John Brady - All souls

Eoin fiddled with the car keys and Mick paused to blow his nose. Minogue heard a dog bark up the street. A man laughed raucously somewhere. The dog howled as though struck and then began barking again. In between barks, Minogue heard laughs and a guffaw. He walked beyond the car and stopped by the forecourt of a garage recessed in from the street. From there he saw Deegan poke at the shopping bag. Bourke held the bag of newspapers tighter. The streetlamp reflected off his eyes as they darted from Deegan to the other two. The dog made another run at Deegan but moved to avoid a boot from one of Deegan’s cronies.

“What’s in the bag, professor?” Deegan called out over the dog’s growling. “Dirty pictures, hah?”

Minogue remembered that same tone of bogus kindliness in the sadistic teachers of his youth. Jamesy Bourke wrapped his arms around the bag and his eyes fastened on Minogue. Eoin and Mick now stood beside him. Deegan caught sight of the Minogues and turned to face them. The two men with him, young, with the slack smiles of men who had been drinking, turned also.

“A man can’t stop and water his horse without some quare fella lying in wait and looking on,” said Deegan. “Isn’t that a divil?”

He glanced at the collie and then raised his arms and hissed. The dog recoiled, barking furiously. Deegan laughed. Still chuckling, he ambled by Mick. The two younger men followed.

“Tell me something,” Minogue said as they passed. “Is it just the Hallowe’en or are ye like this every night of the year?”

Deegan slowed his jaunty gait. Minogue noted how thick he was in silhouette. One of the men’s shoes scuffed on the edge of the footpath and he took an extra step to steady himself.

“Ah, the polls down from the big city, bejases,” Deegan drawled. “Enjoy your little holiday now, can’t you, and then go home to Dublin without worrying about us humble folk down here. We can look after ourselves.”

The Inspector turned back to where Bourke had been standing. He was gone.

Minogue laid the envelope on the chest of drawers and began to finger his laces loose. Kathleen looked out from behind a paperback.

“I think I remember it now,” she said.

“He was released just a few months ago.”

Kathleen retreated behind the book. Her tipsy husband stared at the picture on the cover. A girl with long hair and her dress off her shoulder had her leg around a Robert Redford type inclined over her. Smoke-puffing cannon and soldiers busied themselves in the background. He stood and let the trousers drop, sat down on the bed and drew the trousers around his heels. Was it cold in Dublin too? Hoey. Where was Aine again? Zimbabwe. Hot there, no doubt.

“Not a word out of him,” Minogue murmured. “Just walked off.” The damp air brushed against his bare legs. The room had been his parents’ and the wallpaper was a half-dozen layers thick.

“Who? Mick?”

“Jamesy Bourke. I thought he might come over and say something. But he just took off, himself and the dog.”

Kathleen laid the book face down.

“God, can’t you stop reminding me about that fella? You come home with a few jars on you and the first thing, you want to tell me all the gory details about it.”

“Wait a minute there. You’re one of the ones helped set me up for this little ‘job’ that bloody barrister Crossan wants me to do.”

“Did you talk to Eoin or Mick about the future even? No, you didn’t.”

“There was music.”

“There was music. Of course there was music. There’s always something getting in the way.”

“I can’t just waltz in and start talking about selling the farm.”

“Maybe not, but here you are, to top it all off, sitting there this last half-hour reading that stuff in the envelope. Some kind of a lunatic. God, it gives me the creeps, man.”

“What time did Crossan phone again?”

“Half an hour after you left for the pub. Maura asked me first. I told her to tell him you worked better around food. Twelve o’clock, the Old Ground in Ennis, tomorrow.”

“I was obviously working under the delusion that we were on a holiday of sorts here,” he muttered. “But you seem to have my schedule well in hand. The set-up at the pub with Mick and Eoin-”

“Ah go on, would you. I gave you twenty quid to kill the pain there.”

“-and now you’re setting up appointments with Crossan-”

Kathleen pursed her lips and shook the book as though to wring more satisfaction from it.

“Why don’t you go back to reading what he sent you in the envelope,” she murmured. “Can’t you always say no to him?”

“Shit,” he whispered. He felt the pliers still in his back pocket as he hunkered down. Be a really stupid thing to be running and drop them and have the bloody Guards find them and trace the tool to them. He drew them out, put them in his jacket pocket and buttoned it.

“What?” said the other man.

“Nothing.”

He had snipped the phone line easily at the gable-end of the house where it came down from the pole. Scurrying back toward the ditch, however, he had slipped in the wet grass. He was angry and embarrassed at looking clumsy. He searched his companion’s face for any sign of a smile. As if he himself had been drinking and deserved a going-over this time-a taste of his own medicine. His companion waited, preoccupied, the gun under his jacket. He patted the pocket to feel the pliers secure now and looked back toward the car they had parked in a recess by the wall. He could just make out the dark strip of its roof.

“Jesus. Pitch-black tonight,” said the one with the gun. His friend was pleased to hear the tension in his voice. No drink on the job tonight. Maybe he was coming around at last.

“That’s because you were looking at the lights in the house. Your eyes’ll get used to it in a while.”

“They’d better…”

“We’re gone inside of a minute now, right?” The other man nodded. “Hold it up near as you can to the sight, remember. There can’t be slack in the strap. Okay?”

“Okay, chief.”

“Otherwise it could fly all over the place or go high.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Shut up with the smart remarks. Have you set it?”

“‘Course I have.”

“Check it-”

“I did fucking check it! Ten times! Give over, can’t you, for Christ’s sake.”

“No closer than about twenty feet now,” the other went on, his voice strained with the effort to remain patient. “I don’t want you hitting anyone in there. That’s not the idea.”

“I heard you the first time,” snapped the one with the gun. “Wouldn’t want the little man to be getting hurt now, would we?”

He took the gun out from under his jacket, shouldered the strap and stood up.

“Just let me get on with it, for fuck’s sakes! Go on back to the car, you.”

The curtains were drawn in both lighted windows. The gunman looked back down at his companion.

“Go on, fuck you! Don’t be worrying! Git!”

The other moved off reluctantly. He reached the wall and looked back toward the house. Then he cleared the wall and got into the car. It took enormous effort to control his urge to stay by the wall and make sure his companion wasn’t screwing up. Both windows in the Escort were rolled down. He stuck his head out and looked up at the sky. A patch of stars had appeared. He looked across the passenger side then. No sound. Christ, he had screwed up. He looked at his watch and the jolt of fright beat hard in his chest. Four minutes already. Lonely as the place was, a car could come by. He mentally reviewed the way home and tested his night vision by staring at the outlines of the walls. He knew he’d have to drive up to a mile with the lights off, and smartly too.