Born & Bred (33 page)

He sat down with his back to Lir’s Children and stared down at the cruciform pool, with the patterns on the bottom. He hadn’t liked coming to the Gardens for years. He always felt guilty there—like somebody was looking down at him.

He thought about having another few hits. He was starting to come down again but he didn’t dare. The vibe of the place was so against it.

He used to like coming when he was a child. His father used to bring him, to tell him all about his grandfather who had been at Boland’s—with Dev. Anto had never met him but when he was younger he was proud of him.

Up until he left home and found out that the Republic they had all fought for was a closed shop and he and his kind were on the outside looking in. It wasn’t right and there was no way he was going to do what his father did—work in the dairies, join the union and start a family that’s only going to turn against him. He was always going to fight against that. Fighting was the only thing the world understood.

He had always been the type that stood out in the middle of the street and challenged everybody.

He could look back and see that so clearly now, but he couldn’t see what was all around him even though it had been haunting his dreams. Blurry images of him running through the woods and then standing alone in a clearing for all other predators to see.

He should never have gotten involved with the Boys, with their minds set like steel and their hearts beating like tribal drums. It was like a jungle all right, and he had been a predator for so long, but now something was coming for him. His instincts were telling him to get under the cover of something.
Even fucking Danny Boyle figured that out.

That was it. That was how he was going to go into hiding. It was fucking brilliant. Boyle was smarter than he had ever given him credit for.

Maybe he took the gun?

But he didn’t know it was there.

Maybe the Driller is holding it over for him?

He was going to have to fight both of them at the same time. He might even have to go to the Garda-Fucking-Síochána but he’d need a go-between for that.

*

Fr. Patrick Reilly settled himself into the booth and put on his stole. He left the light on for a few moments so he could collect himself. He was going to be there all night. Fr. Brennan wasn’t able anymore so he had to do it all himself.

He thanked God for Dinny O’Leary. He had agreed to give up his Saturday evening and come over and pretend to be doing a little plastering; repairing the wall that Fr. Brennan had bored holes in when he thought it was the wall between him and heaven. He said that voices of dead people were talking to him from the other side. He said that he could hear Bart and Nora, only he couldn’t make out what they were trying to tell him. It took a while to get him to hand over the drill, but, in the end, what harm was there?

Besides, Dinny was more than happy to come over and cover it up for them.

When Patrick turned off the light it would begin. The opening and closing of doors. The squish of the plastic-covered cushion under old creaky knees. The rattle of beads against the grill as the old waited at the window for a bit of comfort and solace, sighing as they waited.

It always began with a “bless-me-father” and a mumble for how long it had been since their last confession. They didn’t have to tell him, he knew who they were through the grill. He knew them by their voices and their smells and by the little noises they made that only he could hear.

He tried to let most of it pass him by, but he had to be on the lookout for something in particular to return to when it was his turn to speak. If he didn’t, they’d feel cheated and before long someone would try to raise the matter with Fr. Brennan, in person.

But he had that covered, too. Dinny and Mrs. Dunne were always on guard. Dinny patrolled outside and deflected what he could while Mrs. Dunne just followed the time-honored traditions of priests’ housekeepers, even though she was just part-time. She acted like she was the keeper of his schedule and told intruders that he was very busy with ecumenical matters. That stopped them in their tracks and they accepted an appointment with Fr. Reilly instead.

Still, he was getting tired carrying the whole load himself. He’d had five calls for “last orders” in the last month. All of them in the early hours of the morning. And he couldn’t appear to be put out, not when there was somebody dying.

He did all the funerals, too, and the baptisms, and the weddings and every other reason the Church was called on. He did the three Masses on Sunday, too, and was worn out.

But he couldn’t complain; this wasn’t the worst of his duties. He just had to nod along and wait for his cue. That was the trick of it all: knowing which transgression to comment on. It was the same thing every Saturday night and, God forgive him, he sometimes wished someone would come in with something big and important once in a while.

He chided himself for letting his mind wander and shifted slightly in his chair. He was just tired. And hearing Miriam’s news hadn’t helped. Not that he wasn’t happy for her. Of course he was but he was a little sad, too. And a bit bitter even though he had no right to be. He slid the grate open and lowered his head.

“Bless me, Father, I was a witness to a murder and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”

He knew he knew the voice but he couldn’t place it right away. He could smell the lingering odor of too many cigarettes and something vague and sweetly pungent.

“Go, on.” It was what he was supposed to say and he said it slowly so as not to give anything away.

He remembered the voice, now, and the hard young face that it spoke through.

He listened as Anto retold the story of poor Declan Scully only it was a very different telling than Danny’s.

According to Anto, Danny shot Scully for mentioning his name to the Guards. Anto had nothing to do with it except, and he admitted it freely, he was a dealer and he knew that was wrong.

“That’s why I can’t go to the Guards. It was my fault, in a way. I was the one who brought them together. I was just hoping they could sort it out and be mates again.

“I won’t lie to you, Father. Part of the reason was business and that’s why I don’t think the Guards will want to believe anything I say.

“Besides, Boyle said something about getting the IRA after me. He said his family is connected.

“What do you think I should do, Father?”

*

Fr. Reilly was still thinking about it as he closed the church for the night. He had thought about nothing else. All of the penitents that followed were issued a standard penance and shuffled along. He still had no idea how he was going to deal with it. He had invited Anthony around to the house for a chat but he explained that they would have to discuss it from the beginning as he wasn’t supposed to use anything he heard in confession.

It almost felt like Anthony was expecting that and had agreed. That bothered him so he knelt down and prayed for a bit of guidance from his remote and unanswering Boss.

No one answered him, but, as he waited until his mind was quiet, so he might hear God’s whisper, he began to think of Nora Boyle. She appeared in his mind with her hands on her hips like she was scolding him. And a look on her face like she was thinking of calling the Bishop directly.

His knees were sore when he finally rose and left the church. He would sleep for as long as he could and when he woke he would know what to. It would be Sunday and he’d have God’s ear while he said the three Masses.

*

The football game wasn’t bad, 2-2 against Villa. Tailor and Hales scored and had the home fans singing “I’m forever blowing bubbles.”

Danny had got great seats and Jerry enjoyed every minute of it, except when they announced the out of town scores: Liverpool was held goal-less by Everton, at home, but at least United got hammered. 4-0, away to West Brom. That was the icing on the cake.

On the way out, Danny bought a pair of duffle bags with West Ham plastered all over them. Jerry would never be seen in public with it, but he couldn’t say that to Danny, he was so happy to be doing the treating. He even insisted that they go for a few pints. It was somewhere nearby. One of his friends had told him about it. The Green Man on Plashet Grove. It was run by a fellow from Cork and they had a couple of hours to kill before they had to catch the train to Holyhead.

The pub was all right. It looked like something out of Dickens but the barman was from Dublin. From just over in Templeogue, and he knew Danny from school. He slagged them about their “Hammers” bags but asked to have a closer look at Danny’s. He even took it around the corner, out of sight—to show the lads in the other bar.

English pubs were a bit different so Jerry just kept to himself and didn’t gawk around like the tourists did in Dublin. The beer was okay, too, but he was anxious to get going and get back to what he was used to.

On the way to the train, they stopped to stock up on cigarettes and a few bottles that were so much cheaper than in Dublin. They filled both duffle bags evenly, only Danny’s felt heavier but he agreed to carry both of them. One over each shoulder, for balance in case the sea got rough.

They joked about it on the train, in the bar car, all the way to Holyhead.

Jerry had refused to go by Liverpool even though that boat was so much nicer. And it would have given them more time for drinking. And it came right in along the Quays instead of where they were heading. Dun Laoghaire.

They’d have to take the early morning train into town from there, along with the mailbags and a few Culchies, heading home for a while.

They were bleary when they landed and Danny had gone and lost his bag somewhere on the ship and refused to go back for it—saying that it wasn’t worth the hassle.

It was the one that had the bottles of gin for his mother, and all the Silk Cuts. But at least he still had the one with the whiskey and the Player’s Navy Cut. Unfiltered. “You’re a right fucking-eejit,” Jerry chided him as they filed off the ferry.

“It’s no big deal. I never liked West Ham anyway.”

Jerry would have clattered him across the ear if he wasn’t so tired.

And that wasn’t the end of their bad luck. The customs man pointed to them as they walked by and they had to go over and show him what was in the bag. He even asked their names as he eyed them with suspicion.

After he had pulled everything out of the bag, including the socks and underwear Jerry had changed on the train, he looked over his shoulder and nodded. They were fucked now. There were uniformed Guards and two men in tweed jackets with leather patches on the sleeves and they all wanted to have a little chat with them.

Not there in front of everybody, though. They led them inside and put them in separate rooms and tried to make them feel like they were fucked now—whatever they were supposed to have done.

Jerry wasn’t too concerned, though; it was only a few bottles and a couple of hundred cigarettes. How big a deal was that? He hoped Danny was holding up and began to compose what he was going to say to Jacinta when they finally got home.

*

Danny wasn’t the slightest bit concerned, either. He knew what was going down and he had nothing to worry about. He hadn’t lost the other bag; he had given it to someone.

It was okay—he had gotten the right password. Anto always wanted them to use passwords and let Danny pick the one for this mission. Danny had chosen “Sarsfield.” His grandfather used to use it when he was active.

“Sarsfield?” the big man had said when he approached.

“Sarsfield is the word,” Danny agreed as the big man loomed over him.

“And Sarsfield is the man.” He answered in a voice that was far too small for him. Small and thin—the way they spoke up in the North.

*

It went down so easy.

All the big man had to do was to tell Danny that Anto had sent him along because the cops were looking out for Danny. Someone had tipped them off.

Danny had nearly freaked out but the big man assured him that he had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was to hand the bag over and go on like nothing had happened. He’d get hauled in but they’d find nothing. He also told him that Anto had said that, if he handled it properly, that they’d be all square. He said that Anto had said that Danny would know what that meant.

Danny was relieved and handed over the bag and strolled off, not once looking back as the big man reached inside and took out the packages and threw them into the sea, just as he had been told to do.

He kept the gin and the Silk Cut. Not for himself; he would sell them and make himself a few quid on the side. Fighting for Ireland just didn’t pay the bills anymore.

*

The car windows were getting foggy on the inside and dewy from the sea breeze on the outside, but Anto didn’t dare clear them. He didn’t want anybody to notice him and his instincts warned him that they were there—that somebody was looking for him.

That’s why he sent Maguire instead. He was very anxious to make a name for himself and was far too stupid to fuck it up. Anto didn’t dare do it himself; he couldn’t risk being around if anything went wrong.

It seemed to be going okay. Maybe he had nothing to worry about. Maybe he was just getting a bit too paranoid. It happened to them all, sooner or later. It was time to get out of the game. He had told the priest the truth about that part.

And if everything went down okay he wouldn’t have to worry about anything again—least of all the priest.

But if it did go wrong, if something bad went down, he could get away and get over to the priest’s house. No one would look for him there.

And the priest couldn’t throw him out if he said he was looking for sanctuary. He had read up on all of that—only it didn’t happen so much anymore. But it was worth a try—if things went wrong.

He peered through the fog and the mist and could see Maguire standing near the door, smoking and looking like he was just waiting for someone.

Then he saw the big man come out and get into a waiting car. He didn’t know too much about him but he had heard that he used to be a courier. He did the Belfast-Dublin-London run and Anto had heard that he was trusted with all of the heaviest shit. Anto didn’t know much else about him—and didn’t want to. He knew enough to mind his own business and let other’s mind theirs.