John Brady - A Carra ring

“Amplifying stuff,” said Paddy Mac. “I don’t know ”

There was a hiss and a whirr outside the cage, a whistle. Minogue looked around Paddy Mac at the forklift operator. Paddy Mac stepped out. Minogue turned back to the boxes. He listened to Paddy Mac’s drollery with the driver. A dry run for the new spot checks, Minogue heard: customs, an EU effort, no warning, such a fuckin’ crowd, yeah? The forklift squealed away. Malone wedged himself in between boxes. He used his knees to lever two stacks apart. The squeak as they moved cut right through Minogue’s ears.

“The most recent ones here at the front, Paddy?” Minogue asked.

“That’s the general idea. Yeah. Hey, how are yous going to get into them without a lift?”

Malone looked up at the the top of the stack. Paddy Mac sighed

“One a them’ll fall on you and I’ll wind up in the dock for it, or something.”

“Jailhouse rock,” said Malone.

“You’re a scream. Here — I’m going to get a lift.”

Minogue watched Paddy Mac’s walk, the toes outward. The divinity that shapes our ends, he thought, and people became like their -

“Any of the lads come by,” Paddy Mac called out over his shoulder, “give them the Customs and Excise spotcheck line. We’re only starting them next year to fall in with the EU regulations. Dry run, tell them.”

Minogue leaned around a box to look for a label. He stooped and looked through a gap toward the boxes in the middle of the stack. Malone climbed on one and began trying to slip the cables on another. Minogue heard Paddy Mac’s voice echo, the words of his call lost somewhere at the other end of the warehouse. Someone laughed. A door slid open, squeaked, and opened faster until it hit the end of its line.

“Wires,” said Malone “Big, fat leads. Speakers. Woofers. Tweeters. More wires.”

Minogue squinted in at the cases. Malone closed the lid and clipped the catches. Minogue stood up when he heard the scratching as Malone shoved a box. He heard the forklift rattle and hum as it approached.

“Wait there, Tommy, will you.”

Paddy Mac behind the wheel was a man possessed. Minogue stood outside with Malone watching. He wondered what Paddy Mac was saying to himself as he reversed and shot forward, swept in tight circles with inches to spare, dropped the boxes almost to the floor before braking, and then lowering the loads soundlessly to the floor. Minogue waved to him. Paddy Mac reversed over and stopped. Minogue pointed to the boxes that had been uncovered. Paddy Mac leaned his forearms on the rim of the steering wheel and watched as the two detectives edged their way through the cases toward the back of the set of boxes.

Minogue lifted the catches on a long box. Smells of rubber and dust rose around him. Lights? He lifted the edge of one and saw cables and filters. He remembered watching the goings-on at a film shoot in Kilmainham last year. The miles of cable, lights, everything up on stalks. He shoved the cable aside and examined the clamps and holders. One of them would be the bees knees entirely for holding joints to be glued on that bloody antique table Kathleen wanted.

“Here, boss. Come here.”

Minogue laid the clamp down and closed the lid.

“Come up here and have a look.”

Minogue worked his way around the lid. Malone had pulled out a console covered with sliding buttons. Minogue eyed it for an instant as he maneuvred around the cables. He heard Malone breathing hard in his nostrils from the exertion. He looked down. He felt no surprise. He wondered why: was he in some weird state, drifting along after the shooting, disconnected somehow?; And when he woke up?

It looked so familiar. Maybe it was because he was so used to seeing pictures of things like this over the years. The outlines of the face were shadowed but he’d seen eyes like that before. It had struck him before that children drew eyes the same way as those forgotten and unknown carvers in ancient Ireland. And modern art, whatever that was, did the same. He followed the lines until they met. Whose hands had worked this so long ago, what efforts had gone into it, with their tools and their faith?

He crouched and pulled the cloth back further, tucked it down between the edge of the stone and the side of the box. He ran his hands across the lines. A collar, he guessed, a necklace maybe. Royalty? Malone was muttering something.

He glanced up at him.

“You’re magic, boss,” he whispered. “Fucking magic.”

Minogue looked down again. There were sharp edges in places on the granite. He dropped to one knee and let his hand down the length of the stone. Something which could be excitement, or awe, or even some kind of fear began to leak into his mind.

“What in the name of Jases is that?”

He hadn’t heard Paddy Mac walking over. His knee was locked now, but the ache from the graze was gone. He watched his own shadow stir on the stone as he labored to get up. Paddy Mac was scratching hard with his nails in his sideburns.

“A prop or something?” he asked. “All that stuff they haul up on stage, the oul plaster casts and the bits of cars?”

“No,” said Malone. Paddy Mac turned to him.

“What’s it, then?”

Minogue didn’t know whether Malone had been waiting to get in the dig.

“That,” Malone said. “That is the king.”

Minogue had been dozing. The chimes and flight announcements had lulled him. Airports, waiting, dentists, hospital — they all made him drowsy.

“Here they are,” said Malone again. “Hey. Boss?”

He opened his eyes slowly. There were three dozen people or so by the arrivals gate, four Guards in uniform. He was locked up tight, from his shoulders down his back to his legs: stiff as a board. Malone watched him lever himself upright.

“Give Fergal the word then,” he said to Malone.

He’d have to take the next bit handy, the getting to his feet. He ran his hand down to the rip in the knee of his trousers: wasn’t that big, really. He had been dreaming of pigeons. It was a Magritte painting too, he was sure, the one with the birdcage in place of the man’s chest, under a cloak. He should look for it in Hanna’s bookshop. As well as getting some scientific answer for how pigeons, and other birds for that matter, found their way from so far off.

He stood slowly, made his way over to the railing. There were three girls arguing with a sergeant. One of them shrieked. The sergeant eyed her. She covered her mouth in embarrassment. He made a space for four photographers. Others pressed forward. A cheer started at the far end of the railing. The Guards walked to the glass doors. Minogue wondered how anybody could see anything. People began to drift over from the pub, glasses in hand. Malone pocketed the phone. Two of the girls were hopping now. The doors slid open.

First out were two APFS. Cortina Byrne came next, smoking and laughing. He threw his arm around a woman with a blond stubble on her head. She was somebody famous, Minogue realized. He couldn’t place her. She wore one of those plastic, shiny jackets: the ones that looked like they were made in a doll factory in 1962. The flashes began to go off.

Then Daly looked warily up and down the passageway the Guards had cleared. The shoulder bag was the size of a suitcase. Soft leather, and one of those purses -

“Jee-zuzz, Jimmy!”

Minogue recoiled at the scream and glared at the girl. The screamer had a white face and a lot of metal around her face.

“Come here, I want you!” she shrieked.

Two more girls came tripping over.

“Come on home to Artane, will you!” another shouted.

Daly looked over to the scream. His eyes settled on Minogue’s for a moment and then returned to a darting survey of the crowd. Minogue elbowed Malone and took out his card. Daly eyed him again as Minogue moved around the sergeant. A chant started.