John Brady - A Carra ring

Minogue was not surprised to feel almost indifferent. Sitting here listening to the wind rising, the dull lisp of the tide: not such a bad prospect at all. “Look,” said Malone. “Is this guy going to drive onto Bull Island and sit there until the morning? You can’t swim off it, and you can’t walk off it or drive off it without coming this bridge or the other one. It’s a no-go here, boss. Come on, park one of those patrol cars here and let’s get back to civilization there.”

“Who was he phoning,” Minogue murmured. “That’s the thing.”

“Who? The driver? Ah, he’s wised up. I can see him sitting somewhere, laughing his head off now, with his phones and his scanners and everything. Let’s go, come on.”

Minogue dropped the map in Malone’s lap.

“Show me where these barriers are, will you,” he said to Malone. “Here, on the map. Those big boulders you told me about, the ones the Corpo rolled out across the beach to stop the racing up and down?”

He called the car down from Castle Avenue. Malone placed his finger on a red line that divided the island.

“I don’t know,” he said. “There, maybe?”

“Let’s have a look then. Come on.”

Malone looked back down at the map.

“What, you want to walk out there, halfway into Dublin Bay, in the dark?”

“Can’t we drive?”

Minogue nodded at the Guard behind the wheel.

“Good enough, so,” he said. Malone turned the Opel back toward the dunes. Minogue looked back to see the squad car being reversed across the road by the lights.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“No,” said Malone. “But I’ll find a way out onto the bloody thing somehow. What if it’s six-feet deep in water?”

“Does the tide come in like that?” Minogue asked.

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out, aren’t we.”

The headlight slid over ash colored sand.

“That’s the clubhouse there on the left,” said Malone, “the Royal Dublin. If we go this way… Yeah, look: that’s a sort of a car park.”

The city lights slid into view as the Opel came around the dunes and onto the open strand.

“Turn off the lights a minute, Tommy. I can’t see with them.”

“What’s this — you’re coming out of the closet here, are you?”

Minogue rolled down the window further.

“I can hear the water, but I can’t see it.”

“Famous last words,” said Malone. “Come on.”

“Drive over there so we can see where the tide’s in.”

The waves broke gently in white, curling strips at the outer limits of the car’s high beams. Malone slowed as they approached the water’s edge.

“That’s them up ahead, isn’t it? The boulders.”

Minogue couldn’t make out anything. He followed the tire marks crisscrossing the sand ahead.

“There. Now do you see them?”

Like dumplings or something, he thought, or the rocks on the Burren. The beam of light wavered as the car bobbed in soft spots in the sand. The rocks seemed to move as they drew closer.

“Lawrence of shagging Arabia, here,” said Malone. “But in the middle of Dublin Bay, like.”

Minogue radioed in his position. Control asked him to confirm it.

“Boulders,” said Minogue. “Out here halfway down Dollymount Strand. Bull Island.”

Malone turned slowly. The headlight flickered on the sand in the spaces between the rocks. He stopped.

“Well?”

Minogue uncoupled his belt and pulled the door release.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Malone said. “Or I’ll tell Kathleen on you.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“What? A leak?”

“A walkabout for a minute, you savage,” Minogue said over his shoulder. He slammed the door behind him and listened to the sea.

He looked into the tunnel of light made by the beam ahead. The lights stopped at the foot of what he guessed to be dunes leading up to the golf club. The sand gave way slightly under his feet. Malone’s voice carried over the dull thunder of the waves rushing up on the sand.

“Ah, come on,” Minogue heard. He shielded his eyes and looked back. He could make out Malone leaning on the roof in the open door of the Opel. The grille was in bits, he could see now, the bumper sideways and marked.

“We’ll head back and let them wait until daylight,” Malone went on. “Then it won’t be us walking up and down like gobshites here.”

He turned back and followed the line of boulders into the water. No moon. He could make out spreading movements of the waves as they slid up and then retreated on the sand. He trod hard with his heel in the sand. It barely wiggled now. The breeze was yanking at his hair. He pulled his collar tighter, looked around the bay to the south. The boulders must run down right into the water, to stop traffic even at low tide.

He rubbed his eyes again. Sheer bloody vanity, he should get his eyes tested more often. The furthest rock he could see had a more regular shape. Cement, maybe, a final wall built to finish the job. He took a few steps, trailing his hand on one of the boulders. The dull vibrations coming from the car must be the radio. He glanced back. Malone was standing in the beam of light now. Minogue could make out the walkie-talkie in his hand. The lone headlight wasn’t helping him at all: better off to let the night vision settle in for this.

He rubbed at his eyes again and waited for his vision to return. The dark shapes became sharper. The water was slapping the base of a boulder not fifty feet ahead. That one in the water had straight edges all right. He walked beyond the next boulder, let his eyes play to both sides. He shielded his eyes to both sides with his hands. The water lapped not twenty feet from him now. It slapped against the rocks and slid up the sand with a hush. He closed his eyes for several seconds and waited. It was no better when he opened them again.

He turned back to the car. Malone had switched off the headlight. Maybe he had gotten the idea. Now he’d the car around and pointing the one light out over the water, see what that thing looked like out there. The engine was off too. Out for a leak maybe. He saw that the boot lid was open. Something about that caused Minogue stop. He let go his collar. The gusts played about his scalp. He shivered.

“Matt?”

He turned to the voice. A figure detached itself from the darker shape of a boulder.

“Matt. Stay put now, or there’ll be trouble.”

The shock tightened his scalp. He struggled to remember something that was familiar in the voice, but it stayed just out of reach.

“Where’s Tommy?” he managed.

“Tommy’s looked after. Don’t be worrying.”

The odd quiet he remembered was gone from the voice, but the soft ah-huh, the clearing of the throat that had become a mannerism.

“Damian…”

“I’ll drop you right here, Matt, if you don’t shut up. I mean it. Hit the dirt there and I’ll give you your chance.”

Little stepped forward. He held the gun at arm’s length.

“What are you doing?” he tried again.

“This is Tommy’s hardware, Matt. Don’t make me.”

Minogue stared into the shadows. He couldn’t see Little’s face yet.

“I’ll leave you here if I have to, Matt. Hit the dirt there. You know the routine.”

Minogue felt the breeze work its way under his coat. He didn’t try to stop the lapel of his coat flapping. Little cocked the pistol.

“He’s in the fucking boot, okay?” he said. “He’s going to wake up with a lump on his bloody head. Now move. ”

The sand under his knee gave way slowly. The rain and seawater soaked up his trousers. He hesitated, tried again to speak through the tightness in his throat.

“Damian,” he managed. Little was standing over him, his hand working down his back. He stopped at his shoulder.