John Brady - All souls

Jesus, do it, or get to hell out of there! He swore and slapped the passenger seat. He was about to get out and head for the cottage when he heard the hammering stutter of the gun. His heart leapt. Not too loud, he thought with relief. Glass tinkled and what sounded like a ricochet followed. The silence after the shots seemed even deeper. He strained to hear running feet. The burst had been about two seconds. He hadn’t given in to the temptation to be a cowboy about it. The gunman came over the wall wide-eyed, his teeth showing. The driver had the door pushed open. The gun clattered against the door and the chortling man fell into the seat, breathing hard. The driver had the engine started. He let in the clutch and moved smoothly away onto the dark road.

“Make sure the safety’s on.”

“I did it already before I headed back,” the other whispered breathlessly, and began giggling. He fought to get his breath back as it turned to laughter. “Just after you went, the light in the jacks went on. Here’s me chance, I said to meself!”

He paused to laugh again.

“Keep it down!” said the driver, his eyes boring into the darkness ahead.

“I gave him a few seconds to get the trousers down-ha ha ha-and then I gave him the surprise of his life, so I did. Oh, Jases, such timing! Perfect!”

“You didn’t shoot in the window of the jacks, did you?”

He wanted to clatter his companion but he couldn’t take his eyes from the road.

“No, I didn’t! Don’t be getting yourself in a state. I went for the living room. But you can imagine the state your man is in now, ha ha ha…!”

He laughed again and couldn’t seem to regain control. The driver smiled. His passenger drew up his knees and panted, helpless with laughter. Relief, he knew, must have been very tense, of course, he must have been. He’d done all right-they’d done all right.

“All right, all right,” he said. Ahead he could make out the coast road. “Don’t get carried away now. Let’s drop it off.” He nodded toward the submachine gun resting in the passenger’s lap.

The gunman turned suddenly calm and his eyes grew wide again.

“That’s some gun, that,” he said with whispered fervour. “It’s the best fucking thing since-”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What are you fretting about? We did great. Don’t be fretting, for Jases’-”

“I’ll fret if I fucking want to!”

The sudden return of his anger surprised the driver. He immediately tried to lighten it.

“Someone needs to fret about you, you bollocks,” he murmured.

His passenger folded the stock and laughed. The driver turned the headlights on and sped up.

“Sounds to me like you need another bit of how’s-your-father… Wouldn’t you try a pint or something instead?”

The driver felt some relief taking the place of his anxiety. Why get annoyed now?

“Are you buying, is it, for a change?”

“And fuck you too,” grinned the passenger, and he slapped the driver hard on the thigh.

Minogue awoke early to the sounds from the yard. It was seven. He must have fallen asleep immediately last night. He did not try to get back to sleep but lay still for ten minutes, the eiderdown up to his nose. Faint dawn light brought depth to the forms in the room, sharpening the corners and picture frames. He listened to the rhythmic humming suction of the milking machine before he tiptoed into the hall. Maura was setting the table. She smiled at him and went to crack eggs into a bowl. He wondered if she had slept at all. “Howaryou, Matt?” she whispered. “Are you good?”

“Powerful,” he said. He put on his coat. “The air here is mighty.”

“There’s spare wellies there,” said Maura. “They’d be a fit.” He slid into them and stepped out into the yard. A bright dawn was soaking in between the hedges on Drumore Hill. The sky was clear and sharp, and Minogue rubbed his hands against the chill. His eye caught the silver edges in the yard, the ruts and holes where water had frozen. Mick was watching his son moving cattle through the milking parlour. He nodded to his brother.

“The happy lot of the farmer,” Minogue tried. “At one with nature and her bounty.”

“My eye,” grunted Mick.

The brothers watched Eoin washing teats. Minogue helped Eoin move cattle out until he received a tail flicked across his face for his troubles.

“God, these are very boisterous creatures,” said Minogue. “Are you sure they’re not goats?”

Mick shook his head but did not reply. Eoin wore a frown of concentration as he moved about between the cows. Minogue blew into his hands and watched his breath vapour and trail off in the morning air. A sudden shaft of light struck at the side of his head, the sun cresting over the shed across from the milking parlour.

“Fresh,” said Minogue. He turned to his brother. “Aren’t you cold?”

“If and I am, I can’t feel it,” replied Mick. His hands came out of his pockets. “I might as well have bits of stick on the ends of these arms this morning.”

Minogue held back from words of encouragement, knowing that his brother would hear them as pity. The sun blazed in the doorway now. The glare caught the nap on a cow’s rump and outlined every hair. He looked around the parlour again and smelled the milk and the dung and the straw and the sweetness in the cows’ breath. What the hell more can I do that I’m not already doing, he thought. He walked to the doorway to get some sun.

Two cars were entering the yard. One stopped within feet of the milking parlour, the other by the back door of the house. Minogue tried to shield his eyes but the low sun blinded him. He knew the cars for what they were when he saw the antennae still quivering after the engines were shut off. A young Guard with a crew cut and a long bony nose with a kink in it was out of the car quickly. Another in a soft leather jacket followed him from the passenger side. Minogue stepped out of the sunlight to see the farmhouse better. Two other men were gone in the door of the house.

“Lookit,” Minogue began. “There’s only the woman of the house and my-”

The Guard with the long nose brushed by him. The other stared at Minogue and stood to the other side of the doorway. The Inspector made for the doorway but Leather Jacket stepped in front of him. He heard running footsteps in the yard. Another Guard, a curly-headed older man with a pepper-and-salt moustache and a bomber-jacket, entered.

“He’s out here, all right,” he said, with barely a glance at Minogue. “Who are these fellas?”

“Who are you?” Minogue asked.

The one with the moustache looked at Minogue and then beyond him.

“Down here,” said Crew Cut. “Him and the da.”

“What the hell are ye doing?” Mick Minogue began.

“Take the da and this fella out to the house,” said Moustache. “Or sit one of them in the car.”

Minogue started to follow Moustache down to where Eoin was standing. He had gotten two steps before his arm was pinned. He was down on his knees with his head twisted in a lock when the shouting began. He too tried to shout but the Guard’s arm covered his mouth. Minogue inhaled the leathery scent from the arm over his face.

“This one’s trouble,” the Guard called out.

Minogue’s mind flared with the sharp pain as his arm was pushed farther back.

“What the hell are ye about?” Mick was bellowing.

“Keep off now,” said Moustache. He and the other detective closed on Eoin. Minogue heard more footsteps behind him.

“Lace him up,” said the Guard holding him. “The oul’ lad might be throwing shapes here in a minute.”

With the headlock released, Minogue bent forward to ease the armhold. His other arm was grabbed and he heard the soft clicks as the plastic restrainers were cinched home.