look over at Joe, who looks back at me with a mirrored look of why did Glen say something different, why did he say Ronan was at home? He mustn't have known about my meet up with Ronan earlier, must have just assumed that Ronan was at home.

\- I'm gonna head to the Jacks if everything is safe, sort myself out.

\- Just leave us two here yeah?

\- Thanks Joe, always the charmer.

\- Fuck sake, both of you just head on upstairs or whatever, get me a fresh drink Joe will ya and just keep an eye out for any more of those cunts. Will Glen be back?

\- Who knows, he might have something else to occupy him for a while, sure he knows where to find us. Come on Joe, we'll see you upstairs.

I stretched my back, rolled my shoulders, got looked at by nearly every patron in the bar, bruised and battered, sore jaw from the fat lads punch, rubbing it intently, trying to remember where I am going in life. Just wanted a few fucking beers a laugh with Joe and just to put the events in Dublin to the back of my mind.

My mum used to call me a shit magnet, that was a term of endearment for her, only when she was drunk, which was more often than being sober. I could take a very educated guess as to what she would say or how she would act about two hours before she would actually do it and then be able to quote back to her, verbatim the slurred words flowing from her venomous mouth, they fuck you up, your mum and dad, they don't mean to but they do.

I didn't need a top up, just needed a piss and a few moments to myself for composure and to get my breath back. Never losing face although to everyone here, I had just had the crap kicked out of me. As I walked back down the corridor to the gents, everyone became a hushed whisper or silence, I chose the better of the two options and kept quiet, walking in to the toilets, over to the urinal sighing with relief as the piss I so desperately needed expelled itself from me. There was a lad banging on the door of one of the cubicles.

\- Here you, are ya having a baby in there?

\- Fuck you.

\- Are ya at yourself?.

\- Fuck off, I've your mother in here, helping me out wiping my arse.

It would have been rude to not laugh, even though I was sore, more from a dented ego. In fairness it was the best of the two options, the other option would have been to lay waste to these savages. In allowing them to be at me, to show that I have chinks in my armour that I'm infallible allows them to think that it can happen again and that encourages complacency. I'll be the talk of the town but for all the wrong reasons which I was happy enough with. Boyle's favourite son won't be getting any headline space in the Herald for my mother to cut out and keep. It would mean everyone would be looking at a mask, a fallacy whilst I operated underneath that tarpaulin.

Looking in the mirror at myself, checking out my war wounds, my jaw was red around the right hand side of my face, a bit swollen. I rolled my tongue against the teeth on that side to feel if any were loose. It didn't appear as if any were but I could taste blood. I didn't care about anyone else in the room with me, I lifted up my top, redness and brushing across my chest and ribs, like I'd been hit with baseballs. There was nothing I could do except for shallow breathing.

The water from the taps was ice cold, even the water from the hot tap was Baltic. For all the kitsch, the very expensive kitsch that the owners decided would be in keeping with the aesthetic of the town, if they were colour blind and lived on the moon, they didn't really seem to consider the simple things like plumbing or a hand dryer that worked or paper towels. So I just dried my hands on my jeans, far enough down my thighs to make it look, if people bothered to, that I hadn't pissed myself, the rooms were intentionally dark but you never know who might feel you up walking through a thick crowd.

The sports bar looked like nothing had happened, the music was still as shite and the crowds either drinking or waiting to be served looked like they didn't have a care in the world. A few looked at me but I met there stare and kept it until they looked away. I may want to look infallible but I don't want to look like a cunt. The doorman with the knuckleduster was back stalking the bar area, I saw that his left hand covered his punching hand as he walked round, our eyes met and I nodded at him, hoping that his thirst for blood had been filled, he nodded back, couldn't see any of his colleagues or Glen for that matter but it wasn't a concern of mine really.

I fancied a smoke, it's a calming mechanism, until the point when I develop a malignant tumour in my lung or have a myocardial infarction, then I won't feel so calm and question why I was such a cocky fucker in the first place when I could have quite easily said lung cancer or a heart attack. Instantly I felt the walls closing in on my, needed fresh air and not think of the irony whilst smoking. I pushed the door at the back open with more force than necessary, the frame banging off the wall behind it. There were a couple of people outside who jumped a little at the bang, Jackie and Paula both looked round at the same time. I sparked up a cigarette

\- Jesus, have you not been inside yet?

\- Well we would have been but they brought a few lads out and dragged them over the footbridge, so we thought we'd let the dust settle on that one.

\- When was this?

\- Just now, it was scary. Jesus, what happened to your face?

\- Someone opened the door on me when I thought it opened the other way.

Jackie came up and put her cold hand on my cheek, it felt like she was burning me. She was clearly pissed but it did feel nice. We both sort of smiled at each other, Paula tutted then the door opened behind us, not as hard as when I opened it, we all looked round to see Sarah walk forward then stop, turn on her heel and walk back in.

\- Fuck

\- Is that your girlfriend? Jesus I'm sorry. I've a boyfriend you know. Tell her I've a boyfriend.

\- She's not my girlfriend, I don't know who she is. Listen I better head back in.

Joe then pops his head out of the door with a look of concern on his Chevy Chase.

\- I was looking for ya. What's up with Sarah?

\- Ah man, I don't fucking know, I'm not her father. Hold on out here will ya, chat to these two while I go in and find out what the fuck that was all about. Text me if she heads out this way.

It's like I feel guilty for nothing, what had she stormed off like that for? I can feel the heat rising up through my neck warming up my face, making it prickly really making the mark on my face where I got punched feel really weird.

\- Listen I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset your girlfriend.

\- She's not his girlfriend, is she?

\- I'm fucked if I know. Did she go upstairs?

\- Last time I saw her.

\- Right I'll be up there, I'll see ya. I'll text you if I find her ok?

I stubbed out the cigarette, with only a quarter smoked, it would be a waste to throw it.

With that I went back inside the hotel with the bells of sorry ringing in my ears. Paula was questioning what the fuck that girl was being such a cow about, and I turned as I entered the door and gave her my well-practiced death stare but she had her back to me and the other two were huddled in around her like a witches coven.

I looked back in around the Sports Bar, just to check that Sarah hadn't doubled back and snuck herself into some snug. I couldn't understand what had annoyed her so much, we haven't been exclusive for eight years, no birthday cards or flowers were ever sent, we never went to gigs together, we didn't text each other naked pictures, no letters of love were ever sent, I was just too scared to send them. This was really annoying me but I had to find out what in the fuck she was acting the prick for.

I scoured every corner of the room, apologising to people I wanted to walk past just to avoid any further aggregation, the room wasn't as packed as it was before but I wanted to check every single person in the room just in case. When I was happy enough to know she wasn't in the bar, I made my way upstairs.

I'd never seen a group of more drunk and off their face people as I did when I climbed the stairs, women slipping over, their skirts riding up to show no knickers and a recently waxed fanny, laughing away with their friends as lads shouted back at them like they were football hooligans. Having to stop my journey whilst they all just fell about was making my blood boil, I had to physically move some over with both of my hands making sure they still had a step beneath their ridiculously high heels, passively aggressive but determined to not get another slap. The lads who circled the top banister, looking over to get a cheap look at a pair of tits in a low cut top didn't pass me any heed as to them it was feeding time at the zoo.

When I got to the top, there was a room off to my right that people were milling in and out of, the main room was over to my left. Wasn't sure what was going on in the right room so went in, slammed in the face with a fog of cigarette smoke.

An illegal room.

Since the changes in the law on smoking inside any building were brought in, landlords and mangers, especially in small town Ireland had converted unused rooms into little smoking dens. There were only a few people dotted around, taking a breather, chatting away, one of them were Sarah. There was another opening on the other side of the room which led to out onto the flat roof of the Sports Bar, overlooking the river. It was nice to get the cold blast of air coming off the thundering river. The owners had pulled out all the stops with regards to a fence preventing any would be jumpers, old wooden pallets used to carry fruit or breeze blocks were laid in a not very intrinsic manner against rusty poles.

Your safety is our priority.

There was only an old enough couple shifting in the corner, his hand moving rhythmically in and out of her very short skirt.

What is this, the last days of Rome?

I could see the main entrance from where I stood if I wanted to crick my neck into a very awkward angle so I had all exits covered in case Sarah did leave the building. I got out the quarter smoked cigarette, turned my back against the auld pair playing at being teenagers, lit it up and looked down upon Boyle.

Fuck it, I'm not chasing after Sarah, I hadn't done anything wrong. I checked my phone to see if Joe had sent anything through to me. Nothing, not a word. I didn't want to languish around up here, not with the woman behind making squealing noises like a mouse.

From up here, Boyle doesn't look any different to how it was when I left, like time had stood still whilst everything else aged. There wasn't a soul on the street that I recognised but there weren't enough souls out and about to cover a shoe. The woman was obviously getting very excited by the fact she sounded like a dying whale and I think I've had enough of this, I sucked in as much tar as I could, turned round, just as she came then flicked the cigarette at them.

\- Get a fucking room, the fucking pair of ya.

The burning embers of the fag didn't hit them but landed in a puddle around her legs. I wouldn't say I was hit with a wave of nausea or even an Tsunami but my face screwed up like I'd eaten a whole onion, trying not to think about where that puddle had come from.

Back in through the smoking room, back out by the stairs, straight across into the dance floor area, just as small as I remembered but never as packed. There was a raised platform over to my left with a couple of poles for drunken men and women to swing themselves around letting them think they were oh so sexy. I walked around the edge of the dance floor, slippery from floor wax spilt drink, thirsty for a drink myself, a beer is a good shout. I could only see the people on the edge nearest to me, I peeked over a few like a meerkat but it was far too dark to really recognise anyone. I kinda hoped that a familiar hand might grab me and pull me in for a kiss but as I walked up the couple of steps to the platform, that never happened. I made a beeline for the bar, got my phone out and sent Joe a quick text message "Anything?". Got up to the bar with a twenty note in hand, caught the eye of the old lad who used to serve in the bar downstairs when this was a reputable enough place, he just looked so haggard and withdrawn. When the bar was busy downstairs, he would have been serving at least five customers at one time, remembering exactly what was ordered, how to serve up an amazing pint and not leave it standing for too long or too short a period of time, keep the punters coming, he looked like he revelled in it. Now, he just looked like he had escaped a concentration camp, the poor bastard. He looked about ready to walk into a coffin.

I leant my arm up against the bar so that I was facing the dance floor and the barman. I knew there was no point in looking but I couldn't help myself just in case she was there, looking out for me like I was looking out for her. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, got it out and read the message from Joe, "Nothing yet. I think I've pulled though. That Jackie one. Shall I bring them upstairs?". Reply, thumb working overtime, "Do, can't see Sarah anywhere, can't be arsed looking for her". Not even thirty seconds went past and another reply comes in. "Grand, if I see her on the way up, shall I tell her to fuck off?". "No".

\- What can I get you?

\- Just a Guinness please and a Jamesons with a couple of cubes of ice

With the drinks on order, I just had time to ponder, trying to listen to the music without my ears bleeding was a task in itself. There was no theme to the music being played it was like a drunk driver swerving from one side of the road to the next, a car crash waiting to happen. I didn't recognise any of the artists, it was just fucking noise.

I didn't know what to do about Sarah, what a completely over the top reaction. I just hoped that she wasn't getting high on Glen or anybody else's supply.

Pot/Kettle.

With the Jamesons in front of me in a rather sexy tumbler glass, pint still being poured, I raised the glass and drank to world domination.

\- Not going to get me a drink?

\- I thought you had gone home, the way you stormed off.

\- I was just checking to see if you was all right, clearly you were.

\- Why would it concern you what I do?

\- It shouldn't but it does, and that pisses me off.

\- What would you like to drink?

\- I'll have a whisky with you, what is it?

\- Jamesons.

\- I'll have one of them, so.

The barman brings over the pint

\- Sorry, can I get another couple of Jamesons please

\- No bother.

\- Has he never left this place, he was here when we were kids wasn't he.

\- Ah he's part of the fixtures and fittings now.

The barman brings over two more whiskeys.

\- Twenty four euro

Sarah see's that I've only a twenty in my hand.

\- Here I've some change

Thinking I'm short of cash which is laughable but I would never look for charity and never let her pay for a drink.

\- Don't worry, I've enough here.

\- Put your money away, I've the change here. It's in my purse here somewhere

\- Sarah for fuck sake.

\- Here you go now, there's the four, give the man the twenty.

\- Will ya stop being so fucking thick and let me pay for the drinks.

\- Would ya ever shut up.

\- Is one of you going to pay me?

\- Here you are now, give him the twenty Fiachra

Begrudgingly I give him thirty, take the four back, open up Sarah's hand and place the four euro onto her palm. I turn away from her as she slaps me on the back and I get the change from the barman, pocket it and turn to her.

\- Cheers

\- So what did you storm off for outside?

\- I don't know, I really don't.

\- Cause nothing was going on you know. I didn't invite that girl to have a feel of my face, even though it's a sexy face.

\- Shut up you twat.

\- See, anyone would think what you did showed a wee bit of jealousy, and after you bollocked me earlier for everything, it leaves me slightly perplexed.

\- Jesus Christ, you still over analyse every single little thing don't you? you're like a vulture and it still gives me a fucking headache.

\- Am I wrong though?

\- No, you're not, and I don't want to speak again about it. How are feeling?

\- Sore. Ronan's mates I take it?

\- I would say they were more business partners than anything else.

\- How did they know who I was, they weren't in Raffertys.

\- It wouldn't take a genius to work out it was you, and those bucks wouldn't have cared if they got the wrong person. You're like the big rock that's been thrown into the middle of calm water. Ronan is one of their biggest earners, and you've put him on sick leave.

\- And you had him in the house above - dealing and pretending to be Michael's father and, and Christ, I can't even think it yet alone say it.

\- Fucking me?

\- Yeah, must be such a lovely thing to say eh? Did you let him do everything to you?

Hold your horses there son.

\- Anything and everything

Can't tell if she's winding me up, the coke and the whiskey are playing tricks with my mind.

\- You're making me feel sick

\- Why? 'cause he's been in me more recently than you have, that I've swallowed his cum more recently than I've done yours?, or is it that I haven't been able to tell you every day over the past fuck knows how many years.

\- Enough, enough. It was eight.

\- Fuck sake, I haven't told you that I love you, and have been saying it to him instead.

\- What does it matter Sarah, all this...

I wave my arms around

\- Is bullshit isn't it? There's something rotten in the State of Ireland, and I think I've just gone and found myself the worm in the rotten apple.

\- What are you on about?

\- All these drugs, man, what the fuck. Auld pairs outside being fingered and squirting piss on the floor, feeding time at the zoo. And, it's all your fault I'm back here. I never wanted to come back here, but I had to see you, a homing mechanism. And there's you looking as beautiful as you always did, and I fucking stood up for you like I always fucking did, and now look at us fucking arguing over something I need to get my head out of my arse about. You never fucking told me about Michael did you, me out there, out beyond the horizon and you couldn't fucking tell me.

\- How was I supposed to do that? I spoke to your mother all the time asking if she'd heard anything, but she wouldn't have told me even if she knew, and I didn't want her knowing she was a grandmother without letting you know.

\- You could have said it was an emergency.

\- Did she know where you were at?

\- No.

\- Well then, she wouldn't have given a fuck anyway, you know what she's like.

\- Still the same?

\- Worse, she talks to shadows.

\- Fuck. She doesn't know I'm back and I'm hoping that'll stay that way.

\- I'm sure she knows you're back.

Sarah says in my mother's voice

\- Fiachra , who have there you in your room?

That breaks the tension, we both start laughing, fucking fighting the urge to lean in for a kiss she's that close. Not here, not in front of everyone, not yet.

\- Ah, she always rode the knife edge my ma.

\- You should go up and see her.

\- No I shouldn't, I won't even go see her when she's being put in the ground.

\- What are you two love birds talking about, sorted out your tiff?

\- Fuck off Joe - who's this with ya?

\- This is Paula, Paula this is my best mate Fiachra and this is his girlfriend Sarah.

\- She's not my girlfriend, how's it going Paula?

\- Oh am I not your girlfriend? We never actually split up did we?

\- She's got you there man

\- Fuck up the both of you, I know you're winding me up. How's it going Paula?

\- Eh grand like, I'm not interrupting anything am I?

\- No you're grand, just these two idiots

\- You're the idiot, you twat

\- I can never win. Can I get you both a drink?

\- Yeah get them a drink then we can go into the VIP area, you won't believe who's in there?

\- Here? A VIP area in this shit hole? My dad?

\- That's not funny. Just get them a drink and I'll see you in there. Paula, come on let's get a seat, leave these two to talk.

\- Well if you're sure, I've never been into a VIP area before, this is amazing.

Joe and I share the look, mine has a "where the fuck did you get her from" look and he gives a shrug and a look that says "if I ply her with enough alcohol, she's coming home with me". I changed my look to "not back to your fucking place man, it's a kip". I look up and see that all three are looking at me so I give the biggest, cheesiest grin.

\- Off you go then, where is this room 101?

\- It's in behind that roped off area over there.

\- Grand, see you in a while, Paula what would you like to drink?

\- A large vodka and white

Sarah leads an excited Paula by the hand in behind the roped off area. Sarah was speaking to the security lad at the doorway and pointed in our direction. He looked over and nodded. Sarah was regular enough here to be able to just go up and do that. This was nearly all too much for my little head to handle. Whisper to Joe

\- A fucking large vodka and white the cheeky cow.

\- Want can I say, I like women with expensive tastes

\- Well what in the fuck are they doing with you?

\- Pass. Here, what the fuck is up with Sarah?

\- I'd say she's been on whatever we've had, totally different to how I saw her earlier.

\- Fuck man, I never thought she'd be on that.

\- Yeah you did, you've seen her enough to notice. I don't know what she's trying to prove, it seems to me like a defence mechanism. Leading me on until I want to take her to bed then tell me to fuck off.

\- Would you go there if it was offered?

\- Mate, I'm already there. Let's just see what happens eh? Can't wait to see how un-decadent this fucking VIP area is. Wonder who's behind the curtain, tonight Matthew I'm going to be very fucking unimpressed.

We ordered up some more drinks and enough shots to knock out the most seasoned of alcoholics. Joe held up the round silver tray, loaded up with shots, like he was a waiter. I carried the other tray with the normal drinks like a normal person. I didn't have to ask what Sarah wanted for a drink, she usually only ever drank a large glass of dry white, and didn't look like she'd enjoyed the whisky. She'll have some head on her tomorrow after mixing the grape with the grain.

Joe was very eager to impress, so led the way beckoning me with his head to hurry up.

\- Fucking get in there yourself man, I'm not too far behind ya.

As I followed Joe in behind the roped area, floor to ceiling crushed red velvet curtains prevented me from seeing inside the VIP area. He gets a nod from the doorman who pulls back the curtain for him to enter.

\- Thank you my good man.

Fucking idiot.

The doorman does the same thing for me.

\- Cheers man

Fucking VIP my arse. Although I wouldn't have expected anything grandiose or sublime it was just a few leather sofas, armchairs so low you may as well be sitting on the floor and glass top tables. The bar was something you'd find down in some shed but stocked with all the things a drinking man would need. Sarah was sat over in the far corner with an obviously ecstatic Paula. Joe had already made a bee line over to them although they weren't alone.

It can't be.

Chapter 15

God knows where the two women he was with had gone, but he appeared not to notice as he was deep in conversation with Sarah, not noticing me walk over not being really able to believe my paranoid eyes. Last time I saw him he told me that he'd never call me again, that our business was done. Well he'd gotten what he wanted hadn't he. Nearly as young as Brendan Behan when he got put up in Borstal for IRA membership, now he's deputy leader to their political wing, replacing the hand grenade with the handshake, and is now vying to be First Minister for Northern Ireland.

And I helped him get rid of those opposed to his stand for peace by causing as much destruction as I possibly could. Not a face I really expected to see or wanted to see, Patrick Dempsey, a champagne socialist terrorist.

\- Patrick

He turned abruptly, not happy to be interrupted. Fuck him

\- Jesus, Fiachra Clancy as I live and breathe. Shake my hand.

Already barking out the orders, I offer my hand, a nice firm hard squeeze of a handshake, both of us smiling away.

\- Do you two know each other?

\- I was a consultant on your campaign wasn't I Pat?

\- He was indeed Sarah a valuable member of my team so he was. How do you know my good friend Monsieur Clancy?

Joe who was sat over the way from me with his arm round Paula, mouthed the word Monsieur back to me, I felt like I was being dragged across sand paper.

\- We've know each other for years haven't we Monsieur?

Giggles, laughter, guffaw, guffaw, fuck off cunts.

\- Yeah we've known each other long enough. And what brings you here to this fine establishment my dear Demps?

\- I could say the same thing to yous. Last time I saw you, you said wild horses couldn't drag you back here.

\- You sure you're not confusing what I said with a Rolling Stones song?

\- Possibly but you did tell me in confidence that this place had nothing for you.

Although I'd since hung my head low, listening, not looking, playing with a beer mat, making my discomfort obvious to everyone who wasn't concerned, I glanced up quick at Sarah who was laughing at a joke I didn't get, eyes fixed on Patrick. Did she see my reaction, now I'm questioning why she didn't look at me with an annoyed expression.

\- Funny how you say I told you this in confidence then you just blurt it out in front of my friends, how's the Peace Process going for you?

This, this question provides me with daggers from Sarah.

\- My dear friend, you were never able to take even the slightest joke aimed in your direction, I thought you would have since grown a thicker skin.

\- He never could take a joke.

\- Fuck up Joe. So the Peace Process, how's that going for you and the boys?

\- Jesus Christ, Fiachra , you're like a dog with a bone.

\- No Sarah, it's absolutely fine, he's only asking me a question I've been asked a million times before and a million times again.

\- Still not answering my question though are ya? Actually scratch that, how do you know Sarah?

\- Fiachra ?

\- Sarah?

Just staring now, Paula giggling nervously. Joe with the same perplexed look on his face he always had when he was out of the loop.

\- I'd been asked by Sarah's brother a few years back to intervene from a purely political point of view regarding your father's death as the investigation had hit more brick walls than a blind driver. We worked tirelessly together to try and apply pressure to the public prosecution service to reopen the case, using as many back doors as possible. I was campaigning in Sligo and Sergeant Aherne asked to meet with me privately as he had been continuing on the investigation over and above his daily duties, unfortunately nobody senior would consider his thesis.

\- What the fuck do you mean Pat? Why didn't you tell me anything when I was working for you?

\- Fiachra , I am so sorry for your loss but this was after you and I parted company and I had no way of contacting you. You knew how hard it was for me to contact you when you were in my employ. It was all so very fast moving, I did not want to delay these leads by trying to find a needle in a haystack.

\- Did you know about this?

\- He's my brother, he told me all that he could Fiachra .

\- And you didn't think about telling me earlier. Did my mum know about any of this?

The kettle had been well and truly put on the boil, heating up very nicely.

\- Your mother is a very strong, resilient woman, I've spoken with her many times.

\- My mother is something all right. Why wasn't any of this in the media?

\- I'd asked for a media blackout because of the nature of the allegations, requiring cast iron proof before we went to the press and at the time because of factions and splits within the party, I wanted to be incognito.

\- What were the allegations that Glen had uncovered?

\- I'm so sorry to say this Fiachra . Your father had been in the pay of the IRCA for a considerable amount of time and was allowing racketeering operations through some of the pubs in town to carry on under his watch. He was demanding a larger cut of the pie as it were and he was murdered because of that. The IRCA soon after withdrew operations and unfortunately the killers still remain at large.

I was close to the boil, bubbling away. To Joe:

\- Did you know about this?

\- Man, I hadn't a balls clue about this, I'm hearing this just as much as you are and cannot believe it.

Ambient music was playing in the background like this was supposed to be a chill out room. It felt more a sweat box. Practicing my breathing technique wasn't going to cut it this time. I just could not believe this utter horse shit but it didn't stop my blood from boiling.

To Sarah:

\- Did you know about this?

\- Fiachra , I only knew that Glen and Pat were looking at reopening the case, I didn't know about all that other stuff. I'm so sorry. Are you ok?

If I had daggers to throw, they certainly were being thrown.

\- What do you fucking think?

Retching, sweat trickling down my back

\- Are you ok?

I had reached boiling point.

I stood up, hands underneath the table, lifting it up, knocking everything off, what a waste of drink, screams, hands bunched into fists so tightly my nails were cutting the palms of my hands.

\- Of course I'm not fucking ok.

I was grabbed from behind, again, I turned and punched out at whoever had grabbed me, hit something, got punched in the kidneys, hit in the back of my knee, and crumpled down. Joe was somewhere out there telling whoever it was giving me a beating to fuck off and leave me alone.

\- Get off me, get the fuck off me.

\- Take him outside, just leave him there, make sure he doesn't get back in. He needs to sober up Sarah, take him home.

Being held tightly round the neck as you're being pulled back up isn't the best for breathing, especially in a fight situation. But, I was still working away with my elbows, digging back and kicking back into shins. These lads weren't your average Eastern European bouncers, I figured these were Pat's security, and would have been happy enough to put a bullet in my head as much as just dumping me outside. In fairness they were probably pissed at the fact they were instructed to just leave me alone.

I wasn't taken out the through the dance floor and down the main staircase, of course, why would I have been. Instead I was pushed out a Fire Exit door up against the cold metallic railing of the external exit, pushed down the grated stairs.

\- I can fucking walk down from here lads, I get the message

Holding my cut up hand against my mouth, my stomach was still refusing to keep everything down but I was fighting against it. They didn't let up and kept pushing me down, even though I wasn't actually trying to fight them.

I'd had enough fun for the night.

I was left back out in the car park back where I first came in, aching, bruised, boiling and feeling that I'm going to vomit any time now.

I ran over to the green footbridge, leant over the river, cold air not doing anything helpful as my stomach muscles clenched and push up the contents of my stomach out of my mouth as my whole body was in spasm. The wind sent the puke back over the legs of my jeans and I crumpled down, every emotion replaced by tears as I held onto the railings for dear life, the river rushing underneath me not even a metre away. I could just throw myself in.

Sarah crouched down next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder.

\- Come on, let's go home.

\- What home?

\- My home.

\- Don't you mean ours?

\- No, I mean mine.

\- Where will lover boy be?

\- He told me that he was going away on a fishing trip for a few days. He never calls me when he's out cause there's no reception. Don't know if he arrived though do I?

I changed the subject.

\- I smell of puke.

\- Well I'm sure I've enough hot water in the house for you to have a shower and I've a washing machine to clean your clothes.

\- My face is all snotty?

\- Fuck me - do you want me to wipe that for you too?

\- No, I'm just saying is all. Where's my phone?

\- How would I know that?

\- I was talking more to myself, Jesus that fresh air hits you doesn't it? I feel fucked.

\- You look fucked.

\- Ever the charmer. Ah here it is, where's that lad's number?

\- Which lad?

\- Ssshhhhhh. Here it is, let's see where this prick is at.

\- Which prick?

\- Ssshhhhhh it's ringing. Hello? Where are ya? Good lad. Pick me up from the garage forecourt up from the car park . Wha? Yeah you'll have the rest if you're there before I am. G'lad.

I bang the phone down.

\- Who was that?

\- My driver. Can you help me up?

\- Help yourself up.

So I easily pull myself up into a vertical position, the whiff of boke was strong enough but it only seemed to be below knee length on my jeans. I couldn't have this in the car even though we were only going up the road 'cause we'd all be vomiting.

\- Hold on here a second.

\- What are you doing now?

I look around to make sure nobody is looking, run over to the other side of the bridge, kicking off my trainers and unbuttoning the fly on my jeans, pulling them down the cold air reaching parts unknown.

\- Fiachra what in the name of fuck are you doing?

\- Stop screaming woman, you'll wake up our son.

\- Keep you fucking voice down, what are you doing?

I got everything out of the pockets, change included, and laid it all on the pathway. I had the jeans in my hand and I leant over the wall to dunk them into the river, well I tried to only get the parts covered in puke in but the current was stronger than I thought and pulled me further across the wall, stretching my already bruised torso to its limits and dragging the pair in under the torrent. Seriously what if I just disappear, get pulled under, float away, get eaten by the fishes.

Sarah is screaming at me, I can't hear her over the rush, don't want to hear her pleas, she knew about my besmirched family name, she knew and said nothing, she knew my dad, she knew he was a cunt but loved his job too much to be on the take. The river is winning, the spray of the salty water is so very refreshing and I puke some more, my arse is freezing. Sarah isn't where she was, she's given up, I've nobody left. I would just be caught and hung out to dry for my Dublin shenanigans anyway. Joe can eat himself from the inside out with that coke and all the money I left at his. He might even be able to do up his house.

My dad wasn't affiliated with those fucking knackers, he hated them more than the British and he wasn't clever enough to pull the wool over my eyes. Although someone, somewhere was trying to have a good fucking go at trying to do that.

Now the sinking feeling enters the room. I can't let this be the easy way out. I am not suicidal, or selfish enough to think that this is it. I've got to obliterate these false allegations. I put more weight upon my shoulders but I'm so far over the wall now, I can feel my feet lifting off the ground as I try to dig them into the wall to get any form of leverage. The wall's slippery.

This can't be it, this can't be the end, I hope nobody is videoing this, it'll be sent to You've been framed, being pulled down into the depths with the swimming black angels and my moon of an arse stuck out like a sore thumb. The excess rain had made the normally still water of the river turn into a white water rapid. What in the fuck was I at, trying to wash my jeans just to get the sick off of them.

I felt hands around my waist, digging into the muscle and bone. Fake nails breaking off as I was being pulled back, my left foot got trapped underneath a stone jutting out of the wall and I had just got enough grip to repel my swan song.

With a mouthful of saltwater that I swallowed quick enough, like a good girl, I'm sure I shouted something like "keep pulling" but it could have just been garbled screaming. Sarah was giving me a helping hand once again. I could feel myself moving away, my face just getting fine spray and my feet grounded. I could see my jeans, dark and heavy from their drowning. With one final heave, they were out into the air and we both fell back onto the path, the jeans landing on my chest and face, soaking wet. Arms were solidly around my waist, and I was being squeezed like a piping bag.

Breathing heavily, I rolled off Sarah and lay next to her. If only this was another time and another place. She'd been crying and I wiped a shaking hand across her face which she held.

\- What are you doing back here Fiachra ?

\- Let me get my breath back before I can answer that.

\- What the fuck were you doing?

\- Trying to wash my jeans

\- Are you being thick? You looked like you wanted to get in there.

\- It was certainly a consideration. What are you crying now for?

\- Oh no reason, you nearly drowned and I've just gone and saved your life.

\- Well, thanks. I thought it was a good idea at the time.

\- What are we going to do with you?

\- Dunno, but what that lad said in there was bullshit. There is no way on this earth that my old man was a dirty cop. You know this right?

\- I don't know Fiachra , when all this stuff came about, Glen couldn't believe it himself, he worked under your dad for all those years and didn't have a clue about what he was up to. You weren't exactly on speaking terms with him were you, so how can you be so certain that he wasn't on the take?

\- I can't be. I just know ok? And I want you to trust my gut feeling on this.

\- How can I trust anything you say after you left me?

\- What can I say to something like that?

\- Nothing really, let's get home, you won't be able to get your legs into those jeans now they're that wet, you ok walking through the car park in your jocks?

\- No other option really - unless you want me to take them off too?

\- No, you're grand. Come on let's go.

\- Help me....

\- Fuck off.

\- Can you stick all that in your handbag? It was all the stuff in the pockets of my jeans.

\- Anything else I can do there for ya?

\- Actually leave me out the wallet. You wouldn't make me a sandwich would ya?

\- No, I wouldn't. Come on

I stood up quick as anything like I'd been reborn, picked up the bundle that was my jeans, and held them over my cock - just to try and retain some form of dignity.

Sarah's dress was a ruin, muddy on the back and dust from the stone wall on the front. She didn't look at me angrily, she just looked drained, it was like the front she had on was more than makeup, and the mask was slipping.

I didn't feel that I wanted to go home with her because I didn't know why she'd invited me back and no matter how curious I was, it didn't feel right. Even if nothing was going to happen, I knew that I could be cocky enough to think that it was a foregone conclusion.

When she opened up her handbag, some of the contents fell out, just some make up shite, a tiny red sequinned purse and a St Christopher cross on a thin silver chain which I gave her when we were kids, and got confirmed in church. She looked up at me when she noticed it, but I had looked away just in time to let her think that I didn't.

We walked across the bridge and through the car park in silence. She didn't walk in front or behind me due to the embarrassment of me walking through in my jocks, but next to me, like a friend would do.

When we got to the garage forecourt, my newly acquired chauffeur was parked up with the engine still running, I went round to the driver side, the kid who tried to square up to me earlier in the shop was looking out at me just dumbfounded with an impatient customer in front of him waiting for her change. Luckily enough the driver's window was open. I opened up my wallet, counted out the remainder of the cash and showed him it.

\- Don't mention a fucking word about my state of dress. We're not going back to where you picked us up from, off out to her house.

\- Her house?

\- Don't fucking mention a word about that either. It's only the three of us who know this so if word gets out.

\- Yeah I know, you said already, you'll batter me.

\- Don't get thick with me old son, I've killed people for less.

He looked round at me like I was having a laugh, my eyes told him a different story.

\- Can ya open the boot, I don't wanna get your upholstery wet.

He put his hand under the dashboard to pull a lever and the boot flicked open. I went around and deposited my jeans on an old bed sheet that covered the floor of the boot, shut the boot and went round to open the back door for Sarah who was stood there with her arms folded, pushing her boobs up and together, it was only a fraction of a second that I looked, then up at her face which went from a stern frown to a look which had "busted" written all over it. I could feel my face burn but I tried to justify it by thinking I'd seen her naked so many times before, but that was a child's life ago.

Sarah got in, I shut the door behind her and got in the front passenger side. We drove along in silence, past the Royal, over the bridge, turning left. I kept my eyes straight ahead of me, hands calmly rested on my thighs.

\- Can you stick the radio on or something, can't be sitting here in silence all the way to my house.

I looked round at the driver.

\- You heard what the lady said.

I kept my hands where they were.

\- Oh I'll do it then shall I?

\- If you could please kind sir.

The first station that came up when he switched the radio on was Shannonside FM. A song that I couldn't make out was finishing as the DJ was telling us that he'll see us again same time tomorrow, coming up next was the news then Cruise to Snooze. I kept looking straight ahead as I knew what the headline would be. The driver was about to change the channel and I grabbed his hand, quick as a flash.

\- Keep that on the steering wheel. I wanna hear about what's going on in the world, don't you?

\- Not really.

\- Man, you need to keep abreast of these things, the world isn't confined to the city limits of Boyle ya know.

\- Yeah, I know.

\- Good, sure if the news is boring, I'll let you change the channel.

\- By the time the news is on, we'll be where you need to go.

\- Well you've nothing to worry about, sure.

I looked back behind me, Sarah had her chin resting in her hand and was looking out the window.

\- You ok?

\- Yeah I'm grand, just can't wait for me bed.

I turned back round, not knowing whether to smile or not. The adverts had finished on the radio and a pre-recorded message told us we were listening to Shannonside FM and here was the news - presented by Ardal Kirwin.

\- This is Shannonside News, I'm Ardal Kirwin. Gardai Detectives in Dublin are still on scene in Ballymun, North Dublin, after an apparent car bomb this morning in the soon to be demolished Corporation estate. Senior Gardai Officials have confirmed that there have been several fatalities - including Minister of Finance Gerry Daly. No other names of the deceased have been confirmed, but there are rumoured to be at least three others. Government and Gardai officials have declined to comment any further as to why Minister Daly was at the scene, but the Gardai have released a CCTV image of an individual they now wish to speak to as a matter of urgency. This image can be viewed on our website. At the scene now is our reporter, Declan Sweeney.

I'd just about heard enough. It was probably the same image as I saw in the shop down Amiens Street. They've got nothing new on me as yet

\- You can turn it over now if you wish. Actually you can turn it off, it's all just depressing shite.

Sarah pipes up from behind me:

\- That's some dodgy shit though isn't it? Why would a Minister be out there? I heard that he was out there with that Brian O'Connell fella, what's he called?

\- That's bullshit, why would he be up there with The Judge?

\- That's his name. I dunno, maybe he needed another source of income as all the politicians salaries got cut last year?

\- Can't see it myself. I was working as a Security Consultant at the Dial, and he was just such an unassuming, lazy fella, we wouldn't even know how to tie his own shoelaces. But I guess you could say that about most of the cabinet.

\- There's no smoke without fire.

\- True and I hear it was a big enough fire.

\- Whereabouts are you living in Dublin, you must be on a good enough salary?

\- It wasn't as much as you think it would be, the Government are slave driving bastards. I was renting an apartment in a new build along the quays, opposite the IFSC. It wasn't much for a grand a month.

\- How much?

\- I know, well over a grand actually for an apartment smaller than your kitchen.

\- Jesus, no place to be entertaining women then?

\- What women? Sure I didn't have time to stay there myself, twelve hour days at least and when I wasn't working on the weekend, I just slept.

\- Ah, I'm sure you've had your share?

To my driver:.

\- I think she might be jealous. Jealous of what, I don't know.

\- No, I'm not jealous at all, just making conversation.

\- She sounds like she's jealous.

\- What would you know about it, you?

\- Just saying you sound like you're a wee bit jealous. I'm agreeing with him.

\- See, he agrees with me. This man will go far.

\- Ah blow it out of your hole.

Under his breath now:

\- She's jealous man.

I smiled and slightly nodded, still looking forward, not looking at anything else apart from the dark road ahead of me. We sat in silence as we drove along. It was a day of back and forth not being able to really rest up apart from that quick sleep I had in Joe's place. We turned off the main road, loose clippings bouncing up and hitting the body of the car as we sped up nobody wearing seatbelt's regardless of the recklessness of the driver. I got my phone out and sent Joe a text "I'm heading round to Sarah's, keep it under your hat, see you in the morn. Hope that Paula is taking you back to hers rather than your kip".

Send.

We pulled up on the gravel drive in front of Sarah's, the lights were on in the kitchen and living room and I was instantly awake, finger on the trigger in case Ronan had made his way home.

\- Who's in?

\- Nobody, I always leave the lights on.

\- Sure?

\- Positive.

Sarah gets out of the car and walks over to the front door, her keys already in hand. Looks behind her to see what I'm to and I just nod and wave.

\- I'll be here for a few more days ok, then I'm gone. If we keep up this agreement, you'll have over a month's cash in hand ok. I'm asking this directly to your good nature to keep anything that's discussed or any destinations you take me to or pick me up from you keep between us. I hate repeating myself but I don't think you're getting the message.

\- Look man, I get it ok? I get it.

\- Good lad, can you open the boot for me again. I'll call you in the morning.

He opened up the boot again. Sarah had already gone in but left the door open. I hopped out and Christ the temperature had dropped, goose bumps sprang up across my legs, wishfully thinking that my jeans had miraculously dried.

Sadly they hadn't, not even a little drier, which was surprising as the sheet they had rested on was soaked. I slammed the boot down, walked past the car, looked in and waved, think I got an acknowledgement back as he drove off and back into town.

I stepped back into the hallway, a bit less gingerly than earlier. Didn't know where Sarah was so I walked into the kitchen where her handbag was on the table. I sat down, unsure of what I was actually doing here. I looked into the living room at the liquor cabinet that hadn't moved since I was living here. Fuck it, she won't notice if I have a quick one.

Floorboards were creaking upstairs.

I played statues.

\- Fiachra ? Fiachra ? Where are you?

\- In the kitchen.

\- I'm running a bath but it takes ages. Can you get me a large whiskey please, help yourself to one too. I'll be down in a minute.

Sarah is like an onion, no questions asked, although I wouldn't say to her "Hey Sarah, you remind me of an onion". It's like peeling off different layers, ultimately to see what's hidden underneath. Initially, shock, defensiveness, acting like a dick in the Royal, jealousy then tiredness and slowly revealing what she is actually like. Though I don't know if that's the same person I once knew so intimately. However, it felt like just the usual and familiar routine. She would head up for a bath after a night out, I'd pour us both out a healthy measure each then whilst she took the bath, then I'd sit on the toilet with the lid down and we'd chat away until the water in the bath was lukewarm verging on freezing.

This wasn't home anymore, so don't make yourself too comfortable old son, plus she's coming back downstairs, this isn't a trip down memory lane. I wasn't sure how drunk she was. I checked my phone to see if Joe had responded, nothing, but then if he was going in balls deep, I wouldn't expect anything apart from the over exaggerated juicy bits in the morning.

I turned the lights off in the living room, the curtains were open and I didn't fancy being spotted from the road walking through in my pants. I made my way over to the cabinet and helped myself. With a couple of large ones poured in heavy Waterford Crystal tumblers, I sat back down in an armchair, leaning forward, not wanting to make myself at home, put the glasses down on the table, took mine up and drank from it like it was water not caring about the burn.

Sarah was coming back down the stairs, this is wrong, not now, it's too soon, it's in no way, shape or form right, but it has to be, walked through the kitchen, Christ, what if she's in some kind of lingerie, can't say no, can't say yes. Don't look into the light Carolann.

\- Don't turn the light on Sarah.

\- I wasn't going to.

Fuck.

I didn't even look as she sat over on the sofa to my left, getting her glass off the table as I was cupping mine so tightly it might break. I had to look, just because it was tempting and I had resigned myself to the fact that that I'm not a teenager anymore, I'm a trained killer but I'm acting like a gobshite. So I sip rather than take a mouthful only because there was fuck all left in the glass and my head was spinning a bit.

Bare legs, crossed in a Godiva.

Black chiffon robe, stopping a way bit above her knees but she'd covered it tightly around her boobs, trying desperately to keep everything intact with one hand as she drank with the other.

All I could do was smile, the light from the kitchen casting shadows all over the place, she was half and half like she didn't know whether to stay in the light or the dark.

I was over-analysing things a bit too much.

\- What happened with the dressing gown you had on earlier?

\- It's in the wash. What's going on here Fiachra ?

\- I'm fucked if I know. You invited me home, so here I am.

\- So here you are.

\- I saw the cross I gave you, when all your stuff came out of your handbag.

\- I thought you did. Some things you can't let go of I guess. I saw you looking at me in the Royal, like you didn't know who I was. It's all a front I suppose, expected of me by the men in my life to be someone I'm not.

\- Would you say you were allowed to be you when we were together? You've been with Ronan nearly the same amount of time we were? Are you able to be yourself in front of Michael?

\- Michael reminds me so much of you – his cheekiness and he's clever beyond his years, occasional charm, and he makes me laugh so much. He has the same vocal tone as you and when he's annoyed at me, his nose crinkles up like yours was in the hotel. So with him I'm like the way I was with you, I am me. Can you come here and give me a hug please.

\- Do you really think that's a good idea? I mean I'm in my jocks here.

\- I'm just asking for a hug. Do it now before I decide this is a bad idea.

I stand up, aching and cold, take the three steps over to the sofa next to her which feel more like three miles, she puts her glass down on the table, stands up, wraps her arms around me, forearms pushing up against my bruises and I wince as my arms wrap themselves so easily around her. She pushes her head into my chest like she was trying to see through me, squeezing tighter, cock, don't fucking do anything untoward now, it's not the time. She tells me she's sorry, I didn't know what she had to apologise for, didn't really know what to ask it was all dizzy to me. It was like we'd both fallen back in time to being twenty five, she was rubbing my neck and I was gently scratching her back, nothing really sexual about it, it was what it was.

I pulled back, not loosening my grip but I wanted to look at her, how could she have even had the time or have been bothered to miss me, picking Ronan up so quickly after that I left that everyone had assumed he was Michael's father. Were her insides corroding with loss as she allowed him to fuck her. She looked at me and read my mind as she pulled herself away, arms back by her sides, stepping back. She looked at me like she was at a junction and didn't know which direction to take. I just stood there wishing I had pockets to put my hands into, really needed a smoke, anything to make a noticeable break off point.

She asked me why I was back here, I said she invited me back. I asked her how many more times was she going to ask me the same question. Why now though? was the only response I got, why not two days after I left? I asked her if that would have been before she met Ronan? Don't be such a cunt was her reply. It's too easy to lie, it's harder to tell the truth. What did that mean? Exactly that.

I had a fucking breakdown ok? I had a fucking breakdown and I couldn't come back here even I wanted to. My dad was no saint, he was certainly a sinner and might even be burning in hell right now but he was never on the take. He loved his job more than he loved me and his mum and I always hated the fact that he named me Fiachra after watching Easy Rider relentlessly. What would I have rather been? I was always partial to Luke actually. Me and my fucking Star Wars fixation. Regardless, fucking regardless, I needed to know that she trusted me because I'm going to stay here for as long as I have to do what I should have done eight years ago and get this shit sorted. Silence, stares, more silence, itchy trigger finger. Then words came from her mouth which wouldn't have changed the direction I was going in but it was nice to know that she was on board, she trusted me, she always did, she's just so let down by me. Join the queue.

I needed a smoke, she walked back out to the kitchen to get her pack, the lowest part of her arse cheeks peeked out of the bottom of her robe, I had a job for my hands now.

It wasn't the daftest thing I had ever done, in the grand scheme of things, I'd done far worse, it wasn't romance or anything like that, just a lustful urge, plain and simple and my chances of getting a slap were greater than anything else happening. I followed her into the kitchen, she turned round to see what I was doing and before she could say much I just sort of kissed her, she brought her head back, not moving her lips, hands on my chest and pushed me away, instant stomach in feet job, furnace heat embarrassment.

Fuck.

\- Well that was certainly unexpected.

\- Sarah, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, just saw a bit of your arse and I lost it. I'll give my man a call, get him to pick me up. I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry

\- Are you trying to break the world record for how many times you can say sorry without breathing?

\- Sorry.

\- Stop Fiachra , listen to me, I wouldn't have asked you back here if....oh I don't know Fiachra . I want you so much but it's going to destroy all of us and you'll be gone out of my life again and how can I explain this to Michael and Ronan.

\- Don't mention his name again. What do you need to explain to him, dump him, come with me to Dublin, come with me wherever.

\- You sound desperate.

\- I'm desperate for so many things I wouldn't know where to start.

\- This is too soon, I should hate you. I do fucking hate you.

\- The line between love and hate is very permeable.

\- Still doesn't mean I should stop hating you.

\- You've still invited me over, you mustn't hate me that much.

\- It's still very debatable and you doing that is just as confusing.

\- Confusing?

\- Whatever, I'm going for a bath now. You're welcome to stay, as much to my regret as this may be.

\- Such a warm welcome.

\- It might be Clancy, just don't pounce on me next time.

I walked with her back out into the hallway like a loyal pet, although I'm nobodies pet.

\- Go back and sit in there, I don't want you looking up at me when I'm going upstairs.

\- I've seen you in a lot less.

\- Even so, I'll blush and I only got waxed yesterday and I'm still a bit red round there.

\- And that's encouraging me to go in the other room is it?

\- Just go ya pup.

I walked back into the kitchen, oh so slowly, not looking back, she made her way up the stairs and I double backed, silently enough and watched her go up the stairs and she was right, she had been waxed recently, but what did that matter, lustful, bad thoughts. She turned at the top, knowing clearly I would be there, maybe disappointed if I wasn't.

\- Bastard

\- I think I've seen enough, I'll go and get a hammer to whack this thing down.

\- I'm locking the bathroom door.

\- Ah that's a shame. See you in a while.

\- Don't drink all the whiskey.

\- I think I'll get a glass of water, that's me done for the night.

\- I certainly hope not.

With that she walked off into the bathroom and left me standing there at the bottom of the stairs with my erection pushed up against the banister in an attempt to hide it and to try and push it down.

Confused, so very confused.

I walked back into the kitchen, looked in all the cupboards until I found the one that held all the glasses, grabbed a pint glass, went over to the sink, let the cold tap flow for a few seconds, ran my fingers under the water, just to ensure it was cold enough to make a judgement call on pouring temperature. I filled it up to the top then drank it back with enough gusto to deserve another pint full, taking it easy this time round, what with all that brain freeze from the cold.

I stepped back into the warmth of the living room, just all comfortable and somewhat nonchalant, keeping everything at bay. I don't want to feel all Ulysses about it but this day had lasted far more than I had ever expected it to. I didn't want sex, as tempting as it was, I just wanted sleep and to shut off the parts of my brain that kept on reminding me of today's events regardless of how distant I made myself from them.

I happily helped myself to another generous measure of whiskey and sat back on the sofa that was facing out toward the window, all there was out there was reflections, shadows and darkness, none of which I wished to place much focus on.

This was my house.

Up above me, through the plaster and wood was our old room, didn't matter now, every thought is retrospective and fundamentally didn't matter because its been done and dusted, fucking pointless thinking such stupid fucking things even though she's whacked on Grace by Jeff Buckley upstairs, an album I introduced to her when all she thought it was, was just jazz.

Why play something, audible enough to be heard here, knowing that it was something I had encouraged her to listen to, through all the grass, in my most persuasive manor.

If I could rub my fingers over my eyebrows anymore, they'd be polished.

The whiskey was damn fine, without a couple of cubes of ice, it was still smooth.

So here I am.

Back home in a place that was never officially home. Back in a place I never expected to be again but in the back of the depths of my mind, always wanted to.

How many times can we go round this?

Feet up on the sofa, eyes closed, humming, this was just exactly what the doctor ordered because he won't prescribe me any more Valium.

I looked around, curtains closed but daylight permeating through, a mild strain of carpet tongue coating my teeth, took a good few seconds to figure out where I was. I looked over at the coffee table and the glass of whiskey had disappeared. There was a blanket over me when it certainly wasn't there last night.

I could smell breakfast being cooked, the sound of rashers sizzling under the grill and oh the smell of coffee. My eyes were caked with sleep from keeping my contact lenses in overnight although I hadn't taken this pair out for weeks. I rubbed it all out of my lashes and sat up, still in my pants and there was a whiff of needing a wash drifting up as the blanket slipped off me.

I kept the blanket over my lap as I peered into the kitchen and saw Michael staring at me with a spoonful of cereal millimetres away from his open mouth.

\- Morning.

My voice felt like it was travelling over miles of broken glass, as it crashed its way out of my mouth. He looked into a part of the kitchen that I couldn't see and Sarah told him to eat his breakfast or she'll take it off him. She came in and walked by me dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, white flip flops and a strappy black top, her hair was pulled back into a clip, make up still covering the bruise but it had been reapplied. She went over and opened the curtains, the light making me wince, opened a window and told me that the room stank.

\- That's Guinness for ya.

\- You're jeans are dry and in the press with the towels next to the bathroom.

\- Fair enough, I get the hint. Have you a glass of orange juice or something?

\- Hold on I'll get you one now. If you're quick enough in the shower, breakfast will just be about ready.

\- Should I really walk through there in my jocks?

\- You're not naked are ya? I told Michael you'd spilt drink all over your jeans last night and you were locked out of your friend's house so I said you could sleep on the sofa. He said you snore and thinks you smell funny. I told him I've know you for years and you were always like that.

\- Does your mammy still fart in the room then walk off or blame you?

\- Ya she does, all the time. It's soooo embarrassing.

\- All right you two, I'm still in the room. You go and have a shower and you eat your breakfast.

Michael was smiling away, was nice that we bonded over Sarah's flatulence but I guess I had to start somewhere. I'd leave the self-deprecation till sometime next year.

I kept the blanket round me as I walked through the kitchen, Sarah followed me out to the bottom of the stairs, a bra strap hanging off her shoulder which I put back in its rightful place. She didn't stop me.

\- How's the head?

\- Been better but needed the sleep. What time is it, when did Michael get back?

\- It's gone ten, he was dropped off an hour ago. He normally goes to Soccer practice but it's been cancelled so he's back early.

\- Why was it cancelled?

\- Search me, his friend's mother got a call to say that the coach couldn't get keys to open the ground.

\- Oh right. Well I'm gonna get sorted out now. Have you any toiletries that aren't Ronan's that I can use?

\- I've got a bag up there left for you. It's all stuff that's travel sized but never been used before.

\- Grand. I'll be back down in a bit.

I head upstairs, nearly up at the top, turn back round and she's just looking at me smiling to herself.

\- What?

\- You look ridiculous.

\- Cheers

With that I make my way up to the top wiggling my arse like a catwalk model but she's already gone when I look back round.

The shower was amazing, proper power shower like they have in the films. I was halfway anticipating or at least fantasising about an interruption from Sarah but it never came. She's in mother mode and has better things to do than to fill my head with thoughts of shagging in the shower.

I towelled off and got back into my two day old unwashed clothes, styled my hair, brushed my teeth, got my mouth under the cold running tap and drank then spat, slapped my face a couple of times.

Wasn't feeling match ready but I needed to get back in the game. I'd eat here, get back into town, see Glen if he's at work, get some notion of what's lead him to think my old man was on the take, buy a laptop, get back to Joe's and see what I can find out about that shit storm yesterday and see if I can open a secure line of conversation with someone back in Dublin to find out why the fuck a Cabinet Minister was sat in a gangsters car, which I then blew up. My contact would not have received direct instructions, there has to be a chain of bureaucracy for me to follow. I'd also need to get those papers sorted out for that young lad and consider getting the fuck out of the country.

Sarah would never agree to come with me, I'd ask them both her and Michael to come but how in the name of fuck would I be able to justify it? It was a daft fucking idea but now I'm back like an old penny, I have to step up and protect them, especially with a very pissed off Ronan lurking in the shadows somewhere.

I headed back downstairs, running through the final check list, the smell of cooked breakfast made me even hungrier, Michael was nowhere to be seen and neither for that matter was Sarah, the bacon under the grill was looking close to cremated, the eggs in the pan now looked like they could be thrown like a Frisbee. The sausages were being kept warm on a plate in the over, I opened it up and grabbed one out with my fingers and tried to eat it without it peeling off the skin in my mouth.

I went over it the cafetiere, plunged down, grabbed a mug from the side and poured myself a syrupy cup of Joe.

I whistled a tune so nondescript it nearly matched the silence it accompanied. I finished off the sausage, licked the grease off my fingers, put my coat on, everything was exactly where I'd left it, still I felt the oncoming wave of dread. I drank from the mug, itself feeling awkward in my right hand, but I needed to keep my stronger arm free. The coffee was phenomenal but might as well have been shite instant. I tried the handle on the patio doors at the back of the kitchen, they were locked. I walked into the living room, the cushions that I had slept on were still crumpled. If Sarah was still as anal as she used to be, she would have had them fluffed up and back in there proper position soon after I'd gone up for a shower. The television wasn't on and I stopped in my tracks just to see if there was any sound out of the ordinary that I could pick up.

Looking out the window, there was a car parked out on the side of the road just before the entrance, an empty silver Ford Mondeo. I couldn't see the plates because the front wall obscured them, but I would imagine that whoever drove it knew the gravel driveway would chuck up too much noise to alert us in the house.

With the back door locked and in the absence of signs of disturbance or screams for my immediate intervention, whoever the driver was, I deduced Sarah must know him. I walked into the corridor which ran the length of the house, the door at the end led into a work shop and garage. Well it used to, when Sarah's folks were alive and when I'd lived here. With my Glock out, I stalked the hallway quicker than I was trained to do. The door was fully closed, I pressed my right ear up to it, there was a car engine running on the other side, if the door was being watched, they'd see the handle being turned.

I pushed the panel of the door, shitty plywood, extremely pliable. I stepped back and booted the door by the handle with the sole of my shoe, half the frame came away as the door pinged open swinging out so violently that it cracked against something that screamed in agony.

Sarah and Michael were sat in the back of a two-seater blue 1970's Volkswagen Beetle, Michael was being held into Sarah's chest, his face turned in and she was stroking him to keep him calm. I frowned with a "what the fuck is going on face" then realised I had caved the door in on whoever was holding them in the Beetle.

I stepped fully into the room, swivelling left then right to make sure nobody else was in the garage then backing up to the car, so that I covered Sarah's view and protected them both from seeing I was about to do.

The guy was immediately recognisable to me as the lad I'd asked to have a lend of the bar stool in the Royal last night.

A message from Ronan, a message meant for me.

He was crumpled on the floor, cupping his nose but his forehead had been split and was pissing blood all over his hands. He wasn't holding anything but I saw a shining kitchen knife on the floor to his left. I stepped forward and kicked it away over to the garage doors. I crouched down and pressed the muzzle of the gun into the cut on his forehead, he winced in pain.

\- I'm just going to search you sweetheart, keep your hands on your face or I will blow your head off. It's ironic isn't it, first time me met, I asked you to move now I'm asking you to play statues.

I threw off half the door frame that was resting over his jeans. It wasn't even that heavy, he must have been right up against it when I booted it open.

Amateur.

He wasn't wearing a coat, just a t shirt so tight it could easily rip like tissue paper against his steroid enhanced body. I kept trying to maintain my balance as I was crouched down, and moving one hand around his waistband then into his jeans pockets. I pulled out a set of car and house keys, a brown tanned leather wallet and an iPhone. When I was happy there was nothing else in the pockets, I moved down each leg, pulling up his jeans to the calf and checked inside his socks, he was starting to complain in muffled tones, I pushed harder with the Glock.

\- There's no safety on the Glock, just apply enough pressure to the trigger and out comes a bullet. I'm not really good at doing this search one handed, wanna try and knock me off my balance?

He wasn't complying with my words, I wasn't going to shoot him here because it's an enclosed space and I'd rather not spend the rest of the day deafened, don't think Sarah and Michael would be able to comprehend just how capable I was.

\- Look away Sarah.

I brought the handle of the gun down hard on his forehead, as he rocked back putting his hands up to cover any more pistol whippings, I brought the butt back down on his nose.

Standing up, putting the gun in the back of my jeans, I look back at the car to see Sarah, hands up to her face with her fingers open, like she was watching Dr Who, she didn't look away and she didn't look disgusted. She looked like she understood but she didn't, she'll never understand until we have that discussion that'll never happen.

\- Stay here ok, and if anyone else comes in, scream until your throat bleeds.

I grabbed this buck under his right arm and spun him round so that his back was resting on my shins, got my arms under and around his arm pits then started to drag him out back into the corridor. I looked up at Sarah whose hand had now dropped and wrapped around Michaels head. I winked at her and kept pulling until the angle of her view was too acute to see what was going on.

Now I could really go to work.

I was out of breath halfway down and he was struggling too much so I brought my elbow down onto his face as I brought it back up, a canine tooth fell off which had got itself stuck.

\- Oh I'm sorry about that.

I didn't care to listen to his screaming but when I got to the kitchen, I knew it would only get worse, but I wanted to see if he would impart any information without the need to burn him.

By the time we got to the kitchen, I needed a sit down.

\- You're a bit of a fat fuck aren't you? Forget the gym, but you're one fat cunt.

I got my gun out and knelt down on his chest.

\- Here's how it's going to pan out, sweet cheeks. I didn't mind if you came after me, given how poorly I performed last night, you must surely have seen me as a walk over but I was tired and if I'm honest, I was a wee bit stoned. So what does your pal Ronan want? What are you looking scared for? Ssshhhh don't worry, it's all ok. Just tell me, I know this isn't you, this isn't what you do. In all honesty, you were so shite, I kinda feel sorry for you. So one more time, because I will shoot you otherwise, what does Ronan want? Because my knee's fucked and I'd rather sit on this chair here.

\- You'll put the gun away?

\- No, no I won't.

\- Ah fuck man, please. I'll tell you all you need to know.

\- I'll be the judge of that. This isn't some film style scenario here my man, I will shoot you and just to show you I mean business.

I brought the gun down to his knee and fired two shots into it. He roared with pain and I reeled back from the explosions, standing up and letting him reel around the floor like a retarded break dancer.

I leant over and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

\- I'm not fucking about here my man. You're stock has just plummeted so tell me what I need to know.

\- You never gave me a fucking chance.

\- That is true, the floor is yours.

\- You fucked up his plans man.

\- Is that it? Are you just going to give it to me piecemeal, make me have to shoot out another joint in your body?

\- I am trying to breathe here, bit hard with your knee in my chest and my fucking knee blown to bits.

\- Quicker you talk the quicker I'm off. What plans?

\- Not his exactly but he's part of some crew who are expecting a high value shipment into Carrick tonight and now he can't be there because of what you did to him yesterday. They've got him holed up somewhere in some back street clinic.

\- Ah, that's a shame. What's this high value shipment, when's it coming in?

\- I didn't know when it's coming in man, I didn't get told anything.

\- You got told enough. I'm sick of wasting my time here, what's the shipment?

\- Coke, about three billion Euro's worth.

\- Fuck off.

\- Man, why would I lie to you?

\- So you were told to lull me out to find Sarah and Michael and then to kill me because of what I did to him yesterday?

\- Yes, already.

Three billion Euro's worth of coke? In Carrick? This was slightly too much for my little brain to cope with but it certainly was making me think unimaginable thoughts. Because I'm thinking that this lad.

\- Sorry, what's your name?

\- Rory

Rory had been sent here to attempt to off me because of this shipment coming in but how the fuck would he or anyone else know about what I do? But with those cops yesterday morning and with what happened to my boss, how completely plausible was the implausible?

What in the fuck can of worms had I opened up here?

\- Are you telling me the truth here Rory?

\- I am man, I swear to you, he doesn't care about them in there, it's all a front, the perfect fucking family man and you come in from nowhere and fuck it all up for him.

\- Well then he won't mind if I kill you then will he?

I brought the gun up to his face, turned away.

\- Please God n...

I emptied the clip into his face, I could feel my arm and face being coated in his blood, his chest dropped with his death breath and I fell forward. I picked myself up, grabbed a tea towel off the rail of the oven and wiped my face and arm.

I looked over at the pile of flesh and bone.

Rory needed a dentist.

Sarah was stood by the doorway into the corridor, too wary of all that had happened. Her face frozen in horror as she tried to figure out if she recognised me from anywhere.

\- What have you done?

\- Did you see what I did?

\- Unfortunately.

\- Then you know what I've done and you obviously heard what he said.

\- I feel like I'm going to throw up.

\- Well throw up then, but you've to put your game face on in front of Michael. I'm taking you both out to Keash.

\- What's in Keash?

\- Grannies farm

\- That hasn't been lived in for years and I'm not taking Michael there.

\- I bought it five years ago when mum put it up on the market. It's totally habitable and totally secure. Did you ever take Ronan up that way or ever mention the house to him?

\- Why would I have told him that?

\- That's true, go upstairs, get some bits and be quick about it ok? I'll wait here.

\- No Fiachra .

\- Sarah for fuck sake you cannot stay here, you heard what he said, don't look at him. You heard what he said, it's a fucking sham and I don't know if he was here because of what I did yesterday to him or because of this coke I need to get you both to safety now so just do as I fucking say.

Fuck sake, here come the waterworks.

\- Sarah, he would have killed me, would you have wanted that?

Shake of the head.

\- No, exactly so get upstairs, get some clothes together and be back here in a couple of minutes because I don't know who else your pal Ronan has got coming up to pay us a visit.

I looked at my watch, it was just gone ten. I looked through all the drawers in the kitchen for a pen and a piece of paper which I found only after looking in three drawers.

I wrote in block capitals, every single letter distinguished and readable and left the note on Rory's chest.

\- Sarah, if there's any money in the house, bring that too.

\- Ok.

I could hear her moving about at the top of the stairs she shouted down to me.

\- Can you help bring this down.

I ran up and saw a very large suitcase with a handle on one end and wheels on the other. I picked it up.

\- Nothing breakable in there is there?

\- No.

I threw it down the stairs and it crashed into a stand with a vase on top of it which fell onto the case, pouring its contents out onto the floor.

\- Fuck sake Fiachra .

\- What did I do? Come on

She bounded down the stairs in front of me, and into the kitchen. I wasn't long after her but she was stood mover Ronan's body.

\- What does that say on the paper?

\- My devil came out roaring. Missed me!!

\- What does that mean?

\- I've just declared war

Chapter 16

Sarah then entered the next phase of shock and awe by staring at Rory, even when I was trying to push and pull her back down to the garage towards Michael. She kept telling me the obvious, that he was dead. He was so very dead. It didn't matter that there was nothing anybody could do or that his poor mammy won't be able to have an open coffin for him at the wake.

To me, that was all superfluous to the matter in hand, someone had been sent here to kill me, who might have got carried away and taken the knife and introduced it to my son's young heart or raped my on/off girlfriend and the mother of my son.

It's all fucking semantics.

\- If we don't move now, who knows who else might turn up. We've got to move now. Sarah. Sarah.

I was pulling her along with one hand and the suitcase which felt like it held the kitchen sink in the other towards the corridor. Rory's keys, wallet and phone should still be where I left them, under the pile of wood that was once a door. Sarah wasn't putting up so much of a struggle now and ran ahead of me to get Michael out of the Beetle. When I got into the garage, I dropped the suitcase, picked up all of Rory's contents and gave Sarah the keys.

\- His car is out on the road, bring Michael out with you, get in it and drive up to the front door, don't be making small talk with anyone cause they'll know ok?

\- They'll know?

\- Maybe. But the best thing to do is run, keep your head down, get in the car and drive as normally as you can. Go, go.

I opened up the garage door as Sarah was kneeling down next to Michael telling my very scared son that they had to go somewhere with a man he had just only met. It doesn't matter about toys or Play Stations, they can wait. Whilst she was talking to him, I walked out onto the drive and along the front of the house to see if Rory could be seen from the outside, I couldn't see anything that would arise any suspicion, everything looked normal enough.

I wasn't that panicked about not having a spare clip, I didn't envisage a fire fight so early in the morning but if everything here went plain sailing then I'd be able to replenish ammo up at the farm. There wasn't anyone on the road, the next house was over half a mile away and the only people driving down here would either know someone on the road or want to kill me. I jogged back over to the garage, Sarah was stood by the entrance, holding Michael's hand, I couldn't tell which one was shaking with panic.

\- Ready?

Just a nod.

\- Ready Michael?

Another nod.

\- I'll lock the garage and front door, can I have your keys?

\- What do you do in Dublin Fiachra ?

\- I work for the Civil Service.

\- Doing?

\- I'll tell you in the car.

With a look of knowing something different, mixed with disappointment, she took Michael out to the Mondeo, I kept the garage door open until they were in the car, locked it from the inside and drove in round by me so that the car was facing out towards Keash.

I came back in, pulled the door down and locked it then dragged the suitcase back in through to the kitchen, met with a wall of silence but I could smell the cordite from the violence of sound just a few minutes previously. I checked the back door again, grabbed my coat off the seat then bounded upstairs and checked every room upstairs just to make sure Rory hadn't got an accomplice with him who had stashed himself away. The house was as dead as Rory. Back downstairs, suitcase in hand and out of the front door, tightly locked, I opened the boot and was confronted by an industrial sized chainsaw, I nudged it and could hear the petrol inside sloshing round the tank.

Couldn't have been meant for me.

I stuck the suitcase on top of if, worried that the boot wouldn't shut properly, but after three or four attempts, I slammed it shut although the rear window looked like it was about to pop out.

Rory's phone was in my hand as I jumped into the front passenger seat. I turned on the radio and adjusted the settings of the speakers so that only the ones in the back played the sounds and had it on loud enough so that any conversation in the front wouldn't be heard. I looked round into the back.

\- Do you want to tell him to put his seatbelt on, he'll never learn otherwise.

She caught my eye, flustered, annoyed but gave in, knowing that I was right but couldn't bark out the orders.

\- Put your seatbelt on Mikey.

Mikey?

\- Dad says I don't have to if I don't want to.

\- Well he's not here so I'm telling you to put it on.

Mumbled words of defiance.

\- What did you say?

\- Nothing.

I got mine on and nodded at Sarah to do the same. More mumbled words of defiance.

There wasn't a security pin on Rory's phone, the last call coming in was from Ronan about half an hour ago and the call lasted for just over two minutes.

I had to give her enough information to keep her onside, and explain why I was so nonchalant about firing a whole clip of bullets into someone's face without making me sound psychotic.

\- I work on a contract basis for the Special Detective Unit and G2.

\- Who?

\- G2 are the Irish Secret Service.

\- Never heard of them.

\- That's why they are secret. Before I left here, even before Da' had died, I applied for a position in the SDU as I was on a Fast Track promotion scheme. There was nothing advertised, I was recommended for it by the Chief Super. A new task force to tackle gang activity in Dublin, working in partnership with Special Branch in the North and G2 down here. The media didn't know about us, even other Gards weren't aware, we may have well been in room 101. It was initially surveillance, relaying back movements and just following them around, then I was asked to go undercover with one of the gangs and ensure that they could no longer operate.

She's keeping an eye on the road but she's turning to me every now and again to see if I was about to come out with a punchline but unfortunately not.

\- So what does that mean, you're a spook?

\- This isn't some fucking film you know, we don't use words like Spooks, more like Operatives. You have to trust me here, more than you've ever done before. I'm not going to talk to you about specifics because you can't lie about what you don't know. I'm going out on a limb here, a very fragile limb but you had to come in and see what I did there with that Rory lad and to be honest you're pretty fucking calm after seeing what you did and I don't want you thinking I'm some random psychopath.

\- You're a paid psychopath?

\- No I'm paid to ease the burden on tax payers.

\- You're paid to ease the burden on tax payers? Now how does that work?

Getting a wee bit shitty now, the hardened edge being peeled off. So I leave it for a second and start looking through text messages on Rory's phone. See that there's a conversation with Ronan. The last one received was about a minute after the phone call from Ronan. "I dnt cre wat hpens 2 da ova 2 hes nt mine neway".

I showed the message to Sarah.

\- Can you translate that for me?

I fucking knew what it meant but it certainly leaned in my favour but am curiously drawn by the words "hes nt mine neway" why he only chose to spell "mine" correctly and how the fuck did he know, or if he always knew.

Sarah was crying again, teeth gritted in anger, she kept wiping at her eyes and looking in the rear view to make sure Michael wasn't looking at her.

\- You didn't have to show me that.

\- Yeah I did because you need to know what I'm up against here and why it's absolutely necessary to get you both out of here. He was a tumour, a fucking parasite and he used you both as his hosts.

\- Take the phone away please.

I got it back and looked through previous messages and bingo, his location, of sorts. "I've left the aul one in Sligo, delivery is in at 10 tonight, make sure we have that cunt out of the way". Ah he means me. He's fucking schizophrenic this one, sending two text messages in two very different languages. I didn't bother showing Sarah this message, I think she'd seen enough to make her own mind up if she didn't know already that he was playing away. So to get her mind off the written confirmation that Ronan was clearly a cunt.

\- So my job.

\- I didn't want to hear about your fucking job, I know enough. Strange how that shit goes down in Dublin yesterday morning and you turn up on my doorstep then everything just turns to dust. Fuck you.

I just suffer in silence, looking at her out of the corner of my eye.

\- Fuck sake it was you wasn't it? You killed a member of the Government.

\- I didn't know he was going to be in there.

Car screeches to a halt, my head nearly bangs off the windscreen.

\- See I told you it was a good idea to put your seatbelt on.

\- I'm going to be sick.

\- Hold it in for fuck sake; I don't want any attention drawn to this car. Hold it in I said.

\- You fucking bastard.

She belches and holds her hands up to her mouth as if that's going to prevent the flow of vomit. She shakes her head violently at me.

\- Sarah, calm down for fuck sake. This isn't helping any of us you having a fucking meltdown. We're only a couple of miles from the farm now. If you're going to be sick, do it out the window and at least wait until there's no traffic. Oh wait, we're on a main fucking road. So just fucking drive.

\- Why are you talking to me like that?

\- Jesus Christ. Get out, we'll swap over.

I get out of the car, slamming the door for dramatic effect and I'm round to the driver's side, opening up the door and Sarah leans out and pukes over my fucking trainers. I bang my fists down on the roof of the car. I don't need this. A good load. Of hair had fallen out of her pin and was over her face, strands covered in sick, I brushed them away and stepped back in case she was going to throw up again. A car was speeding up behind us and now was the time when I wished I'd saved a few rounds but the car swerved round, a couple of young lads riding up front, gawping then laughing at the me the poor lad who was looking after his unwell girlfriend.

I crouched down, avoiding the puddle of boke although I couldn't avoid the smell, still holding her hair off her face.

\- You murder people?

\- That's one word for it.

\- Is there another?

Another car beeped as it drove past us, Sarah shook and I Ssshhhhhhd her.

\- Look, it's not exactly the place to be talking about this. I was never sure if I would ever tell you, but these things are sent to try us. I was given a list of people whom the government deemed to be causing issues with the state, drug dealers, drug smugglers, human traffickers, child murderers, you name it. These were people who ruined the lives of thousands and there was either not enough evidence to convict or it would be too costly to keep them locked up for forty years. I had a unique skill set which they manipulated for their own good and I obeyed like a lapdog. I was tasked with killing that Judge lad because he was ruining a whole suburb of Dublin. I didn't know that Minister Daly would be there in the car. If I had known, I wouldn't have accepted and probably been killed myself. An hour or so later, my contact, my boss if you like, walked out from his office into oncoming traffic, was knocked down and killed by a car with Northern Irish plates. I'm being set up here and then I hear from that Rory that there's a massive amount of coke being brought in tonight and Ronan is in on it. Do you need to be sick again?

\- No I'm grand, give me a hand and we'll drive on.

I got her up out of the car, looked round to see if there was any traffic, nothing but I could hear a tractor up on the land somewhere. I walked her round to the passenger side, she got to the door before I could and got herself in. She looked round at Michael and exchanged a few words of him but as I looked through the windscreen, I could see them both smiling. The engine was still running, desperately wanted to floor it but it just so unwise for so many different reasons.

What a paradox of a first family trip this was turning out to be.

\- Where were we?

\- Turn up the music.

\- Can I at least change over the station?

\- No he likes this song.

\- This is a song? It just sounds like noise.

\- Didn't your dad used to say that to you?

\- Probably. Yeah he probably did.

I turned up some awful, heavily produced, overdubbed, slick shite rap fucking white trash fake boobed, bikini clad whores, popular with the kids, unnecessary number one for six weeks and instantly forgettable.

\- Once I've dropped you both at the house I need to head back into town and find out what's going on because I've got a really horrible feeling that what I did yesterday and what happening tonight are connected or I need to at least hope that they aren't because my paranoid brain won't be able to take much more. I'm wanting out Sarah, I need to leave the country because if I can't get to the bottom of how or why I got stitched up yesterday I'll either get put inside or killed because it'll cost too much to house me. On top of that fucking shit storm, I can't let that shipment come in and be distributed out and I can't let anyone involved get away with it. Fuck sake.

\- What?

\- My dad.

\- What about him?

\- I'm not going to be able to fucking do anything about what Pat Dempsey said.

\- Fuck what he said, if you know your dad wasn't involved, then why fucking bother?

We drove on. I didn't reply and Sarah didn't repeat the question.

I just didn't know what to do.

My gran died years ago, when I was in my early twenties, my granddad before I was ten. Their house was a bungalow with corrugated iron on the roof, a front door that was always open with the welcome of a cup of tea and a bit of cake. Their fireplace took up one side of the living room which is where everything in that house happened and my gran used to let me throw old milk cartons and bits of paper in on the roaring flames whilst a put hung on a hook over it, boiling potatoes. They had thirty or so acres of land that housed cattle and buried stashes of IRA weapons which are still out there somewhere.

The land was still maintained by a distant cousin up until six years ago when he died from asphyxiation in one of the four barns just down from the house. The cattle was sold off, nobody else in my family wanted it, the land devalued and you couldn't get rid of it even it was free. My mother was the one who finally inherited the farm even though it was hers after my nan died and left it up on the market, not wishing to ever step foot on it, so it was left to rot. Just because I'd never been home, didn't mean I didn't keep appraised of what was going on, so when I saw on the Herald in the properties section that it was up for sale, I bought it.

Not me exactly, I filtered my money through several layers of bogus organisations and fronts to make it look like a building contractor called Wayne Starks had bought it to develop a new housing estate of two hundred and fifty detached three or four bed houses but had soon gone bust six months after the purchase. NAMA are chasing a paper chain that's already been blamed for destroying a quarter of the Amazon Rain Forrest.

I never returned home, but I drove past it enough to work on the farm house. I never changed the external look of the house apart from blocking leaks in the roof and walls but inside I'd made it into my own little private getaway, complete with furnishing, food, running water, electricity and enough ammunition to start a small war.

I didn't want to come here initially, because I didn't have any transport and wanted to be in the middle of the mix in town. Hence why I'd taken enough supplies with me from Dublin. But now I had to hide Sarah and Michael away in plain sight.

The turning was coming up on the left, no traffic coming towards me or behind me. The road itself was unmade, full of pot holes and had grass all the way up the middle. I had to floor it up here because about quarter of a mile away from the house is a sensor which triggers off an alarm in the house which I can either text to reset or use the internal alarm system. If it's not reset within two minutes, the whole house goes into lockdown like a Panic Room.

\- I'm only going to be in the house here for a few minutes OK, I need or get back into town. You're safe here.

\- Are you confident in that?

\- I wouldn't say it otherwise. Hear that sound from my phone? It's to notify me that I've just broken a sensor across the road, if I don't reset it, nobody will be able to get into that house without prising a six digit pin code from my brain. You're safe.

We got up to the house, past the sheds which I had never got round to working on, out of the car, got the suitcase out and rolled it up to the front door. I walked round the car and over to the side of the shed. The two of them were stood there waiting for me to type in another code to open the front door, the key pad was on the wall. I walked back over as the front door opened.

\- Long time since we were both here eh?

\- I see the hay shed has gone?

\- Was blocking my view of the fields below.

\- Shame.

I knew what she was on at, but it wasn't the time or the place.

\- Right there's a big freezer in the kitchen which I piled up high with food, Michael I'm sure there's a football round here somewhere but make sure you stay within sight of your mammy. Here's the lounge as you remember, there's an XBox somewhere in there. I'll leave you two to settle in, I've just got to go into a room up the hall.

I left them just stood there and went up to a windowless room up the end of the hall, once the room my mum was born in, another keypad, another code, light on, door shut behind me, five clips, straight into my jacket pocket, this was like a kiddies toy shop, so much to choose from, I'd forgotten about the amount of destruction I had amassed but I decided to go with an old faithful, less noise and better for close combat, a cut throat razor as sharp as a samurai sword. That goes straight in as well, good to go.

Sarah's in making a tea and Michael is in loading up a game on the XBox.

\- So I'll be off then?

\- Do what you need to do. Thinking now, I'm sickened by what happened and how Ronan duped us. I don't know how he knew about Michael, nobody else knows.

\- Well I certainly didn't tell him. It's not going to end nicely you know, just warning you know of what I'm capable of.

\- I can't get my head around it, maybe I never will. This isn't exactly the start I was looking for.

\- The start?

\- Yeah. Oh I don't know, I need to get my head around this.

\- Don't answer the phone, don't open the door, call me if there is anything out of the ordinary. No kissing or declarations of love, that always jinx's things for the hero. Michael, you're the man of the house, look after your mammy.

Hold on.

\- Fuck me, I sounded like my old man.

\- That's a worry.

\- Fuck off. I'll see ya.

\- G'luck.

\- Like I need it.

Chapter 17

With that I was out the door, closed behind me, back in the Mondeo, engine roaring to life stuck in reverse, looked at the house, hoped it was secure enough, then shot back, spun the wheel left into the field alongside the farm, into first then bombed it for the main road.

I could drop the pretence now.

Serenity was a state of mind furthest away from how I felt right now. It was too obvious and even lazy to be angry, that would just lead to recklessness and complacency, when all I wanted was clarity and understanding. I was obviously in a position where I didn't know enough and I needed to acquire information by simply just asking, pretending to know less than what I did and pleading ignorance to those ignorant enough to buy it.

So now I had two mobile phones, mine was rapidly running out of juice, Rory's was near on a hundred percent power. I went into the settings on his phone and saved all contacts from the Sim Card to the actual device. I then did something similar with my phone but from the device to the Sim Card. Once both phones had done what I had programmed them to do, I got hold of Rory's phone, selected Ronan's number and gave him a call.

The phone was resting on the dashboard, on loudspeaker. It started ringing and I was pushing eighty driving round corners marked as black spots, some people can't handle the roads. The call is answered but there's silence on the other end, sounds of struggling like I'd just woken him up, which obviously wasn't the case as he'd been instructing Rory. Unless he was a lazy cunt and was expecting to work a late one.

\- Rory, talk to me.

\- Ah, did I wake ya? How's the head?

\- Where is he?

\- Last time I saw him, he was faces less on your kitchen floor. Never send a boy to do a man's job is my motto. You've put me in a bit of a bind haven't you?

\- How did you figure that one?

\- Well I thought what I did yesterday was enough, how is the bruised ego by the way?

\- You had better..

\- What, get out of town, run away, leave the country? Matey, you have no idea who or what I am, this is fair game for me now. No threats, only assurances, I'll see you in Carrick tonight and I will kill you. Just one question for you to ponder, how long had you known Michael isn't yours? Hello?

The phone had gone dead. Couldn't tell if he had hung up on me or if the reception was bad. That's pissed me off more because I don't know what he heard now.

His name comes up on the phone and I answer immediately.

\- Did you hang up or was the reception bad?

\- Sorry about that, the receptions shite round here.

\- I hear it's pretty bad in Sligo.

\- It's not the best. But I'm not in Sligo

What is this? Was he really this fucking stupid?

\- So you've killed Rory?

\- Well I didn't check him for a pulse.

\- Don't try and be funny. Did you enjoy your last night in my house?

Fucking my house.

\- Yeah it was lovely. Would that be a power shower you have upstairs? There's enough space for two in there isn't there? Hold on, my last night? Sarah and I only did some oral, we didn't even go the full way, nice as it was. Surely you're not thinking of trying to kill me are you? You've tried that one already and look where it's gotten us. It's got us both pissed off but I'm trained for this kind of thing and all you're trained for is being a monkey for hire. I'll see you in Carrick later on, tell the boys I'll be waiting for them.

\- Are you fucking serious? I'm going to rip your...

\- Sorry Ronan, I'm going through a tunnel....can't.....you're.....die.....

Didn't have to listen to that prick wax lyrical, that was my job. I took the Sim Card out of his phone, rolled down the window and threw it out onto the road. Got the Sim out of my phone and put it in Rory's phone. I drove past the turn off to Sarah's, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary going on. I didn't want to bring the car into town, it would be recognised as Rory's but with an unrecognised driver behind the wheel. About half a mile from town, there's a turning on the left which leads to a road that goes up the Curlew Mountains. It was a good idea to dump it there on one of the big grass verges.

When I pulled up, I pulled the sleeve of my jacket down over my hand and wiped the steering wheel, the radio, the dashboard, all the way across to the passenger seat, the handle of the passenger door, the handle of my door then I got out. I wiped all the handles of the doors and for the boot. I then opened the boot, took out the chainsaw, opened up the petrol cap and poured the contents of the tank onto the grass and down onto the road. I put the chainsaw back into the boot and shut it. Because I parked the car up on the side on an incline, the petrol was flowing to the lowest point. I followed it down the road, quick look up and down the road just to make sure there was no traffic, no houses around either. I got my lighter out of my pocket and set alight the petrol. The flames consumed the petrol faster than I envisaged causing me to move back down the hill in over exaggerated steps. The flames ceased at the rear of the car and nothing happened, the car didn't catch light and I'm just stood there in the middle of the road, despondent. It's bound to catch any time soon. Trust me to go for the dramatic when I could have just soaked a rag with petrol, stuck it in the open fuel cap and set light to that.

I'm just stood there waiting for something that wasn't going to happen. I couldn't leave it, the forensics team would think I was far too amateur to leave it. I was cautious enough heading back up, just in case the car did catch light. I crouched down to see under the car, nothing was burning or even simmering. The boot wasn't fully shut so I opened it back up, ripped a piece of the blanket off and dunked it into the chainsaws tank. It was wet but it wasn't drenched but it should do the trick. I opened up the fuel cap, bunged the ripped cloth in the opening and lit it. This time I didn't hang about, I walked off briskly down the hill like I was on my morning constitutional I could hear the flames crackle and then the expulsion of sound as the petrol tank blew which launched me forward, the heat briefly warmed my back as I turned left onto the main road and headed into town.

Maybe I'm a pyromaniac but I do love setting fire to things, even if the first time round I fuck it up.

It dawned on me that I hadn't heard anything from Joe since last night. I wanted to see if he was indoors with company or not. I know I'd taken some bits from the farm to keep me ticking along, but I actually just wanted to check everything was where I left it. I trusted Joe implicitly but if he's had company, I wouldn't know who they were from Adam.

There was a secondary explosion from the car, not as big as the first but loud enough to know it would have raised a few eyebrows and got people's hands moving towards their phones. There was a road on the right which leads up to the cemetery but drops down to a path that runs along the river. I walked, just a random lad walking without a care in the world, down the road and onto the path. The grass was damp with dew and up to my knees, but I didn't care about that, it was more of a need to get away urgently but make it look like I had nothing to do with anything, looking as inconspicuous as possible walking through sodden grass. The river was moving fast alongside me but it was as flat as a sheet of ice, I kept a good bit away from the bank, not keen on falling in there again. Over on the other side of the river was an animal feed factory and it stank of the feed. It was an industrial mess of steel pipes, large metallic sheds and a constant whirring noise. There was a grey metal footbridge leading into it but there was a secure gate on either end. I only came down here because I thought I would be able to get across but the gates were far too high with rolled barbed wire across the top. This was a bit of a pisser because now I had to cut through and back out onto the main road that I was trying my best to bloody avoid. So the path carries on past the foot bridge and up by Frybrook. There are a few people on the other side of the river, milling around, sat on a couple of benches, drinking from cans, Boyle's resident street drinkers. The pathway leads up to the side of the main bridge in town, once I'd realised that I hadn't been followed, I got my phone up and called Joe. It took ages for the phone to start ringing and once it did, it rang for so long that I thought it would go through to voicemail. It was answered, then there was silence and then I started to panic.

\- I wondered when you would call this number. Not really a good friend are you?

\- Fuck sake Ronan, you're really pissing me off now. Where's Joe?

\- I'd be lying to you if I said he was safe but he's alive, actually hold on let me check. Yeah he's still breathing. He took a bit of a knock to the head this morning when we knocked for him. That girl wasn't too happy, I'm sure she is still in the house though. You're either dead or out of town within the next hour or your pal will get his skin flayed before I kill him. I'd also like to know where my girlfriend is.

I broke into a jog.

\- Sorry Ronan, you're going to have to repeat that again because I fell asleep there. Just quickly, after an hour, what happens?

\- Either you or Joe is dead and then I'm going to find...

I hung up. Fuck me he talks an awful load of shite.

I went into the menu of the phone, an app called Find My Friends, hoped Joe had the same phone as mine and had 3G on it. A Google map popped up, I searched for Joe then the screen greyed up and the word "searching" came up. Then the word "located" came up and I eased a sigh of relief, a pin drop appeared on the screen and the map became clear. .

He was still at his house.

Chapter 18

I knew I wouldn't stop till I got there, had to dart across town, past the Cop Shop up towards the Abbey then up towards Abbey Town, but I fucking hated running. It was far enough to drive let alone walk, so I scrolled through my contacts, Bertie, Charlie, delete that one. Get to my man Friday, cab driver in a hurry.

I'm up on the bridge now jogging in the direction of Joe, passed Raffertys, up at the crossroads, right, no fucking reception. Keep going, five or so minutes since I spoke to Ronan. At last the phone rings. Don't you dare leave it to go to voicemail. Phone answered, coughing, grogginess.

\- Did I wake ya?

\- No, you're grand, I was just chilling out. You need a lift?

\- I'm out by the Cop Shop, I need to get to Joe's like right now.

\- You could walk it in ten.

\- I could but I could be driven there in two. I hope your making your way out to your car.

\- Well I am now.

\- Good lad, two minutes.

Phone down, but I keep jogging, by my watch it's just gone past twelve midday. God knows where Ronan thought I was but he could move Joe at any time, if I get to the junction, I've only a fifty percent chance of seeing them if he was moved, they could head out towards the Forest Park and then up onto the N4 to Sligo or back down towards Dublin. I looked into the Police Station, couldn't tell who was in, didn't know what car Glen drove and ultimately it didn't matter because there was parking round the back.

Keep going, up ahead of me, Shane had parked up, he was reliable enough when big pay out was on the cards. I accelerated from a jog into a run, got to the car, opened up the passenger door, sat down so hard I think I broke the springs in the seat.

\- Get cracking and don't spare the horses.

\- You're something else you are.

\- Thanks and less of the chat, man. Park up just round the corner from the house and don't talk to me anymore.

\- Ever heard of those bullying bosses, I should make a complaint.

\- And I'll pop over and make a complaint to your mum by shoving my cock up her arse, now less of the bullshit chat and hurry the fuck up.

He looked like he wanted to cave my head in, but it's a look I'm familiar with and brush off with a wave of my hand.

He does a U-turn in the road, causing the oncoming traffic to break and beep, I wave acknowledgement to them and we are off, straight over the roundabout by the Abbey, further beeping and screeching breaks. I liked Shane when he drove in a pissed off and aggressive manner, all from threatening to snag his mum up the arse. Thing is I know she didn't mind it, all those years ago.

The estate Joe lived on was just coming up on the right, on the side of what used to be farm land. Shane slowed down and turned in. A few cars and pedestrians milling about. We must be cautious.

\- Make it look like you're looking for a particular house number.

\- Which one?

\- I don't fucking know, 69, your mums favourite.

\- Listen I've had....

\- Just here is grand.

I got out before the car had even stopped, he broke suddenly, the passenger door still open.

\- Turn round and park up on the side just there, call or text me if anyone comes into the estate, cops, anyone who looks out of place. I'm going to be coming back hard and fast, so keep the engine going.

\- How long?

\- Between five and ten minutes.

I shut the door then walked over to a seven foot tall wall which surrounded the garden at the bottom of Joe's road. All the houses were terraced apart from this house and he lived six houses up, six walls and gardens to cross, too risky if there was anyone in who would quite happily call the Gards. At the rear of the gardens was farmland, much easier to cross. The fence was only up to my waist and vaulted over with a 4.7 as my right foot got caught briefly. The land hadn't been used for a while by cattle, the land was boggy and the grass was tall. I kept my left shoulder as close to the wall as possible, it was still a seven feet tall breeze blocked wall and it was all reliant upon judgement that I would know when to stop, step back and see if I'd made it to the point where I needed to get myself over the top. I counted up from the bottom of the road and I'd bypassed five houses. I buttoned up my jacket, moved along a bit more so I knew I was roughly in the right place. I couldn't hear anything on the other side of the wall but it still didn't mean I had the element of surprise, especially if I made a tit of myself trying to climb over although thankfully there didn't appear to be barbed wire or broken glass along the top. It's been a long time now since I was on an assault course.

I took a few steps back from the wall, the long grass wouldn't help my run up, but speed was certainly an element I needed. I'd left a ten meter space to run and run I did, I leaped towards the wall and climbed three steps on the flat surface to push me up and give me enough momentum to get my hands on top and over the other side, keep rising, legs scrambling and up on the top and over the other side into the jungle that is Joe's garden. I think I landed in some variation of animal shite, it fucking stank and was just typical of my day so far.

Nobody was in the kitchen but thankfully the patio door was open, my Glock was out and fully loaded for action. I couldn't see into the living room but I'd already crossed the threshold into the house and I could hear voices upstairs. The living room was empty and cold, roaches were spilt over the coffee table and the ashtray was on the floor, big dollops of blood lay next to the ashtray and dripped out of the door like a breadcrumb trail. There was a crumpled up pink g string on the sofa, Joe certainly got lucky enough last night but because they are laying in situ, either that girl he pulled last night is still here or left the house sans knickers.

I picked them up and stuck them in my jacket pocket.

It looked like I was missing the party upstairs as nobody was down here with me. There weren't any cars parked out the front except for Joe's shit heap, and none down the road that weren't parked there yesterday. I sent Shane a text, "Anyone parked up and in their car near you?". I turned the phone to silent mode, kept a near out for anything going on upstairs and waited for the reply. I should have checked the road when I got out of the car for occupied vehicles. The phone vibrated with a reply from Shane "No", informative as ever but I'd lucked out of that one, which still begged the question as to why Ronan was here without any transport.

I stepped out into the hallway, the blood trail lead upstairs, I checked the downstairs toilet for anyone hidden inside, nothing in there apart from the floater in the pan which stank. I shut the door and stood with my back to the door so nobody could see me if they really leant over the banister. I called Joe's number and left the phone in my pocket.

I heard footsteps moving around upstairs, then out onto the landing.

\- Calling again so soon? Hello? Fucking reception here is shite. Stay with them, I'm going out into the garden. Hello? Hello?

I opened the door to the toilet and schlepped in, shut the door and waited. I heard footsteps and floorboards creaking as Ronan descended, it was ironic - the symbolism of him making his penultimate final descent before his express trip to the ninth level. He cut the call short but he still came down the stairs. I waited a few seconds, breathing shallowly, so tense I could be a statue, called again, no reception, fuck sake, hit the redial button, pointless as there was a little display at the top of the screen saying "No Service".

I couldn't hear anything outside, then I heard him shout out:

\- I'm going for piss.

Fuck.

I re- holstered the Glock, stood in prone position. He was in mid conversation about telling his colleague I'm a pussy as he opened the door and just as he realises that the toilet is occupied, I bring up the palm of my left hand, uncoiling like a steel spring, and smack it straight into the bridge of his nose, which crumples and pushes back into his brain, killing him instantly. His mouth was still round like a polo as he drops to the floor, everything shut down, but as he falls he smacks into the door which bangs off the wall causing enough noise for his colleague upstairs to shout down for him.

I heard the sound of further footsteps as whoever was upstairs moves out onto the landing, I can tell from the way he's shouting that he's leant over the bannister and comes bombing it downstairs, I'm still in the toilet still waiting to break out into a sweat, feel for the butt of the gun then step out over Ronan's body, recognise the other guy as a brother or Rory's, a very familiar look of shock off his face as I step forward towards him, my left hand has made an "L" shape from thumb to index finger, bringing it up and hitting him in the throat, he opened his mouth aghast and winded, leaning forward, my hand goes behind me, grabs the gun from out of my waistband, my right hand grabs the back of his neck and I introduce the barrel of the gun to the inside of his mouth and fire a single round which explodes the back of his head like a crimson fountain, the round imbeds itself into the ceiling, he falls backwards from the force and I run upstairs, slipping on blood from an unknown owner, Glock still out.

\- Joe?

\- Yeah?

\- Are you alone?

\- No.

\- Are you ok?

\- Bit of a headache, that cunt clumped me over the head with my fucking ashtray.

\- Who's with you?

\- Jackie

Ahhhh Jackie, that was her name.

\- Is it just the two of you then? Nobody else in the house?

\- Why are you out there? You can come in you know I'm not naked or anything

\- Well she's without her knickers.

\- How did he know that?

\- I found them on the sofa. Joe, are you ok to walk?

\- Yeah I'm grand just me heads banging.

\- You should see the lad downstairs. Is Jackie ok to walk?

\- Cheeky bastard.

\- I'm not being cheeky sweetheart I'm making sure your both ok to walk because we need to get out of here pretty fucking sharpish. Jackie, did you tell those lads where you live?

I know that Joe's room was only in front of me but I had an opportune vantage point from the top of the stairs of anyone else trying to make their way up. I didn't look up at his room once, not even at the body of Rory's brother or the blood and sinew on the walls or the fact that one of his teeth was lodged in the doorframe. I didn't look at the carnage because to me it wasn't carnage, to me it was a sunny Sunday afternoon picnic.

\- Jackie?

\- I didn't, no.

\- And do they know who you are or do they have any idea of where you live or do you know anyone who knows them?

\- No, it's just me and Paula. She lives in Sligo and I live in Carrick, we've only been down here the last few weeks because she broke up with her husband. We got chatted up a few times but she isn't ready.

\- Did you go home with any of these lads?

\- I'm not going to answer that.

Fuck this for a game of tennis. I stormed into the bedroom, Glock down by my side, they were both sat on the bed, Joe had his top off, bruises on his chest and he had his right hand on his head, she had her top off as well and was wearing a matching pink bra to the g string. Both jumped back in shock, I was just a hairs breadth away from losing it, still no sweat though but my teeth were gritted together and I was breathing heavily through my nose.

\- This is no fucking game here, I don't care what you did, I just want to know if you went home to their house, or if they went to your house or if you went home by yourself and fucked your rampant rabbit. Joe put a top on and get my bag from under your bed.

\- My bed?

\- Your bed, last place anyone would look. Jackie, I'm not going to ask again, I've shown you my courteous patient side and now you're eating into my time where I really don't give a fuck if you live or die. Don't fucking cry, now's not a time for crying.

\- Fiachra for fuck sake.

\- Would you rather me leave you both here for when people come looking for them two below?

\- No.

\- No, exactly. Jackie, last time.

\- No, nobody came back with me, nobody knows my surname, nobody knows where I live, nobody knows where Paula lives. She didn't even know I was coming back here.

\- Good, that's all I need to know. I've someone outside who's going to drive you home, and Joe is coming with you.

\- No I'm fucking not, I'm helping you.

\- Joe, this isn't your fight and you're not cut out for this shite. Go to her house, look after her, look after yourself. Here, Jackie, put these on.

I threw her the knickers, both didn't look too happy with my only option but it was the only one I had and it was the only one that worked. I didn't turn around when she put her knickers on, I passed Joe a top and then picked her top off the floor and handed it to her.

\- You may want to keep your eyes closed until we are out in the garden. You need to go home with Joe, lay low, don't fucking call anyone and keep an eye on him because of. The head thing. Joe how long ago did he hit you?

\- Couple of hours ago I guess, we came downstairs for a smoke and they were in there and he knocked me on the head.

\- No other weapons seen?

\- Not as far as I'm aware but he kept on grabbing at Paula.

\- Did he rape you?

\- I wouldn't have put it past him but he kept touching my tits and tried to put his hand up my skirt, the prick. I lost count of the amount of times I had to smack his hand away.

\- Right, are you two ready? Fuck sake Joe, put your shoes on. Come on.

With Joe putting on his shoes, I grab my bag, swing it over my shoulder, we all move out to the top of the stairs.

\- Jackie, grab my shoulder and close your eyes, squeeze the fuck out of them, I'll walk you downstairs.

\- Jesus the state of my fucking hall.

\- Joe shut the fuck up, it needed redecorating anyway.

\- What about the Gards?

\- What about them?

\- True.

We headed downstairs like a slow convoy, my shoulder nearly crushed from Jackie's grip. When we were downstairs, I took her hand and held it tight as we walked through to the soundtrack of Joe going "For fuck sake" or "Jesus fucking Christ" or "Ah would you look at the state of that". Jackie must have caught Ronan with her foot because she let out a squeal that nearly pierced my ear drum.

As soon as we all got into the living room, I told Joe to shut the door and for Jackie to open her eyes.

\- Is there anything else you need to bring with you?

\- Just some of the Nepalese's finest home grown.

\- That stuff is class.

\- Well I'm glad you two can enjoy getting stoned off your tits whilst I'm out saving the world. If it's not in this room the your leaving it behind.

\- It's here alright.

With that, Joe goes to the bookshelf, opens up a shitty, American, no brainer, lone individual who doesn't give a shite that his brother has just been murdered, style book and pulls out a bag of weed that could easily take them both nine miles high.

Jackie looks at me.

\- What do you do Fiachra ?

\- Yeah man, what do you fucking do?

\- I work for the Special Detective Unit.

\- Bollocks.

\- Ok. I'm a Government sanctioned assassin.

Then walk off to the open patio door and leave that in the air for them to ponder.

I send Shane a text "Two minutes away, be ready, have two more".

\- I'm not getting over that wall.

\- You are, with mine and Joe's help. Take off your heels.

She tuts and kicks them off, I pick them up and throw them over the wall.

\- Jesus.

\- Never wanted me for a sunbeam? Right me and Joe are going to grab your feet and push you up and over, there's grass on the other side and its damp. Sit up on the wall and push yourself off ok?

\- Ok.

So we both grab a foot each, on the count of three, push. We heaved her up and get an unnecessary look up her skirt, obviously waxed but the gusset was too narrow.

\- Growler.

\- Fuck up man, I think I'm in love.

\- Ah Christ, save that one for another time.

Jackie had made her way up and sat on top of the wall.

\- Jump off and wait there for us.

She didn't say anything but I could hear the thud on the other side.

\- Come on now lad, you next. Is there anything more in the house that you need?

\- Nah, sure it's not my house anyway really is it. Fuck man, you're a fully-fledged cold blooded killer.

\- I'm never fully-fledged, always learning. Right step up onto my palm and I'll push you up. Count of three.

With Joe jumping off to the other side, I run back into the house and turn all the gas hobs on, exit into the garden and shut the patio doors.

That should work.

I'd also given myself enough of a run up to get myself up and over the wall, same way as I did coming in. I sat up atop the wall, Joe and Jackie moved out of the way and I dropped down.

\- Right come on, I've a car waiting for us.

We jogged back down to the fence crossed over it onto the road to see Shane waiting for us with the engine going. I got Joe and Jackie in the back and I dropped in the front passenger seat.

\- Two drop offs, me at the Cop Shop and them two to Carrick, once your back in town let me know. Here's two hundred for ya. Use the back roads and don't go over the speed limit. Your carrying a high value package here so I don't want to hear about any fuckery on your part. You haven't been speaking to Ronan have you?

\- Ronan Clarke? Sure what would I wanna speak to that prick for? The cunt beat up my best mate, I'd love to get me hands on him.

\- I'm sure you would.

\- Why are you going to the Cop Shop, Fiachra ?

\- To see Glen, need to have a little chat

Chapter 19

It didn't take long at all to get to the Cop Shop even when keeping within the speed limit. We didn't pull up outside it, just a hundred yards down, it didn't really dawn on me or even slightly unnerve me that Joe had two dead bodies in his house or that he saw their remains. I turned round to face them both. Jackie was pale from tiredness, looking out the window but her hand was gripped round Joes so tightly as if they were on a roller coaster. Joe was giving me a cold hard stare, it's fair enough, it all was my fault. He was quite content in life as it just flowed past him, there weren't any peaks or troughs, no unexpected turbulence, just life in neutral. Fuck me, how boring could that ever possibly be? But regardless of my apparent never ending need to fuck up and rip apart space and time just because that was my life didn't mean I had to burden Joe with it. But I had. I just wish I felt more guilty for it.

\- You ok?

\- My head hurts. Were you serious about what you said you did?

\- Yeah I was. Something is rotten in this State and I think your guests were something to do with it.

\- Nothing to do with Sarah?

\- For once, no it's not. I can't put my finger on it but maybe I can get some help from the Boy in Blue. I'll clean up the mess in your house. Keep quiet, only talk to me. Keep an eye on Jackie, she looks like she needs a hug and a sweet cup of tea.

\- I need some sleep.

Joe winks at me with a "And we all know the reason for that" look, I give him a "your house was broken into and you were held hostage for god knows how long and that's why she needs some sleep" look. He gives me another wink. He's either demented and coming onto me or it was lost in translation.

\- Text me when you get in. You're in safe hands with Shane here. Call me if there is anything at all ok?

Just a nod now. I bring my hand up and cup his face.

\- Sorry mate.

\- You do what you need to do. Stay alive long enough to tell me what it's all about.

\- I'm staying around long enough for you to buy me a pint.

\- In hell it is then.

I put a reassuring hand on Shane's shoulder, getting in touch with my bromance.

\- Back roads.

\- Ok.

\- Just the way your mum used to like it.

\- Ah you heard.

\- Fuck up Joe. Seriously, don't use the main road in. Can you be back here in half hour?

\- Only if you stop going on about me mam, man it's fucking tiresome and I don't want to hit ya.

He fucking meant it too, regardless of the outcome, he'd try and lay one on me, if he had taken the piss out of mum, I wouldn't have given a shite, I would have joined in but I'd pushed it too far now with Shane and he had every right to lay me the fuck out. It wasn't going to happen but I fucking respected him for it.

\- Ok, man. I'll stop. If anyone follows you, don't do anything stupid but try and remember everything about the vehicle or the driver if they get close enough to you and be cool.

I stepped out of the car, got the rucksack out, shut the door and stood there till they drove off towards town. I would assume he'd drive up towards Frenchpark then head across to Carrick, unless he knew another route.

Boyle Police Station is up on the right, and set back off the road. The brickwork is a shitty brown colour, more a morgue than a bastion of public protection. The main entrance had changed since the last time I was here, automatic doors and air conditioning greeted me as I sauntered in, looking casual and nonchalant. I should have been given the best actor Oscar.

The fat, sweaty, close-to-retirement desk sergeant was on the phone talking GAA. He didn't look up to see me enter. There were two CCTV cameras on either side of the desk facing out into the reception, with frayed carpets and screwed-down benches. I picked the camera over the Sergeant's left shoulder to stare into, imagining Glen out back, viewing the screen. I was imagining burning holes into his eyes, daring him to come out to me.

I walked over to the desk, the sergeant looked up and without saying a word to me, 'cause he's clearly engrossed in talking bollocks, nodded over to the screwed-down bench suggesting I take a seat rather than interrupt him. What if this was an emergency? Actually it was. I stuck my left hand in my pocket and leaned over the desk with my right hand then pressed down the receiver of the phone, pulling out my warrant card at the same time.

He read the words: Sergeant Fiachra Clancy Special Detective Unit and shrank back down

\- Good thinking sergeant.

\- What can I do for you sergeant?

\- Where are you from, you're not local.

\- Limerick. Used to live in Patricks Well, 272 days 'til retirement and they move me here.

\- Not liking it?

\- Ah sure you know, it's quiet enough.

\- Is it?

\- Nothing ever happens here.

\- Maybe you should burn a bit of that stomach off, and take a walk round town - see what's going on under your nose.

He blushed, looked around for something to occupy his hands.

\- How long have you been off the smokes?

\- Since I've been here, the wife suggested it. Too expensive you know. Fucking miss them boy.

\- Have my deck - I've only had the one.

This sergeant was counting down the days 'til he was a pensioner. He'd been dragged up here by his wife, so he could survive his final year. Limerick wasn't as bad as the press made out, "stab city" it certainly wasn't, but where you find a bag-full of cunts there are always puncture wounds. He hadn't a balls clue about the goings on in Boyle, County Roscommon, and I didn't feel like pissing on his parade.

\- Ah no, you're grand - but thanks for the offer.

\- Sarge, you're about as itchy as an old woman's cunt, take them.

I handed the deck over to him, and he took them without a second glance or protest.

He smiled and the warmth of his innocence and breaking the wife's rules enveloped me.

\- You don't act like a detective.

\- I don't act like myself, but knock yourself out. What time are you off?

\- Nine.

\- Where do you and the woman live?

\- Other side of Loch Key.

\- Head home early boss, head home and lock the door. A Storm's coming.

He was looking at me now - the dead, lowered tone in my voice, the pleading with the old man, the sure and certain knowledge that no lie detector test was required.

\- Quiet town eh?

\- Not tonight. Who are you close to in here?

\- Here?

\- Here.

\- Ah sure nobody really, just myself as the fella says. Loads of young lads 'round here trying to make a name for themselves, not the way it used to be.

\- Trust me; it will be again - but head on home early ok, throw a sickie or whatever but get the hell out of dodge tonight.

\- Serious?

\- Like a Vatican meeting about children.

\- Fuck.

\- Indeed.

\- The name's Phil.

\- Fiachra .

Handshake like a vice. I liked Phil, he reminded me of my granddad, the soft eyes pushed in by the folds of fatty tissue from years on the piss.

\- Phil, I'm looking for an old friend of mine, don't know if he's on duty or not, Glen Doyle.

\- Ah sure, I know Sergeant Doyle.

\- Friends?

\- Like Ike and Tina.

\- Ok, is he around?

\- He was down in custody with a suspect, joy rider, only a pup.

\- What about the lads from last night?

\- They were all cautioned and let out early this morning. They were only in the drunk tank.

\- Drunk tank? May I?

I moved towards the secure door out to the bowels of the station. Phil moved his hand under the desk to press the button that unlocks the door. The vacuum created by the sealed door as it opens chills me. It's been a long time since I've been through to the back of the station. One of my last memories of this place was when Glen and I were working on a deterrent to prevent boy racers from being on the roads. I'd suggested either ramming them off the road or putting a bag of sugar into the engine through the fuel cap. Glen suggested a revoke of their licence and further training on road safety. I suggested he was on drugs to think that would work. It was an off the cuff, flippant comment. Thinking back, maybe I was right.

I went into the reception area to thank Phil again. His gut must have been lodged under the desk because as he swivelled his chair, creaking under his weight, he looked like a capital D, the buttons ready to pop off his shirt. He smiled a warm smile to me, sweating under the low wattage lights and gave his hand for me to shake again.

\- Well I hope whatever you're here to find, you'll find it soon enough.

\- Thanks Phil, just trying a damage limitation approach, so head on home when you can. If you get anyone calling in about a suspicious male in town, you haven't seen me - and try not to do too much in the way of reporting.

\- Should I expect to be doing a report soon?

\- Maybe - when they regain consciousness. I would like some trust on your part and be assured that it was an absolute necessity. It'll all be over by this time tomorrow. It's a strictly need to know op and I think your old and wise enough to need to know.

With that a nod and a smile he swivelled round to face out into the reception. I hoped he took my advice.

I went through another set of doors and into a dull corridor that reeked of industrial cleaning fluids. The halogen light that ran the whole length of the corridor was flickering intermittently - an epileptic's wet dream. There were three doors either side of the corridor which required a swipe card for entrance. Very security conscious, they even had the sense to put a lock on the armoury - the windows were blacked out so you can't even see what they have onsite. Never figured out the sense in having an armoury here, everything must be collecting several years' worth of dust. The dome shaped CCTV cameras dotted the corridor like blackheads. I wondered if I was being watched - didn't give a fuck if I was. My hand was stinging from hitting Ronan, I clenched my fist and opened it a few times to get the sensation back and pushed through the doors at the end of the corridor. Signs on the back wall advised me to either go left to custody or right to the canteen, changing rooms or CCTV room.

I was getting bored of this.

\- GLEN!!

A young, female Gard stuck her head round the corner of the female changing room door. I immediately went for my badge as she looked a bit perturbed and in the middle of either getting into or out of her uniform. I could not be arsed with small talk even though she was pretty enough. Little cotton vest top and work trousers, small amount of makeup. Her name was Marie Sweeney and the last time I saw her she must have been fourteen or so. Not sure if she'd figured out who I was just by the face but when she saw the badge and the name on it, she stepped back a fraction.

\- Gard Sweeney, I'm Sergeant Clancy and I'm looking for Sergeant Doyle.

\- How did you...

\- I knew you when you were a kid. We could reminisce over a drink later but right now I need to speak to Glen.

\- He's in the canteen I think.

\- Thank you.

I began to walk off towards the canteen and looked softly at Marie, smiled that killer smile perfected over years of naval gazing and nodded, she threw a quick smile back at me and then darted back into the changing rooms. I opened the door and saw that sat on the opposite side facing this door, the only exit, the place I would have chosen to sit, was Glen.

He was on his phone, and glanced up with an annoyed look; as if he wanted a bit of privacy. His eyes were grey and tired, laced with anger at the interruption. I just stood there, not budging, still the big man, still stronger and more stubborn. I wondered what to say to him. How to broach the subject of three murders, he wasn't yet in the need to know crowd.

The annoyance in Glen's face changed like a chameleon trying to hide from danger, he squinted at the figure in the doorway, the light from behind burning into me so that I looked like one of those eternal shadows at Hiroshima. I stepped forward and to the left, he clocked me and the remaining colour drained from his face and he fucking gulped, I know I didn't look the best but it wasn't a look of concern. He looked like a child with his hand in the biscuit tin, he whispered something into the phone and hung up guilt, guilt, guilt, then stood up. Now that he was in his uniform, I could see that he'd bulked up a little bit around the shoulders but still small in comparison to me. Maybe I was a face he hadn't expected to see, especially after last night. A phantom disguised as his old pal. A fly in the ointment, a monkey in the wrench. Things had clearly moved on, there was no warmth, no smile. He looked more fucked then I was.

He had his phone hand down underneath the table and laid what looked like an H&K 9mm handgun on the table and came round the table to me. I stood where I was, my back blocking the doorway and surreptitiously showing him by my body language that he was the weaker one, by coming to me. Jeez, my best mate looked like he'd invested in Botox, the gimp. He smiled a Hollywood smile and extended his right hand to shake mine; I received it and squeezed it, no change of expression on his face.

\- Fiachra , how's the head?

\- From the drink or from the kicking? Ah I'm grand, been on worse benders and been beaten up by people who know how to fight.

\- Ah you know, can never be too careful, it's like the Wild West out there now.

\- So I see, we didn't really get time to chat yesterday did we, it's been a long time.

\- Long time indeed. I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to chat, what with Sarah out and then having to deal with those lads. By the time I got out of here, everyone had long since gone home. So let's sit, what are ya back this way for?

\- Seeing the family.

\- After seven years?

\- Eight.

\- Eight years? Fuck. Is anyone ill?

\- Just the whole town.

\- Ach, come on mate, what's going on.

\- The truth eh, straight to the point, well as we are on the same side, it's only fair enough I should give you full disclosure. I mean, in this new political climate, full disclosure is only given when full disclosure is obtained.

All the time I was monitoring his eye movement, ticks, the way he breathed – to see if what I said affected any of these.

\- I was only supposed to be up here for a couple of days needed a break from Dublin but I've since come by some interesting information and I've tasked myself with intercepting a high value product. While I'm here, I wouldn't mind finding out what evidence you found that was so compelling about my father, that it got Patrick Dempsey involved, and why you are working under the assumption that my old man was dirty.

\- Interesting.

\- Very. So, let me know in your own time where you get off, and any information you've had on boats coming up the Shannon with a few billion Euro worth of coke.

His breathing stopped, pupils dilated and he tried to let go of my hand.

My best mate knows something, or maybe just embarrassed about finding out about his investigation into my dad.

\- Who were you on the phone to?

\- Sarah.

\- Was meaning to talk to you about that.
Chapter 20

Glen nodded slightly and looked down at the floor, ashamed maybe - the guilt of a child being told by his parents that they weren't angry - just really disappointed. His shoulders sagged. He knew in that instant that I knew and the culmination of the guilt of letting Sarah and I down seemed to be pushing him into the ground. He let go of my hand and whispered

\- Let's get a seat.

Walking back to his seat expecting me to follow - which I did - he went to the window overlooking the yard at the back of the station and opened it. Rather than sitting back at his seat, he stood by the window and took out a pack of Majors, then offered me one which I declined, not out of politeness - I'd rather suck a smegma-covered cock.

So I went to take one of mine out and realised I'd given the deck to Phil. Begrudgingly, I took one of the Majors off Glen, never let it be known that I would not take one for the team. My uncle Mick used to smoke Majors - two thirds the size of normal cigarettes but two thirds stronger. Mick's lungs were putrid and had enough tar in them to lay a mile stretch of new road. I lit up the smoke off of Glen's lighter through a cupped hand even though there was no wind, his hand visibly shaking like Michael J Fox trying to play statues.

\- Cold?

\- Nervous.

\- Of?

\- You - I've let you down.

\- And my Dad and Sarah?

\- And Sarah.

We both inhaled at the same time. Glen didn't flinch. I felt queasy and light headed, my eyes became a map of burst blood vessels and I brought up some phlegm which I swallowed with the taste of the Major. I retained focus on Glen. Not out of malice, or anger but if I looked elsewhere I don't think I'd be able to focus. Whatever was trapped in his head or heart, the guilt, the truth was there, the light under the door was getting brighter as he was getting closer to telling me.

\- So not about my Dad?

\- It's good to see you man, it's been a long time.

\- You knew I'd be back eventually. I'm just confused my man, what the fuck has been going on, what's all this shite Patrick was banging on about my old man and the 'RA? And who's this Ronan lad?

We leant onto the window sill as if we were leaning up against a bar, two old friends catching up on all the gossip. Glen told me how a whole load of new houses had been built up the top end of Termon Road and out by Forest View. I remembered the construction sites and a few calls out there due to some industrial equipment being stolen, this must have been around 2003. Low level shit really and there was fuck all security around the sites, easy pickings. When the houses had been completed, it didn't take long for them to be occupied, not by families around here but by knackers from Dublin, Limerick and Cork. They'd caused enough shit locally, the local authorities had had enough of them and decided to shift the problem from their streets to ours.

Out of sight and out of mind.

These new visitors had previous for drug, violence, weapons and murder. Overnight Boyle had been raped, strangled and lay on the floor, humiliated with its knickers round its ankles. The new residents started firstly by stamping their authority on the bars, smashing them up and then offering protection to the landlords to prevent it happening again. They fought with "settled" travellers in Balymote, creating a clear path between Boyle and Sligo. Sligo for all its gentrified bohemian renovation was still Sligo and a kip, on the lip of the Atlantic was as easy a place as any to bring in any contraband under the careful watch of corrupt Gards and near enough to the border to bring in semtex from Libya hidden in crates of bananas.

Ronan had come in with a crowd from Newcastle just outside Limerick. He was part of a gang down there that had links with the Real IRA, fucking "Real", they were hardly a figment of some deranged Republican imagination were they? So they had set up a protection/racketeering ring that covered pretty much the whole of the south of the country. When he got arrested one time too many, having pissed off a rival gang down there by killing enough of them, he only got charged with handling stolen goods - not enough evidence to go any further with the murders and a wall of silence that could have been seen from space. He was offered a way out of Limerick, along with other members of the gang. An agreement must have been made with Roscommon and Limerick to do an exchange, your shit for ours, our shit came from a lap dog, theirs came from Cerberus. Ronan and the lads must have been pissing themselves in excitement because they could set up their franchise an awful lot nearer to the Border and nobody was prepared for the onslaught.

I told Glen I got this, it's an obvious reason as to why Boyle was the way it was, easy pickings, the middle of nowhere, access to the ocean and to the river, not enough Gards and only an hour or so's drive away from the North. I got it, I really did and explained as much. But what has this got to do with my old man?

One of the lads from Limerick, an associate of Ronan's was arrested for membership of the IRA, he wasn't anything more than just a fundraiser, going round all the pubs collection like it was the 70's. He wasn't the full shilling but he got talking during the taped interview about how my old man was a traitor because he threatened to shut down pubs and arrest senior figures in the 'RA because he had apparently come by some divine intervention and wanted out even though for years he'd skimmed the cream off the top. I knew myself that the only way out was with more holes in you than a colander.

\- You know that's all bullshit Glen, how the fuck can you use evidence from an unreliable source? He was obviously dropping stuff like that as a distraction from his own fucking mess.

\- That's what I thought and that's why I made some enquiries through non official channels and got hold of Patrick. I told him I didn't believe these accusations but I needed to know if he could make some enquiries of his own with his lot. He came back to me and said that it was true, he was on the take and pubs here were laundering cash and your old man turned a blind eye. The only reason why he could tell me this is because the 'RA guy who was the commander of this area at the time and authorised the execution had gone into hiding and was about to publish a book. He detailed all of the dealings with your old man and how your Dad was the traitor for turning his back. He said that the only honourable thing to do was to kill him.

My eyes were squeezed so tightly shut, biting down on my balled fist listening to this utter shite.

\- Why haven't I seen the book?

\- Wasn't ever published. Patrick said if I reopened the case, then there was no legal way of being able to get the book sold anywhere because it would have an adverse effect on it.

\- He's made you a fucking patsy, and my Dad too. You fucking know in your heart that my Dad hated the IRA. I bet you never saw the book did you? Thought not. What I would imagine the book contained were accusations and confirmations of Patrick's membership and his senior rank. It would probably also show what murders Patrick sanctioned and he realised that politically he was fucked. So you stupidly bought what that fundraiser said and you ended up opening wounds that should have been long healed. What fucking possessed you?

\- I had a duty to investigate, and I didn't want to upset your mother, with you gone and everything?

\- My mother wouldn't have given a shit. Regardless of what happened between the two of them, she knew of his beliefs more than I did. Where's this fundraiser fella?

\- Dead.

\- How?

\- Killed himself in Mountjoy two years ago.

\- Convenient. I'm going to be seeing Patrick in a bit and find out what the fuck is going on.

\- I wouldn't do that.

\- Why not? I'm a bereaved son finding out about what information he has on my Dad, surely you can understand that. Give him a call and ask him to meet me

\- He'll just bullshit you with political speak. It's not worth it Fiachra . I'm only keeping the case open to prevent book publication. I never believed it, I just had to investigate. I'm sorry you found out like this. Patrick was just being a fool to say that in the Royal last night. Just know that we both know it's for the greater good of everyone to not allow this book to be published.

\- What are you more concerned about, my Dad's innocence or protecting Patrick from his own demons? Call him.

\- Fiachra , come on, you know me well enough to know that I see your family as my family, I felt sick doing what I had to do, I know he's innocent.

\- Mate, this is a total head fuck. That Ronan cunt, this cack about my Dad. What the fuck has happened here since I went?

And how the fuck did Ronan get his claws into Sarah and why did he turn a blind eye?

Sure did I not think what state she would be in after I did a Richie James, she went totally off the rails, there was nothing Glen could do, he had enough on his plate with the new residents. I had left with no notice, no goodbyes and gave her no ability for closure. Sarah started hanging a lot more round town, drinking heavily to either remember or probably to forget. She fell in with some crowd from Dublin, started using nose powder, I kindly reminded him that she was still mildly using eight years later.

Glen said he wasn't surprised but she's big enough and stubborn enough to not accept his help. She was getting fucked up far too many times and when she met Ronan he said he would look after her, that she had nothing to worry about anymore. She was drunk at the time and it was probably something she just wanted to hear, he seemed sincere enough and she took him home. A month later she was pregnant and she said he would stay with her. Glen was aware that Ronan could have been sometimes friendly with his fists and Glen warned him about his behaviour and gave him a serious beating last year and that he hadn't touched her since. I told him about the bruising I saw on her face earlier. Glen just nodded and whispered, "prick".

As Glen was finishing his soliloquy he reminded me again that none of this would have happened if I had stayed, and how I have to accept that Sarah is her own person with a family now and I can't interfere.

\- I'll call Patrick now, but don't say I didn't warn you.

With that he walked off to the other side of the room, phone glued to the side of his head.

I was staring out the window into the yard at the flock of crows perched on a telephone wire, no cawing, no fluttering, just there waiting as if Morrigan had dispatched them to let me know either death or war was coming.

It was my fault. I had let them all down, if I had stayed, I would have been able to nip this all in the bud. I would have been able to save them all. Glen was right, Sarah was so very stubborn and would not have listened to him even when what he was saying was right. She had self-preservation on her mind, expecting a child from an absent, emotionally fucked father and a desperate need to be loved. Ronan was a stop-gap that ended up being a permanent fixture, she rebelled against Glen because he must have reminded her of me. Ronan was able to supply her with enough coke to keep her numb and he believed he was the father, she must have had this planned all along. It didn't matter to her that he hit her because he would never leave her and she had to accept the occasional slap was as regular as a Kennedy funeral.

There was a feeling like I swallowed a big stone because she must have been drinking and using whilst pregnant, certainly not the criteria for mother of the year.

I stubbed out the Major on the sill and pegged it out the window.

He walked back over, sort of smiling, sort of trying to doing all he can to keep me happy.

\- He's heading back up to Belfast in a couple of hours but can meet you in Forest Park in half hour.

\- Forest Park?

\- He likes it down there.

I asked Glen if he wanted to sort this out once and for all, he said he did, he said he was sick of not being able to stop the rot. I didn't go into specifics about the real reason for being here but I asked him if he wanted to come with me to Carrick for a drink tonight, hoping that he would, the two of us being able to put a stop to this, I could always use a little bit of help and I knew he was desperate enough to close the book on this. He said he was heading out there anyway after his shift finishes at six. I said grand I had a few little bits to do around town. I told him not to worry, he did all he could and I knew how Sarah was and that I was sorry I wasn't around, I had to go and regret not being there for him, for her and the rest of the town. I put my arm round him and he smiled, he knew I was serious.

We exchanged numbers, I felt sorry for him but could see the weight being peeled off his shoulders.

We shook hands, I said I'd call him later, we nodded at each other and I made my way back out past the changing rooms.

\- Oh, and Michael is my son.

\- I fucking knew it boy, I fucking knew it.
Chapter 21

When I got back out to the reception, Phil was talking on the phone again. I acknowledged him with a nod; he put his hand over the mouthpiece.

\- Did you get what you came for?

\- Most of it.

He brought his hand out for me to shake, I walked over and happily accepted his vice like grip.

\- Be careful out there boy.

\- And yourself, don't forget what I said, get home early.

\- Ah sure I'm on the phone to herself now telling her to get the spuds on.

\- Good man, take it easy now and thanks a million.

\- Thanks for these.

He let go of my hand and showed me the deck of smokes I so dearly missed, obviously not wanting "herself" to hear him declare what he had.

\- I couldn't sponge a couple could I?

\- Knock yourself out.

I opened the box and took a few out, tucked one behind my ear and put the rest inside my jacket. We shook hands again.

\- G'luck

\- And yourself Sergeant Clancy.

\- Would ya ever fuck off.

I walked back up to the road and looked left towards town, nothing of any concern coming up either via car or on foot. I would have at least expected some kind of reprisal- either being followed - or squad cars tearing out of the station to reports of a serious assault, cars on fire, gun shots. Nothing. No sirens.

Nothing.

How long does a justified serial murderer get away with being just an out and out murderer? It's not like I could pen my thoughts down in this time.

Unless I was losing my touch or my mind I had seriously fucked Ronan and his lads up. It wasn't a worry of mine, more an annoyance, screaming out "echo" in the Grand Canyon and not hearing an echo back.

I got a text from Joe to let me know that he's back at Jackie's, no hassles getting there and that Shane is on his way back to town. It was sent ten minutes ago but I didn't have any reception in the Cop Shop so if Shane's got his foot down he should be here any time soon.

It would be nice if I had a notion of what to say to Patrick. We went back a long way and I believed had in his ideals, remembering the past and celebrating the future even though I had to smash a route through for him to achieve peace, it was on his terms. If my old man had actually been on the take, even dirtier than the criminals he was paid to arrest, Patrick in his position as Belfast Commander would have had knowledge of informants, snitches and corrupt law enforcers. He had borrowed me from my employers because of my exceptional skill set, only given facts and figures, never a name until I introduced myself. If he was hiding something, I would have found it, he wouldn't have been unaware of it even if it was true.

Maybe Glen was right that Patrick will bullshit me, give me the political schpeil but Pat had kept quiet enough about my business so I'll remind him that he owes me. He owes me blood, he owes me my blood.

I look back at the nick and Glen's outside having another smoke, on his phone, he turns around, spots me and gives me a quick wave and mouths the words "I'll call ya later". I give him the thumbs up, glad he's on my side and content in the fact that I won't be out there all alone. Shane pulls up down the road and beeps at me, like I wouldn't have noticed him anyway. I give Glen a wave but he's turned back round and walking towards the back of the Cop Shop.

I get into the passenger seat, a bit gentler this time as I didn't want to be pulling bits of spring out of my arse when I got up.

\- Everything ok?

\- Yeah all was fine. They didn't say much but I was told to keep an eye on you.

\- For good reasons?

\- Not sure.

\- Right. Well there's not much I can say to that is there really?

\- Nope. Where are we off to?

\- Forest Park. Just drive me out to the camp site there.

\- Do you need me to wait?

\- Don't think so. Just keep by the phone if I need you again later.

We were already half way there, just coming up to the First Gate of Rockingham, the Gate House itself, all the windows were broken - Young ones with nothing better to do than destroy something beautiful. The trees either side of the road provided a natural roof to the road, arching the road. It was in such a terrible state of disrepair, beer cans and bottles littered the tangle of weeds, the foliage taking over, ivy covered the warped front door. If investors had really wanted tourism in this part of the country, this was surely the first point of call for maintaining.

We drove on for another mile or so then came under the second gate which was just as bad as the first.

Fucking disappointing.

We pulled up into the camp site car park, the grit on the ground was cut up into circles from boy racers doing doughnuts in their Civics. Not a single car was actually parked here. On the verge of the car park were large piles of what looked like industrial rubbish, big sacks full of masonry, plastic piping, a kitchen sink, large kid's toys, a sand pit and domestic waste.

\- Knackers?

\- Yeah they were here for about six months, left a couple of weeks back and left all their shite for somebody else to clean up.

\- Isn't it just their way though? Fuckers. Here's just grand. Listen, here's another hundred, you did well today, no questions asked, just the way it's supposed to be.

\- Will all of this be on the tele?

\- Probably but hopefully the reasons for it too.

\- Say no more chief. I'll see ya.

I didn't say anymore to him, didn't want him thinking we were gonna be mates and hang out, catching up on old times over a few pints.

Once I'd walked off, he spun the car round, creating his own doughnut, kicking up dust and gravel and sped off back to town.

Here goes nothing.

Forest Park was once private land, in the centre of it sat a big fuck-off mansion called Rockingham House. All I knew about it from my Granddad was that once a Protestant land-owner family lived there, lording it over the poor - who was pretty much everyone within a 10 mile radius of the house. There were stables and tunnels down to the lake for storage, which are still there now and which I used to cycle down at high speed when I was a kid, breaking just before I flipped head first into the water \- there was an art in that.

Near by the lake the family had built a Gazebo overlooking Castle Island - quarter of a mile out from the shoreline. Rumour had it the monks, who lived on the island in the 17th century had built tunnels themselves, out to Keash Mountain about 10 miles away and one to where the gazebo now stood. It was never proved - another bullshit rumour like dogs can't look up.

I never saw the house, only in pictures, it burnt down in 1957. A fucking shame, Protestants had good taste in architecture. Like the Nazis - even though they were fascist cunts. What is even more of a shame is that some fuck wit had the idea of building a viewing tower where the house once stood. A monolith to all things 1970's, it was concrete, it was 100 feet tall and it was a monstrosity - and it still stands there today. The money could have been better spent by building a laser and writing "fuck the crown" on the moon.

Parked on the lip of the shore was the blacked out Merc from last night that was outside the Royal. The driver's door opens, and a big lad steps out, wearing a suit that must have shrunk in the wash, he was typical thug material trying to go straight but not making a very good job of it, there was a tattoo of a harp on his left hand and I could see the tail end of another tattoo coming up over his shirt. The top button on his collar was just about holding it together and his head was a colour of angry violet. He was cleanly shaved buy had a couple of nicks on his jaw which looked like it was permanently clenched. He looked like he should have been a skinhead. He looked like a duck out of water.

He opened up the rear offside passenger door and out came an immaculate Patrick Dempsey, a dark grey tailored suit from John Phillips, brown, varnished, brogues, white shirt, gold tie, tied in a Windsor knot and a little metallic green ribbon pin on his left lapel. He was certainly keeping the dream alive. Big smile, big Hollywood, look at my amazing set of pearly white teeth, arm stretched out to shake, striding towards me like he was going to bowl me over.

\- Fiachra , so nice to see you again. I'm must apologise now for upsetting you last night.

Straight to the point, no need for niceties as I smile back and shake his hand

\- Did you know about my Dad when I worked for you?

\- No, no I did not. God, when was that?

\- Six years ago, give or take. Glen spoke to you about four years ago about this lad who got arrested in Boyle and claimed that my Dad was on the take, allowing dirty money to be laundered through the pubs in town and was paid to turn a blind eye is that correct? There was some book that's never been published that confirmed details of this and you suggested to Glen to in affect reopen the case to prevent the book being published?

\- That's about it.

\- Are you mentioned in this book?

\- Probably, I never saw the manuscript, only got given details of people who were reported I the book to be either informants or traitors.

\- And what was my Dad?

\- Lets walk.

\- Lets.

\- What's in your bag?

\- Bits and bobs.

\- Work related bits and bobs? Just hold on for a minute. I'm going to speak to James.

\- James? Your driver is called James?

\- Yes?

\- Don't worry.

They say irony is lost on the young. Don't think the old are too sharp on the uptake.

Patrick spoke to James, I itched with impatience.

I looked up at Castle Island and memories of warm June nights when I was a teen, stealing a boat, bringing over a stereo, food and beers. Me, Sarah and me mates fucking around, getting stoned, lighting fires and miles away from the mainland, dreaming of setting up our own Utopia: free from parents, money for the poor, everyone treated equally as long as we were doing well for ourselves where we could afford private education for our children. Champagne Socialism for Generation X.

Patrick and James looked up at me, James nodded and Patrick walked over to me.

\- Leave your bag here.

\- No.

\- Then we stay here.

\- Fuck man - what do you think I'm gonna do, shoot you, I just want some answers. I've no interest in you and wish you well in becoming First Minister.

\- Take out the magazine from your weapon and leave it here.

\- I have more than one.

\- They stay here too.

\- Honesty is the best policy eh?

\- So I hear.

I took out the Glock and unclipped the magazine, dropped it into my right hand then into the bag. I opened up my bag wide enough for Patrick to look into and he nodded his approval. James should have searched me for the cutthroat.

\- I'm not leaving them here with your man, you've seen inside the bag, you've seen what I've done and if I have to fuck around and dance to your song anymore then I will lose my calm exterior fairly fucking quickly. Fuck me round like this anymore and I'll have no problem going public on our little partnership, you've more to lose than me. I'll imagine we will remain within sight of James and that he's armed. We'll walk up fifty or so meters and I'll leave the bag on the ground, then we carry on walking another fifty meters and stop.

\- OK.

\- OK? O fucking k? - fuck me. Memory loss is a bitch isn't it?

We began to walk down across the lake and followed the shoreline round to the quay and walked up to the domed ice house; it was quiet enough and still within site of the car and James -who I would imagine hadn't taken his eyes off us all the way over.

I dropped off the bag with the top of it open next to a muddy patch of ground.

I explained I didn't have enough time to go through all what I knew because I wasn't too sure what exactly that was. My heads been a fucking mess in all fairness. My dad wasn't with Patricks lot, didn't want any association with them, something stunk and I couldn't believe Glen relied on the evidence of some low ranking, green white and gold flag waving moron and I still couldn't believe that Glen went from this unsubstantiated evidence to ending up speaking to Pat.

Pat was at a Sinn Fein event in town at the time of this arrest, couldn't remember dates and times but it was electioneering of some kind. Glen was at the event and spoke to him after the meeting in a very informal manner. He was concerned about these allegations, didn't want to cause any ripples in a still pond so just asked Pat for some advice as he was in a better position due to his previous career choice. So Pat did some digging, wasn't able to confirm in concrete but was able to ascertain that a Gard in Boyle who was on their books and talking of books, a few months after the request from Glen, the powers that be in Sinn Fein got hold of this manuscript which named snitches, MI5 agents, informers and coppers on the take, both sides of the border. The book would be a major coup, fuck up the Peace Process and be a massive breach of security for all parties. So as well as getting as many injunctions out as possible, it was suggested to start reopening cold cases such as my Dads so the book could never see the light of day. The author went to ground and is apparently somewhere in Spain.

\- Not buried out in some bog somewhere?

\- If only.

The author couldn't be sued because it would draw too much public attention so it was decided to leave him to his own devices safe in the knowledge that the these names will never be printed. Maybe my Dad wasn't on the take but his name had been obtained from somewhere. In the case papers, my Dads murder, it mentioned about this utter nonsensical shite? I'd have to speak to Glen about this. Ok, this wasn't in any way shape or form what I wanted to hear but it made sense even if it was more for Patrick's political career development than tarnishing my Dads name. When I see Glen later I'll ask him to remove and destroy anything that mentions my Dad and any affiliation with our friends in the North.

I felt like Colombo, there's just one more thing.

A few boys in town, Limerick lads, apparent Real IRA, Sarah's partner Ronan and a few who were in the Royal last night, definitely involved, there's talk of a large delivery of Coke coming in on a boat into Carrick tonight, a few billion quid's worth which I'm thinking about intervening. Why would this be of interest to Patrick? What, apart from being possibly the biggest ever shipment into our country, infiltrating it and passing it off between the two of us as striking at the heart of dissident Republican criminality? A golden ticket into Stormont and Westminster? What proof did I have? Patrick then scratches at his face then his shoulder?

\- Dandruff?

\- No, what evidence do you have to this effect?

Dying man's words. And that's all I have to go on? Well it's better than silence. Why spoil something that's good for the country? Good for the country how? Well you see, Patrick has been working with the Irish Government over the last few years to target know drug dealers and gang members on both sides of the border. I may have seen or heard yesterday that one of the last major players, known in the tabloids as "The Judge" had been killed in Ballymun.

Yeah I kind of know all this, skip to the end.

Along with him was a political figure, so corrupt, he looked like a Russian Oligarch. This figure, Sean Daly was leaking classified information about Police movements to O'Connell in exchange for a high income meaning that O'Connell would always stay one step ahead of the Gards.

Hold on, hold on, just back that up a little bit.

Patrick and a couple of senior figures within the Government had put in place a cull of senior criminality to create a vacuum. The vacuum was to be filled with a cross border, Government sanctioned conglomerate who would take ownership of the four billion Euros worth of highly concentrated cocaine, cut it down with a new value of eight billion. That meant that the Governments bank balance would become healthy again and the remaining income would go offshore for the conglomerate earning twenty percent.

What with Noraid gone and Libya a shadow of its former self, the boys still need an income. The war wasn't over, it was only in hibernation. Anything coming in of that value would have surely been flagged up to our friends in the north, and Pat saw an opportunity to manipulate his way into a cash starved Government. Having grabbed the Carmelite candle with both hands, he needed something to do -apart from shooting innocent kids and bombing shopping centres.

This is all very interesting, thinks I and somewhat distressing as I turn us around so that I'm facing out towards James, then turning back round again, scanning the land for any reflections or passers by carrying weaponry.

I felt dazed and confused, it certainly was what I was hearing, didn't mean it was worth believing.

\- I would ask if this was a joke but you're not in the joking business are you? I did see the news yesterday about that incident in Ballymun but I also saw grainy CCTV images of the apparent suspect. If he gets caught, you're fucked.

\- Nothing to do with me, that young man was employed by the Government as an assassin and a very good one at that. We merely created false case files for him and his superior, who sadly is no longer with us as he too found out about our agenda and wanted in on the action. The man in the CCTV images should have been killed by armed officers off the back of a very reliable tip off but he escaped. If he knows what's best, he'll have already left the country or even better, come by an unfortunate accident like his superior.

My bag.

\- This process has been long and arduous, nearly running in parallel with the Good Friday Agreement. We needed a way to filter the income through legitimate businesses so we did dry runs in several towns across the State. We also needed to find a place that was near enough to the pickup point, under the radar with cops we could trust.

This wasn't necessarily what I wanted to hear - because I'd clearly been so stupid not realising, that my old man figured out the cover up and was about to expose it.

\- What are you telling me Pat?

Why did I think, especially now with businesses going bust every day and the Republic begging for a bail-out from the EU, that all the pubs and bars in a town where a majority of people are unemployed stayed open?

\- Fuck.

Indeed.

The 'RA had laundered their vast quantities of dirty cash through the pubs and bars. It was obvious.

The pubs were always dead, didn't mean they weren't turning over a nice healthy profit.

No way could 30 or so venues stay open with a population of three thousand odd. It was simple and effective, racketeering the whole town, keeping them high on their own supply.

It was so fucking obvious, why had I not figured this out?

Itching hands, scouting eyes, it felt like I'd chomped down on a couple of fat lines.

Keeping the whole town subversive by keeping them either drunk or stoned enabled a fairly sophisticated operation which supplied the North West , the North and Dublin. That's half the country if you include the counties run from Stormont.

Doctor the books in all the bars, you'd think they were packed out every night, keep the barrels coming in, selling the surplus to other bars in other towns at an inflated rate. Dirty money, money for bullets, money for semtex, clean money.

\- There's no need for bombs and bullets anymore.

There is always a need, them lads still think they are at war. This is now just about greed and being the big boys, them eastern European lads, the Russian mafia, bring over prostitutes, setting up protection rackets, small time shit.

\- The big bully in the playground eh?

Something like that. We have the infrastructure, the know-how, the history, this is our land to do what we want. We don't kill RUC officers anymore, we get them fucked up, film them with our prostitutes, smacked off their tits and get them killed via the political route. This time next year I'll be shaking hands with the Queen, my dirty, blood covered hands.

\- What the fuck do you mean?

My stomach lurching downwards, looking over at James, sat on the bonnet of his car, hands behind his back. Patrick just looking back to nod.

\- What the fuck was that?

Letting James know he was ok, that the conversation was nearly over.

\- Is it? Could you trust my Dad?

If I hadn't it figured it out now, then I may just not be as clever as he had me down for.

\- You are fucking kidding me.

He was afraid that he wasn't. Wasn't it very convenient that he was only down the road in Sligo on the day his shipment was coming in? He's the respectable, sincere, baby-hugging, hand-shaking, factory-opening, teeth-whitening, family man and politician. A new way on the old road, hug a protestant, photo opportunity with Trimble or Paisley or the Queen. He'd never fire first at the army, or shoot a rocket at a passing patrol car, or put a coded message into the local papers. What was the point, he could get killed or heaven forbid arrested. Now? The glory of the political limelight awaits, First Minister and still in the high command.

The big conundrum, finally opening up to reveal itself.

I was set-up in Belfast, a patsy, a gun for hire, plausible deniability. The lads I killed must have figured out Patricks moonlighting. They were progressive republicans who wanted to totally move away from violence and saw Pat was keeping his fingers dirty with drug money, what a fucking ambassador, I felt nauseous.

\- I guess this is the part where I die?

I opened the switchblade in my jacket pocket.

Clear line of sight on the front of the car, five seconds to run to my bag, slot the magazine back into the Glock. Duck and roll, prick around, expect some return fire. I stood in front of Patrick, blocking James' view. Wherever those kids and couple were, I couldn't see them anymore. I grabbed a fistful of Patrick's Saville Row suit - fucking British when he wants to be - and got my razor blade out, pulled it fully open and dug it into his left cheek. He squealed and I dug it deeper, the blood pouring onto my hands. I dug it in so much that I could see the blade pierce the inside of his mouth.

\- Guess what? I'm that guy in the CCTV images

We knelt together as the first shot whizzed past me. James - running up towards us. I let go of Patrick, leaving the blade in his mouth, James was still running towards me. I crouch and run over to my bag I got the clip out, grabbed the Glock - second shot nicks my shoulder and forces me back - I drop the gun. Still running, he's now fifty metres away, shit fucking shot. I duck down, leaning forward, grab the gun, slot the magazine in – bang –his right knee smashed, falling forwards, gun out of his hands, on the floor screaming, I shoot him in the throat to shut him up.

I crawl back over and kneel on Patrick.

\- Did you kill my dad?

Gurgle gurgle bubble bubble – shock. I twist the blade, the shriek of agony left me tempted to shoot him in the throat too but I needed to know. I needed to know everything. I took the blade out, and wiped it on his blood covered suit, placed it up against his right cheek.

\- Did you kill my dad?

I'd gone too far, blood pissing out everywhere, vacant stare, I hadn't hit an artery but I may as well have, the amount of claret.

\- You betrayed your country, your people and more importantly, you betrayed me. Didn't anyone ever tell you to never piss me off?

I applied pressure to the wound I'd made, I didn't want him to bleed out on me and die of a heart attack. Anyone looking on would think from the way I'm holding him that I was comforting him. A loving son, kneeling over his dying father. I never did this with my old man but the only people he betrayed were his family.

\- If I let go of the wound, you will bleed out and if you don't answer me, I'll cut you again. Best be quick about it.

My right hand was keeping the wound on his left cheek closed, blood was still seeping through. I moved my left hand – the one with the blade in - from his right cheek to under his right eye. His fear focused on the pressure I applied, I was trying to scoop his eye out like an oyster from its shell.

Whisper, fragmented sentence, stuttering like a nervous child with a switchblade under his eye.

\- Your Da wasn't part of this.

\- I didn't fucking ask you that did I? Don't give me scraps ya traitorous cunt. I'm not playing fucking games, I'm gonna kill you one way or the other.

\- He found out who was running the operation from Boyle. I was told and I ordered the kill but I don't like to get my hands dirty.

\- Too much blood on them already. Who's running the operation here?

\- Doesn't matter, he knows what you are here for, you'll be dead soon after me.

\- I very much doubt that.

With that, I dropped the blade and brought down the heel of my palm onto the bridge of Patricks nose, bursting it. Pushing the bone towards his brain. Fuck the idea of an open coffin, my da didn't get one. He bucked and I brought my heel down again and again and again, white light, violent sprays of red, he went limp and I kept banging the heel of my palm down again and again. I only stopped when I felt like I was going to pass out and I looked down at the destruction of Patricks face. It looked like a fleshy concave lens. I'd broken his nose, cheek bones and eye sockets, the front part of his skull had totally fractured and pushed into his brain.

I had killed the future first minister of Northern Ireland. Political saviour, member of the IRA's high council, drug runner and one of the men who killed my da. It wouldn't have mattered who he was, a nobody or a somebody, he tricked me, keeping me close, knowing my career choice and threatened by the possibility of what I'd just done ever happening.

I was in an awful lot of trouble now.

Good thing I've a voice recorder on my phone.

To me, this was just unfinished business from the last two days, that smack head cunt on the DART had gotten away with just having the shit kicked out of him, my earlier hits were bog standard and amateurish, except now, for this and going forward, I'd turned the volume up to eleven.

Still nobody around but someone would have heard the shots fired and called the cops.

I dragged Patrick's body towards the ice house, it felt like I was pulling a tonne weight. The ice house had a ten foot drop into it. It was dark and I could barely make out the bottom. I dragged him up over the lip of the mouth, kicked him over and let gravity do the rest.

A couple of seconds later I heard glass smash under the dead weight of Patrick but I was already moving back to James. The wound in his throat was so wide and deep, I could see the top of his spine. I searched him first, got out his wallet with 300 euros and 300 British pounds. I pocketed that, looked through his credit cards and scrawled on the back of a donor card was today's date, a time: "21:00 hrs" and "marina". Thank you so much James - the meet once the gear had been taken off the boat. Inside his jacket pocket was a couple of spare magazines for his H&K 9mm, and on the ground next to him was the firearm. Both the rounds and firearm got tucked in my inside right jacket pocket. His mobile was inside his suit jacket and I grabbed that for contacts and to text his Missus some filth.

I got my hands in under his shoulders, dragging him up and over into the ice house. My back was fucked. I jogged down to the lake and one of the Swans, facing away but just in front of me, didn't notice as I kneeled down and I wiped the blood off onto its feathers. It flapped its wings, squeaked and leant its neck round to take a bite out of me, I was ready enough for it and punched the Swan in the head. I hate fucking Swans. It wasn't lazily gliding across the water after that as it rushed off as fast as its little legs could kick.

There's a thought.

Patrick's car, I now had transport.

I sheepishly tried the driver side door, it opened with no alarm, idiot - I thought. But then I don't think he imagined having to leave the car so quick to save his boss, forgetting the simple things like locking the door and even taking the key out of the ignition, not a great chauffeur or bodyguard for that matter. I knew the unionist terrorists weren't normally recognised as the cleverest of men, but I would have thought James - as a republican martyr - would have been able to do the basics, there are some sneaky fuckers out there, I was one of them.

I knew the boys in blue or the boys in green wouldn't be too far away. I turned the engine over and it started straight away - this was a Mercedes after all - and I checked my mirrors, you can never be too safe, I stuck it into reverse, put my foot on the accelerator and pressed it down to the floor, took the handbrake off and shot backwards away from the lake. I fancied doing a quick 180, remembering my days as a Honda Civic boy racer, I turned the wheel left and brought up the handbrake taking my foot off the accelerator and the car lurched round so smoothly, pulling my body to the right. Outside, everything became a blur and when I came to a halt, I was facing the lake again.

\- Fuck sake.

I'd done a 360, thank fuck there was nobody there to see the humiliating manoeuvre.

I did a three point turn and headed back out of the park, safety first.

Betrayed is the buzz word for how I felt at that moment. If I were psychotic enough I'd punch myself hard in the face for being so completely and utterly stupid and not realising I was being played.

Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Patrick had invited me in, knowing all along that I was too volatile and would one day seek vengeance. He gave me his bullshit electioneering schpiel, assurances of handshakes and progression. I was told with absolute sincerity that my role, my very secret, very dirty role would never be forgotten and how it was for the greater good of the whole of Ireland. In fact what I'd done was set Ireland back to the good old bad old days.

Was he a sociopath or a narcissist or a psychopath? The modern day version of the unholy trinity.

Stupid, stupid idiot.

He'd green-lighted my father's death. He hadn't pulled the trigger but he had orchestrated the whole set up. He'd been the ultimate master of puppets, but I'd cut the strings then cut him and it felt good. I don't care about the more than certain repercussions because if I can do what I'd just done, I could get away with anything.

Instead of poking the hornets' nest with a big stick, I drop kicked it and then stood there naked waiting to get stung.

The blood on my hands was sticking to the steering wheel. By the clock on the dashboard, it was just coming up to four. Only a few more hours to go. I suddenly felt drained. I needed to sleep for an eternity.

I drove out of the park, and turned right onto the Carrick Road towards town. Drug paranoia hit and I felt the sounds of the sirens from all around. Units from Carrick and units from Boyle. I turned left onto a dirt track leading up to a farm that overlooked the road and immediately turned right into an overgrown field, drove a further ten or so metres and cut the engine. There was a thick hedge or rose bush on my right which ran the whole road side length of the field, whoever was driving past couldn't see in and vice versa for me. I already had the car in reverse waiting for the police cars that never came to disappear and I waited for fifteen minutes then switched the ignition, swinging the car out and back out onto the road.

No sirens.

Up to first and the wheels spun and kicked up gravel and I shot out and left.

The sweat had soaked the chair, as I moved forward, I could feel my shirt peeling off my back.

I figured there was one place I could go to and lay low. I missed the turning for town and headed to my mother's home.

Chapter 22

I drove up the old Sligo road, climbing the Curlew Mountains. Not the quickest route home, but I could look over to my left and down onto the road we lived on, so I could look out for any flashing blue lights or parked up cop cars.

Nearing the top, I turned left onto a single lane road. Tufts of grass marking the central line and more potholes than an acne-scarred Brian Adams. I drove slowly down the road, not wanting to fuck up the chassis - an old Massey Ferguson tractor was coming out of a side lane a bit further down and turned up towards me. The old farmer in the cab was John Carey, he owned all the lush green land on my right, and fuck me - he was still alive. He used to smoke roll ups and put them out by spitting into the palm of his hand and stubbing them out on his wet hand. Glen and I used to think he wasn't the full shilling. Always had a tune to whistle when I helped him bail hay, a song in his head that he never knew the full lyrics of. I'm sure he used to sing Caledonia, but it could have been Seven Drunken Nights or Wannabe - he was that fucking tone deaf.

I pulled in to let him pass and he acknowledged me with a wink and wave of his hand, I raised my bloodied hand in return. The road rules of the wesht, acknowledge every driver you know with a brief wave and as my dad did, I acknowledged everyone. "Always nice to be nice son". He said, when I asked why he waved to people he didn't know. I thought - it would be nice if you were nice to us once in a while.

I got down to the bottom of the hill and drove up towards town; the house was set back from the road on my right.

Two things I noticed: There's new gravel down on the drive like chipped up slate and the house was now whitewashed when it used to be eggshell yellow for all the time I lived there. The front garden was freshly turfed, and greener than the first day at Wimbledon. Unless she'd won the lottery, she must have got a fella in there. Stabbing anger behind my eyes, how could she betray my dad? Fuck sake.

The front door was open and there was smoke coming out of the chimney. The smell of peat from the burning briquettes filling my lungs and evoking innocent memories.

I parked up out the front, killed the engine and just sat there - looking at a house that used to be my home. I grabbed my bag off the passenger seat, rummaged around for the coke, found it, opened it up, poured a small mound onto my thumb, and sniffed it up. I re-sealed the bag and put it back, along with James' gun and spare magazines. I zipped up the bag and put it back on the passenger seat. I took out James' phone - a brand new iPhone - unlocked it and it required a pin - four digits. I looked up at the house, no movement...1st attempt 1111, failure. Second attempt 0000, failure. What was the date of birth on his licence? Fuck can't remember. No idea how many attempts I had left.

I thought of a combination for the fun of it, 1916 and the screen changed and showed me the menu screen. I thought - what a cock, get over it.

I glanced up at the house – nothing. Mother still as secure as ever, I mean she could have a murderer outside or anything. I tapped the text icon and saw his last text was to "Niamh" stating he'll be home late, and what was for dinner?

Bingo.

So I write; wear something special for me tonight, can't wait to get home and smash your back doors in then cum on your face...I'm stiff now thinking bout it.

Send.

I look through the pictures next just in case there's any naked ones but only photographs of the marina in Carrick. What a result. I send them in an email to my own address.

Just as my excitement levels were rising, I glance up to see mum staring into the car at me, her hand up to her forehead to protect her eyes from the sunlight; it was overcast, silly cow.

I grab my bag off the passenger seat, stick James' phone in there and get out of the car.

\- You can take your hand down now.

\- Have you come here to apologise?

\- Apologise for what?

She brought her hand down, looking blankly at me.

-If you don't know, you're not welcome here.

With that, she walked back inside.

It was so nice to be home and see my mother in such an unexpectedly jovial mood.

\- Fuck sake.

We must be cautious.

There was a standpipe attached to the outside wall with a garden hose attached to it. I pulled off the hose and washed the nearly dry blood off my hands under the cold-water gush.

Wasn't like I was expecting a warm welcome.

The apology she's waiting for will never come, because I didn't make my dad hit my mum or make my dad leave us or put a bullet in his brain.

I ran away not because of my dad -he was dead. I ran away because of my mum -she's psychotic.

I follow her in and she's in the kitchen pretending to wash dishes or dry up or whatever normally happens in the kitchen.

\- Eight years and you still blame me? You're absolutely fucking mental.

Dramatic firm hands bang down on the work surface

\- You have some cheek to come back, you think you can wander in out of the gutter and expect everyone to dance to your tune.

\- What are you on about I haven't even said a word and you're on at me about things I had no control over.

\- What are you doing in my house?

\- Your house is it?

\- Well it's not yours is it? You never even used it when you were here. You just expected everything would be done for you and you could come and go as you wanted. You thought you could live here buckshee.

\- What the fuck is buckshee?

\- For free.

\- Well next time, I'll let you get raped and then I'll pay my rent will I?

\- Out, get out.

\- Same old same old eh, don't like the truth. You're fucking mad; you should be in a padded fucking cell.

Being pushed now, not budging

\- You are still blaming me for standing up for you!

\- I didn't need looking after.

\- You used to get drunk and blame me for all the other times I never stood in. That's why I fucking left - you were wrecking my head, it's still fucking wrecked. How could you even think about blaming me? I was a child, you should have been protecting me, not the other way round.

It was like God had a big old remote control and pressed pause on the night I left Boyle for good. Paused with my mum screaming out the door at me, her last memory would have been of me giving her the v sign, the only conscious thing I could do as my brain had been turned to baby food by her psychotic, drunken rants.

It was like arguing with a bag of rats, I thought we would be arguing about one thing or another, normally it starts off with my failure in protecting her, which I casually reminded her I did and that's why Dad left, then it'll be about Sarah or her brother or the fact that gravity exists and when I actually try and bring the argument back to reality and remind her of what we were actually speaking about, she'll deny it.

What really pissed me off though was her fucking popularity, everyone would always tell me my much was such a lovely woman, a strong woman, a lioness. I would question if we were talking about the same person because apparently it was just me privileged enough to see her during her dark phases.

Ah Fiachra , your mums so funny when she's drunk.

I knew I was getting desperate for places to go, but this was certainly desperate.

All families suffer the same trait \- bad blood is family blood. Regardless of time lapsed, she had picked up immediately from where we left off. Everything had got older and moved on, except my dear old psychopathic mother.

My brain started to feel mushy and I wish it was because of the coke

I can't win and I can't kill her, what a bind I'm in.

Change of course, change of tactic, smoke screen.

\- When did you do the garden?

Quiet tones, the words weren't coming out like a serrated blade anymore, forcing her to think of something apart from getting her pound of flesh and she would become distracted with her own self-importance.

\- That was only done a few months back, your dad would never do anything to it - and I'm not getting any younger.

Who did do it then?

\- You're not even 60 yet.

\- I will be in January, I've a party organised for the Landmark, don't suppose you'll be there?

\- Ah, you never know - I see Carrick has become quite gentrified. Who did the garden for you then?

I'm trying to keep that guise up for my mother - my Norman Bates-inducing mother. She obviously had some new fella hidden away, up in the attic, and was doing her best to tell me by not telling me. Without me making her know that I wanted to flay her skin and just keep my head down like a poor Tommy in the trenches, she is casually, knowingly inducing the rage that sent me over the edge eight years ago, making me put my head over the parapet.

They fuck you up your mum and dad, they don't mean to but they do.

She ignored my question about the newly gentrified Carrick and the handyman in her life, saying:

\- I saw Sarah in town the other day; she ignored me, the bitch.

This was duly ignored, twitchy hands firmly in pockets, leaning against the work surface, looking out over the Fairgreen - composure, a fucking symphony of composure.

\- What's his name?

\- Who?

Fucking who.

\- The new man in your life?

\- None of your business. Why are you back?

Always nice to feel welcome.

If I'm honest about what I am here for, she'll still suggest I was lying or winding her up.

Fuck it, deep breath:

\- I'm in the Special Detective Unit and been seconded to the G2; I get paid a fortune to kill people. My new assignment is to intercept a boat-full of coke, landing at Carrick tonight - Kill the smugglers, and uncover a plot, a Government conspiracy if you will to kill very well-known criminals and set up their own drug dealing franchise raising enough capital to end the austerity measures and carry on the Republican war against the British. What with the recession and all, as the Tesco slogan says: every little helps. The lads I'm going after also killed dad, because he had got a sniff of what was going on and they killed him for it. I'm going to burn the drugs along with the smugglers, and then I'm leaving this godforsaken shit-heap of a country for good - with Sarah and our son.

\- Son?

\- Michael is mine, you fucked that up too. Believe me or not, you've no idea of what the fuck is going on under your nose. You and dad created a monster in me, an artist of violence and chemical stimuli - and tonight I'm creating my final masterpiece, my swan song.

\- You've gone mad.

She was probably right, I'd gone mad, prodding my finger into her bony chest as she tried her best to cry.

\- Mother I was always mad. It's as certain as the tides, lunar, lunatic.

\- What are you on about?

Ignoring her as I started to pace up and down the kitchen, knowing this was the most stupid idea of the day so far, seeing my mother.

\- Do you know what nemesis means?

\- Sorry?

\- Do you know what fucking nemesis means?

\- No.

\- A righteous infliction of retribution, manifested by an appropriate agent.

She looked on at me cluelessly as I went over to pick up my bag, knowing I'd said too much. I wouldn't be getting a Christmas card this year, she'd more than likely call the cops on me, I wonder if Glen had been up?

\- A what?

\- Look it up mum.

\- You abomination.

\- I came from you.

\- You total abomination.

\- Still came from you.

\- Wait until I tell Patrick about you, he has connections.

\- That your new man is it, Patrick?

\- That's right - and guess what?

I'd already guessed, and before I spoiled her surprise I'm thinking - what a cunt. I've told her I'm going to kill the people who killed dad, she thinks I'm mad and will now grass me up, trying to fuck me over and she wouldn't think twice about doing it. How I wanted to kill her so. And Patrick, the devious, evil baldy cunt, part-time terrorist and domesticated handyman - fucking my mum. He would have got away with it if it wasn't for her pesky kid.

My mum, the cougar, vacuous and needing more than a plastic toy to keep her happy, jumped into bed with the enemy.

\- By Patrick, I take it you mean the supposed future first minister of Northern Ireland?

And then the laughter came, as I started out the door and she went to her phone, dialling his number.

\- Cold.

Puts the phone up to her ear, I was laughing in her face – I said:

\- Colder.

\- It's ringing.

\- I couldn't give a fuck...

\- Voicemail...

\- Ice-house freezing.

She hangs up.

I leave by the door I came in, tears streaming down, laughing at the Greek fucking tragedy. Open the car; sling the bag in, turn on the radio, which is blaring. I reverse back. Past caring if the police interview her, I have plans.

She walks to the door as I'm speeding back out the drive. I turn hard right, and drive onto the newly laid lawn. Brake, hand brake up, foot down on the gas, first gear, then the steering wheel hard down to the left. I released the handbrake and speed around in the car, cutting up the turf, doughnuts the boy racers in town would be proud of. I stopped, facing out onto the road, gave my mum the same salute I did eight years ago and floored it, turning left and back up the mountain.

I guess I was going to Keash.

Chapter 23

I started whistling the Littlest Hobo theme, it was apt enough for my situation.

I felt like a roast chicken that had been left on full heat overnight, completely burnt out and half the person I used to be.

It wasn't adrenaline anymore, it wasn't the coke, it wasn't the need for vengeance or the liberation of my town.

My stomach felt like it was corroding and taking everything internal with it.

Despite being the biggest liar outside of the war crime courts in The Hague, I needed to know the truth.

I floored it up the mountain, 2nd gear all the way hitting every pot-hole. Cranking, scraping metal and firing out loose chippings into the ditches and up onto the windows. I was being thrown around like a child in the arms of a drunken abusive parent, with the knowledge of no tomorrow. I punched the dashboard, the casing around the stereo broke away and the pain seared through my arm but I kept at it, imagining my mother's face. The betrayal - the carcinogen that gave birth to me.

I grabbed the steering wheel like my death depended on it and the pain intensified but made my focus even that much clearer.

At the top, I turned left and drove at breakneck speed, the red fuchsias on either side going past in such a blur it was if I was driving through fire.

I'd been royally fucked

Dublin, not his conglomerate, couldn't allow Patrick to operate like this, biding their time to be able to justify taking him out - and taking me out in the process.

Was this what it was? A set up all along, an over elaborately orchestrated set up? No, that's just beyond ridiculous, they wouldn't have even known that I'd travel to Boyle and they probably didn't even know who I was. Our cell was tight, but my superior wanted in, what did he know and how did he know?

Surely not.

If, and it's a big fucking if.

The drugs weren't the reason, they were just the accelerant. They wanted him disposed of. No way would it go down too well, with either the Irish or British Governments, to have a supposed former IRA man and drug-runner taking up such a pivotal political position, with such sway over both countries.

So - there were murky meetings in even murkier surroundings. Deals agreed on, hand-shaking, pats on the back, gentleman's agreements.

I can see it now.

The British gave us 15 billion euro to bail us out of our monumental fuck-up with the banks, and their oh so generous lending. But, they wouldn't part with it until we made an agreement, not just on the return of their investment but on tidying up a few matters.

But the money from the coke would help them bail them out themselves, how could the sudden unexpected credit be justified to the European Union or even worse, the Brits.

It's all fucking supposition.

I would imagine MI5 or Special Branch would have had an active file on Patrick Dempsey, but why put their men at risk or - heaven forbid - have accusations of a British assassination on Irish soil, they did enough of that in the 70's. They would have known about his penchant for drug money, but it was an Irish concern. They probably even knew Patrick sanctioned my father's death. It only became their concern when he was getting close to first past the First Minister's post.

It was just coincidence that the drugs were going through Boyle. But, when the request came, Dublin knew exactly who to send.

Would they let one of their men, Sean Daly, get murdered, just to flush out Patrick and his lads? I can't ignore the possibility that the shadows knew who I was and just hedged their bets that I would return home, where nobody would believe I would return, at least I thought like that.

My fucking head.

I had a number for the office. It wouldn't go straight through, I'd need to identify myself to the girl who answered the phone. She would say I'd got through to Leinster Environmental Hygiene, I'd ask to speak to the third secretary, my superior. Whoever answers will know it's me and whoever answers me will answer my questions.

Phone, where's the fucking phone, in the fucking bag. I was on hold for at least 10 seconds.

\- Fiachra ?

\- Who's this?

\- You need to come in.

\- Do I? Where did the intel come from?

\- Sorry?

\- The intel - where did it come from?

\- What intel? You need to come back down to Dublin.

\- Patrick Dempsey.

\- That's confidential.

\- Is it? Well, shall I tell you where I think it came from? Seeing as I thought we were on the same fucking team.

\- I've had enough of your fucking insolence I want an update, where are you?

\- Westminster, the intel came from Westminster?

Pause, a little catch on the back of his throat as he swallowed, or from the realisation is that nothing's fucking secret and I'm not fucking stupid.

\- What makes you say that?

Bingo.

\- You know what? That stereotype about the Irish being thick, it's not all of us, it's you, you stupid, thick fucking cunt. Tell your owners that it's one down and one to go. Go on, ya little fucking lap-dog. When I get back to Dublin, I'll come find ya, and buy you a pint of piss and arsenic

\- Just you...

Bang, phone down.

If he was tracing the call, he'd be searching for a dead man's phone. I broke suddenly, forgetting my lack of seat belt, and I careered head first into the steering wheel, splitting the skin on the bridge of my nose.

\- Ah, for fuck sake

I sat back in the seat applying pressure to my nose, measuring my breathing, applying the rules my therapist gave me to control my breathing and not let the breathing control me.

I'd driven on auto-pilot, and with all my pondering and join the dots deduction I didn't realise I'd crossed over into Sligo, and was parked in the middle of a forest of pine trees planted by the forestry commission.

The road was flat and straight, no traffic in front or behind. I rushed around to the boot, opened it and thank fuck there was a jerry can half-full of petrol.

I took the container and the phone, walked about 10 metres into the forest, dropped the phone onto the floor and stamped the heel of my foot on in several times. I then got onto my knees and clawed at the ground with my hands, digging out a little hollow, and I put the smashed up phone into it. I removed all the leaves and twigs from around the hollow, then poured some of the petrol from the container into it, set light to it and watched as the flames consumed the phone.

I ran back up to the bar, dumped the jerry can back into the boot, shut it and got back into the driver's seat. No one would be able to see the fire from the road, and I was happy enough knowing that it would burn out soon enough.

Within five minutes, I was driving up the track to my granny's house. I knew to park around the back of the house, in case any nosey fucker wanted to look in. I wouldn't want to raise too many suspicions or arouse the curious local Gards. I hoped Sarah had done the same.

I entered in the code on my phone, quarter of a mile away and drove on

The empty dilapidated cow shed stood to my right. What had once been a bright red, sturdy wooden barn door, which I had helped to paint, now looked a piece of flotsam hung up by a carpenter with Jeremy Beadle hands. A football shot across the car and hit the door with enough force to split the door. I opened the passenger window and leaned over to see my son smiling at the destruction he was causing.

\- You could play for Ireland with a foot like that son.

\- What happened to your face?

\- Forgot to wear my seatbelt.

\- That was silly, don't you read the warning posters on the lamp posts?

\- What do they say?

\- To belt up or you get points on your licence.

\- I'll have to watch out for them.

\- I like your car.

I got out of the car and walked round to Michael, I tried to knock the ball out from under his foot but he was too quick for me and manoeuvred it out of my way with ease.

He smiled \- mugging me off, and I smiled back at the cheekiness of my son, and the knowledge that I can do what my dad couldn't - be a father.

I wouldn't miss this life I'd carved out with a jagged blade. In Michael and Sarah I saw a way out, a penance for my sins that I coveted. I think back to just a few hours back, where I gate-crashed back into Sarah's life and entered Michael's, how Sarah had seemed so reticent to see me \- despised me for disappearing - but freely gave up Ronan without much fuss, and told me about our son. They weren't my way out, I was theirs.

\- Where's your mum?

\- Sleeping.

\- OK if I go in and see her?

\- Sure, OK.

\- Pass me the ball quick.

Quick little flick of his right foot, he was left handed like me and the ball was placed at my feet.

\- Ronaldo, eh?

\- Nah, Beckham.

I trapped the ball under my foot.

\- Tackle me.

Thinking I'll show ya, and he walks up all nonchalant like, feigns a move to my left, I move the ball right and he comes round with his left foot and nicks the ball off me.

Fuck sake.

\- Ah, I let you have that one.

Laughter, crashing over me like warm pacific waves.

\- Yeah right

\- Once I've had a word with your mum, I'll show ya some of my silky skills that never got me picked for any team. Yeah?

\- Yeah OK, you can be goalie.

\- Christ, it's like being back at school. I'll see you in a while. If anyone drives up the road could you come in and let me know?

\- For a couple of Euro?

\- Yeah right.

There was an electric kettle on the table, recently boiled and a small carton of milk next to it. I smelt the milk, it was fresh. I clicked the kettle back on, got a teabag from a recently opened box of Barry's, and dumped it in one of the mugs on the sill. I made a tea strong enough to stand the spoon in. I looked out the window at Michael playing keepy uppy, smiled, my family, fogged up in pipe dream thoughts of just running away. Not now though, too close to the finishing line, with more than enough blood spilled. A few more pints would just go unnoticed.

I walk back out into the corridor, up to the end, to the only door that was shut, my granny's old room where Sarah was.

I knock, from behind the door.

\- Yeah?

\- It's me.

\- Hold on.

Hold on? Please don't be using drugs. Please just be naked or something and just wanting to cover yourself up. I take a mouth full of scalding tea, loving how it heats me up on the way down.

\- Come in.

The room was in darkness but the crack in the curtains let a sliver of light fall across the bed. Sarah was fully clothed and laying on top of the quilt.

\- Can't get the light to work.

\- You mean you can't reach the fitting.

\- Pretty much.

\- Hold on.

I jump up onto the bed and reach up to the bulb, it wasn't fully secured in and as I turned it, the sudden brightness made us both squeeze our eyes shut.

\- There ya go.

\- My hero.

\- Sarcasm was never your best feature ya know.

\- Really?

\- Funny.

As she opened her eyes, she looked horrified at the state I was in. I hadn't caught a look at my reflection for a while so I wasn't able to establish how battered I looked.

\- What the fuck happened to you?

Couldn't tell if it was annoyance or concern.

And it just happened. Eight years of pressure. Eight years of rage contained within a vessel of flesh that had been conditioned into thriving off pain. I opened my arms out and she came into them, and I cried and cried and cried.

Chapter 24

The morning after my dad had walked out on his family, a clear dereliction of duty, I was woken up early by the sound of intense hoovering. It was a Saturday, and I normally enjoyed a lay in until the early afternoon. I was 16 after all, and had no interest in joining the Gards or becoming a member of the Secret Service, I didn't even know what the G2 was.

Sarah was on the periphery of my consciousness. At that point, she was just Glen's sister, attractive and a fantasy of punching way above my weight.

We revolved in different social circles and those circles only seemed to converge at the weekend - either in town or out at Cartown - where I'd always have had a skin-full, and flush so red I thought my spots would pop when we'd "bump" into each other. Glen would be off with some girl, shifting her or getting a wank outside, I'd stalk round the dance floor trying to pick out any girl, any.

After several failed attempts, I'd try and find Glen to suggest we go home but I could never find him and I'd get more and more wound up as the bass from the amps punched my head in.

Then I'd see Sarah, and try to latch onto her group, coincidentally meeting her at the bar or outside the jacks. She'd ask me to join her friends, a focal point of their amusement. A greasy, spotty, self-conscious 16 year old with so much confidence and charm it could be written on the back of a stamp. So rather than walking round by myself, I was now by myself within a group of young women. At one point or other I'd wanked thinking about each one of them.

I was alone, so very alone.

That morning, the morning after my dad left, nine years before he died, I scowled - the rage, after 16 years of gestation - had been born. I just didn't know what to do with it.

I could hear my mum singing over the sound of the hoover, tone deaf, trying her best to keep the wolf from the door. My day had already been planned out with Glen, hang round town, drink, go to Cartown, get drunk, come home. The cycle of tedium. All I could feel was pent up energy and determination to do something to break the cycle.

I got up and opened the curtains expecting to be bathed in light, but all I got was lead coloured clouds and torrential rain. From birth to baptism in five minutes. I picked up all the crap off the floor; school work, CD's, Loaded magazine's with their pages stuck together. I put all the CD's back in their cases, found a carrier bag and dumped all the magazines in there. All my school work was piled up neatly on my desk.

I had space of the floor on which to mould myself. 50 press-ups took forever, my arms caught fire, but the pain seemed to carry me forward. I then lay on the un-hoovered floor, bits of toe-nail stuck to my face.

Fuck this.

I then turned myself onto my back and did 50 sit ups, agonising pain after 30 but I knew I had to carry on.

The phone rang in the folks room. Mum was still singing and hoovering.

\- Mum the phone....mum!!!

I stood up, out of breath and brushed crumbs off my chest and back. The phone still ringing. I opened the door and the volume of the hoovering was too loud for mum to hear me, let alone herself. So I walked into their room, the bed still made, she probably fell asleep on the sofa with a litre of vodka for company. Whoever was calling was insistent. I picked it up.

\- Hello?

\- Fiachra ?

\- Yeah?

\- It's me, dad.

\- I know.

\- Where's your mother?

\- Hoovering.

\- Can you put her on?

\- No.

\- You shouldn't have seen what happened last night.

\- Would it have been easier if I was out?

\- What do you mean?

\- Well, you're not apologising are you, you're more concerned about the fact I interrupted you - like I was an inconvenience.

\- Now hold on.

\- I should have said that to you last night.

\- Don't you get funny with....

\- Who said I was laughing? You're not wanted here anymore. Come get your stuff when mum's out. I'll call your buddies on ya if you do anything else.

\- Who do you fucking think you are?

\- Your son.

I banged the phone down, went back to my room just before I got in mum was on the stairs coming up.

\- That was father on the phone.

\- What did he say?

\- Not much.

\- What did he say?

\- He said he's glad he got out while he could. He'll wait until you're out, and he'll get his stuff. I said I'd pack it and leave it out on the road?

\- What did you tell him that for?

-'Cause he's a cunt.

And that's when the lying began. But my dad was a cunt. The power had shifted, I was suddenly the man of the house. That normally happens to the son when the father dies, but my dad was dead to me so what did it matter? I lied to protect my mum, to create a chasm between them that could never be sealed, through guilt or love.

I went back into my room, turned, looked at my mum and shut the door in her face.

They created me. Not just in the conception. They created my psychosis, my anger, my rage. The vacuum of love lost needed to be filled by another.

That other was Sarah.

After countless press ups, I showered, and washed away the artist formally known as Fiachra . I wanted to use a scouring pad to get that deep clean feeling.

I called Glen's home. Sarah answered, I didn't hang up this time. I asked if Glen was up, she said she hadn't seen him. I asked how she was she said she was fine, and she couldn't wait for the exams to be over. How was I? I told her I was grand, and I didn't know about her but I was looking forward to having a few beers tonight. Could she tell Glen I called and I'd see her tonight? She said sure, she looked forward to seeing me. Bye Fiachra .

Bye.

Caress the phone down.

I got changed, and mum was banging about in her room. I looked in on her and she's got three or four full black refuse sacks full of dad's clothes.

\- Going ahead with it?

\- Well it's his fucking choice isn't it?

\- Need a hand?

Hoping she didn't.

\- Now you ask...

Fuck sake.

\- I'm heading out.

\- I'm locking the door tonight.

\- I won't be back tonight.

With that, I was out of the house and walking into town.

I walked for miles. I realised in my haste that I wasn't meeting up with Glen till 3pm. It was only 10am. I walked up to the top of the mountain, down the Old Sligo Road, back into town and grabbed a coffee in the arcade. I sat and collected my thoughts, mulled over the possibilities of wanting this change. If Darwin was right about the theory of evolution, I felt I was becoming the next step up the ladder.

I told Glen what happened over a couple of cans of Bulmers in Raffertys'. He would come back with one of three replies: "Fucking hell", "The cunt" or "Jesus".

He then asked if he could have a go on my mum. I would have normally laughed or blushed not knowing how to respond. I told him coldly enough to watch his fucking tongue. The conversation lapsed into awkward silence, until I took the lead and challenged him to a game of pool. I was still shit at it, and lost 5 -1. Loser had to buy the next drink.

We drank lots. Some drink to remember, I drank to forget.

We got a minibus out to Cartown at 11. Sarah and her mates were sat down the front, Glen and I up the back, cans of Bulmers poking out of any available pocket. Sarah said she was gasping for a drink, I stood up, took all cans out apart from one and walked down to her.

\- It's not a Rolo but here ya go.

I handed the can over, the olive branch of the Irish.

\- Ah Fiachra , that's so sweet.

\- No worries.

I walked back to the stereo sound of young women giggling, straight laced with confidence wrapped around a shit scared teenager. Glen looking at me like I'd lost my mind. I shrugged my shoulders, sat down and picked up one of my cans, silently opening it and leant forward so Sarah couldn't see I still had more, and necked the drink.

\- What in the fuck are you doing?

\- 'Fuck up.

It paid off, with all the other girls laughing, she looked around, catching my eye, spotted the can on my lap, and she smiled at me - not a fake smile or one for her friends, but for me. Glen was just staring at me out the corner of my eye, shaking his head.

\- Fuck sake man.

\- I said 'fuck up.

And leant forward and drank some more. I looked up at Glen and smiled

\- Gonna be a good night man.

And it was.

With the long summer ahead, the closer I got to Sarah, the further I moved away from my parents. I was at the house one day packing, as was my dad. I was only going on holiday, he moving out to my uncle's in Frenchpark. I stayed in my room. He looted the house, taking the TV, stereo - even a set of cutlery that was given to them both for their wedding.

He shouted up the stairs:

\- Hope you both had a lovely life without me.

Duly ignored, but I knew he was waiting for a response so I turned Radiohead's The Bends up to 11, and carried on packing. I looked out of the window to see him driving off with his tail between his legs.

So then it was just the two of us, Mum and me, doing our best to avoid each other. I couldn't face her drunken outbursts, blaming me for her woes. Never a thank you for what I did that night - in fact it was my intervention that made it worse. The worst thing was the morning after promises of never getting drunk again, and how it was just the drink talking.

Yeah right.

College at Sligo was a blur of radical new ideas, cheap booze, moderately priced gear and priceless time with Sarah.

After the Finnegan incident at school attitudes towards me changed. I didn't talk about it but people knew and saw the change. Kids fear change, so rather than test me, they respected me.

I studied political science for the Craic. I learnt about the mechanics of state and the separation of powers. I learned about Machiavelli, and he became my life's tutor \- how to manipulate any situation to get what you want. I got into Northern Irish politics, but I never figured out who actually ran it. I decided that I couldn't decide. It was easy enough, I just copied Father Ted, and answered "that would be an ecumenical matter", if I wasn't sure or couldn't be bothered. Patrick was a guest speaker talking about the republican struggle and the need for more a more peaceful future. It was shit, propaganda wrapped in a political agenda. I was expecting his advisors to walk around the auditorium with collection tins. He got everyone riled - even a couple of Chinese students and some blue blooded Brits. I raised my hand to ask him a question. I waved at him, a wave of royalty. I was clearly a prince amongst men. He pointed to me, everyone else's hand went down.

\- Yes you!

\- Does your dick reach your arse?

I was bundled out of the auditorium with threats of a kicking ringing in my ears.

Sarah bollocked me. She bought what Patrick had said. I just laughed it off and said if America wasn't funding terrorism in Ireland, and they got a taste of their own medicine then we'd see peace because there'd be nothing else to do.

A year later I contracted bacterial meningitis. Sarah found me unconscious on the floor. The doctors thought I'd had a stroke because my left side was paralysed due to the swelling on my brain. Then the rash came. I was out of it for three days. It was the first time in nearly three years that my parents were in the same room. The consultant told my folks to prepare for the worst. Sarah vomited, my mum cried, my dad just thanked the doctor and told my mum he'd call for a priest to give me the last rites. I was given them. The room was full of people I loved and people I hated all crying and holding my hand.

I woke up and asked what was going on, I don't remember this only for Sarah telling me my aunt nearly fainted when I woke up and told her to fuck off. I had 9 litres of infected fluid drained off my brain. I was in hospital for two weeks and I lost nearly three stone.

I was a fucking mess when I came out of hospital. No physical side effects but mentally I'd changed. I developed and still to this day sustained a Jesus complex where I thought I couldn't die no matter what was thrown at me. I became insular in the months after hospital, never figuring out what caused the illness and how I survived where so many died.

Jesus apparently died at 32 and I'm still going. He believed his own hype.

Sarah snapped me out of my lull by using emotional blackmail. She accepted the fact I nearly died and how my survival would have affected me. Six months after she'd ask me to not go out one Saturday night with Glen. I told her I was celebrating the fact I was still alive she said she'd wish I'd gone so she wouldn't have to listen to the same old broken record. I knew then that I'd pushed her as far away as a Nazi war criminal forgetting his two week holiday to an Austrian summer camp.

That was the first time I cried in front of her. It wasn't as embarrassing as I always thought it would be. Even when I told her about my folks and what I did to my dad, I said it like I was on the high stakes poker table in Vegas. I'd officially lost direction. the lighthouse that was Sarah was drifting out of reach due to the rough seas of my narcissism and psychosis.

College finished and I'd no idea what job I could get with a qualification in political science that wouldn't bore the hole off me. Sarah and I trawled America for a year, although we mostly stuck to the east coast and only then travelled to Boston and New York. I liked talking to all the Irish lads who'd been there for years and didn't have green cards. They were always full of chat about the old country and the war and sang songs of revolution. They weren't returning cause of the fact there were no jobs, they weren't returning because they'd be hung from the nearest Dublin street lamp. They were the conscientious objectors who didn't like to admit they fucked up or chickened out. They got drunk and worked for cash and gave it the big I am. America wasn't the land of the free, it was the land of the imprisoned. They gave me the incentive to go back home and embrace my freedom to roam the lands.

The surprise on my mum's face, when I came bowling up the path was a picture.

\- You didn't call to say you'd be coming back.

\- Who said I was back, I'm only getting the last of my stuff.

\- I put most of it in the charity shop.

\- You fucking did what? You really need to get yourself checked out in the mental hospital you know.

\- No, you need to, not me, I'm fine. This isn't your home anymore, its mine and I don't want you here anymore. You're just like your father...

\- Did I try and rape you or hit you? Did I? I nearly fucking died you know and you treat me like this?

\- That was two years ago and you're 21 now, you don't need me to keep you anymore.

\- How right you are.

Later that day I called my dad.

\- You're back I hear?

\- Mum?

\- Yeah - she called me up a couple of hours ago, not in the best of moods but you know your mother. You shouldn't wind her up.

\- Are you fucking serious? She had got rid of my...

\- I don't want to know.

\- This is the welcome back I get, spit-roasted by my folks.

\- Some things never change.

Then the whole point of the conversation.

\- Can I meet you for a drink later on and I need you to bring some forms with you?

\- What forms.

\- The application forms to join the Gards.

\- What for?

\- So I can join the Gards, actually bring two, Glen wants one too.

\- I wouldn't be sure if it's for him?

\- Why?

\- Dunno, just can't see him taking it seriously.

\- Well, we'll soon find out. I'll see you in Raffertys at seven?

\- Sound.

We got fast tracked into Templemore. Not even six months later Glen and I said goodbye to Boyle. Sarah was still not fully aware of my reasoning. Problem was, she got the reasons, she just didn't want to get them.

I wanted to stop people like my dad getting away with what he did. I wanted to stop Irishmen running away to America, and hold them accountable for their crimes over here. I wanted to be stronger and faster and protect the people who couldn't protect themselves. I couldn't do all these things just as me.

Three years later, I finished top of the class and got a commendation from the Commissioner. At my passing out, and for the second time since that night when I was 16, my parents sat together in their finest. Sarah sat next to them like their mute daughter. My dad was right about Glen, he found training difficult and had to retake a few exams, but in the last couple of months he seemed hell bent on joining me at the passing out and never left his room.

I was 25 and out on the N4 doing traffic offences, not what I'd fucking signed up for. I had really wanted a stint in Dublin where the real action was, but a few officers in Boyle had retired, and my dad had gone up to the Chief Super and personally requested Glen and I be based in Boyle. Thanks a fucking bunch dad.

It was the 20th march 2004, there was fuck all going on out on the road. A couple of break light offences and some young fat-fuck boy-racer in a civic who was doing over a tonne on a known black spot for accidents. He knew I was new, he was known to us for speeding. It was like meeting a stranger you already knew. He was giving me some mouth, asking if I had nothing better to do and surely there were other crimes more serious than speeding. He tried to make out I was in the wrong. He figured if he kept on at me, I'd forget to check his licence due to three more points technically banning him from driving. He soon shut up when I asked to see it, and told him he'd have to walk home. Fat fuck needed the exercise anyway.

It was quiet enough and I had looked forward to heading home to Sarah and a nice bottle of red.

When I eventually got back to the station, my dad was in the locker room getting ready for the dead as doornails night shift.

\- How's yourself?

\- Fuck all going today, got Lorcan's car picked up, made him walk home.

\- Fat fucker needs the exercise.

\- That's what I told him.

I wanted to get away from this small talk, still pissed at the fact I was in the one place I wanted to get away from. Looking at my old man with his top off, his flesh looked like melted wax over a firm muscular candle, it was fair to say that he had looked withdrawn. He wanted the conversation over more than I did. This tipped me towards curiosity.

\- You ok?

\- Aye, just not getting enough sleep and you know, it's hard trying to balance everything.

\- Such as?

\- Work and when your off, and your pal has called in sick again, fucking threw him a bone to work with me but he's got the shits. He's giving me the shits.

\- Want me to have a word?

\- Ah no, I'm keeping an eye on him. You ok?

\- Ah yeah.

\- Give my love to Sarah.

\- Will do.

\- Fiachra ?

\- What?

Silence.

\- Nothing.

And that was the last time I saw him. Not sure if he wanted to tell me something. Would it have been easier to think that's what he was trying to do, was it my subconscious trying to find a "that must have been it" answer? Just the whole "nothing" thing got to me.

And I never forgave Glen for throwing a sickie - due to being out on the rip the previous night with some mates up in Enniskillen. Things could have been so different.

Would anything have been as easy?

When I got home, the stereo in the bathroom was on playing Jeff Buckley. I took my jacket off, and slung it over one of the dining room chairs. I looked in the microwave to see if there was any hot food in there, there was more hope of finding intelligent life in Limerick. There was no point in looking in the oven but I looked on the off chance. Maybe if I had a chisel, I'd be able to scrape something off the baking tray but I didn't mind my life at that moment. I went to the liquor cabinet in the living room. Sarah's folks had left it fully stocked even after their move to Spain. I took out a 18 year old Jameson, poured out a measure large enough to kill a small dog, got a couple of ice cubes out of the freezer and sat in one of the oversized armchairs with the lights turned off and sipped the drink. I looked out the large front window to the fields opposite and thought that this was the life. I'd pushed the conversation with my dad to the back of my mind and agreed with myself that I'd speak with him tomorrow.

Sarah had turned up the stereo, I could hear Last Goodbye as clearly as if it were being played in the next room. I hummed the song and then Sarah started singing and a strangled cat came to mind.

\- Fuck sake.

I climbed the stairs, avoiding the creaky ones, like she'd be able to hear them over the dulcet tones of Mr Buckley, pressed myself against the door and knocked on it.

\- Room service.

I opened the door to a fully submerged Sarah, and more steam than a Turkish sauna. I stood over her, hands on hips and paused the CD. She shot up and screamed as she was forced back into the bath, splashing water all over me and onto the floor.

\- Ahhh, you bastard.

\- Sorry - thought someone was being killed in here with all that screaming.

\- You can talk.

I leant over and gave her a kiss and she cupped a handful of water and threw it over my shirt.

\- Fuck sake Sarah.

\- Oops, you're going to have to take that off now.

I didn't have to ask twice but there was no way I'd get in that bath it was only big enough for me and I didn't fancy having the skin peeled off me the heat she has her baths at. So I took off my shirt, pulled the lid of the toilet down and sat on it, casting my eyes over her body, the curves she hated round her hips and tummy. She never listened to all the compliments I gave her, but if I had ever said yeah - I agree you need to go on a diet, she'd hang my nuts from the nearest lamp post.

\- Perv.

\- What?

She took the plug out and shot her arm out for a towel, which I grabbed off the rail. She stood up.

\- Why are you so red?

\- Got waxed earlier.

\- Oh right.

\- Think it's just a reaction to the stuff they use, it'll have gone down by tomorrow.

She got out the bath, wrapped in the towel I got her and I grabbed another one off the rail for her hair. I walked into the bedroom and got out of my work trousers, then remembered to kick off my shoes. I was looking round for a pair of jeans and Sarah walked into the room.

\- What you doing?

\- Looking for my jeans.

\- Not just yet.

She took the towel covering her body off and dropped it on the floor, second towel still wrapped round her hair. She looked like a revolutionary Hindu. She walked over to me and tripped as the towel she dropped had caught round her feet, falling into me unceremoniously.

My laughter drowned out the slapping and I fell back onto the bed, pulling Sarah back with me, the towel on her head slipped off and fell between us. I pulled a face, going cross-eyed and sticking my tongue out, when she pulled the towel off, she let out a little squeal.

\- Sexy.

Normal face:

\- Why thank you.

She gave me a kiss her wet hair covering my face.

\- Now where are we.

As her hand went down, pinching my skin and then scratching me with her nails.

\- Careful.

\- Sorry.

She got her hand under my jocks, I was already hard. She smiled a cheeky smile and then disappeared down onto her knees

\- Hard day at work?

\- Very.

\- Ahhh, poor baby.

And then silence as her mouth went around me. I gasped a little, she had chewing gum or a mint in her mouth and it made me tingle. The angle I was at, my legs were on the floor and my torso was laying flat on the bed, it was killing my back.

\- Hold on, let me get comfortable, this is killing my back.

Sarah knelt back as I pulled myself fully on the bed. She stood up and climbed onto the bed and on top of me, grabbed my cock with one hand and positioned it under her. Her hair was matted all over her face. As she slid down I moved all the wet hair out of the way. When I was fully inside her she arched her back and then leant forward to kiss me, I could feel the peaks and troughs of her spine under my fingers as they moved down, and I grabbed her arse. This was all going to be over before it had started, as she gained momentum I could feel the great need to cum. I closed my eyes and focussed on my hands squeezing her arse and not her face or bouncing boobs. I was working in five second time slots, just another five seconds, just another five seconds. Sarah started groaning which wasn't helping my cause.

-Dig your nails in.

-What?

-Dig your nails into my shoulders, it will give me something to focus on.

And she fucking dug them in boy, the scars have only recently gone, but this seemed to have turned her on, this new concept of dishing out pain and as I yelled out –

-For fuck sake!

Sarah sped up, pushing her palms into my chest and using that force to get a bit of lift. I didn't want to complain about her hurting me or cracking my ribs but she shouted out that she was cuming and I could feel her pelvic floor start to squeeze so I knew I could crack on and as she was dying down, I came. She lay on me for a few moments, her panting, me biting my tongue.

-I'll have to have another shower now.

-And I'll have to go to the doctors.

-You asked for it.

-Not that fucking hard.

-Wimp.

I knew this wasn't going to end well.

-Right you ready, I'm getting off now.

-I'll turn away from ya.

-OK, after three. one, two, three

Turning away didn't help.

-Nice.

-Jesus were you saving that up?

-Well, it's been so long you know.

-You can fuck right off.

-I'm in the shower first.

Springing up out of bed, my cum dripping down my leg and I bolt it over to the bathroom, locking the door to a fist-banging, laughing Sarah.

-Ya bastard Clancy. Shall we get a takeout?

-What do you fancy?

-Mings.

-Ah, you twisted me arm.

I could hear her bare feet padding down the stairs. She shouts back out to me

-The usual?

-Please.

I turn on the shower and its lukewarm.

-You used all the fucking hot water.

She doesn't hear or doesn't care but I un pause the CD of Jeff Buckley, and fast forward it to Lilac Wine, and have the quickest shower known to man.

I towel off, suds still in my hair and go back into the bedroom.

Sarah is sat naked on the bed and crying.

-I wasn't that bad was I?

Tries to laugh through the tears.

-It's your dad.

-What about him?

-He's been shot.

I remember I stood there, not fully dry, waiting for the punch line that never came. I dropped the towel and ran over to my wardrobe and put on whatever clothes that came to hand.

\- Where?

\- At the Gurteen Road turn off

\- Down the fucking road? Where are my fucking runners?

\- Out by the back door

\- What the fuck are they doing down there?

\- The smell off them was rotten. I had to let some air at them. Fiachra sit down please

\- What the fuck is she putting them out there for what are you putting them out there for?

Then a knock at the door, duly ignored.

\- I knew something was up with him, can you go down and see who's at the door?

She sat still on the corner of the bed for a few seconds and looked pleadingly at me like she wanted me to cry too but I couldn't even I pinched the inside of my thigh. She wiped away her own tears and I did my best to not notice as I pulled my jeans up. I looked out the window at the squad car on the drive and I put my hand to my mouth as if that would hold everything in place and called out to God then turned away pulling a hooded top over my head, walking downstairs to the sound of muted conversations and radio chatter coming from the lounge. I got my runners on and walked back in to see the tears had started again, something passed between us that showed that this was only the start. I didn't look the two officers but I knew one of was the Chief Superintendent for the region, Adam Mullen and the other was his assistant, an Inspector out of Castlerea but I couldn't remember his name. I didn't like the fact the top dog had come out to my house. I advised them that they need to go see my mother and that I was ok and I would make my own way down. I was told that officers were already out there and it was advisable that I went with them in case I would contaminate the scene and straight away did I know who would have done such a thing, no sorry for your loss, no time for grieving, but I knew the questions had to be asked. I was aware that my Da had died but I didn't consider the notion of him being murdered. I felt like a child being guided unable to have a single thought of my own as everything had seemed to shut down.

\- Let's go lads

A couple of days later, I walked into the police station, drained and angry. I avoided the parasitic press who leached round town, and repeatedly phoned up my house asking for a response to my mum's comments in the Sunday World.

The investigation was being led out of Dublin. That's where I met my boss, he was an Inspector on the cusp of retirement.

Sarah and I had given our statements. The interviewing Gard kept looking down Sarah's top as she was leant forward crying. The other Gard, saw the look on my face and my clenched fists and asked the younger Gard to leave the room. Sarah looked up confused and I shrugged my shoulders feigning confusion too. I nodded my thanks to the older Gard who carried on regardless. It was formulaic, it was bullshit.

I'd asked to speak to the Governor, I was told he was at the station. I was asked if I wanted a ride. I said I was more than capable. I was told I was going to drive past the scene. I said I fucking knew where I was going.

Sarah cried even more. I couldn't handle it. I was strung out like a taught washing line.

When I parked up outside the nick, like flies to shit, the press swarmed 'round my car. I sat there, hands clenched round the steering wheel, eyes firmly closed. I wanted to put my fists in my ears to block out;

-Fiachra , how are you feeling?

-What do you think of what your mum said?

-When will you be back at work?

I am back at work you stupid cunts. There were an old pair of grannies who had been walking past the station oblivious but when they saw the furore, they stopped and stared like stone angels. I felt like running them over, they were slipping off this mortal coil and my dad got unfairly pushed off.

I got both hands on the handle of the door and forced it open as if suffocating for the air outside. A couple of the journalists fell back including that cunt Johnny Creebie, who reports for RTE. I was so tempted to stamp on his face, but I saw the photographers and I held back seeing as my mother had already done enough damage

-Fiachra was your dad really a rapist?

I walked through them as if they were wisps of fog. They may have had the ear of the nation but they valued their own ears.

I got in to the reception, another couple of Gards that I didn't recognise were standing sentry duty, preventing unsavoury characters like myself from entering. But I was a cop - whose cop father had just been shot and killed, they knew to let me pass.

A little-Hilter desk sergeant, Sgt Brennan, was sat on his high chair behind the desk. Part traveller, part inner-city Dubliner, part experiment that went wrong. He had his favourites in the lower ranks, and he had the ear of the chief- super who was more insane than he was. I was never one of his favourites, even though he knew my figures were good. When anyone worth sucking up to was around, he always used to say in his whingey whiny voice that I gave 110%. He made my skin crawl.

I'd already made up my mind I had to get out of here.

-Clancy, you're on leave.

-I am - so leave me the fuck alone.

-How dare you talk to your superior like that.

-What is it with that fucking voice of yours you little cunt? I could tell you your mother's a whore, you could put in a complaint and I won't even get a slap on the wrists, post-traumatic stress darling.

-Gard Clancy?

-Inspector Sweeney?

-Come with me please.

-Inspector Sweeney, are you going to let Gard Clancy speak to a sergeant like that?

-Yes, yes I am, now fuck up before I turn the CCTV off and let Gard Clancy really let you know what he thinks of you.

Inspector Sweeney held the door open to me and it would be eight years before I darkened those doors again.

It wasn't a statement as such, just more the bits I wanted to discuss out of Sarah's ear shot. Although there appears to be no apparent motive, I couldn't think of anyone who would have a score to settle with him, not like that anyway. I laughed when I said the only person I could think of was my mother but she wouldn't have been able to focus. Sweeney still wrote it down and commented that her comments in the press put the whole investigation in jeopardy because he's been asked if he was investigating an offence rape or murder.

I said don't worry nobody ever listened to her and suggested she got sectioned. Then I told him what happened that night when I was 16. He didn't write that down. The commissioner was coming down too with a representative from Sinn Fein. I asked why. Off the record, a lad got arrested in Derry after a cache of weapons was found in the boot of his car and he's been saying that my father's murder could have been an IRA hit. Was he fucking serious? If it was the 'RA my dad would have been buried next to Shergar, sure he was only buried down the road. Sweeney agreed but Sinn Fein see it, sadly, as good publicity in the republic to be seen condoning publicly the killing of a Gard. Fucking politicians.

I'd left town before the powers that be descended on town, but the Sinn Fein rep was Patrick, shaking hands and breaking arms, monitoring at first-hand the clean-up process. They say murderers always turn up at the scene of their crime.

I told Sweeney I couldn't stay in Boyle anymore, I'd be putting in for a transfer today.

He put his pen down and clasped his hands together.

-Where do you want to transfer to?

-Dublin, as far away from here as possible

-I joined the Gards when I was 18, I'm now 29 years, 352 days into service.

-You're retiring soon?

-Sort of.

-Sort of?

-You can leave today if you wish?

-And go where? What about Sarah?

-Your girlfriend? She can't come with you.

-OK.

-OK?

And that was it, my golden ticket out of this monstrous fucking mess. No questions asked. I didn't have a parachute, I just jumped. To fuck with the consequences. I'd been reconditioned so many times that I didn't know what was mine anymore.

Chapter 25

We lay on the bed fully clothed, over the duvet - her hands nursing by battered left hand, and wiping away tears that had long since evaporated. I lost count of the amount of times I'd apologised. She didn't ask where I'd been or what I'd done and no matter how much I wanted to be honest, I couldn't tell her if she did.

I couldn't even tell myself.

I said that I realised I'd made a massive mistake by leaving here eight years ago, when I should have been here at home, protecting others instead of myself. None of us would be in this mess now if I had. I lay there, regretting my unthinkable selfishness which had forced Sarah into the arms of a drug-dealing, republican sympathising, wife beater, and allowed my son to think he was somebody else's. If I had stayed around long enough, I would have sussed Patrick was behind it all, and flushed out his silent partner. But I wouldn't have been who I am now. I would have been a cocky young Gard, with no notion of killing without remorse.

I'd fallen asleep, deep enough to drown in. It must have been around seven pm, the dipping sun turning the sky a rusty red.

I was alone on the bed, and for a second I didn't realise where I was and then heard Sarah shout out to Michael to let him know dinner was ready. I felt even more drowsy and tired than I would have been from a night out on the rip. Then I remembered I was out on a serious session with Joe last night, and ended up back at Sarah's, retrospectives on our mind . Fuck me, a long time ago.

I knew that time wasn't on my side. I sprung up and went out into the hallway.

\- Just going for a quick shower, have I time?

-Five minutes. I put the emersion on so you should have hot water. There's only my shower gel though.

-Ah, I don't care about that.

The water sat on the fence - going scalding hot, and then sticking two fingers up and going ice cold. I danced in and out of the water like a retarded Riverdancer - but boy, did it wake me up.

I towelled myself dry, starving with the hunger, and dressed myself. My T-shirt had seen better days, ripped and covered in blood and dirt. Sarah's suitcase was by the bed, I opened it up, pulled out a G-string, and then thought about that girl on the DART, wondering if she was ok, and realised that all I was trying to do was save her, trying to save them all.

-You ok there?

Instant flush of heat from my face.

-Er I was just looking.

-At my knickers?

-For a top.

\- Doesn't look like a top.

-No, no its not.

-I've one of your old T-shirts in there somewhere.

-Have you?

-Can you put my knickers down please.

-Sorry.

\- It's that Green Day T-shirt.

-Fuck me, you've still got it?

I put the pants down scrummaging through for the T-shirt, the design on the front was a hand grenade shaped like a heart, bingo and I threw it on.

-How do I look?

-Like you always looked, dinners ready.

My first family meal: Pork chops, boiled potatoes and carrots. Gone in sixty seconds. Mummy told Michael that Fiachra always ate like that. Not daddy yet. I said I'd seen Glen earlier, he was looking well. Michael told me uncle Glen was funny. I said he certainly was. Sarah told me how cut up Glen was when he found out about my dad and wished I hadn't left. She said he soon changed after that, becoming very angry but also insular. Angry at not being able to find out who did it. I said he seemed remorseful to me when I saw him earlier, like he had let everyone down. She said she didn't know why as he got a big enough pay out from all the stress it caused. That fella from Sinn Fein campaigned for it.

Cutlery down

Which fella?

I felt like bringing up the chops, I stared at the my empty plate, hands clasped firmly under my chin.

\- Patrick Dempsey?

\- Was it?

\- I think it was

-Patrick Dempsey, remember him from college?

-Yeah, I remember him.

-He was really good for Glen. That's why he's up in that new estate out on the Carrick Road.

-I don't know it. Did this pay out make the papers, I didn't see anything?

-Um, I don't know. Glen said it didn't feel right to make it public. You weren't around and the people who did it were never found.

-My fault again.

-No, not at all. He's gotten friendly with your mother too, which was a bit of a scandal round town but that soon died down.

-I'm not surprised.

-Sorry?

-Nothing. Didn't anyone from the Gards mention it in passing about the pay out?

-No, not that I can remember. Maybe they were told to keep quiet about it?

It all came crashing in on top of me like a tsunami. I had to get out of here. Not for the first time in my life, I felt like running again.

-Fiachra ?

-Yeah?

-You're bleeding a little.

-Where?

-There

And Sarah pointed under my chin where I'd dug the nails of my thumbs in causing both Michael and Sarah to look up at me, concerned.

\- Forget about that it's fine.

The most elaborate lock on the most secure safe in a bank in Switzerland was unlocking in my head, each pin dropping into place as the key was being turned.

In a chronological manner it all made sense as I tried to put a "no it can't be" spin on it. I was trying to see where it all started.

When I told him to keep his gob shut when he suggested cracking on with my mum. The day after my dad left and I took a punt with Sarah and it monumentally pissed Glen off. The power shift in my favour where I no longer bathed in his shadow.

His need to follow me, the thought of it, down to Templemore like as if he couldn't do anything without me. The resentment that the tables had turned and that I was fucking his sister. I had pushed him away but in bringing his sister in closer than he ever could be, how jealous did it make him? The bitterness eating through to the core of him.

Thinking about it, he was greedy for wealth. From selling single cigarettes in the playground to small bribes received for not issuing fixed penalty tickets.

I'm guessing he arrested Ronan for something or Ronan had seen how easy it was for Glen to turn and made him an offer. I myself turned a blind eye. It was a shit wage, so he did what he did to get by. Before my dad died, I had morals, corruption wasn't even a concept to me.

The whole town under your control, political backing and a protection racket in the form of the IRA.

So Patrick finds out about this dirty Gard and lets him in on his little plan and no doubt suggests immediate wealth. There's just one little thing he needs Glen to do, get rid of Gard Clancy Senior cause he's been sniffing around the operation and doesn't want it fucking up before its even started

That was the reason for the sickie

It was so fucking obvious, comically so. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. Glen had pulled the wool over all our eyes. He deserves a fucking Oscar for that performance he put on for me earlier. He abused every position given to him, social and expected. In coming this close to redemption and a life outside of this cesspool I've found myself back in the middle of it.

He has systematically destroyed my life, Sarah's, Michael's and the whole town out of greed and jealousy.

There wasn't even a debate going on, no conscious suggesting that he's my best mate and Sarah's brother.

It was all supposition on my part, I had to ask him and I had to ask him now.

If I'm right, if. I will happily make the cunt suffer

-Fiachra what's up?

-I'm fine honestly. I'm sorry. Just thinking is all.

-Michael go out and play

I looked at my son and smiled, put on a mask to hide the burning man

-You need the practice son. I'll be out with you in a minute and show you my silky moves.

Michael nodded and looked at Sarah for reassurance.

-He's just saying that cause he knows you'll beat him.

With that I had to feign shock at the outrageous truth and Michael laughed and ran out, relieved to be not told to stay at the table.

We sat in silence waiting till we heard the football being kicked or banged against the wall.

The barn door banged.

-Right are you going to tell me what's up cause what I'm seeing in you is what I saw eight years ago

What could I say, the truth? Looking down at the table, trying to make sense of my ludicrous thoughts, removing the illogical and being left with the probable and the probable no matter how much I wanted to disbelieve I had to admit was correct. Is protecting Sarah and Michael telling the truth?

If I had stayed it would have made no difference, my dad would have still been dead. If I had stayed, they would have killed me.

That's why Patrick kept me close, like Judas, he betrayed me. That whole fucking abomination of a lie spun like a web which I was caught up in.

Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

He knew I was volatile like a plutonium rod in a Russian nuclear plant during a meltdown. To keep me off the smell, to bury me so deep doing his dirty work he thought I'd never have the time to avenge.

He enveloped my mother keeping her suppressed and kept Glen immersed in the waters of greed.

Why should he have bothered about Sarah's life, making it out to be my fault that she ended up this way. He and Patrick must have sensed that she had a vested interest in finding out about my old man. So I wonder if Glen set up the whole thing with Ronan, giving him free reign to dish out a few slaps and numb through nose powder.

-How did you meet Ronan?

-What?

-How did you meet Ronan?

-Why?

-Cause I really hope you tell me something different

Feeling the bile rising from my putrid heart

-I don't really remember and it's not really the time

-Yes you do Sarah, please.

-We were in Carrick and I met him at the Landmark Hotel

-We?

Please don't say it

-Well just me and Glen

Fists down on the table my plate bounced off and smashed on the floor.

-Fuck!

Sarah jolts and stands up.

-What Fiachra , what's wrong, what's all this?

One last job, then I'm out of here and I'm taking Sarah and Michael with me. One last chance to tell the truth, my heart beating like a bass drum. I had to tell her. I had to tell her everything.

Deep breath, deep deep breath.

Do I do it, do I tell her. If I just killed him and said nothing, we could never be together. If I told her the truth, if. How can I give the abridged version with time ebbing away.

Right.

Chapter 26

And as the air in my lungs came out in words, a weight lifted off my shoulders. I kept looking at my watch every 30 seconds keeping tabs on the time.

Of course I didn't tell the whole truth, what was I a fucking lunatic? Sarah sorry I haven't seen you for eight years but I'm going to gut your brother? Even though it had been a set up and he had orchestrated the whole thing, blood ties make you do stupid things, look what I'm doing. Sarah would warn Glen off, unintentionally rat me out and I wanted him to be as ignorant for as long as possible. Or let him know without knowing I know. Like the devil, Glen had the ability to assume a pleasing shape and keep up the manipulation of Sarah.

She may hate me for a while, despise me. But I am certainly not going to finish at Glen the truth would come out in the end.

If you believe the lie, it eventually becomes the truth and Patrick in a quasi-ironic way got it with both barrels.

He couldn't let the crimes of the past remain there. However he got a backstreet facelift and just changed to a more lucrative crime where a balaclava and a pound of Semtex weren't required.

I spoke in frank terms about not knowing how my dad found out about the importation. Gut instinct, tip off or wanting a slice of the action. But whatever happened, he got murdered off the back of an order from Patrick. The murderer was still unknown but I didn't tell her what Patrick had confirmed to me this afternoon before I killed him. I was apparently the last decent cop and it was my job was to infiltrate the cargo of coke arriving in Carrick tonight and to assassinate those in charge.

I thought Glen had been duped by the politician in Patrick and was sure that the payoff had come with small print. The stress on all who were close to my Dad had caused cracks and Patrick would have exploited the cracks somehow. Maybe Glen didn't even realise it. But I had a job to do and I wanted Sarah and Michael away from their home because I believed apart from the fact there were very pissed off people around town, I didn't want those still at large turning the screw and using the both of them as bargaining chips.

Sarah looked at me like she bought it. It helped that I cried a little throughout when I spoke of my Dad and regretting taking this stupid fucking job and this would be my last fucking job. I want out I want my life back.

I didn't go into any details about what my actual plans were.

I didn't notice but Sarah's hand was holding onto mine a bit firmer than normal. She asked if my mum knew about Patrick, I thought it was doubtful what with the amount of Valium she was on and how Patrick had entrapped her with delusions of grandeur. She asked about Glen what would happen to him. I wasn't too sure about that, as I said he may not be aware and I want to try and protect him from the fallout.

What about the fallout? I said that I didn't know but I guessed the government have prepared a file which will suggest an internal hit and leak it to the press.

I guess. I guessed a lot.

Far be it from me to say I was an excellent manipulator, but I could have been Richard fucking Nixon and I hated myself for it.

I knew that as soon as I left the house, Sarah would be on the phone to Glen, concerned, worried about her big brother and the silly mistakes he had made.

Glen won't be as duped. If I'm right on my hunch, his stomach will sink below street level as he hears what I've done to Patrick. He will panic because one way or the other he crawled into bed with Patrick and now I had broken in with the urge to flip the bed off a jagged cliff. But as Patrick had told me, the silent partner already knew about me, this was just a confirmation to him.

\- You have to stay here tonight and don't tell anyone where you are, not even Glen. Once I've done what I have to do I will come back for the both of you and we leave the country.

She didn't look like she bought that, knew me well enough to know I was hiding something but daren't question it. She took the fact I admitted to killing very well actually, no matter how much I spun it and had justifiable reasons, killing is killing.

But the cunt deserved it.

She held my hand and nodded, I'd been given the green light to go and an understanding passed between us.

We stood up at the same time and made our way to the door, I was ready for the laughing gas, I was ready for what was next.

Michael had lamped the ball against the wall and it bobbled past me, I trapped it and just passed it back, no time for fun and games, more gun and games.

\- Tomorrow we shall have a knock about and I'll even let you beat me

Nods and smiles cloaking disappointment, he was more like me that I could even imagine.

I put my hand onto Sarah's hip and remembered that Michael doesn't know anything yet just as I was about to go in for a kiss, so just smiled and got a worried smile back.

Getting back into James' car, I leant over into my bag to quadruple check everything was in its right place knowing I was being watched and that within minutes Glen would know.

I looked in the glove compartment and found two number plates, I took them out and read them. They were the plates that I saw on the vehicle that knocked down my boss on Dame Street. It was all just so obvious. I held then on one of the corners with my thumb and index finger and put them in my bag. It's all evidence in my favour.

It's fifteen minutes to Boyle if I high tail it through and another fifteen or so out to Carrick from there.

But I would have to drive back through town, and who knows what diversions may be rolled out to ensure I didn't get to Carrick. If I drove up towards Ballinafad, I'd be able to get onto the N4 and by-pass Boyle altogether.

No, stupid think.

The N4 goes out by the entrance to Forest Park, I would have to drive round the lake, through Knockvicar and Cootehall cause I was a stupid bollox and fucked up my own route by killing Patrick.

I waived out the window, once I'd put the bag into the footwell. I didn't feel sadness or loss at going because I knew that I would be back. I felt righteous like an angel carrying a savage weapon.

I turned over the ignition, put the car into reverse and pushed my foot down on the accelerator, waived again and the image burned into my consciousness as I pulled down hard to the right, swung into a dirt track leading to a field behind the sheds, crunched the gearbox and eventually got the bitch into first and flew.

I was surely ready to head once more unto the breach.

Chapter 27

I was running on exhaust fumes. I felt weary and tired, I needed a pick me up soon enough. Not even five minutes down the road from seeing Sarah and Michael, after my soap box sermon on the ills of substance misuse, my decision on what to do once I'd seized the coke, I still wanted a fix. But I can justify the reasons for it.

I was fucked

The old country roads were like chicanes on a knackered race track, signs blurred past me, caution black spots, loose chippings, belt up. I was averaging 80, the seatbelt dangling by my right shoulder and the wind whipping through the open window realigning my senses.

The sun had gone and twilight was on the verge of losing the battle with the night, a lovely night to just stroll without a care in the world.

I wasn't into all that romanticism shit but I was delirious for blood on my hands.

My phone started buzzing from the passenger seat, it was a call from Dublin, I leant over and cut it off

\- Cunts, the fucking lot of ya

And out the window like a crazy dog, fizzy with adrenaline

\- Fucking Cunts

Beeping oncoming traffic, head back in swerved back into my lane the Green Day t shirt is stuck to my back with sweat and the dawning of the realization that I may die tonight but I very much doubted it.

I was going to destroy the cargo. I was going to kill them all.

I was going to smash a massive paradox of a hole into the income of the IRA and the Irish Government. If I came out of tonight unscathed, I would have to go on the run. I killed one of the IRA's head honchos and the future First Minister of Northern Ireland, his assistant, Gards and criminals were yet to come.

The quick fix to bail ourselves out of the economic shit by getting me to steal the drugs and then selling them through the Government was always a fucking stupid idea.

They did think though that because of the dangling carrot of avenging my Dad's murder that I would come through and do exactly what they wanted me to do.

They thought wrong dude.

The lake raced past me to my right like a Scooby Do cartoon, tree water field, tree water field and I think of all those rambunctious females who have tested me over the last eight years, the old and the young the big and the small, I loved them all because I wanted their love for five minutes or five months to be the same as the love Sarah and I have for each other, it's a sad way to slowly decompose in a living body.

I flew through Knockvicar about five miles out of Carrick just as the cigarette lighter in the car pops back up and I light up again. I could be in for the long haul so apply the handbrake for that Hollywood feel outside the Spa shop, rush into the shop and get a pack of pro plus, another deck of fags and a bottle of rock shandy. I threw down onto the counter a 20 euro note, the a affluence pouring out of me, told the girl behind the counter to keep the change. She stared down at the note and then looked at me with a quizzical look straining the skin on her face making it look like the brace of spots would explode

\- Out of a 20?

\- Fine, I'll take the change back then

Bouncing from side to side as she counted out the change like a pupil in a special needs school

\- Are ya taking the fucking piss?

She just looked through me and tutted like I was an inconvenience. I probably was but then again I'm an inconvenience to myself.

Once the change had been counted out and left on the counter, I turned and left, got to the door, looked back

\- Haha charade you are

And that's how I go through life, brief encounters with a tapestry of white punks on dope, police, thieves and starfuckers. I like to think that to them, I'll be remembered as that annoying narcissist rather than having to seek therapy or trying to locate the limbs I ripped off them.

Here's hoping.

She didn't even acknowledge my wit, didn't pass comments, didn't shake her head, didn't tut. She just carried on as if I wasn't there at all.

I'm not having that so I stomp back up to the counter, wave dramatically like I'm on a sinking boat, drawing attention to a passing Somalian pirate ship. Then I noticed the hearing aid and my stomach sinks. I had reverted back to the way I was, an abomination of my own doing and suddenly it all hits me.

This wasn't funny for me anymore, I had been a massive cunt, treating those who deserved it and those who didn't with absolute distain. I now had parental responsibility. I and a woman I should have never left. They needed me, I didn't need this.

\- I'm sorry

\- Whatever

Whatever indeed. I walked out of the shop with my head low knowing the only way to atone was to kill and I was thirsty for blood.

I called Glen from the car, see if I could meet up with my pal for a drink as I was heading through Carrick on my way back to Dublin. Clearly I hadn't found what I was looking for so I may as well leave now and report in to HQ.

\- Sergeant Clancy, where have you been all my life?

\- Sticking it to the man as per usual. I'm heading back to Dublin now, the whole trip was a waste of time

\- Did you get to see Sarah again I got a missed call from her

\- I did yeah, hence why I'm heading back to Dublin. I reckon she called you to sound off about me.

\- Didn't go the way you wanted it to?

\- Nah but sure what did I expect. She can't forgive me for my leave of absence. Even though Michael is my son, there is nothing I can do. Sorry to sound all defeatist but Boyle can go fuck itself.

\- You fancy a drink? Maybe I can help you change your mind

\- I'll accept half of your offer gladly. Dunnes in 15?

\- What time is it now?

\- Coming up to six, how's work been?

\- Calm, nothing came back from Ronan and I haven't bothered chasing him down about it. No doubt he'll be in Carrick tonight so maybe a joint effort?

\- Maybe. Listen the battery is dying on the phone (lie) so I'll just see you in there. Please don't give Sarah a call until I'm gone, I'd just feel better about it all once I'm out of the city limits and I'm sure you can do without the stress of it all.

\- No problems bud. See you in a while.

I'm reminded as I drive blindly into the unknown of what Patrick said to me about the other members of his merry crew, the Boyle contingent, the man who pulled the trigger on my old man, they already know about me and what I'm planning to do.

So that conversation was like two actors in the same play reading from two totally different scripts.

Of course fucking of course Ronan would be in town later on.

My phone rang and I looked down at the number, a Dublin number, a number I didn't recognise. Panic must be setting in that their man in the field had gone to ground. By the time they would be able to get men up from Dublin to see what I've been up to, it would have been all over.

I drove into Carrick, the pedestrians weren't passing any heed on me, not running to their homes and batting down the hatches like the wild west. This was the wild wesht but nobody knew I was their saviour, the last man standing.

There was a hardware store which looked like it came from 1950's Middle America. It also looked like it hadn't done any business since then.

I parked up and went inside, knowing to be nice this time around to the clerk.

I didn't want to draw any attention to myself or for the old fella behind the counter to pay me any attention more than I needed. I put on my thickest Dublin accent

\- Howyeh, have you any red spray paint here?

\- Over at the back of the shop on the left hand side.

\- Grand so

I grabbed a can of near on Ferrari red spray paint off the shelf and walked back to the counter

\- Six euro now

\- Thanks a million, here's a 10

\- And four your change

\- Cheers bud, g'luck.

It was tacky as fuck, feels like a good idea though, just felt all Clint Eastwood about it.

And I was out of the store with the paint in a brown paper bag . I got back in the car and drove out to the "Welcome to Carrick on Shannon" sign.

The traffic was zero to none. I got out of the car and scrawled out "Carrick on Shannon" with the paint.

I wrote next to it in letters nearly twice the size of the original sign; "Hell".

Chapter 28

I got back into the car and parked outside Dunnes and waited.

I switched on the digital radio and found Phantom FM. The intro to Nine Inch Nails, The Day The World Went Away was just starting up. I turned up the volume till it went no further. The inside of the car filled with Trent Reznor's masterpiece and the industrial white noise and static charged up my internal batteries. I closed my eyes, shutting down one of my senses and I let the other four take over as my skin prickled with anticipation of my closing masterpiece.

Glen parked up on the opposite side of the street behind me, the temptation to just walk over to him now and empty the magazine of bullets into his face was far too strong and far too easy. I wanted him to suffer but I wanted him to hang himself beforehand.

I deserved answers and I had a lot of questions. I watched him in the rear view mirror and if he knew I was here, he didn't acknowledge it. I kept my eyes on him as I went into my bag the of tricks and got the small clear bag of benzoylmethylecgonine out, poured a large mound of it onto my thumb and snorted it up.......choo choo. Another little fix, gotta get through this as the fat man says and bang, straight for the moon Alice. Deep breaths, eyes closed and pulling at my untidy eyebrows. In that instance I'm reborn again and again and again. The coke is a perfect line of symmetry, a circus mirror a massive rush of blood to the head.

We both got out at the same time. I didn't acknowledge him as he shouted over to me, I made out I was on the phone to a mate in Dublin, laughing at an inside joke instead I'd just given HQ a coded message to let them know I was back on path and heading back. Didn't want them sending any backup to fuck up my plans. They had hung up, the happy side of a manic depressive on the edge of a roof about to fall into a pit of vipers with blades for teeth.

I laughed and laughed at the joke without a punch line, Glen look confused, wanted in on the joke. Thing is he never liked me taking the piss out of him, although he dished out enough of it but could never take it. I think if he heard what was making me laugh, he probably wouldn't see the funny side.

Like a father making an unfunny joke that only makes their son blush with the shame of it all.

And I was flustered and hot and bothered and needed a pint to calm my nerves and a mirror to shove Glen's face into.

He waits for me to finish the imaginary conversation and keeps on looking beyond my shoulder back to his car, my turn to look confused and I look round to see what was retaining his attention and nobody else was in the car and nobody I recognised was walking on by.

Poor Glen very poor.

Someone was obviously laying down in the back of the car, I smiled as the joke was finished and I was saying good luck to the imaginary person even though I was aiming it at myself. I smiled as I really hoped it was the remaining brother from last night laying there or their dad, waiting to have their little attempt at revenge. I pity the fool.

I'd imagine that rather then come in the pub and draw adverse attention, he'll tamper with James' car and I'll find out that the breaks have gone. Or he could be a dab hand at explosives but again too much attention if I go bang. I'll take my chances on cut break lines.

\- Right ok, g'luck so

Bang phone down

\- Shtory?

\- Fuck all now, another calm day on the job

\- The life of a rural Gard eh? Shame more than half the people I've met in town today are just laughing in your face the blatant using. But not my problem

\- Do you want it to be? Cause I'd certainly love to know where the fuck you get off talking to me like that. Big fucking city boy

\- Woh woh woh, sweet child of mine, I'm taking the piss. Sorry, too close and you're doing a grand job. Let me buy you a pint eh and we can put the world to rights.

I put my hand on his shoulder and gripped it the way a father would to a son he's proud of.

He nodded, mock defeat and my hand guided him towards the door of the pub. I looked back at his car and if I was a betting man I'd put numbers on for the lotto, the luck I was having. Don't know who it was but they shot their head back down and I really hope whoever it is, is pissing himself.

The stupid little cunt.

\- I'm going for a piss first, get me a Guinness would ya?

I wondered who he would be calling or if he got a text off the back seat driver, about as secretive as a priests love for school boys.

\- I'll get the drinks out the back, need a smoke too.

The greatest pubs in Ireland had bars in the smoking areas outside, realising there was more tar in an Irish man's lungs than there was on the roads, sensible bar owners built make shift bars to allow a fluid drinking experience without any disruption.

The outside area had really improved, tea candles dotted the walls and Christmas lights covered the eight foot high fence at the back. There was low level music in the background, not busy enough to turn up loud, a smattering of drinkers dotted around like a Pollock canvas bright and colourful but no real direction. However this was the same in any other pub in the country. The benefits of an alcoholic nation. I overheard one lad who was tapping his fingers to the song in the background. How could I not have noticed the song, Won't Get Fooled Again by The Who, meet the new boss same as the old boss. He said to his drinking buddy next to him;

\- You can beat the wife but you can't beat the craic

As I turned to face him, I wondered if my old man had ever said that in friendly jest. This lads mate was laughing, nodding in agreement. The barmaid who just carried on and came over to see what I wanted was shaking her head in disgust. I met her eyes and she smiled at me half-hearted and tired.

\- Two Guinness please

No matter how much I wanted to grab the back of this bucks head and smack it into the bar and then against the rail around, I couldn't. Thinking straight with the amount of contradictions flowing through my veins was slightly ironic.

Glen has no real idea of how psychotic I am, regardless of what Patrick may or may not have told him, that's tip of the iceberg stuff my man.

He came up and tapped me on the shoulder. I knew what he was doing, it was what he used to do when we were kids and a way to put me down in front of girls. He'd tap me on the left and move to my right so when I looked over my left, nobody would be there, a vacuum of nothingness only filled with derisive laughter.

This time I looked over my right shoulder after my left was tapped.

\- Fuck sake, you always fell for that

\- Not sixteen anymore are we?

\- Sure don't I know it. Being this age creeps up on ya doesn't it?

\- Fucking right there brother. Fancy one of these rather than those majors?

Pulling the smokes out, caressing the cold handle of my gun, flicking up the top of the pack, and tapping the bottom, a single cigarette pops up and glen takes it.

Fuck sake that never happens when nobody else is around.

He takes it with a nod of gratitude, I pull a smoke out for myself, stick it in my mouth and offer glen a light first, that's the kinda guy I am. The pints are topped off and left in front of us. I had over a tenner.

\- Don't worry about the change

\- Ah thanks

And we both smile warmly at each other, nothing more than that but she deserves it if she has to put up with listening to those two gobshites at the bar

\- Keep the change? You used to be tighter than a ducks arse

\- It's all retrospective my man. She needs it more than I do. Do you know those two lads?

And I nodded my head back at the lads at the bar

\- Never seen them before. What's bothering ya?

\- Ah nothing really. Let's get a seat eh?

And we got a corner booth, I got in first and sat facing the bar and the pub beyond turning the deck of smokes over and over in my hand impatient for patience. Glen sat opposite and to my right. It was my second option of where to sit but my back would have been exposed to the bar area, no way of seeing what was behind me or what was coming. Glen had nothing to worry about though, this was his manor and he felt safe lording it up as Officer Friendly.

We acknowledged each other as we raised our glasses and chinked them together.

\- Slainte

\- Cheers

I necked the pint, it didn't even touch the sides and I looked at Glen and he looked at me and I just thought fuck this. We could be pricking around here for half hour or so, Glen could just be playing the decoy and the times could have been wrong on that note James had and a boat load of coke could be moored up depositing its load into the waiting van.

Here we go, I'd like to dedicate this swan song to my auld fella, the stupid cunt.

\- Thirsty?

\- I'm always thirsty Glen, my old mucker. It's my job to be thirsty.

Slight shift and look back over his shoulder to the bar. Who was inside?

He looks back and see's that I'm looking back into the bar, glass still up to my mouth

\- Another drink?

Glass down hard on the table, intentional as a gun forced into the eye of my Da

\- If you're buying.

\- I am surely

\- Well get me another fucking drink, best pal.

He gets up and heads over to the bar, gets his phone out and quickly sends a text and puts his phone back again. He turns round to see if I'm looking and I surely am. He looks at his watch, it's just gone 8.30. Ridiculous thing to do but I thumbed the gun inside my jacket, swift motion, fluid like the Guinness eyes everywhere, in at the bar inside, Glen who now had his back to me, my adrenaline gland working overtime as my body drowned in the rush.

Seconds passed like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like days. I was ageing at a rapid rate and needed this like necessary nourishment and here he comes.

This was it.

\- G'lad. So do we need to keep this facade on now Glen or shall we cut to the chase?

\- What are ya on about?

As he desperately tries to stop himself from looking behind him for assistance.

\- Well I haven't got all night and I'm sure as fuck you haven't so take these words I'm about to give you and rearrange them into a sentence.

\- Ok

\- Ok?

\- Whatever floats your boat you crazy fuck

Hands now on the table so I joined him and put mine there too.

\- Ok, here goes, let's see if you can follow these words; you set up my dad who was onto yours and Patrick Dempsey's operation. You claimed to be in Enniskillen that night he died, hungover and too sick to come in when in actual fact you followed him out and killed him. With me so far?

\- You are fucking insane my man.

\- Oh you have no idea. Shall I go on?

\- Please do

\- Keeps me in here doesn't it if I do go on, not out there putting a bullet in your companions head

\- Companion?

Hard to talk through a clenched jaw, trying to remain as quiet as possible, keeping the conversation just between two friends

\- I saw him in your car outside. I killed Patrick earlier. Convenient he was only up the road in Sligo eh? Don't you dare move a fucking muscle, keep your hands where they are and you listen to me boy. You, you fucked up my existence, you fucked up Sarah's, Michael's the whole fucking town for what? Notoriety? Money? News for you best buddy, best pal, matey; you're going to die tonight. It was an emotional moment for Pat and myself as I had a cut throat razor in the side of him mouth, it was poetic as he held onto me, a father and son moment. See I've forgotten them, you took them away from me. He told me about your little operation but never gave up your name. Loyalty amongst thieves eh?

\- Then your barking up the wrong fucking tree Fiachra . Your word against a dead mans and I'm still none the wiser. Maybe Sarah was right all along. You should never have come back if this is the way you treat your best mate and his sister. If what you say is true then you are in a whole heap of shit and I've nothing to do with it or the coke.

\- Who said anything about coke?
Chapter 29

Panic in the streets of Carrick.

I slowly shook my head as the ground opened up beneath Glen. No need for questions or answers, this wasn't a taped interview under caution.

Stalemate

\- Who's in the bar?

\- You don't fucking get it do ya? You said yourself a thousand times your Da was a cunt. The opportunity was too good to let slip by and I had to show my loyalty to Pat once your Da had declined the opportunity.

Stalling for fucking time

\- Who's in the bar Glen?

\- You'll never get out of here alive

\- I thought it was only me who talked to myself. Do I? I'm not sure, do I?

His hands went under the table. I ducked down and lifted the table up on its side, knocking the empty glasses and ashtray over. The glass crashing and splintering on Glens side. I could hear him shouting in at the bar for whoever was in there to help him. This was mixed with the young one behind the bar screaming and I shouted out from behind the table to her to get down. I'd got my gun out from my jacket, unclipped the magazine, six shots left, took a magazine out of my bag, stuck it in my pocket and was glad to remind myself that James' gun was in the bag too and I started pushing the table with my shoulder, keeping the wall behind me as I made my way towards the bar. Fuck knows where Glen had got to or if he was still in front of the table but I didn't know what he had so I fire a couple of shots up into the air. Screams and hysteria with a soupçon of someone shouting out to call the fucking Gards

\- I am the fucking Gards,- I shout back at them

I duck up and get a couple of seconds to see that Glen had scarpered and a couple of Ronan's pals from Raffertys were baring down on my location. I made it to the bar and rolled round to my right kicking the table into their path. The hatch to the bar was two meters to my right and it was shut. I prayed to whoever it was who was up there that it wasn't locked and I dived for it.

It wasn't, shooting pains from the crown of my skull to my little toe but I'd forced the hatch door open and fell into the serving area of the bar. The barmaid was squat down with her arms covering her head and then from above the sound gunfire and of a million bottles of spirits shattering and the contents spilling down onto the both of us. In that second I knew that soon enough something flammable and very much on fire would be pitched over the bar.

In the words of an overweight lounge room lizard; it's now or never. I opened one of the fridge doors and grabbed at bottles of miller and started pegging them over in the direction of where the gunfire came from and then moved left knowing that they'd be moving forwards rather than back towards where the main bar.

The gunfire had stopped.

No idea where they were, the barmaid was whimpering and back in the main bar people were still screaming.

\- Now lads I know what you're thinking, one of me, two of you but sure that didn't stop me earlier did it? How's the knee big man?

Silence. The cunts not biting

\- You know Michael's mine don't ya?

\- Shut your fucking mouth you.

Bingo, four O'Clock. Quick as anything I'm up on my feet pivoting to my left, the lad with a cue ball where his knee once was is stood sideways to me, the first shot enters near the top of his right ear, red roses of blood blast out in spring like glory. The shot comes out the other side and hits his pal in the arm, the momentum knocking into him.

They are both yesterday's news and I raise my arm up to fire into his pal and I get him in the neck, a lump of flesh looking very much like a wee apple flys out and hits the wall behind him. He grabs for his throat and I'm leaping over the bar, placing the gun up to his forehead pull the trigger and the back of his skull opens up with brain matter making a mess of the floor.

Both lay dead in front of me, one in a foetal position, a pool of claret spreading out from beneath his head, one round left in the pipe. I kick the lad with the knee, round so that he's laid out in front of me, still looking the dope with the side of his face blown away. Him and Ronan had fucked Sarah and fucked her over, no way was he getting what he wanted on the other side, I shot him in the groin.

Fuck you pal.

The empty clip dropped out onto the floor, I got the spare magazine out and slotted it in the gun, I then tucked it into the back of my jeans, buttoned up my jacket and walked back over to the girl behind the bar, crunching over broken glass, I grab a towel off the side, crouch down and offer the towel over to the girl, she's shivering, shocked, needing another job. I tried to calm my breathing, tried.

\- Here, take this, dry yourself off, get someone to make you a sweet cup of tea, head home. Are you ok?

A brief nod then shake of head

\- Sorry, I'm sorry. Those guys were the bad guys ok? I'm the good guy

Then eventually

\- Yeah right, that fella you were chatting to was a Gard

\- Yeah he was, wasn't he. He also killed my Da.

I left her entombed with fear, walked out of the hatch, round the bar to the two lads crouching on the floor. The lad with the clinical observation on domestic violence was rocking back and forth like a topsey turvey. Still hadn't forgotten how offended I was by his comment and how it much the girl behind the jump wasn't too pleased with it either.

\- You ok?

\- I think I've pissed my jocks

\- Must be how your missis feels eh?

\- Sorry?

\- Exactly

And with a clenched left fist, I swing my arm round and hit him flush on the jaw, sending him spread eagled onto the floor.

His pal looks aghast at me and I make to hit him, feigning a punch, he flinches and slips over on his beer and his mates piss.

\- Something to say?

\- No

\- Good. Did you see where that lad I was sat with went?

\- He ran as soon as you tipped the table over. Who the fuck are you?

\- Just a Paddy Nemesis my good man

\- A what?

\- Fuck sake where's the education gone, look it up. Is there an exit out the back?

\- Yeah, it's out the back

\- Funny. What's your name pal?

\- Fintan O'Toole

\- Live round here?

\- Up the road

\- Right, ok Fintan, listen closely cause I've no time to repeat myself. I'm guessing there's only one Fintan O'Toole in Carrick so do me a favour and tell the boys in blue when they come in that I left out the front cause if I get picked up by them I could only assume you told them where I really went and I'll come looking for ya ok?

\- Yeah ok

\- Grand so, g'luck and choose a better friend next time eh?

I got up and walked out toward the exit at the rear with Fintan mumbling, incoherent. I walked past the two bodies, grey as the slate tiles they lay on and I stepped onto a face scrunching it like I was trying to put out smoke feeling the bone crunch under the pressure. I didn't even look back as I walked on and pushed the bar down on the door and through the alley at the back and came out onto the road.

Phone ringing, Glen

Answered and I say nothing, heaving breathing at the other end

\- Did you get him?

\- Oh I'm sorry, they can't come to the phone right now, no point leaving a message, you can tell them yourself soon enough.

\- Fuck

\- Fuck indeed my friend

I could hear someone talking to him in the background saying five minutes, Glen put his hand up to the mouthpiece and told whoever it was to shut the fuck up

\- Fiachra ? Fiachra ?

And I let him away chatting to the void of no reply.

\- Don't do this Fiachra because it'll be you first then I'll go after Sarah then Michael

And I thanked God for modern technology because with that recorded, I would be able to tell Sarah why I did what I was going to do.

\- I'd like to thank you Fiachra for your actions at Dunnes because now the cops will be dealing with that and far away from my little exchange.

And I started laughing, bent over with stomach cramps laughing

\- What's so fucking funny?

Laughter stops

\- The poetry of your last ever words and the fact that you think you're going to see tomorrow

\- Oh I......

Bang, phone down

I have the fucking last word here.

Chapter 30

Out - on the main street, a mist of oestrogen advanced towards me. A hen-do, about ten large, dressed like St Trinians school girls; hair in bunches, freckles, glasses, crisp white blouses a size too small for their cleavage which was struggling under the buttons, small pleated grey and black skirts, suspenders and stockings, heels more used to seeing the inside of a dungeon.

I had five minutes till the ship docked, ten pm must be when the truck would be able to leave the marina.

As the girls passed, the bride-to-be wearing tatty white veil with condoms and tiny plastic cocks attached tripped over on her ridiculously tall heels and fell towards me, I noticed one of her witches coven had helped her fall by pushing in my direction. I held out my hands to catch her, one hand caught her arm and the other missed as she flailed and I grabbed her breast, an instant flush of redness from me as I placed my hand on her other arm and she screamed out that I'd grabbed her tit and they all started laughing.

\- Ah girls, would ya look at him, all embarrassed.

Another one

\- Wanna have a feel of mine, look.

And the girl who pushed the bride lifted up her blouse and her bra to flash me her ludicrously big breasts and she shook them from left to right like a cheap, back-street pub stripper. I stood back, placed one foot on the wall took out a smoke, fucking cool Marlboro Man wannabe, I also wanted them to fuck right off so resisted engaging in any form of communication and just looked at the other side of the road, and smoked like I had no worries in the world

A loud crack rang from over the other side somewhere, and masonry from above me fell on the floor. Chips of red brickwork fell onto the bride to be's veil, and she twisted round and flicked as if wasps had landed on it. We all looked in the direction of the sound and the crack came again. The lady with the revealed breasts' right arm exploded, and the bride's blouse was suddenly covered in crimson, then the screaming came again. I shouted to them all to get down, as they did, skirts rose up showing me more than sex education could ever have. I'd reached round for my Glock and with my right arm guiding the bride's hand to her friends wound.

\- Apply pressure and don't let go until the doctor tells you to do so. Get one of your friends to call for an ambulance and the others can tear off strips of their blouse's, wrap them around the wound, and then just keep wrapping until you don't see any blood seep through, but keep the pressure on. Go into the pub just over there

I was nodding back at Dunnes.

\- And don't move from there until I come back for you. What's your name?

And I fired off a couple of shots in the direction of where the opposing gun fire was coming from, there were more screams and they ducked for cover.

\- What's your name?

\- Dervla.

\- Dervla - my name is Fiachra , I work for the Special Detective Unit . I'm here because right now a boat load of drugs is being offloaded in the marina and I've to stop it. Call the Leinster Environmental Offices and ask to speak to the third secretary? Say these words to him, it all ties in with Ballymun. Can you remember that?

\- What was that?

\- It doesn't matter, just go, go.

As another shot came over and hit James' car I got my right arm out and around, guiding the pen of hens which looked like a fox had attacked them, and I was shouting at them to get into Dunnes. Pushing them onwards, telling them to keep their heads down. I shouted out to the trigger happy lad over to road:

\- Will ya fucking hold up until the women get cover ya stupid cunt.

\- Stop hiding behind them ya fucking coward.

I couldn't see him from where I was, but the voice came from behind a Peugeot 206. I was crouched under a lamppost like a fucking rent boy, easy target. All of the girls had got into Dunnes, and I dived to hide behind James' car and kept my right shoulder in contact with it as I followed it round the side and got a peek out at the 206 from the rear of the car. I had the fob for the car in my pocket, and knew that if I opened it, the indicators would flash and the lad would know where I was, or have a good idea of where I was going to at least. I couldn't smash the glass or the bulb because with the level of silence, a gnat could fart and we'd be able to hear it.

He fired again, I saw the flash, he was still behind the 206 but he thought I was 15 yards to my right..

Good thinking batman.

I fired two shots across his bow, and opened the boot of James' car at the same time. He returned fire at pretty much the same location he had fired at before. Stupid cunt mustn't have learnt much about angles at school, how the fuck could I have fired from where he thought I was \- the sound was coming from his right, not his left. I hoped what I was looking for was in the boot as I reached into it blindly. Bingo. I unscrewed the jerry-can of petrol, full to the brim, fumes making feel light headed. What would the A-Team do? Nobody would die, that's the first thing to think about. I placed the canister on the ground, petrol glugging out onto the tarmac and pushed the canister over the road.

I stood up, stepped back and fired the remainder of the magazine into the trail of gasoline. It only needed two shots as the sparks engulfed the petrol and then played catch-up with the jerry-can, which ended up under the 206. The explosion knocked me back into Dunnes, the heat like a Cambodian summer holiday. All the glass in the windows had imploded into the bar, little cuts up my arms and face, my ears were ringing and I was disorientated. I looked around to see that the hen-do were up the back and unscathed. I tried to stand up, and fell back down onto one knee. I shook my head as if that would help restore the balance, using my hands to push me up off the floor. The fragments of glass penetrated my skin, the pain so intense I felt like I was in labour.

I pensively got back up into a standing position and brushed the dust and glass off my clothes, and picked some of the glass out of my hands.

I walked over to the hen-do, holding onto the bar rail, in case my legs gave way. The bride-to-be was holding onto what was left of her friends arm, all crying. The remainder of the women had torn off strips of their blouses and wrapped them around their injured friend, all in shock but maintaining some cognitive functions.

\- Are you ok?

That to everybody and nobody.

\- What do you think?

\- You know, Carrick's never normally this bad.

They all looked up at me with a sense of despair, not an uncommon look for me. All they wanted was a night out on the rip, have a laugh, meet some fellas and wake up next morning with a bad head and a desperate need to take the morning after pill - just in case. They spend 30 seconds with me and I'm caustic, royally fucking up everything for them.

\- Barman a whiskey please, where is he?

\- Fuck knows, nobody was in behind when we got in.

\- Fuck it

I jumped over the bar, grab a glass, pour myself a generous measure of Jamesons and say a quiet prayer to world peace, them knock the drink back, finding my sea legs were where they always were. I go over to the bride-to-be.

\- Remember what I said yeah?

\- I dunno, remind me again.

In ear-shot of the group, I told them who I am, who to call, where I was based and that everything should go through Dublin if asked. I told them to stay put and not trust a single Gard. If there's a group of them, then do whatever they are told. I said if there's a fire, come walk with me.

I also apologised for their friend with the gunshot wound. I was asked if I was the good guy. I told them I wasn't sure if I was until a few hours ago, but I was yeah. Yeah I was - and for once it felt fucking good.

Now I was steady on my feet, I walked back out of the bar, the Glock feeling like an extension of my hand, the wind outside whipping up bits of paper smouldering from the car fire over the road. Sirens from somewhere, could be a fire engine from Boyle, could be the lads up from Dublin. Dare I say it, it could be the fuzz. Doubtful, I would imagine most are in on tonight's little soiree. So in actual fact it could be the cops. Glen was probably right about my little episode taking them away from the marina, putting the boot in on me and leaving me in a ditch somewhere with unexplained wounds.

So I walked away from the pub. No running. Was I fucking stupid - running may have been a sensible idea as time ebbed away? Probably, but I didn't want the group of civilians around the car seeing some lad running away from the scene down towards the marina. As the road went left, I crossed over so I was on the inside, eyes looking everywhere - behind me, in between vehicles, in shop doors, alleyways and then using those hiding place when people were walking towards me.

\- What the fuck are you doing down there?

\- Trying to light a cigarette now fuck off, g'lad.

A few minutes later, once I'd calmed down after being spotted, I got on to the Dublin Road. The marina was off and down to my right and ran for quarter of a mile along the river. A mini Monaco in the heart of Ireland - except with boy racers rather than formula one drivers speeding round the roads.

I was hoping that whoever was down there was armed, 'cause I was running out of ammo like an old one on the game was running out of time. I kept to the left of the road, the traffic on my right was light enough but I was on the banks of the river now so I was hard to spot - if anyone was looking for me. I guessed the drop off would be at the far end of the marina, using the boats moored in front as cover, there being a desperate need to be as inconspicuous as possible.

I kept in tight to the boats. Some looked like tiny yachts - a poor attempt to be affluent. Some were fishing boats for hire. Some looked like the owner needed to get a bigger boat. My eyes were high on coke, never fixed but with a fixed stare, the traffic, the pedestrians, the boats, the decks, the water - the lad walking towards me with a sawn off shotgun who thankfully didn't notice me as I dove in left behind a yacht called the Enola Gay. Two things I considered at this point, I did more diving than any premiership striker, and who the fuck would want to name their fucking boat after a song by OMD. I coiled myself in tight, footsteps loud enough under the gravel. The sentry was breathing so heavily I thought he might be a part time dirty phone caller.

Then he stopped. Had he seen me, or seen something which arose his suspicion? I heard the bic lighter and the burning tobacco sizzling, less than a metre from me. I could smell the Marlboro Gold, and knew this lad wasn't going to be moving any time soon.

I uncurled like a taught spring. All the built up tension in my legs sprung me up. I got my left hand around, and took the smoke from his mouth. My right hand then covered his mouth like a steel plate and I pushed the smoke, lit end into his eye. The gritted teeth and spitting and squealing were all built up behind my right hand. As his eye started to sizzle, I pushed the smoke in further and stubbed it out. I then brought his head round and caved it in to old Enola. I made sure his forehead hit first, snapping his head back, breaking his neck and the top of his spine snapped. Surprisingly no blood just flattened cranial matter as he crumbled to a heap.

I searched the body and found six cartridges for the shotgun, a butterfly knife and a 10-spot which raised the faintest of smiles in me. There wasn't any ID on him, and I doubt I'd find any on whoever it was up ahead of me. Except for Glen - but they'd need ID to verify his body after I'd been at him. I took the essentials and left the knife, too fucking fancy for me. I kicked this buck off the side and he fell into the water between the boat and the wharf, the faintest splash only noticeable to those looking out for the sound.

I started moving forward again.

I saw it up ahead of me about fifty metres or so, reversed up to the wharf, back doors wide open, light on inside with two lads placing cellophane wrapped packages inside was an old 1970's post office van. It looked like it should have been red, but with the lack of a clean and more scuff marks than on a basketball court, I couldn't be sure. Glen was moving between the front cab, the back of the van and then onto the boat. Nobody was in the cab, the driver's door was open, which enabled me to see through to the passenger side door which was shut.

Three is a magic number - but I couldn't be too sure it was only three I was dealing with. I was armed with the sentry's shot gun. My Glock and James' shooter were in my waistband under the coat, just enough ammunition to scrape through - unless I picked some up along the way. I snapped open the shotgun just to be sure it was loaded, paranoia seeping in, knowing already that it was loaded, but playing it all cautious like. Three wharfs away and I snuck onto the fishing boat moored on the starboard side, crouching down low and moving across the deck. I could see the drug ship two boats away, there was a fourth lad behind the steering wheel thing, at least 6'2" and stocky from a life on the open waves and not a single hair on his head to show for it. He was wearing a ballistics vest which didn't bode well for me because I'm sure he wouldn't be the only one wearing one. Glen and the two other lads would surely have them on under their jackets. I kicked myself for not noticing something so obvious. I hundred myself over the side of the fishing boat and dropped down onto the wharf.

I assumed a sentry had been sent out the other way from the fella I'd just crushed the skull of, and maybe another up towards the road. There would never be a small army to fight because of the numbers and who can be trusted. I wasn't surprised Glen could trust or pay-off that many people. With a billion euro worth of coke, anybody could be paid off. I climbed up onto the neighbouring boat, a yacht called Shergar.

So Shergar was in Leitrim after all.

I laid the shot gun on the deck and took from my waist the Glock.

I had direct line of sight to the captain fella, no obstructions or glass to shoot through, the slightest whisper of a breeze. He didn't appear to have a firearm on him, his arms folded across and hands tucked in under his pits to keep warm. The two lads carrying the coke out were walking underneath me. I could see the inside of the van and it didn't appear to be that full but then again I wouldn't know what a billion euro worth would look like. Glen walked behind them telling them to hurry the fuck up. He was also on the phone - telling whoever it was on the other end that it was all nearly off and they would be on their way soon and that he'll be dealt with, I guessed that's me. He cut the call off without saying goodbye - the rude bastard. This left me in a fucking quandary now, there's a mystery third person making this an unholy trinity.

I called him up - he's my best mate after all - and left the phone on the deck next to the shot gun. Before he answered he barked orders to hurry up, that it was me on the phone. One of the lads said there's only a couple more left to go, and they hurried back onto the boat and into the hold. Glen picked up my call as I was lining up to shoot the captain.

\- What do you want? Hello? Fiachra ?

He looked around him as he could hear his voice down the other end of the line, he knew I was nearby.

\- Where are ya, you cunt?

Spinning round like a whirling dervish, nearly as paranoid as me, getting high on his own supply. The captain is looking out at Glen, who's pacing up and down the wharf trying to find the sound of his own voice.

Split-second timing here boy.

The barrel of the gun flashed sending the bullet out at around a speed of 1200 feet per second. The captain was about 10 feet away from me. First he was there and then he wasn't, the force of the shot knocking him backward - jets of blood decorating the window and ceiling - spraying out from the carotid artery that I had just blew a chunk out of. Before Glen could get hold of whatever cannon he was holding, I had spun round and shot at his right knee, the bullet passed through -sending bone and flesh out of the exit wound and he collapsed onto the wooden deck screaming in agony, hands clasping at the place where his knee used to be. Grabbing the shotgun off the deck, I leapt over the side of Shergar , ran over to Glen and kicked him in the jaw, breaking it with one boot in - hard. Hard enough to scream out, raising unwanted attention with a broken mouth. His whimpers and groans like the sound of broken machine parts.

\- I'll be back for you in a minute.

And I gave him a little tap on the cheek with my hand, the way friends do when they part. I walked up the gang plank of the boat that the coke's on, shotgun aiming out from the hip. Up, onto the deck, hearing the footsteps getting louder from the hold and before I can get a look at them, I've blasted a hole in the first lads chest - so wide that there would be no requirement to crack his ribs open for the post-mortem. From out of nowhere the rain starts hammering down, I step forward and slip on the wet deck, my left leg shoots out in front of me as the second lad leaps over his pal and as my arms raise up. I pull the trigger. He wouldn't be able to be identified by his dental records as he had no head for the dentist to look into. Bang – I was on my back, laughing to prevent any embarrassment at the fact I'd slipped over. My ears were ringing from the blast and I felt I wee bit disorientated, but conscious of the fact there may be others ready to turn my body into a once-living colander. I turned myself over and was up on all fours looking back towards the post office van which now had its rear doors shut.

Fuck.

I stood up, cracking my back into place, stretching like I'd just been asleep. He surely couldn't have got up for fuck sake, this was the Wesht of Ireland not fucking Planet Hollywood – but, nothing would surprise me – and, as I looked over onto the wharf, my beliefs were confirmed, Glen wasn't there. I didn't need a trail of breadcrumbs to let me know where he was, the blood, thick like paint showed me he'd gone to the front cab of the van, not before shutting the gates. I was up on two feet, running towards the bow of the boat, reloading the shot gun, the other suspected sentry fired at me, but I was moving so fast that he shot at where he thought I was going to be. The van lunged forward not in the correct gear and I jumped over the bow, blasting out the offside rear tyre. The weight of the load noticeable as the van leaned over towards the left. I was never a gymnast but I would have got 10's across the board for the forward role - swinging the shotgun round to my right and shooting out the other rear tyre. The van tilted backwards, the doors not secure, and the coke slides out of the open doors onto the floor, knocking me over.

The sentry was nearly over me reloading, he thought I had only an empty shotgun, and nothing else to my name, I didn't. I'd lost my Glock somewhere in the jump. I had James' handgun though, trapped under my back, and I was able to get enough leverage to lean over to my right, left hand in under my back, fully loaded and ready to go, he was a big enough target and I emptied the magazine into the sentry's chest, ending up on his knees looking for bits of his chest that weren't there anymore. I kicked some of the coke off of me and into the river, allowing myself enough room to manoeuvre around. I got up, grabbed the sentry by the scruff of the neck and dragged him over to the river and forced his head under, enough energy had been drained from him with the gunshot wounds, and he flailed an awful less than a man of his stature should have.

I left him head first in the water, thinking one more, but one more isn't one more because there will always be one more. I scoured round for my Glock, picking up bales of coke that had been shed from the van and launched them into the river, each more of an effort than the last. I was tempted to rip open a bale and bury my head in the soft floury powder. I located the sentry's .36 - shit fucking weapon - there were four rounds left. I checked my pockets and found the last magazine for my as-yet-to-be-located Glock. I kept moving between both sides of the van, no open doors, Glen was still inside trying to find my stupid fucking Glock, out of habit I patted the pockets of my jacket, nothing.

Fuck it, not going to be any loss, I've two cartridges left for the shotgun and four rounds in the .36. I throw James' gun into the Shannon and use the .36 to shoot out the wing mirror on the passenger side, then flip back around the other side and shoot out the mirror on the driver's side. I thump the old panels on the driver's side like a demented drunken husband, trying to get into the house to beat on his wife. I go around the other side and dent the panels there, then run up and around the back, thumping, then back on myself, opening the passenger door.

\- Boo

Not even a jump, just a sad-looking, fucked up, shot to shit, jaw-jutting cunt of a best friend. The engine was still running, so I leant over and turned the key in the ignition. He tried to stop me - like a lion tries to stop a runaway train on ice - I brushed his hands away and took the key. I also pilfered his pockets, found his mobile and my Glock, old faithful, and took them off of him, caressing my gun like a priest does a child, but the gun was already stiff.

\- Now, before our colleagues come sniffing around I shall tell you a few things, and leave you to ponder on them. Glen? Glen?

He turned away from me and looked out the window into nothingness. Still acting the prick even now. I stuck my thumb into the gunshot wound in his knee, clamped my hand around his knee and squeezed it like a ripe melon. Wailing screams, high pitched squealing came out, snot and spit dribbled onto his chin. Trying to open his mouth only intensified the pain, he had no hope and was being tortured.

\- Shut up

And an open-palmed slap across the face didn't silence him, so I let him go, released his knee and leant back against the passenger door, arms folded.

\- Well now Glen, I'm guessing our good friend Patrick told you about what I do for a living now? Cigarette?

I offer one out but then retract the box and pull a smoke out and light it up myself.

\- Well see, I used to be in the Special Detective Unit, fast tracked don't you know, and now I'm in the G2 now. Like Special Branch but without all the Unionist collusion. My boss, you remember him? The lad who was in charge of me Da's murder case? He tells to kill all these criminals and gangsters, which I do with aplomb but the other day I was in Ballymun and I killed a Cabinet Minister. Shocking I know. So I come back to Boyle, lay low for a while and then find out about this shipment and also an Fairy Tale about my dad. Then I find out that the same cunts importing the drugs are the same cunts who killed my Da, and the same cunts who like to play toy politics up North, who used the be the same cunts that blew up pubs and kids. Hang on, they still do that - but - ssshhhh it's a big fucking non-secret.

Looking up onto the road, a couple of squad cars turn onto Main Street, better late than never, I suppose.

\- So I arrive in Boyle - off my fucking head, like a sky boy, anger Glen, like you would never know. If you had an heat-seeking camera I would have melted it. I was also shit scared, 'cause of the fact that I thought I was going to see you, and you and Sarah had been let down about my disappearance. I was shitting myself, but I have to admire how fucking low you are, to do that to your own sister - getting her high on your gear, and setting her up with one of your patsies, allowing my son to think he was the son of one of your mongrel cunts from fucking Limerick? But I tell you one thing, look at me, I said fucking look at me!

Not a single tear in his eye, not a single bit of remorse, I didn't need to hear the word sorry. It wouldn't have made any difference and I couldn't care if he was or not.

\- For whatever reason, out of malice, or jealousy that I turned the tables on you and got all you ever wanted, or maybe it was the glory of playing the double life, creaming it all over the place like a cheap porn star. Funda-fucking-mentally you stepped over the line so many times the word linear may as well not exist, and you killed my Da didn't you? And you fucked up my life and you fucked up your sisters, your nephew's, the town and the fucking country.

He looked at me, searing eyes, like he'd still won and the slightest attempt at a nod, like he was proud of the actions by his hands.

\- Ah Glen, can I say for the purposes of the tape that you are admitting you killed my Da?

He made a noise that sounded like scraping metal, as he opened his mouth. The first syllable merged with the second and third and for the purposes of the tape, it was almost certainly a "yes". It could never be submitted as evidence in court because the defence would have a field day that he had answered under duress, of course fucking duress, what else could I have done your Honour.

\- Well old pal, it's a fucking travesty eh? It's a travesty that you won't get an open coffin.

Everything turned red, I lunged forward, grabbed his head and brought it forward into the steering wheel, again and again and again. One punch, two, three, thinking of my dad with half his head missing - pistol whipped, covered in blood, the window covered in blood. I leaned back over to the passenger side and shoot him in the other knee, the flash and sound was intense. He wasn't dead but he was certainly unconscious. I hawked up some phlegm and spat on him and got out of the door, dazed and confused, feeling fucking guilt for what I'd just done, guilt!!

I ran back onto the boat and into the hold, slipping slightly on the pool of blood around the body of those lads who were carrying the coke out, went down into the engine room and found a container full of petrol. Boy, do I love setting fire to things, destroying the old so that new life can start. I dragged it back up onto the deck, unscrewed the top and pushed it over on its side, dragging it down the gang plank. I pulled it across the wharf, up to the rear doors of the van, round to the driver's side, about twenty metres in front and I sat down, covered in blood and out of breath. I got up and ran back down to the river and washed my hands in the murky waters, trying to get all the petrol off of them. I took my jacket off, washed my arms and smell them to make sure there wasn't any petrol on them. I could still smell it, but it wasn't on my arms. I put my jacket back on, ran over to the canister then back, and lay it on top of the spilled cargo behind the van. This time, I walk back over to the front of the van and followed the trail of petrol I'd left.

I turned and looked at the van, in at Glen's unconscious flesh - incapable of leaving the van even if he woke up. I got the lighter from inside my pocket and extend my arm, lighting it, crouching down, half a metre away from where the trail ended. I lit it, then ran very fast in the opposite direction. The expulsion of air from the first explosion throws me forward, and I ended up splayed out on the floor with the trunk of a tree as a pillow. I rolled over and watched the display as the flames engulfed the van and the boat.

If only it was over

Chapter 31

Think it's best I hand in my resignation.

I lean up on my elbows watching making sure it all burns, the gear, the evidence, the bodies. A smell of roast pork tinged with burning rubber, a gorgeous bouquet. I walk fifty meters to my left, past Shergar with the starboard side of her warping in the heat, past The Enola Gay up to the bridge that separates Leitrim and Roscommon.

I take off my jacket and take everything out of my jean pockets, wrap them up in the coat and leave them behind a gorse bush by the river. I take my runners off, then my jeans and place them on top of my jacket and then I dive into the river, hoping the water will clean off the dirt and blood accumulated over the last few hours. The coldness of the river feels like razor blades slicing my skin, I come up for air and all I can smell is oil off the surface of the water. I dive back down and swim under the bridge, I don't ever wanna feel like I did that day, and swim back to the bank, rubbing myself clean and cleansed I was as I stepped back onto solid ground.

Rubber neckers and helpful citizens rush down to the fires, nothing can be done now except from standing at a safe enough distance, looking onward, palm to forehead blocking the sunlight from the eyes the sunlight that wasn't even there shaking their collective heads. Someone brought down a bucket, yeah, like that would fucking help. I tried as hard as possible to towel myself off with the inside of my jacket, then put it on and button it up over my drenched Green Day t shirt, pulling on my jeans was a fucking chore like trying to open a banks safe with a locker key. I sit in behind the bust and light up again.

What the fuck was I going to do now. I didn't feel magnanimous or unanimous. It wasn't a victory but it didn't feel like a defeat either. I had to do it because I was being paid quite handsomely to do it. I had to do it because Patrick and Glen had killed my Da. Whoever wrote that whole eye for an eye bollocks obviously didn't have the faintest fucking idea of what it meant because it's not how you feel. Sure it was only the fucking Bible, just a collection of kids stories written by people who loved kids a bit too much. Of course it needed to be done, of course fucking of course just doesn't make me feel any better for doing it like a door that will never fully close, there's always an annoying prick of a neighbour playing his music too loud on the other side.

I'd better get my head round composing.

I couldn't put it off any longer, I dialled Sarah's number rather than looking through the contact list. I keyed in the numbers so slowly, I may as well have been going backwards.

\- Hi it's me

\- Where are you?

\- Still in Carrick

\- Where's Glen?

\- He's gone

\- Gone, gone where?

\- No Sarah I mean he's gone

\- Oh my God, how? Why?

I have to fucking say it now, easier than face to face

\- He was Patricks man down here, he was the one who killed my Da

\- But he was up in Enniskillen

\- He probably was at some point, meeting Pat. They played us Sarah. Look at how quickly he conveniently set you up with Ronan after I left.

\- Oh God, Ronan.

\- He's gone too

\- For fuck sake Fiachra , who's left?

\- Well I am. Sarah don't cry

\- What. Would. You. Expect. Me. To. Do?

\- I really don't know. It was Glen who was importing the drugs and using Boyle to distribute it all. The house, the car, he thought he was untouchable, protected by the 'RA. I had to do it Sarah, regardless of whether he was your brother, my mate or a total fucking stranger. Where's Michael?

\- Watching TV

\- Come back to Kiltycreighton, half hour?

\- No

\- No?

\- You fucking heard me

And she hung up on me.

Weird fucking guilt like I'd been made to feel like I've done something wrong, don't think a bunch a flowers would help the situation.

Ah she'd get over it, she'd see sense.

I finished the smoke and flicked it into the river I'd just baptised myself in.

I needed to steal a car the only unnecessary, necessary crime of the night. I walk over the bridge into Roscommon, coat wrapped tight around me, the fire on the other side of the river was still burning high and mighty, more of an audience than I anticipated, getting high on the fumes, leaving everything to burn and good fucking riddance to the lot of it, flesh and bone included.

There was a mini parked in an off road untarmacked car park, one of them new models, red with white racing stripes around the body. Nobody was around and I could care if I was seen, it took me two attempts with my elbow to smash the driver side window, used the lever inside to open the bonnet as the alarm, shrill any annoying filled the emptiness of the car park. I lifted the bonnet and ripped out the wires that connected the alarm to the battery. I opened the driver's door and down under the steering wheel, I ripped open the steering column and pulled down the wires contained within, sure I didn't have a clue what to do I'd only seen this in films but I knew where the alarm was and how to disable it cause I'd helped one of the Curran lot steel one weeks ago. I electrocuted myself several times before finding the right connection and the engine kicked into life.

I bombed it out of Carrick like a mammal out of hades. Slowing down for the oncoming flashing blue lights, driving without a care in the world and abiding the rules of the road, a quick step with more to risk than trodden on toes. Through Boyle, dead as per usual, just a group of corner boys outside the old National Irish Bank on the corner of Bridge Street and Dave Finnegan holding court.

Fuck it, it's the last chance I'll get to do this, time I didn't have a lot of but I could type quick. Handbrake tyre squeals and they all look up, I look at them in the rear view and they all look at me as I have now got their attention. Dave is giving it the big I am to his pals and they all laugh and all decide to walk over to me. Jesus, will these cunts never learn?

Finnegan comes round to the driver's side shouting at me to get out, engine still running, as he starts banging on the window and trying the door handle, I cup a hand up to my ear and feign deafness. Then I whack on the stereo, it doesn't matter what anyone says you can't beat a bit of The Who as the song, "The Kids are Alright" blares out and they could be as well if we didn't all think they were knife wielding, glue sniffing thugs.

I've had enough of this and I make to open the driver's door and Finnegan instinctively steps back and that was enough for me, with one hand on the frame of the door and the other on the handle on my side, I crack it open and cave the door into his knee, gravity must be stronger round Boyle with all the people I interact with falling down hard and Finnegan trips and falls back over a pothole and lands in it. Nothing witty comes to mind, but he's my whipping boy, he's my little bitch.

\- Ya stupid cunt Finnegan, you'll never learn.

Door shut, clutch, first gear, foot hard down on the accelerator and away we go. It's only once in your life you wish the car you were driving had one of them novelty whacky racers horns, this was that moment.

I drive out towards Sligo and stop off at the Gurteen turn off, I stand on the verge of the road, looking down into the ditch where my Da had laid, the grass long and sodden, dampening my Gazelles, hands firmly in pockets, not a tear to shed or vomit to bring up. Can't think of any words to say, was always told that actions speak louder than words, I think I had said enough.

I had made my mind up about what I had to do next, it was surely the only way Sarah would believe me and I'd already threatened Sean with it. It wasn't an empty threat mind but I wasn't sure where to start. I haven't just recently found my morals either. They were always there, hibernating, locked away, unable to breathe like a garden being overrun with Japanese knotweed.

I had a duty, but I'd never be able to return to Ireland again.

As I drove up the dirt track towards my Grannies house I stopped again, blocking the exit in case Sarah hadn't already left, wishful thinking.

I went onto Google and searched every single daily paper in the country and the Sunday World. I copied and pasted as many email addresses as possible for the journalists and group email addresses where I couldn't find one for an individual. After what felt like hours finding these addresses I clicked into the subject header and wrote "Irish Government worker uncovers internal Drug Scam" just in case they couldn't figure out a decent headline, the tabloids would probably go for "Government or Gangsters, Spook reveals all". Then I deleted the subject thinking that was just fucking stupid and wrote in block capitals URGENT.

Clearly I wasn't going to give them everything, exposing myself and letting the powers that be get away with it. I cropped recordings short for those of a weak temperament.

I told them my name, my rank, my warrant number, the name of my boss and where I was based.

I am a serving officer for G2 and have been seconded from the Special Detective Unit.

Two months ago I received a Presidential case file which gave me authorisation to assassinate Brian O'Connell in Ballymun. This case file has been destroyed in accordance with a Government Protocol, called Silo. I was unaware and had never been given any indication that the Minister for Finance, Sean Daly would be with O'Connell at the time of the of the assassination. He has never been mentioned in any communiqués or come to my attention.

When I attempted to vacate the area, armed police had already breached the tower block within seconds of me following through with the Silo protocol.

I had been set up.

I attempted to contact my superior officer who I later found out had been deliberately knocked down by a vehicle with Northern Irish plates, on Dame Street in Dublin. I now have the number plates in my possession which I will submit for forensic evidence.

In order to assess the situation, I had to leave Dublin and came to my old home of Boyle, Co. Roscommon. Within forty eight hours, I established that members of the Real IRA were residing in Boyle and were using the Public Houses to launder funds obtained from criminality.

I was able to establish that a boat would be docking in Carrick on Shannon with large shipment of Cocaine worth eight billion Euros was to be investigate and locate unknown persons who would be smuggling over One Billion Euro's worth of Cocaine. I required assistance for my investigation because the gang had been made up of individuals from Dissident Republican gangs as Boyle is near the border. I brokered a meeting with Patrick Dempsey, MLP for West Belfast. He was in the area campaigning for the First Minister elections.

Please listen to recording two for the conversation between myself and Mr Dempsey. Whilst speaking to him, I became aware that his associate and driver, a man I only know to be James, was listening in on the conversation we had. Mr Dempsey began to tell me that he was the leader of this gang. I turned to see James raising a firearm towards me and he fired, I had jumped out of the way but the shot hit Mr Dempsey in the mouth. I felt in fear for my own life and fired at James with a firearm issued to me by my employers. The Silo protocol was used to protect myself and I left the scene as quickly as I could as I was aware of the impact of what had just happened on the mission.

You can clearly make out that Mr Dempsey had ordered a "hit" on my father, eight years ago. Gard Lorcan Clancy had found out about Mr Dempsey's plans and was about to expose the gang before he was untimely murdered.

As you can hear from the recording, there was another senior member of the gang who lived in Boyle and had carried out Mr Dempsey's orders.

From what I could establish, Mr Dempsey and his cohort had used me in my role to eliminate all competition for them and enable them to be the only major drug dealers in the country. With Government backing, they would be unstoppable. They would use the proceeds to rectify our Economic downturn and finance further terrorism campaigns in the United Kingdom.

Using close sources in Boyle, I was able to ascertain that the second person was Gard Sergeant Glen Doyle who, it was later established, had killed my father. He was also at one point a close friend of mine.

I was able to locate Sergeant Doyle at Carrick on Shannon along with eight other members of the gang. Two members of the gang fired at me in Dunnes pub and I returned fire, protecting customers in the bar, the barmaid in the pub is a witness to this. There was a Hen Party out on the road and one of the group was shot and injured in the arm. I instructed them to seek solitude in Dunnes and I returned fire ensuring that this was done as soon as members of the public were not in any danger. The fuel line in the car from where the assailant had fired upon me had ruptured and sparks from his firearm ignited the fuel and the car exploded. The remaining members, including Sergeant Doyle were unloading large bundles, wrapped in polythene from their boat onto an old Post Office van. I intercepted and became involved in a fire fight with a heavily armed gang. I again feared for my life and returned fire, killing all but Sergeants Doyle who had sustained a gunshot wound in the fight to his knee.

I could see that fuel was pouring from the van as both rear wheels had been shot out, Sergeant Doyle was in the cab of the van in the driver's seat and I entered through the passenger door to administer first aid and move him away from the van. his wounds were severe and it looked like he had sustained "friendly fire" injuries as he had sustained a large blow to the face. He asked me to record what he was about to tell me (see recording 3), he kept grabbing at my phone. I asked him if he had killed my father, he was unable to speak properly but he made a noise that sounded like "yes" and he nodded his head. He then made to push me out of the van, crying as he was trying to atone and save me. I was mindful it could explode fired out at me but hit the pool of fuel that was gathering under the spilled cargo from the rear doors of the van. Flames immediately engulfed the van and the heat was so intense that I was unable to reach Sergeant Doyle and pull him to safety. Baring in mind what my instructions were about killing the gang members and the fact I was told to steal the drugs I was disobeying direct and clear instructions as everything is now destroyed.

I was used by senior officers and those in the higher echelons of Government because of the fact that my father had been murdered and they were aware of a personal interest in locating and murdering them.

I believe there has been a conspiracy between the Irish and British Government in order to remove Patrick Dempsey as it was well known he was on the IRA council and he still had a vested interest in criminality. I believe the British Government were holding back bailout funds for the Irish Economy as they did not want Patrick Dempsey to be elected First Minister of Northern Ireland whilst he still had extra-curricular activities.

I am ousting myself as a Government employee because I want you all to know what they and I have been capable of. I thought I was paid to protect, instead I was paid to destroy and line the pockets of those who Lord it over us all. I did what I did because I had to and because they had killed my father, I wanted to.

I am now a hunted man but I won't go into hiding. I will not go to court, nor will I serve time. The salt I am rubbing into the wounds will make me a target too valuable to be brought to justice. What I've done IS justice.

I destroyed the drugs and have written this email to you because the Irish people need to know what corrupt levels the Government of Ireland have risen to and I no longer wish to be part of that.

I sincerely hope that you publish this. I sincerely hope things can change.

Fiachra Clancy

Thumb hovering over the send button, Glen's phone starts to ring, if this goes out now, anarchy will fill the streets, I'll be starting the forest fire to get rid of the dead wood, phone still ringing.

Send, stomach contracts, it's out there now

And the caller display shows me a number from America, Boston I think, 001617? The email is still sending and I can't leave the screen until it sends, hoping the caller doesn't ring off.

Sent.

Reach over

\- Hello?

\- Glen?

Irish voice, mid 50's, been in America for a few years

\- Nope

\- Who is this?

\- Just an auld party crasher

Grab my phone, press record, put Glen's phone on speaker and I start to slowly drive up to the farm house

\- Fiachra Clancy?

\- The one and the same. I'm afraid to say that the deal didn't go down too well for your boys.

\- That was not a very wise move my lad

\- Ah sure if you pay peanuts, you'll only get monkeys. Boston is it you're from?

\- Where is my shipment?

\- Your shipment? In the Shannon, on fire, smouldering, drowning. Same as your lads

\- That's a pity

\- Depends

\- On?

\- The pitiful. I'm thinking of taking a vacation, as the fella says

\- You'd want to find somewhere very secluded, the trouble you're in.

I could hear a train announcer in the background saying that the next train was a "Braintree Train, the next stop is Harvard Square". He was in Somerville

\- Ah sure we should meet up for a drink in Davis Square, sort it out Mano et Mano

\- That'll be lovely, I would say bring the family, but then that's no longer an option for you.

Fuck sake, no

\- You won't be able to get near them. You know what, my devil has long been caged, he's come out out roaring. I'll be seeing you soon.

He'd cut the phone call off

No bang, phone down. This was a panic stricken, looking at the phone back off the phone, I turn the head lights on and gun it for the farm house, the sensor to my left was on fire and exploded sending shrapnel against the bod of the car. I could feel the floor beneath my foot

Fuck no.

Total blackness, I keep the car running and head inside, switching on the hall light and I slip over on the blood, streaked across the hall and I start crying, screaming as I try to pick myself up off the floor and I keep sliding. I scream out Sarah's name at least that's what I think I am saying, then Michaels and all I can hear is my own echo, the lounge is empty, the kitchen is empty, the trail either looks like it left from or went into the bedroom. Bile rising, hot and cold sweats, snot and tears as I run down the hall.

I burst open the door.

The End

### The big list of thank you's;

### Baring in mind I've been writing this book since I was 19 and now I am 35, the list has been condensed somewhat as there would be another 290 pages to list all the people.

### Firstly, Boyle is an amazing, picturesque little town in an amazing part of the country. I only used it because I know the town so well. What I wrote is completely fictitious and you should really go and see the town and the people for a real taste of Ireland.

### Thanks to Dan and the lads at DH Design, Bexley for designing the front cover and converting the text into an ebook.

Thanks to Nic for her patience and encouragement, Greg for the Connery conversations, Danny who couldn't tell when I was being myself or Jack. My cousins in Boyle who would never take me seriously the family and friends over in England who did.

### All the characters are made up but I tip my hat to many for inspiration for some of them.

### Jack will return.

### Twitter:

### @PhilCone

### @PaddyNemesis

### Web:

www.dh-design.co.uk
