John Brady - A Carra ring

“Go to Code One. Start giving us the locations.”

Minogue counted to eleven before Murtagh began. How could he be annoyed at him? Murtagh too must have been wondering about a scanner pickup, or what the hell Communications was making of the radio traffic on this band. Polkas, reels, mazurkas: the Clare dance card.

“Will I put up the lights?” asked Malone. “See if he freaks now?” Minogue shook his head.

“Just wait for now, but,” he said. He knew that Malone was eyeing him, but he didn’t look over.

“And if we lose him? What’s the plan then?”

Minogue wanted to tell his colleague to shut up.

“Boots up on the high road, Tommy. That’d be it.”

The radio went hissy. Minogue tried tuning it manually. It made it worse.

“He’s going down…” Murtagh was saying. “Wait, I don’t know the name yet… Over?”

Minogue heard Murtagh’s car working hard in second or third gear.

“Have you gone by Barryscourt Road yet?” he asked.

“I have,” said Murtagh, but Minogue heard the uncertainty still. “He’s turned. Coolock Avenue. Over.”

“Christ on a crutch,” Malone said. “It’s a bleeding maze in there.”

“Are you on him, Polka One? Over.”

“Waiting to cross. No. More cars. Here we go.”

Malone strained to see around the Fiat ahead.

“I can meet him if he’s doubling back, boss,” said Malone. “Kilmore Road?”

Minogue nodded.

Malone pulled hard on the wheel. The Opel’s tires slid but he slackened his grip on the wheel and the car straightened.

“He’s at the bottom of the Avenue,” said Murtagh. “Gone right. Over.”

“Gotcha, ya bollocks,” Malone murmured. He punched the horn at two teenagers meandering on bikes by the curb.

Minogue brought the flashlight and the map closer. Tranquillity Grove? What kind of a mind had come up with that one?

“I turn here at Kilmore Avenue or Close or whatever it’s called, and there we are.”

Minogue put down the map.

“Come in, Polka One.”

“Okay,” said Murtagh. “He’s slowing down… Over.”

Malone took the turn off Kilmore Road.

“Pull in, Tommy.”

“He’s parking it. I’m going to carry on by him. Over.”

“Go around the block, Polka One. Kilmore Close. And wait at the top of the road. Over.”

“Are you caught up? Over.”

“Look to your left as you go around,” said Minogue. “Is he moving at all?”

“He’s out. I’m going by him now… I can’t get a house number… Over.”

Malone shook his head.

“He’s gone home?” he muttered.

“… gone around the back of the van. I’m gone by him now. Coming around the corner… No, he’s out of the mirror. Over.”

Malone flashed the lights as Murtagh and Farrell passed.

“I’m going for a walk, Polka One. Come around and wait at the far end. Over.”

“Read you. Over.”

“You’re what?” Malone said.

Minogue already had his belt off. He buttoned the top of his coat and pulled the door handle.

“A quick walk by and we’ll see what the score is. Fair enough, Tommy?”

“The rain, boss? You’ve no hat, have you?”

Minogue dropped the walkie-talkie in Malone’s lap.

“All right, so,” he said. He opened the coat again. “I’m going to be gargled.”

Humming, loose limbed, Minogue stopped and swayed. The rain had turned to a drizzle. He fumbled in his pockets and groaned.

“Me fags,” he said. “Me fags is gone. Aw, jases.”

He hawked and spat and continued down the footpath. The van stood by a battered Dihatsu. He slowed to watch the glow and flare of an enormous television in the window of a darkened living room. There was some muscle-bound gobshite leaning out of an American sports car firing off a machine gun. The sounds came to him from the windows as grinding vibrations. He glanced at the van and then back to the carnage in the window.

A drip started down his forehead. He made a clumsy effort to wipe it off the bridge of his nose. He heard the scrape of a hall door opening, words.

He dragged his left foot a little as he moved on and let his elbow dig into the hedge. Raindrops sprayed up at him from the leaves as his elbow dragged on.

He started humming first and soon let words take over.

“ There was a, wild colonial boy, ”

The van was new. The United pennant hanging from the mirror had gold lettering on it. He still couldn’t make out the conversation from the doorway.

“ Jack Duggan was his name…”

The antenna on the roof was nothing special. Any delivery van would have one. A drainpipe gurgled somewhere ahead. One of the two men in the doorway turned.

“ He was born and raised in I-er-land…”

He leaned against the gatepost and coughed.

“Hi lads, am I right for Bolands, am I?”

The driver he recognized from Murtagh’s description. The other one had white hair and a Fu Manchu mustache. The denim waistcoat with the silvery bits put Minogue in mind of some country-and-western type.

“Am I right…?” he called out again.

“What?” from Fu Manchu.

“Am I right for Bolands, lads?”

“Bolands?”

“Bolands Pub. The taxi man said go down here.”

One of the men chortled.

“Ah, you’re on the wrong planet there, man,” said Fu Manchu. “There’s no Bolands here ”

Minogue allowed himself a gentle sway.

“But didn’t I get a taxi here?”

“You were codded then, weren’t you. No Bolands, pal. No pub.”

“But your man in the taxi…”

“Where did you come from?” Fu Manchu asked.

“I’m up from Lisdoon, so I am. I came up tonight on the Limerick train.”

“Lisdoonvarna? And where are you headed?”

“A nephew of mine says to come out to Fairview to meet a fella about a job. A watchman. ”

“Fairview?”

“That’s it. Bolands Pub in Fairview.”

The driver cleared his throat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

“There’s a Fairview and there’s a Bolands there too, pal,” said Fu Manchu. “But you’re going at it arseways, in a big way. Where did you get your taxi from?”

“Down the quays. I stopped off for a pint and… ”

“Well I hope you like walking. Fairview’s that way. Where’s your bag?”

“What bag?”

Minogue took a step back and looked around the footpath. He backed into the gatepost again.

“Me bag,” he shouted. ”Where’s me bag? I had it in the seat beside me there, I put it… ah, for the love of God… ”

Fu Manchu blew out a volley of smoke.

“Jases,” he said. “You weren’t just codded there, pal, you were robbed. You’d be better off going home to Lisdoon.”

“But what am I…” Minogue went on. “Where’s me fags? I’ve no fags either.”

The driver stepped out to the gate. He held out three cigarettes. Minogue let his eyes out of focus and grabbed at them. He looked down to where they fell and smiled.

“Holy Jases,” said the driver. “I’m fuckin’ throwing money away on a culchie.”

“Ah, you’re the decent man — ”

“Look it,” he said. “Go up that way there and go left. Find a bus stop this side of the road and go back and get your shagging train home to wherever. ”

The hand on Minogue’s shoulder let go.

“Where…”

“Go on with you,” the driver called out. “Before somebody catches you here and throws you into a fuckin’ saucepan and eats you.”

There were bars across the back of the bench seat of the van but the streetlamp showed the bottoms of the boxes. Two for sure.

He paused by the van and turned.

“Have you got a light, lads?”