John Brady - The going rate

“I’ll be leaving too,” said Minogue.

“Do what you like. I’m her father.”

Minogue gave it a few moments until he felt the tension was sufficient.

“Her mother will stay, as will Garda Dwyer here. Garda Dwyer is-”

“-the law is the law.”

“Garda Dwyer is trained in working with youth, and women.”

Rogers’ jacket made a squeak as he shot forward from the chair.

“What? What’s this? What are you getting at?”

“I’ll explain to you outside.”

“You won’t.”

“All right. I won’t.”

“If it’s what I think it is, that’s why I’m here. I’m her father, I told yous.”

“I do get it,” said Minogue.

“This is my daughter we’re talking about! My daughter!”

Minogue eyed the jabbing finger, the reddening face, and then he looked over to Rogers’ wife. She hadn’t budged. He took his cue from her and took his own turn examining the tabletop. He’d give it a count of five. While he waited, he replayed Rogers’ angry outburst. Daw-thar, muy, daw-thar. There was a sure sign of alarm, and panic, in Rogers’ outburst.

The count was up. Minogue sat back and put his hands on the chair rest. He looked directly at Rogers.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” said Rogers.

“I’m trying to get you to have a cup of tea is what I’m trying to do.”

“I’ll kill him,” said Rogers. “Them, predators they are.”

The signals from Garda Dwyer were steady now. For a moment, he imagined her flooring Rogers with some super-specialized karate kick. Unlikely. “You’re under a lot of stress, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “But that remark you made is on tape.”

“I don’t care. I don’t.”

Minogue stood and stepped around to the back of his chair. Casting a wary glance at Rogers, he was almost surprised to see that Rogers’ eyes were brimming with tears. He was indifferent to it, however. He saw that fourteen-year-old Ali Rogers was now a lot less slumped, and that she was even looking through a fringe of hair out at her father.

Rogers sobbed only once. He held his forefinger under his nose. He stumbled on the chair leg as he left the room. Neither mother nor daughter said a word.

Minogue heard Garda Dwyer begin her talk just as he pulled the interview room door closed.

Rogers leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

“It’s tough,” Minogue said. “Very tough.”

Rogers nodded. He wiped away tears with his forefinger and thumb.

“We’ll do the best we can.”

Rogers let out a deep breath and shook his head. Minogue imagined Rogers at work on that massive tunnel under Dublin Port. Some huge piece of equipment wielded effortlessly no doubt, hell-for-leather and proud of the new Ireland he was building too, probably. Had he been there at the face of the tunnel, Minogue wondered, and cheered as the last of the rocks and clay crumbled and the other crew’s faces appeared? He’d made good money on the job, a man of Rogers’ skills. A good provider, Minogue would bet. A little pity leaked into him now.

“Donegal Rogers?” he asked.

“What? I mean, pardon?”

“It’s a Donegal name you have. The Rosses, Gweedore?”

Rogers’ face eased a little.

“No, no,” he murmured and he sniffed. “Sort of wish I was though. My da’s da was Donegal. Annagary. But that’s a long time ago.”

“Donegal is still there,” said Minogue. “I checked last September in person. Sure enough, there it was.”

“It was, was it.”

“Bloody Foreand, Glenties. All that, and more. God’s country.”

Rogers let out another long, deep breath and he settled his head more against the wall. He looked at the ceiling tiles.

“I wish to Christ I was there, yes. I haven’t been in years.”

Minogue nodded.

“They had nothing, my grandfather’s people,” Rogers went on in a low voice. “Nothing. It might as well have been the eighteen hundreds he used to say.”

“Come over here,” said Minogue. “I’ll inflict a cup of Garda tea on you.”

He half-turned to make sure Rogers wasn’t still leaning against the wall.

“As long as you promise not to kill anyone,” he added.

Wall was waiting for the all clear signal. Minogue nodded.

“It’s so hard not to get angry, you know,” he heard Rogers say behind him. “These days.”

Minogue turned and motioned to the seat.

“You’re going to have to control yourself,” he said to Rogers. “This is a murder investigation.”

Rogers blinked.

“If you get stroppy again it’ll be the hard option for us,” Minogue said.

“Is that the best you can offer?”

Then he sat heavily into the chair and he sighed. “Hard times is right,” he sighed.

“Pardon?”

“Hard times I said. You got me thinking of my grandfather again. How they had nothing, them times. But he done all right, the family, and all. All reared, all healthy, thank God. And I’m not saying we had it easy now — before the boom, I’m saying. But how quickly we forget, don’t we?”

For a moment, Minogue recalled his days walking the fields and the Burren headlands while he tried to keep the sea in sight, walking through the hazel thickets that had grown over a dozen abandoned villages.

“I mean I worked in England so I did,” Rogers was saying. “But I always wanted to come home here. And I did. We’re doing all right now, doing very well, I don’t mind telling you — until now, anyway.”

He seemed to have noticed Minogue was waiting for him to finish.

“We have everything now,” he murmured. “Don’t we? Our kids anyway.”

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” Minogue conceded.

“Oh we have it all, there’s no doubt. But the crazy thing is, you know what I’m thinking this past while now? Do you?”

“I don’t. Tell me, why don’t you.”

“Them hard times?” He nodded his head for emphasis. “They’re back. But like, in the opposite way. Aren’t they?”

“You’re not going to fall asleep there,” said Cully, “are you?” Fanning didn’t answer, but kept his eyes on the road ahead, where the farther reach of the headlights met the darkness. They drove under the Western Bypass and took the steep parts of the Edmonstown Road with ease.

“You’re looking a bit too relaxed there,” Cully said.

Fanning was undecided yet on Cully’s tone. It was probably the sly mockery he suspected.

“I’m fine,” he said, and scratched at his face again where some of the rubber glue had been hard to get off.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it. The shop? Nice little acting job there?”

Fanning wouldn’t tell him it was more embarrassing than nerve-wracking. That it had felt like some stupid dress-up, with a kinky undertow to the whole thing. They weren’t porno mags in the bag either, just crap celebrity stuff. It was when he took the full weight of the plastic bag on his fingers that it turned nerve-wracking: a handgun weighed a lot.

He pressed his window up. The night air had a bite to it up here.

A signpost glowed in the lights: Cruagh. That was a mountain road too, he remembered dimly, leading up through the forested state lands of the Dublin Mountains. Cully steered left. The car began to make its way through steep, wooded hills looming close to the road. Fanning felt the uneven tarmacadam patches and the half-repaired potholes thump at the BMW’s tires. He searched for any patch of sky ahead to give shape to the darkness.

He looked across the dashboard again at the glow from the panel. Cully’s hand, rather his wrist, rested on the gearshift between them. He steered with his right hand only. The car shuddered once on a deeper pothole and Fanning heard a hiss of water sprayed from a puddle along with pebbles scattering.