Living Death (34 page)

She even wondered what it might be like to have another child. Or children even. A little boy and a little girl. Nothing would bring her little Seamus back, even if she wept all day and all night for the rest of her life. But she was still young enough to have more.

Moirin came in, with half an egg-and-tomato sandwich on a plate.

‘Do you fancy this, ma’am? I’m as full as a goose. I think the eyes overestimated the stomach, like, do you know what I mean?’

‘No, thanks, Moirin,’ said Katie. She was too churned up inside to feel hungry, too excited. ‘Detective O’Donovan will probably do it justice, though. He’d eat the Lamb of God that one, and come back for the ewe.’

She hardly recognised Conor when he arrived at the station just after 12:00. He was wearing a black baseball cap and a puffy bronze windcheater and black jeans, and dirty runners. His eyes were hidden behind RayBans.

‘State of you la,’ she said, smiling.

‘Oh come on, this is my dog fighter’s disguise. I couldn’t blend in with the likes of Guzz Eye McManus if I was too sartorial.’

‘How about me? Do you think I’m too dressed up?’ asked Katie. She had put on her black raincoat with the pointed hood, the one that John said made her look like a witch, and shiny black leather boots.

‘No, you’re perfect. You look like my girlfriend would look, if you were my girlfriend, but that’s how I’ll have to introduce you.’

She reached up and took off his sunglasses. The desk sergeant noticed her doing it, and stared at her intently for a moment before going back to the report he was filling in. She looked directly into Conor’s eyes and said, ‘Fair play. I don’t mind being your girlfriend.’

They took a black Mercedes E-Class saloon from the station’s car pool – and not only because it suited Conor’s alias as a disreputable dog breeder more than Katie’s Focus. If Guzz McManus got a hacker to search through the RSA computer records, they would find that the Mercedes had belonged for the past three years to Redmond O’Dea of North Tipperary, whose address was Firmount Kennels, Carrigahorig.

The rain eased off as they drove northwards on the M8 past Watergrasshill, although the clouds were still oppressively low, as if God were trying to suffocate them under a thick grey duvet. Katie tuned the car’s radio to 96FM for some quiet background music. She couldn’t stop staring at Conor as he drove, and from time to time he glanced back at her and smiled. She found him fascinating to watch, and if anything she thought that he was even more good-looking than when he had first walked into the station. She laid her hand on his left thigh, and he briefly laid his hand on top of hers.

‘Don’t forget that your name’s “Redmond”, will you?’ she reminded him. ‘I hope to heaven that I don’t. And my name’s Sinéad.’

‘I’ll remember that all right,’ he told her. ‘I once went out with a girl called Sinéad, and she had the same hair colour as you. She wasn’t so pretty, though.’

‘Flatterer. Go on, though, I like it.’

Conor said, ‘First of all we have to find out who has these dogs. We’ll try Bartley Doran first, and then this Paddy Barrett. It wouldn’t surprise me at all, though, if it’s Doran. He’s like the Billy Walsh of fighting-dog trainers, and if these are real high-quality dogs, I’m pretty sure that McManus will have passed them on to him.’

After an hour and a half, Conor left the M8 at Garranmore and then drove down through Ballymackane to Palmer’s Hill, a narrow hedge-lined road which crossed back over the motorway. On the far side of the motorway, on top of a hill, and almost completely hidden by trees and fencing, was the Ballyknock Halting Site.

He turned into the site, and parked the Mercedes behind a battered blue horsebox. Seven or eight children were playing nearby, and they all stopped running and skipping and slowly came up to the car to stare at Katie and Conor as if they were aliens. The youngest boy was frowning at them with undisguised hostility and elaborately picking his nose at the same time.

‘Well, well – a welcoming committee,’ said Katie. ‘Except they don’t look too welcoming, do they?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Conor. He had obviously been expecting this. As he climbed out of the car he reached into the pocket of his windcheater and took out a paper bag. Then he called out, ‘
All-a-bah!
’ and tossed a handful of Caffrey’s rhubarb-and-custards into the air. The children instantly scattered, shouting and pushing each other as they snatched up the sweets from the muddy pathway.

‘That’s not too hygienic,’ said Katie, as she came round the car to join him.

‘Don’t fret about it. These kids were brought up on a diet of mud. Mud and manriklo.’

‘Oh, that’s not true. The Pavee have the cleanest kitchens I’ve ever seen. And they won’t eat any animal that licks its own behind.’

Conor took hold of her arm and laughed. ‘Only joking, girlfriend.’

All along the opposite side of the pathway there was a row of white-painted mobile homes, with plant pots outside them. Further along, a group of women were standing around in front of one of the homes, smoking, and they too turned to stare at Katie and Conor.

Conor waved and shouted at them in a strong north Tipperary accent. ‘Well! How are ye?’

None of them answered, and they all turned their backs. Conor shrugged and led Katie across to the second mobile home in the line. A spotty teenage boy in a grey hoodie was standing on the step outside the door, playing a game on his mobile phone.

‘How are ye?’ said Conor. ‘Is The Guzz in?’

The boy reached behind him and knocked on the door with his knuckles. ‘Guzz! There’s some feen out here axing after ye!’

After a few moments the door was opened and a sallow young woman with braided hair and huge gold earrings came out, smoking. She stared at Katie and Conor suspiciously.

‘Well,’ said Conor. ‘It’s Taunisha, isn’t it? How’s your granny for turf? You remember me, don’t you? Redmond. I was here in the spring, looking for breeding dogs to buy.’

‘Oh yeah, so you was. This your wife, is it?’

‘Girlfriend. Sinéad.’

‘
Girlfriend?
’ Taunisha raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.
She must regard me as far too ancient to be single
, thought Katie. If a Pavee girl wasn’t married by the time she was twenty she was considered to be on the shelf.

‘I’d like a chat with The Guzz, if that’s okay,’ said Conor.

‘All right. You’d best come in.’

Katie and Conor climbed the steps and entered the mobile home. Taunisha turned left and ushered them into the living-room, which was foggy with cigar and cigarette smoke. It was furnished with overstuffed crimson velvet chairs and gilt-fringed cushions, and the windows were framed by crimson velvet curtains, drawn back in swags. Against the wall stood a dresser that was cluttered with silver-framed photographs of mastiffs and bull terriers, as well as shining silver cups and shields, and stacks of cigar boxes. Katie felt as if she had stepped into a miniature palace, and in a way she had, because the king himself, Guzz Eye McManus, was sitting on a chair that looked more like a throne.

He was short and squat, The Guzz, with a huge belly. He was totally bald, and he had no eyebrows, which probably meant that had suffered from alopecia. He looked to Katie like a statue of Buddha, except that he was a grumpy Buddha, and his left eye was turned at forty-five degrees to the left, while his right eye was looking straight at her. He was wearing a tight red T-shirt with a fancy red-and-black waistcoat over it, and black tracksuit pants, although his thighs were so swollen that they looked like two giant-sized black puddings. In contrast, his feet were tiny, a child’s feet, in white Nike runners that couldn’t have been larger than size 4.

He had a half-smoked cigar between his thick rubbery lips, and when Katie and Conor came in, he sucked at it so that the tip glowed orange, and then took it out, and blew a steady stream of blue smoke at them.

Sitting beside him was a thin, dark-skinned man with his jet-black hair pulled back into a man-bun. His forearms were covered in curly tattoos and he was wearing four or five gold bracelets on both of his wrists. A deck of cards was splayed out on the coffee table between them, so it looked as if they were halfway through a game of ten-card rummy.

‘Guzz,’ said Conor. ‘
Yoordjeele’s soonee-in munya
... good to see you. And you’re well, I hope?’

‘Redmond,’ said The Guzz. ‘What’s the craic, boy? I thought I might have seen you at Clonlong this summer. There was some deadly fights that day, feen, I can tell you.’

‘I heard, but I was in the UK – Rotherham, for my sins – selling off half-a-dozen bull terriers.’

‘Who’s this you’ve fetched with you? Not the same beour as last time. Or is it just some sly lack?’

‘No, this is Sinéad. Say hello to The Guzz, Sinéad. The lord of the dog-fighting rings.’

Katie said, ‘Good to meet you, Guzz,’ but The Guzz completely ignored her. Instead he said to Conor, ‘What are you after, then, Redmond? Or do you have some dogs for sale?’

Katie knew that this was going to be a critical moment, and she inwardly prayed that Conor could pull this off without arousing The Guzz’s suspicions.

‘Just something a little bird told me,’ said Conor. ‘I heard that somebody fetched some first-rate animals up here to Ballyknock within the past few days, for training up to gameness.’

‘Did you now?’ said The Guzz, puffing at his cigar again.

‘I was told there was seven or eight of them, all pedigree. Two bulldogs and a mastiff among them, and a Great Dane, too. I’m fierce interested in the Great Dane for breeding, because I have a Great Dane bitch up at Carrigahorig, and she’s just gone into proestrus.’

The Guzz said nothing for a while, but looked Katie up and down with his one good eye, and smoked. Taunisha came back into the living-room and said, ‘Guzz, I’ve put on the kettle. Do you fancy a cup of weed?’

The Guzz didn’t answer her, either. Without turning to Conor, he said, ‘Who’s your “little bird”, then, Redmond?’

‘Ah, Guzz, you know what the dog business is like as well as I do. You can’t take a chihuahua for a shit in the middle of the Gortavoher Forest without somebody grassing on you.’

The Guzz seemed to be content that Conor wasn’t going to give away the name of his informant, because all he said next was, ‘All right. Fair fucks to you. What’s in it for me, then?’

‘I’ll make it worth your while, Guzz. Put me in touch with whoever has the dog for training – then, if they allow me to lend a borrow of it so that I can breed it, I’ll pay you five hundred euros commission – and say, five per cent of whatever I make from the pups when they grow up.’

‘A thousand commission, and ten per cent for each pup,’ said The Guzz, picking a shred of tobacco-leaf from his lower lip and holding it up in front of his left eye, so that he could examine it more closely.

Conor lifted his chin and thoughtfully stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Whoo... that’s more than twice what I’ve ever paid before. How about seven hundred and fifty, and seven-and-a-half per cent?’

‘A thousand, and ten. Take it or leave it. It don’t make a scrap of difference to me, boy.’

Katie thought:
Take it, Conor, for the love of God. I can charge the thousand-euro commission to operational expenses, and you’re not really going to be breeding that Great Dane, anyway, so there won’t be any pups.

‘All right, you’re on,’ said Conor. He spat into the palm of his hand and held it out, and The Guzz shook it.

‘You’ll be in fierce trouble if you don’t pay up, though,’ said The Guzz. ‘My lads will be up to Carrigahorig before you know it, and your kennels will be accidentally burning down to the ground, with you in them, if you’re not wide.’

‘You’ll get your grade, don’t you worry,’ said Conor. ‘They don’t call me Redmond the Reliable for nothing.’

Normally, Katie would have laughed at that, but her nerves were as tense as a tightly wound clock. ‘Redmond the Reliable’. She would have to tease him about that later. More like ‘Conor the Conman’.

‘Doran has them, Bartley Doran,’ said The Guzz. ‘You know where his place is, don’t you? Down the road here, about a kilometre short of Cashel, and off to the left. He’s training them up for the next big fight we’ll be holding here.’

‘When’s that, Guzz?’ asked Conor. ‘Bartley’s going to want him back well before then, isn’t he, so that he can get him up to gameness.’

‘It won’t be for a couple of months or so. I’ll let you know nearer the day. I don’t want anybody tipping off the shades.’

‘Thanks, Guzz. I’ll go and talk to Bartley and then I’ll go into Cashel and get your grade for you. I’ll drop it in after.’

The Guzz was giving all his attention to crushing out his cigar. There was so much smoke curling around him that he looked like a magician performing a disappearing act. As Katie and Conor turned to leave, though, he said, ‘I’ll give you one thing, Redmond. You’ve great taste in women. Fetch her here when you’ve finished with her.’

They left the mobile home and walked back to their car. The children ran up to Conor and said, ‘Any more sweeties, mister?’

‘Not at the moment, kids. But I’m going into town and I’ll fetch you some back with me. What’s your favourite?’

‘Peggy’s Legs!’ piped up one of the girls, jumping up and down. ‘Fetch us some Peggy’s Legs!’

They climbed into the car, turned around, and drove out of the halting site and back on to Palmer’s Hill. As they drove they could see for twenty or thirty kilometres all around them – green fields and farms and distant mauve mountains.

‘“Redmond the Reliable”,’ said Katie, slapping Conor playfully on the shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t made it up, I would have said that you couldn’t make it up.’

‘You can’t complain, girlfriend! I got what we came for, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, you did. But I’ll tell you this. That man scares me, that Guzz Eye McManus. There’s not many men who scare me, but he does. When he said he would burn your kennels down, with you in them, I believed him. Thank God you don’t really own a kennels.’

*

Bartley Doran’s farm was at the end of a long lane with overgrown bushes on either side. The further they drove down, the narrower it became, until the brambles were scraping and squeaking against the wings of their Mercedes on both sides.