Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

‘Only of our making. Night is when things come alive; it is the mother of counsels. My mentor, Brehon Morann, says that the dead of night is when wisdom ascends with the stars to the zenith of thought and all things are seen. Night is the quiet time for contemplation.’

They stood on the threshold of Brother Abán’s house. Fidelma’s horse had been brought to the door. Just as Fidelma was about to mount, a strange, eerie wailing sound echoed out of the valley. It rose, shrill and clear against the night sky, rose and ended abruptly, rose again and this time died away. It was like the caoine.

Brother Abán crossed himself. ‘The Banshee!’ he whispered.

Fidelma smiled. ‘To each their own interpretation. I hear only the lonely cry of a wolf searching for a mate. Yet I will concede that for each act there is a consequence. Bláth conjured the Banshee to cover her crime and perhaps the Banshee is having the last word.’

She mounted her horse, raised her hand in salute, and turned along the moonlit road towards Cashel.

Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.

Man, isn’t that a hell of a title. I love that. Pity it’s been used, it’s a novel by Thomas Boyle. I read it years ago when the idea of moving to Brooklyn began to seriously appeal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going, got a Gladstone bag packed. Just the essentials, a few nice shoirts. See, I’m learning Brooklynese, and it’s not as easy a language as the movies would lead you to believe. I’ve had this notion for so long now, it’s an idee fixe. Like the touch of French? I’m no dumbass, I’ve learned stuff, not all of it kosher. I don’t have a whole lot of the frog lingo, so I’ve got to like, spare it. Trot it out when the special occasion warrants. Say you want to impress a broad, you hit her with a flower and some shit in French, she’s already got her knickers off. OK, that’s a bit crude but you get the drift.

I’m hiding out in an apartment in Salthill. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking…but isn’t that, like, in Galway, Ireland? I like a challenge.

Phew-oh, I got me one right here. If only I hadn’t shot that Polack, but he got right in my face, you hear what I’m saying? So he wasn’t Polish, but I want to accustom myself to speaking American and if I don’t practise, I’m going to be in some Italian joint and sounding Mick. How the hell can you ask for linguini, fried calamari, cut spaghetti alia chitarra, ravioli, scallops with a heavy sauce, and my absolute favourite in terms of pronunciation, fresh gnocchi, in any accent other than Brooklyn? It wouldn’t fly. The apartment is real fine, huge window looking out over Galway Bay, a storm is coming in from the east, and the waves are lashing over the prom. I love the ferocity, makes me yearn, makes me feel like I’m a player. I don’t know how long this place is safe. Sean is due to call and put the heart crossways in me. I have the cell close by. We call them mobiles - doesn’t, if you’ll pardon the pun, have the same ring. And the Sig Sauer, nine mil, holds fifteen rounds. I jacked a fresh one in there first thing this morning and racked the slide, sounds like reassurance. I’m cranked, ready to rock ‘n’ roll. Sean is a header, a real headbanger. He’s from South Armagh, they grow up shooting at helicopters, bandit country, and those fuckers are afraid of nothing. I mean, if you have the British Army kicking in your door at four in the morning and calling you a Fenian bastard, you grow up fast and you grow up fierce.

I was doing a stretch in Portlaoise, where they keep the Republican guys. They are seriously chilled. Even the wardens gave them space. And, of course, most of the wardens, they have Republican sympathies. I got to hang with them as I had a rep for armed robbery, not a very impressive rep or I wouldn’t have been doing bird. Sean and I got tight and after release, he came to Galway for a break and he’s been here two years. He is one crazy gumba. We had a sweetheart deal, no big design – like they say in twelve-step programs, we kept it simple. Post offices, that’s what we hit. Not the major ones but the small outfits on the outskirts of town. Forget banks, they’ve got CCTV and worse, the army does guard detail. Who needs that heat?

Like this.

We’d drive to a village, put on the balaclavas, get the shooters out, and go in loud and lethal, shouting, ‘Get the fuck down, this is a robbery, give us the fucking money!’

I let Sean do the shouting, as his Northern accent sent its own message. We’d be out of there in three minutes, tops. We never hit the payload, just nice, respectable, tidy sums, but you do enough of them, it begins to mount. We didn’t flash the proceeds, kept a low profile. I was saving for Brooklyn, my new life, and Sean, well, he had commitments up north. I’d figured on another five jobs, I was outa there. Had my new ID secured, the money deposited in an English bank, and was working on my American.

Sean didn’t get it, would say, ‘I don’t get it.’

He meant my whole American love affair. Especially Brooklyn. We’d been downing creamy pints one night, followed by shots of Bushmills, feeling mellow, and I told him of my grand design. We were in Oranmore, a small village outside Galway, lovely old pub, log fire and traditional music from a band in the corner, bodhrans, accordions, tin whistles, spoons and they were doing a set of jigs and reels that would put fire in the belly of a corpse. I’d a nice buzz building, we’d done a job three days before and it netted a solid result. I sank half my pint, wiped the froth off my lip, and said, ‘Ah, man, Fulton Ferry District, the Brooklyn Bridge, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, Park Slope, Bed-Stuy, Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, Coney Island.’

These names were like a mantra to me, prayers I never tired of uttering, and I got carried away, let the sheer exuberance show. Big mistake, never let your wants out, especially to a Northerner, those mothers thrive on knowing where you’re at. I should have heeded the signs – he’d gone quiet, and a quiet psycho is a fearsome animal. On I went like a dizzy teenager, saying, ‘I figure I’ll get me a place on Atlantic Avenue and, you know, blend.’

I was flying, seeing the dream, high on it, and he leaned over, said in a whisper, ‘I never heard such bollix in me life.’

Like slapping me in the tush, cold water in my face. I knew he was heavy, meaning he was carrying, probably a Browning, his gun of choice, and that occurred to me as I registered the mania in his eyes. ‘Course, Sean was always packing – when you were as paranoid as him, it came with the territory. He’d always said, ‘I ain’t doing no more time, the cunts will have to take me down.’

I believed him.

The band were doing that beautiful, ‘O’Carolan’s Lament’…the saddest music I know, and it seemed appropriate as he rubbished my dream, when he said, ‘Cop on, see that band over there, that’s your heritage, not some Yank bullshit. You can’t turn your back on your birthright. I’d see you dead first, and hey, what’s with this fucking Yank accent you trot out sometimes?’

I knew I’d probably have to kill the cocksucker, and the way I was feeling, it would be a goddamm pleasure. Clip

Whack

Pop

Burn

All the great terms the Americans have for putting your lights out.

Sean ordered a fresh batch of drinks, pints and chasers, and the barman, bringing them over, said, ‘A grand night for it.’

I thought, little do you know.

Sean, raising his glass, clinked mine, said, ‘Forget that nonsense, we have a lot of work to do. There’s going to be an escalation in our operation.’

I touched his glass, walloped in the Bush, felt it burn my stomach, and wanted to say, ‘Boilermakers, that’s what they call it. You get your shot, sink the glass in the beer, and put a Lucky in your mouth, crank it with a Zippo, one that has the logo, “First Airborne”.’