Alan Glynn - Winterland

‘ … no, indeed, Sean, it certainly doesn’t, and days like today make my job - ’

Then, silence.

When Mark replaces his hand on the steering wheel, it tightens again, automatically.

That velvety, media-trained voice, both obsequious and arrogant, never fails to unnerve him.

He comes off the roundabout.

It’s also becoming a lot harder to avoid. Bolger seems to be everywhere these days – in the papers, on radio, on TV.

He looks in the rearview mirror, indicates and gets into the left lane.

Though in one way or another this is something Mark has been dealing with for years. When he was a business student (and way before Bolger had anything like the high profile he has today), hearing that voice on the radio, or even the name, would have been enough to floor him. It would have triggered all manner of weird behaviour – depressive, destructive behaviour like not getting out of bed for days, not taking a shower, drinking himself stupid, arguing incessantly, and with everyone, his girlfriend, his lecturers, his uncle Des.

Mark takes the next exit. He has that meeting in town, in the Westbury, with the building contractor.

But these days, it must be said, things are different. He showers regularly, doesn’t drink anymore and is a lot less combative. If he comes across Larry Bolger’s name, he’ll still react, but more or less the way he’s reacting now – in a measured way, nothing extreme. Besides, these days, he has responsibilities. He has clients and contracts, and employs three people full-time at the showrooms in Ranelagh.

It’s all very grown-up.

So much so, in fact, that on occasion Mark has a hard time believing the whole thing is for real. It’s as if he expects an official with a clipboard to tap him on the shoulder one day and announce, politely, that it’s all been a mistake, that his company is to be dissolved, that his house and his car are to be repossessed.

Stopping at traffic lights, Mark closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them again and bangs on the steering wheel.

Shit .

Now he’s all anxious.

Shit, shit, shit .

Twenty minutes later, on his way into the Westbury, he gets a call on his mobile. It’s from the contractor saying he’ll be a few minutes late.

As he waits on his own in the lounge, Mark toys with the idea of ordering a gin and tonic.

Just one, he thinks, a quickie.

The waiter approaches. Mark clears his throat. He asks for a black coffee.

Then he turns back and glances at the table in front of him. There is a newspaper on it. After a moment, he lifts the paper up, leans over and tosses it onto the next table along.

The removal to the church of young Noel’s remains takes place at 5.30 the following afternoon. The Gardaí have released his name by that stage, and the story is all over the front page of the Evening Herald – SHOCK DOUBLE TRAGEDY FOR FAMILY. Inside, on page 4, a piece is headed THE TWO NOELS. It’s obvious when you read it that they’re straining to make a connection, to join up the dots, but they can’t, and the two stories remain stubbornly separate. Something else they can’t do is print what’s already been widely rumoured around town – that the older Noel had been drinking heavily before his car ran off the road.

Over a two-page spread, the paper’s crime correspondent concentrates on the nephew. Known locally as ‘Grassy’ Noel – on account of his preference for marijuana over hash – the twenty-six-year-old belonged to a Dublin gang with strong links to drug suppliers operating out of the Netherlands. The gang’s other activities include prostitution, mainly involving foreign nationals, and an elaborate piracy operation – involving anything from DVDs and computer software to Gucci handbags and Manchester United jerseys.

The gang leader is forty-two-year-old Terry ‘the Electrician’ Stack, and it is believed that Noel Rafferty was one of his trusted lieutenants.

The article goes on to say that usually within hours of a gangland killing, detectives know why the victim was killed and who pulled the trigger, but that apparently in this case everyone is baffled. However, one thing various sources say you can be sure of is that sooner or later, knowing Terry Stack, an act of reprisal will take place.

The Electrician, it seems, is not happy and won’t be sleeping until someone pays a price for this.

The Herald’s coverage is exhaustive. Another article reports how the beer garden of the pub was cordoned off so that members of the Garda technical bureau could carry out a complete forensic examination of the crime scene. According to Superintendent Frankie Deeghan, who is leading the inquiry, the State Pathologist then arrived to carry out a preliminary examination of the body, after which the remains were transferred to the city morgue for a full post-mortem.

Yet another report describes the kind of gun used in the shooting, and gives details about ballistics and fragmentation. It mentions wound cavities, torn muscle tissue and severed blood vessels.

No one who arrives for the removal – at the Church of Our Lady Queen of Heaven in Dolanstown – is seen holding a copy of the Evening Herald .

From about five o’clock on, mourners start drifting into the church. There are a lot of people from the area: friends and neighbours of Catherine’s; friends and ‘associates’ of Noel’s; Terry Stack, naturally; his entourage; friends of Yvonne’s and Michelle’s; friends of Gina’s. There are onlookers (friends of no one’s in particular), as well as a local councillor, a few journalists, a few photographers, and maybe one or two plainclothes detectives.

Our Lady Queen of Heaven, built in the early fifties, is enormous, a brick and granite echo chamber that can hold up to fifteen hundred people. When the ceremony starts, it is almost a quarter full. Sitting in the front pew, next to the coffin, are Catherine and her three sisters. In the couple of pews behind them are immediate family – Yvonne’s husband and their three kids, Michelle’s partner and their two, plus other family members, cousins, two aunts, an uncle.

Behind them is everyone else, the congregation thinning out farther back in the church.

Catherine is staring at the altar. She took a Xanax before coming out, and feels numb. Her mouth is dry. Every few minutes – literally, since Monday night – it’s been hitting her, the news, what happened… and each time it’s as though she’s hearing it for the first time. Her mind goes blank and then it hits her. Her mind goes blank and then it hits her again . But at least now it’s like someone hitting her with the cardboard tube from a roll of kitchen paper. Before it was like someone hitting her with a baseball bat.

The news about her brother, on the other hand, has barely sunk in at all.

It has for Yvonne, Michelle and Gina, though. They are grieving for Catherine and her loss, but also for their brother, Noel, and it’s pretty much unbearable. One day you’re going about your business, everything is normal, and the next you’re plunged into an abyss of anguish and pain.

Who could make sense of that ?

Certainly not this Father Kerrigan, it occurs to Gina. As the priest walks out of the sacristy and onto the altar, she feels a mild hostility rippling across the surface of her grief. Everyone stands up, and the sound of a few hundred people collectively shuffling to their feet reverberates throughout the church. Father Kerrigan positions himself at the lectern and leans towards the microphone. He is a portly man in his fifties. He has receding hair and is wearing glasses. He makes the sign of the cross.