John Brady - A Carra ring

“Let’s go,” said Little. “Sure it’s falling apart, this heap. Come on. Thanks.”

The Guard took a step back. His eyes finally met with Minogue’s. The inspector let the eyes flicker toward Little.

“Let’s go,” said Little again.

“Damian — ”

“Shut up! Not a fucking word!”

Minogue let out the clutch slowly. The Guard had backed off a few steps. He was speaking into his collar mike. The Guard by the Fiat looked over. Sergeant’s stripes, forties; a wide, ruddy face, a hard stare. He cocked his ear and stepped out onto the roadway.

“Go around him,” said Little. “Move!”

The sergeant’s stare began to dull. His arm came up, his fingers spread out.

“Go!”

Minogue eased his foot off the clutch. The Guard held up a flashlight, waved the beam toward the footpath. Minogue turned the wheel more. The Guard said something. Minogue waited until they drew level, and stamped on the brake.

The Opel shuddered and bucked twice before the engine stopped, and they rocked to a standstill. Minogue lunged with his left hand and clamped it on the muzzle. The seat belt rumbled out of its drum and ran up to his neck as he followed up with his right hand. He shouldered Little against the door.

He felt Little’s sinews strain under his grip, water oozing from the leather sleeve. He pushed the gun harder into Little’s leg. Little’s right arm squirmed behind Minogue’s shoulder and slowly rose to his shoulder blades. The car began to shake. Minogue kept shouting for Malone. Little’s right arm broke free over his shoulder. The first blow, more knuckle than fist, hit him in the neck. Something gave way in the car then and hit the back of his seat. He heard shoes scraping.

Little was suddenly gone. The light dazzled Minogue. A cold breeze brushed across his face as he came up, stabbing at the belt release. The chimes were slow and squeaky. Malone’s face appeared between the seats. Someone was on the road just outside the door. Little was shouting. Malone was scrambling out the back door. He heard Little shouting for someone to get away.

The roadway was greasy under the drizzle. Minogue slammed the door but the light stayed on. Someone else was shouting now. A car door slammed.

“Where is he?” from Malone crouched behind him. Little was shouting at someone to get in the car.

“Damian,” he shouted. “It’s over! It’s no use!”

Something hit the bonnet of the car.

“He’s going to do it,” said Malone.

“Leave it, Damian! It’s finished, there’s — ”

The pop was followed by a small shower of glass on the roadway. Malone grabbed his arm.

“Shut up, will you, boss! He’s going to kill someone!”

Minogue’s eyes began a giddy slide. He got back on his hunkers. He held his eyes closed tight for a moment. Malone’s white face, his contorted forehead stayed with him.

“That’s my gun he has,” said Malone. “Where’s yours?”

“I slid it under the seat there earlier — ”

“Did he get that one too?”

“I don’t think so.”

Malone pulled open the door and slithered in on the floor. A car door slammed. Minogue looked over the edge of the door. Through the glass he saw the older Guard, the sergeant, standing by the squad car with his hands out. Malone scrambled out onto his knees.

“I got it! Where’s he gone?”

“He’s taking the squad car. He has one of the spot-check fellas behind the wheel.”

An engine revved and tires howled on the roadway. Malone edged around the back bumper. He shouted something and stood to a crouch. Minogue saw the taillights run across the rain-flecked glass of the Opel. Malone had broken into a sprint. The flashes from Malone’s gun came quickly. He counted four. Someone began shouting again. He heard the change into second just before the Orion began to slide. The driver hesitated as the back of the car wobbled and began to bump. Malone’s sprint slowed. The pasenger door on the squad car opened. Headlights coming in from Howth dipped. The car, a well-polished Nissan, came to a sliding stop fifty feet from the squad car.

Little slammed the door behind him and darted toward the Nissan. The driver’s door was opening. Little ran across the headlights to the seawall. Minogue shouted Little’s name. Malone was up again, advancing on the Nissan in a crouch. Flashes came steadily from his gun now. Minogue stood and moved around the back of the Opel. Malone was crouched by the front of the Nissan, waving someone away. There was a flash from the far side of the Nissan. Malone dropped to the roadway and reached around the front wheel with the gun. Minogue saw his hand twitch, the flashes against the seawall.

Neither rain nor drizzle, but that clammy, oily combination of the worst of both, began to settle on Minogue’s face. The leftovers of the smoke stung in his nose as he lurched toward Malone. He held his ribs and huffed to ease the jabs from his side. He caught a glimpse of something on the path as he slid down by the door. Malone was breathing hard.

The driver of the Nissan was moving about.

“Stay down!” Malone shouted. “We’re Guards. And turn off the engine!”

A siren in the distance was joined by a second.

“He’s down,” said Malone. “I think I heard the gun falling onto the road.”

Minogue leaned against the Nissan. The driver was saying something.

“Shut up, will you!”

Malone’s head was almost on the roadway by the tire.

“I see him,” he said to Minogue.

“And I can see the gun. My one.”

Malone scampered to the driver’s door of the Nissan. He yanked it open, pulled at the driver, shoved him across the road.

“Over there — go on, the back of the Garda car!”

Minogue watched Malone stand, the pistol at arm’s length, the slow zigzag walk he had seen parodied too often for it to be funny. Malone called out as he advanced. Minogue stood. The pain in his knee was a slicing ache now. His eyes wavered still. He rested his hand on the bonnet of the Nissan until the dizziness passed. He wondered if his colleague had noted the thick lines creeping away from the shadows under Damian Little.

Orla McKeon’s father looked younger than last year when Minogue had bumped into him on O’Connell Bridge. Orla had come back from six months in Italy. She and Iseult were going to get a studio together at that stage.

The hair was his own, that Minogue was sure of, but was it tinted or dyed? Why so long at fifty-something anyway. Transplants, maybe. Iseult had said that Orla found out her father was having an affair. He had moved from insurance some years ago and had done well in pet food for some reason

“Great day for being out,” said Tom McKeon.

Minogue took a step toward him. His knee was just as stiff today, but the pain had gone down to an ache that he sometimes was able to ignore. The boat breasted the wake of a smaller craft making for Dun Laoghaire Harbour. Minogue had quickly learned to keep his knees bent. His hair whipped back again. He narrowed his eyes.

“Pardon?”

“Great day,” said McKeon. “Evening, I should say.”

Minogue nodded. He looked back at the churning water behind the engine. A hundred and fifty horsepower? Half as much again as his Citroen? The water seemed to stand still by the railing, drawn up in a jagged crest that cast off drops and streams at the edges. Spume, that was the word. The engine turned slightly and Minogue looked back. Tom McKeon had the bow directly on the rocks by Dalkey Island ahead. There were lights on by Bulloch Harbour, but Minogue was drawn again to the pink-and-mustard sky behind the Three Rock Mountain. He felt a cold cylinder against his knuckles.

“Go on,” said McKeon.