Kevin Barry - City of Bohane

‘What do we know of the kid Stanners?’

‘Came up rough. Orphaned early. Runs with the boy of the Burkes.’

‘Fucker, known as. A regular savage.’

‘But not much of a brain, really, just a viciousness. It’s said the Wolfie runt is as smart as he’s vicious.’

‘We know he’s attached to the girl of the Chings.’

‘Sweet Baba Jay float down and preserve us!’

There was plenty to be bothered about in Bohane at the best of times. The El train must be kept running, and the sodium lights must rise for whatever few hours of the night could be afforded, and occasionally – if only that – the gutters must be swept clear of dead dogs, jack-up works, and mickey-wrappers. The Authority men truly cared that the once great and cosmopolitan city of Bohane should retain at least the semblance of its old civility.

‘Polis need to be kept tight on the Norrie families. We don’t want some halfwit of a young fella coming down the 98 to make a martyr of himself on account o’ Eyes Cusack.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Is Mr Mannion on the El train?’

‘That’s the word we have – he’s just in offa Nothin’.’

The men of the Authority wished that the docks be kept open and working. They wished for beer to be brewed and sausages packed. They wished that relations between the factions be kept just a shade short of murderous. They wished that the gentlemen of Endeavour Avenue be allowed to go about the administration of their business. They wished that the lost-time in Bohane might with the years that passed fade into less painful memory.

‘What way is the Mercy holding?’

‘What doctors we have are called in. The Mercy’s handled worse than this.’

‘Did Girly give nod to the pikeys?’

‘Must ha’! Logan’s the babby-boy yet. He couldn’t call in the pikeys without Girly’s say-so.’

The door of the conference room fell open then and it was Ol’ Boy Mannion that stylishly appeared. The Authority men rose as one and came about him in a great kerfuffle.

‘Ah shush, will ye!’ Ol’ Boy cried. ‘Barnyard fuckin’ fowl ye’re like.’

He quietened them, and quickly, for he was practised in the art, and soon all were seated and smoking again around the long table. Ol’ Boy stood at its head and raised his palms once more for hush.

‘Now let’s not get this out of proportion, boys,’ he said. ‘There were minor disturbances among juveniles in the Back Trace area of the city. We can get past this. We get the bodies down to the riverside smokehouse under cover of dark. We get the corpses burned off before first light. How’re we fixed for diesel?’

It was confirmed that sufficient supplies could be rounded up for the purpose.

‘Good. Now we need to let Eyes dance on the air for an hour or so yet. The Fancy will want to linger on the sight – leave them to it. We don’t want to rile the boys when they’re in a celebratory mood. They’ll have the calypso records out and the herb-pipes burnin’. Tomorrow, we’ll let the Vindicator special go ahead, coz the town has an appetite for it, but I’ll have Dominick cut any mention of a body count. A nice few gorey pictures and Bohane will be happy enough – you know the way of it, gents. Of course, the polis will have to keep the 98 Steps especially tight for the holiday period. We’ll want every unit out: hoss polis, dog polis and the knuckle-draggers general.’

The Authority clucked a henhouse concensus.

‘Do we know,’ Ol’ Boy continued, ‘what level of brute animal violence has been committed to the properties of the Trace?’

He was informed of what damage was known.

‘At least the market canopies seem to be intact. That’s something. If an old dear can pass through the market of a morning and snag herself a stalk of sprouts, it seems as if all is right with the world. Next thing is Girly.’

Shudders around the table, which he acknowledged with a sad closing of his eyes.

‘There is no way around it. We need to send a delegation to the old rip. We need it made clear that if the sand-pikey element is to be allowed a share of the Smoketown trade, then they have to be kept in some way decent. We can’t let the place go to hell altogether. We might suppose, of course, that the Fancy’s promise to the sandies is half-hearted at best and they’ll attempt to fob ’em off with the run of a couple of hoorshops and a few vouchers for a tickle-foot parlour…’

Pale smiles surfaced – the first of the night. Ol’ Boy’s grasp and control was so reassuring.

‘But that would be a dangerous game for the Hartnetts to play. There is nothing so terrifying to behold, as those of us ever so slightly longer in the tooth know, as a sand-pikey feeling hissel’ to be double-dealed. Now I mean no disrespect to their ethnic heritage…’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘… but we don’t want them lightin’ bastards getting any sort of a foothold. Bohane’s name is bad enough. And I am not suggesting for a moment that it is altogether unjustified. This is a bad-ass kind of town.’

The Authority men shrugged in sad agreement.

‘All I’m saying,’ Ol’ Boy went on, ‘is the last thing we want to be known as is Pikey Central. Things are bad enough, lads. We need to get Girly onside agin the pikey influx. Now. With regards to the Gant Broderick…’

The Authority members edged forwards in their seats.

‘… situation, I’ve spoken to him more than once but I confess his motives are still a mystery to me. I don’t know for sure why the Gant is back. What I do know is that he’s causin’ sleepless nights for a certain pale-face. And the way I’m figurin’?’

Ol’ Boy shrewdly grinned.

‘We got the Gant, and the Long Fella, and lovely Macu. So think on, boys-a-mine. It’s a rum ol’ love mess for certain and it could make fine distraction for the Bohane people this weather. Could make ’em forget an aul’ Feud quick enough…’

Slowly the Authority men nodded as they grasped the sense of it.

‘Hear this!’ Ol’ Boy cried. ‘Bohane city don’t always gots to be a gang-fight story. We can give ’em a good aul’ tangle o’ romance an’ all, y’check me?’

A hot scream cut the April night in S’town.

Logan Hartnett, the sad-eyed Fancy boss, looked drowsily to the high window of the dream salon’s booth. The window was open to the great swelter of spring and the air was pierced by the white syllables of the scream. Heartbroken in the cruel season, Logan as he lay on the settle bed felt the scream along the tracklines of his blood as though carried by an army of racing ants. His true love had left him, and he closed his eyes against the scream, and the pink backs of his lids pulsated woozily. He felt the slow, negotiating trickle of a single bead of sweat as it rolled from his forehead along the line and tip of his nose, dropped to the indent above his thin lips, trickled slowly across his lips to leave a residue of salt burn, and rolled onto his chin to be removed with the single neat swipe of a toe by Jenni Ching.

He opened his eyes to the girl.

She winked as she drew back her foot again. She sat on her haunches, at the far end of the settle, facing him. She took up the pestle and mortar and grinded still more of the poppy bulb’s paste. She spread it on the burner of the dream-pipe, and she came to him along the length of the settle – see the slow and sinuous movement of her as she brought balm for his soul’s ache – and she placed the pipe to his lips, and she sparked the flame.

‘More,’ she said.

The scream ripped the air again but it broke up as it caught at its source, and it became a hacking cough, and a boy of fifteen doubled over in a dune-end alleyway. His thin hands clutched at his sides and his fingertips kneaded his ribs and on each knuckle a numeral was marked in the pale blue of Indian ink: