Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“Tell your boys to be cool,” I screamed.

Silence, except for the gangster on the floor crawling about in agony.

“Cool it, lads, fucking cool it,” Deasey demanded.

I could feel his garlicky beer breath on my face. Nervous doglike pants.

Belly shot began weeping, retching. A.38-slug stomach wound from this range could easily kill someone.

“Aaah, help me, aaah,” he groaned, the smell of blood and guts permeating the room like frying onions.

“Better get him to the Royal,” I suggested.

“Do it,” Deasey said. “He’s dying.”

Two of the hoods picked up their fallen comrade and carried him outside.

“How did it come to this?” I asked.

Deasey was tense: shallows breaths, sweat, touch of the trembles.

“I didn’t have anything to do with taking that girl,” he said in a hoarse whisper, the fight gone from him now. The blood having brought home the very real danger that I posed.

“I know, Deasey, I’m not saying you did. But one of your boys did. Pot dealer in the Malt Shop. Skinny. All I want is his fucking name. You owe him fucking nothing anyway, and he’s implicated you in a piece of serious fucking shit.”

“Aye,” Deasey said.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t ya?” I said, and dragged the revolver up along his face and rested it on his temple. It moved easily through his sweat.

“I know who you’re talking about,” Deasey admitted finally.

“That’s right. You’re going to give me his name and address, and he better be there when I call because if he gets tipped off between now and then-”

“Enough threats. Bridget Callaghan doesn’t scare me.”

“You shouldn’t be worried about her. You should be worried about me. You know how much damage your skull will do to my gun if I pull this trigger at point-blank range?”

“No.”

“None at all.”

It was a tough spot for Deasey. If he told me the name and address he would lose face in front of his men. But if he didn’t tell me, perhaps I was the sort of person who might just be mental enough to blow his fucking head off. I’d just shot one of his pals a minute ago. He might be next.

“I don’t know his address. I really don’t. I could find out but it would take some hours. If you give me a number I’ll call you up with-”

“Now, now, Deasey, up until now we’ve been honest with each other. I wanted to know the kid’s name, you didn’t want to tell me. Let’s keep it on the level.”

The revolver’s barrel was turning his skin blue.

“Barry, he lives on a boat on the Lagan path, called the Ginger Bap, that’s all I know. I don’t keep track of every fucking shithead pot dealer in my employ.”

“Barry?”

“Barry,” Deasey confirmed.

I turned to Deasey’s crew.

“Ok now, lads, Deasey and me are going to walk outside. The first character I see pop his noggin out gets it between the fucking eyes and the next bullet’s for Deasey himself. So I’d stay in here if I were you. Now everybody drop your guns and go behind the bar.”

No one moved.

“Do it,” Deasey said.

The gangsters put down their firearms and shuffled behind the tiny bar.

Still holding the gun to his temple, I walked Deasey to the door. To exit, I would have to turn my back on them. I turned, pushed open the doors. For a split second I was exposed. The hairs on my neck stood up. But no one was going to attempt to be a hero. We made it out into the street.

“Thanks for the information about Barry,” I said.

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to do you any fucking good,” he said with a thin smile.

“We’ll see.”

I removed the gun from his temple and stepped away from him.

“I hope you’ve got life insurance, because after this little display your loved ones are going to need it. Not that a rat informer has any loved ones,” Deasey said.

“Turn round,” I said.

He turned.

I cracked the butt of the.38 into the back of his head and let him collapse on the sidewalk.

I legged it as fast as I could down the hill. Kept running down the Falls Road and didn’t stop until I was safe in the center of Belfast again.

“Where’s the Lagan path?” I asked a passerby.

He told me, I caught my breath, winced as the slash across my gut decided to become very painful, and headed east for my encounter with Barry and a possible rescue of Siobhan.

Walking.

Jogging.

Running…

I wasn’t worried about Deasey’s threat.

If he was big talk, then it was all just bullshit. And if he was going to try and do something, well, he could fucking take a number and join the queue. Me and the evil had it sussed. He was small fry. I was Michael Forsythe.

Let them add to the legend. Let them believe it. Let them tell it.

He survived twelve years on the run and at least three hits. He lost a foot, escaped from a Mexican prison, and destroyed the empire of Darkey White.

He isn’t someone to be fucked with. He’s a ghost, a bogeyman.

They say that when he was conceived the good fairy was on sabbatical. They say that when he was born vultures perched themselves on the houses of his enemies.

The Lagan poised between tides. A break in the clouds. The sun at the very head of Belfast Lough. The daylight nearing its apogee. This is the only time of year and the only time of day that Belfast can take on a Mediterranean aspect, and then just for a moment. Waders on the muddy riverbank. Bees among the bankside flowers. Irises, wild roses, bluebells pushing up through dandelion and grass. Red dust from the Sahara falling on the apartment balconies. A turquoise cast to the sky-a deep blue that seems to make a noise like sighing. No one stirs. Birds. An egret preening itself on an ocher roof tile. Starlings on drooping telegraph wires. Seagulls following the customs boat. An entire duma of Arctic terns waiting in the glasslike trees for the tide to sink a little more.

And then a hazy disturbance over the water.

It’s ending now.

In a minute, gray clouds will rush in to fill the vacuum. The prevailing westerlies will banish that Saharan breeze and Belfast will become again the dour northern town of bricks, slate, and tarmacadam.

But let’s be Zen and appreciate the last few seconds of the golden light.

This is all new. There was no Lagan path when I lived here.

And it’s with some feeling of astonishment that I walk past the gleaming apartment buildings, condo complexes, and town houses.

Parapets, shutters, classical façades, in shades of coral and sunfaded white. Big windows that want to embrace the river and the city, rather than repel it. Someone made a fortune on the peace dividend around here. This used to be a scary towpath where street gangs would rule the day and the homeless would sleep at night. Filth, rusting shopping carts, and burned-out cars were the only ornaments for the choked water that was filled habitually with diesel and chemical pollutants.

But in the 1970s and ’80s terrorism and unemployment closed the shipyards and engineering works that ran along the river. The factories were gutted, the heavy machinery stripped and sent to Seoul. A decade of neglect and then the IRA cease-fire and the UDA cease-fire. The peace process. Millions from the United States and Europe for regeneration and suddenly this stretch of water must have seemed like a good investment. Clear out the factories, clean the river, make a nice Laganside path, build homes for yuppies.

And I quite like what they’ve done with it. Even when the sun is finally suffocated by a black cloud and it starts to drizzle. A different feeling here from old Belfast. The people who live in these apartments travel. They go places and they bring back tasteful souvenirs from the Algarve and Andalucía. Olive oil containers, spice racks, expensive wine. They know black people, they know gay people. They know who Yo-Yo Ma is. They think Vivaldi is vulgar and they are in love with