The Going Rate (11 page)

“What's the story at the hostel? Any talk of him there, pals? His effects?”

“Well, Slovenian boy alluded – is that the right word? … Well he says that they'd be doing a little pot at the hostel – no not inside, obviously. Everyone does, says he. He had – the Polish lad now – he had a suitcase back at the hostel, and a rucksack. Clothes, toiletries, magazines, some johnnies. Some class of foreign booze, Polish writing on it. Biscuits – local. Gum, matches. A few bits of paper with writing on them, turned out to be names of organizations and things here to do with Polish living here now. I got it all handy from people down there at St. Michan's. That's their church now, you know, the Poles.”

“No grudges or bad feeling with people in the hostel? A row at all?”

Hughes shook his head.

“No-one checked out in a mad hurry either. We got ahold of every one of them who was there that day. Only two we had to go foraging for, one girl went to Cork on the train. Another fella, a Swedish lad, was doing his biking around Ireland thing. We found him down in Waterford.”

Minogue remembered then that all of Hughes' information had been gathered in only two days.

“That's a hell of a lot done since the murder there, Kevin. I just realized.”

Hughes shrugged, and tried not to show his pleasure at the comment. He winced then, and took a breath.

“Are you all right?”

“Grand. I've been getting these little I-don't-knows in me belly since yesterday. No more curry for a while, says I.”

Minogue took in the rueful grin.

“So, no sign of the man's phone at all,” Minogue resumed. “Passport?”

“Ah. It was locked in a safe they keep for the people staying there. So he had a head on his shoulders, you might say.”

The crane began to swivel again, its hopper of cement emptied.

“All bagged,” Hughes said. “All gone to the lab.”

“‘Hurry up and wait,' is it.”

Hughes shrugged.

“They're inundated, I hear,” he said. “As usual.”

“Okay,” said Minogue, and looked at his watch. “Thanks for all that. Now. Have we a notion of how we're going to present this to the family inside?”

“I have a plan I suppose, yes.”

“Spare her the details I'm thinking?”

“I'm with you there.”

“Unless she insists, which is unlikely.”

“We'll be talking through the embassy one anyway. The language issue.”

“So: ‘wrong place, wrong time' etc.?”

“That's about it.”

The image of a man being mobbed, and taken down had come to Minogue several times today already. It brought to his mind something from a nature series on the telly. Hyenas, jackals, ravening, tearing at an animal they had cornered.

“Really not looking forward to this,” said Hughes.

“No easy way, Kevin. No easy way here.”

Chapter 11

F
anning was surprised that he had forgotten about the stink now.

There was hardly any movement in the small crowd of men now. He did a rough count: thirty something, maybe upward of forty in the crowd here. He had been to enough race meetings to know the steady, building charge of anticipation before a race, the burble of talk and the last shouts before the race began. This was different. The quiet seemed to deepen, making way for the sound of traffic in the distance. Then he heard footsteps and scratching close by, and then a low, intermittent sound that he did not like to think was a dog growling.

Fanning felt that he couldn't draw a proper breath, and was suddenly seized by the urge to be out in the open air. He pushed back at it, distracting himself by watching Murph wait his turn to hand the bet to Delaney. Then he pretended to yawn, and as he stretched, he took in the faces through his almost closed eyelids. There were thoughtful expressions on many now, and a quiet expectancy that on one or two faces that looked like the beginnings of a smile.

It was vital that he remember details like that. Just had to find a way to convey this sense of something primeval in this ritual. With his mind falling into the habit of searching for words and phrases, Fanning felt his breathing begin to ease.

A blue haze of cigarette smoke had gathered by the skylights. The man in the leather jacket was edging his way by some of the men, extending his arm to hand over a bet to Delaney. Something about his expression – distraction or detachment, Fanning couldn't decide – and the way he waited while the others milled around Delaney, kept him watching.

He wasn't quick enough turning his gaze away. Their eyes met for a moment. Fanning felt the man's eyes on him for several moments after.

“What's that face for,” said Murph. “Are you going to puke?”

“Two hundred, in the space of five minutes? You could have told me.”

Murph shrugged, drew out a cigarette, and lighted it from his finished one.

“That's the going rate,” he said. “A hundred's nothing here.”

“Not to you, it's not.”

“Don't be fussing. You'll get it back with Tony's beast.”

“What about the other one? The ‘wouldn't be here for no reason' one?”

Murph blew out more smoke.

“The tinker's dog? Another time, maybe.”

“What are the odds?”

“They don't do odds here. Jacko and them, they get their cut, for holding the thing. Then the owners get a quarter of the pot each. The rest of it, the losing bets pay for the winning ones.”

“Who'd waste their money with these odds?”

Murph coughed, and gave him a disbelieving look.

“It's not just bets,” he said. “It's the whole vibe. The scene. Get it?”

Yet another sour reminder of Murph's B.O. came to Fanning, and he shifted and turned away. When he glanced around at the faces again, it was the man in the leather jacket, the one with the peculiar accent, who looked away.

There was fervour on some of the faces now. Strange sounds came from one of the dogs behind the plywood divider. It sounded like a hum or a small whirring engine. Delaney wrote something on a yellow stickie note he had been attaching to the money, and then pocketed it. He looked around the room.

The light seemed dimmer now. Murph's face had grown more pale, and the bags under his eyes even darker. Fanning's neck and scalp began to prickle. His chest had tightened again. He tried to breathe deeper. It wouldn't take long, he thought. And these were animals, not people. He didn't have to look directly at it when it happened.

“Scratch,” Delaney said. “…And let them go!”

The Tinker's dog, the terrier-cross, was the first to reach up in the air, its back claws scratching violently for a grip on the floor. A cry of surprise, something between a whine and a growl, erupted from one of the dogs. The men holding the dogs crouched low, their leashes cutting into their hands. Tony's dog was half-crouched, its back legs locked even as he pulled it back to the line.

“Come on,” he heard Murphy say, and then yell. “Let's go!”

Fanning heard his own breath whistling out of his nose in short bursts. Again he scanned the faces, taking in the narrow-eyed scowls, the frowns caught between glee and cruelty. The West Ham character was taking another swipe from the flask, wiping his mouth.

There was a shout, and both dogs shot from their handlers' grip. Teeth flashing, they launched themselves into the space between one another. They hit together in a frenzy of violence, and above the snarling, Fanning heard a clap of bone on bone. Twisting and spinning still, their back legs dug in when they hit the floor again. The terrier-cross twisted away from the bulldog's lunge.

Something flew through the air, a line or filament of something. Steady again for several moments, the terrier-cross reared and then dived, his teeth looking for a leg. He missed by inches. The bulldog took the opening, and sank his teeth into its shoulder. The terrier-cross jigged and arched, its back legs tightening and then trembling with the effort of pushing them both sideways. He had the bulldog off balance almost right away, but its jaws stayed clamped on his neck.

Someone bellowed. Fanning instinctively lifted his hands toward his ears. More men were yelling now. He leaned in toward Murph.

“When do they stop it?” “What? Stop what?” “When will they stop the fight, like when is there a clear winner?”

Murphy turned to him, a rapturous scorn on his face.

“Are you joking me? With the money that's on this?”

The man in the leather jacket was on his tiptoes now. The West Ham character seemed to have woken up a little, and now began to punch the air in a slow, rhythmical duet of fists, his jacket rising to his belt each time. Fanning saw the gun lodged in the small of his back.

“Christ,” he said to Murphy. “Look.”

The terrier-cross was up again, he threw his head back, twisted his body and whirled back. Both dogs hit the floor hard churning their legs at one another.

“Not the neck!” Murphy shouted. “The belly! Tear his nuts off!”

Fanning grabbed Murphy's arm. Murphy turned to him, wild-eyed, and Fanning leaned in close

“He has a gun,” he said. “That guy there–”

Murphy grabbed a lapel on Fanning's jacket and twisted it. There were more shouts now.

“Shut your mouth,” Murph growled, his eyes glittering with anger. Somewhere Fanning felt pleased to have provoked him so.

“Let go of me,” he said.

Murph loosened his grip, but didn't move back.

“Where do you think you are? This isn't a joke, you know. It isn't one of your film things. This is the real thing here, isn't it. And these are very serious people.”

Somebody roared nearby. Murphy stepped back and turned back to the fight again.

Blood whipped into the air in long strings that broke before falling to the floor. The terrier-cross was being heaved side to side but Fanning saw that it was the terrier-cross that had a grip on the bulldog's head.

The bulldog thrashed and reared, and then dove to the floor as though burrowing into it.

“No way,” Murphy said. “He's got him, he's got his eye out. Did you see it?”

The bulldog jerked his head up, tossing blood, and got one paw over the terrier-cross's neck, but his head was pulled back down to the floor again. The terrier-cross began to tug harder. Together the two lurched across the floor until they hit the side of the cage again. That was when the bulldog pulled at the terrier-cross's leg, clamping it and pulling back. Their frantic twisting slowed.

“He won't let go of the head,” Murphy said. “Even if the other one…”

The crack of bone breaking brought groans from several of the men. The terrier-cross leaned in as his leg snapped but he kept his grip. Fanning shuddered and turned away, but the noise and the smells rushed in on him again. He glanced over at someone who was beginning a chant. It was that dopey-looking sidekick of the man in the leather jacket. The booze, or whatever he was on, was working now. His eyes were shining and he beat his arms in the air to keep time with the chant.

“Finish it! Finish it!”

Definitely English, Fanning was sure now. The zipper had slid down. Sure enough, it was a football shirt. The crest was blue, with two hammers crossed on a shield. Other voices began to join in. Light-headed now, he heard Murph's yell as though from a distance.

“He did it, he did it! Jesus, he did it! Unbelievable!”

The bulldog's fur was wet halfway down its back, and the side of its face was a mass of gaping flesh. His upper and lower teeth showed plainly, fixed on the cross-terrier's throat. A weak fountain of blood spouted near where he worked at the throat. The terrier-cross's feet slowed even more until one came to rest on the bulldog's foreleg.

“Choked the frigging life out of him,” said Murphy. “Absolutely unbelievable!”

Tony was walking slowly into the arena, talking. The Tinker stepped in too and took an awkward step to avoid a gout of blood.

The bulldog was still gnawing on the terrier-cross's throat. Every few moments, it gave a hard, tearing twist. The terrier-cross's legs moved again. Tony entered the cage after the Tinker, both holding basins and dripping sponges. Tony went down on one knee, talking to his dog. The bulldog's head turned a little but his jaws stayed shut. The Tinker bent over and looked at his terrier-cross and frowned. Tony said something to him but the Tinker didn't answer. Instead he stepped around to get a different view. There was blood spreading beneath the terrier-cross now.

Murph's voice seemed to come from faraway.

“You look like shite. Better sit down.”

Fanning realized that the shouting had stopped.

“I've got to get out of here.”

Murphy blocked him.

“Whoa, there. You can't just walk out. We have a bet to collect.”