Born & Bred (38 page)

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

“You didn’t expect me to just walk away from what happened, did you?”

He was right; Danny should have known better. He was never going to be free of this. No matter what the priests said, there wasn’t going to be any absolution or forgiveness. Real people just weren’t like that.

“And I gotta tell you, Boyle, I was very upset that you didn’t invite me to the wedding. I always thought that we were like family, you and me.”

“It’s still going on. You can come in now if you want.”

“It’s too late now, Boyle, but thanks for asking.”

When he grinned he almost looked skeletal. His cheek bones were poking through his face and eyes were sunken. He must have been hitting the stuff pretty hard—and not just the hash. He looked very edgy, too, so Danny moved as slowly as he could toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You’re wrong there, Boyle. We’re going for a little drive. Just you and me.”

Anto grabbed him from behind and held the gun tight against his chin, like he was ready, at any moment, to blow a hole through his head, and led him out a back door.

It was raining softly as Danny looked to the sky. He would have liked it if the stars were out—that something would witness his end. After all that had happened, it had come down to this; bundled into the back of a car and driven to the mountains where he would kneel down and wait for the end.

Panic grabbed his heart and he would have pissed himself if he hadn’t already gone but he was in danger of shitting himself and clenched his arse as they walked, crab-like to the waiting car.

He could still hear them inside, dancing and laughing like life was never going to end.

Anto opened the boot and pushed him inside. Danny lay down and curled up like a dog.

But before Anto could close the boot, the Driller stepped from the shadows and held his gun against the back of Anto’s head.

“I’ll kill him,” Anto threatened without turning around.

“Makes no difference to me. You’re still going to die.”

“I swear. I’ll do it.”

“Like I said, go ahead—I don’t give a fuck.”

“People will hear.”

“They’ll hear if you shoot him.”

Danny wanted to thank the Driller for pointing that out but thought better of it. He’d be better off just lying there and hoping that they might forget about him.

“So what they fuck are we going to do now?”

“You’re going to put the gun down, slowly, and then you are going to get in with Boyle.”

Danny thought about pointing out that there might not be enough room but decided to stay out of it. He could tell Anto was thinking about it, he could see his hand shake. He was going to go for it.

“Bad idea,” the Driller warned. “Now put the gun down or I’ll fucking blow you away right here.”

Anto must have thought better of it and slowly put his gun on the ground. “You’re going to have to kill him, too. You know that?”

“Makes no difference to me,” the Driller smiled as he knelt, holding his gun on Anto as he groped for the other gun. When he picked it up, he smiled. “You’re after giving me an idea. I’m going to shoot him with this.” He waved Anto’s gun toward Danny. “And then I’m going to shoot you with mine. It’ll be nice. I’ll make it look like you killed each other. I might even plant a love letter, too, so the whole world will know that you two were sweethearts to the end. Now close the boot and let’s get the fuck out of here. You don’t mind driving, do you?”

Anto shook his head and closed the boot and, in the darkness, Hell glowed brightly and a thousand devils rose to take the soul of Danny Boyle to its inevitable end.

*

“Has anyone seen Danny? He’s not in the jacks.”

“Is he not out dancing? He was there a minute ago.”

“He was, but he isn’t anymore.”

Jerry was going to suggest that he might be out in the back with a girl but he didn’t think that Deirdre’s father would like that. Besides, Deirdre was still sitting with her mother, like she was waiting for Danny to come back.

I hope he’s not out doing drugs again.
But he couldn’t be. He had done so well and everybody could see that he was really trying, this time. But that was the thing with drugs. At least with the drink you knew where you stood and you could take it or leave it. Even though, Jerry had to admit, that he did more taking than leaving, himself. But what harm was there in that? He wasn’t hurting anybody.

“Come here, quick. They’re after taking Danny away.” Maguire’s father stood in the doorway panting.

“What are you on about?”

“I saw them—Flanagan and that Northern fucker. They’ve just put Danny in the boot of a car.”

The entire room went silent. Even the band stopped in the middle of something and the dancers hung onto nothing.

Jacinta rose from her chair, clutching her heart and beseeching Jerry with her eyes. It was like the way his mother looked at him after Bloody Sunday. “Danny?” she screeched and began to wail, inconsolable despite Martin and Deirdre’s best effort. “Ah, sweet Jesus. Not my Danny. Not now after everything.”

Jerry turned and marched to the door. He had no idea what he was going to do but he had to do something. This was it. This was the moment when he’d get to put it all to rights. All the sins of his life could be washed away by this one heroic and selfless act.

“Hold on, Boyle. I’ll not let you walk out there alone.” Deirdre’s father rose from his stool and held Jerry’s elbow.

“Let go of me. I’m going out there no matter what.”

“Well then I’m coming with you.” Dermot Fallon nudged him with his shoulder. “We’re all coming with you.”

He rallied the men at the bar and led them outside, collecting their weaponry as they passed the crates of empty bottles.

CHAPTER 20

Fr. Patrick Reilly let himself out and turned toward home, leaving Jacinta and Jerry sitting at their kitchen table, smoking and staring off like neither of them was really there. He had done all he could; assuring them that the Garda were hot on the trail and they would have Danny back in no time.

“And why would they spare him? Don’t they always kill?” Jacinta had pleaded like she was coming apart. He mouth had cracked already and her eyes were swollen from crying and wiping them with the hanky Fr. Reilly had given her. It was already wet and snotty.

“To save their own cowardly skins.” Jerry had taken her in his arms, rocking her back and forth like a baby. “They know that the Guards are on to them, this time.”

Somebody had called them and they came, quickly. They pulled up just as Flanagan drove away. It almost seemed like they had just been waiting around the corner, three car loads of them, two cars of uniformed men and the two detectives in the other. Then, after making sure that nobody had been shot, and after they convinced the men from the wedding to put the bottles away and go back inside, they all took off toward Willbrook Road. They didn’t speed away with sirens wailing. It almost seemed like they knew where they were going and what they’d find when they got there.

“They knew,” Jerry had added when she looked at him for a bit more hope, “that if they chased them, they might panic them.”

Patrick had joined in, too, to bolster the argument. “They are all trained in how to handle hostage situations.”

It didn’t help. She just kept mouthing the word “hostage,” over and over, as she lowered her face into hands and wailed as only a mother can.

“Well,” Fr. Reilly had looked at Jerry who looked like he was at a loss, too. “It’s getting late and we should all try to get some sleep while we wait for the Guards to call.”

***

He couldn’t stay any longer. O’Leary might have fallen asleep already and Fr. Brennan might have woken up and could be wandering around the house looking for him.

He wasn’t looking forward to it. He was too tired to act out their usual charade: Fr. Brennan berating him about his hours in nothing but his bath robe, and him acting like the scolded curate while he directed the old man safely back to his bed. He’d have to phone the Bishop and tell him, one of these days.

*

The Bishop was waiting for him when he got there. He was sitting by the kitchen table with a bottle and two glasses in front of him. They had been hidden from Fr. Brennan but the Bishop had found them easily enough. “Come in,” he beckoned without getting up.

“Your Grace? What a surprise.”

“Sit down. There’s more.”

The Bishop poured them each a generous measure before he sat back again. “I was called by the Guards. They found poor Fr. Brennan out on the street.”

“Is he all right?”

“He is. Shivering a bit and completely unaware. But other than that—he’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry. I should have been here.”

The Bishop urged him to sip his drink and waited until he did.

“Even you can’t be in two places at one time. He was out on the street because he came down from his bed and found Dinny O’Leary sitting dead in the armchair inside.”

Patrick Reilly nearly choked on the small sip he had taken.

“Fortunately we were able to send the two of them off in the same ambulance. There’ll be less tongue-wagging this way. Dinny lived alone so we can say that we were called there, too, and found the poor man dead. We’ll put on a bit of a show for his funeral, too. He was a good one, was Dinny.”

He raised his glass but his nephew still had his head down.

“Tell me. How long did you think that you could keep this secret from your bishop?”

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I should have informed you earlier and all of this could have been avoided.”

“What’s done is done. Dinny would have died anyway. But we’ll have to tell everyone that Dan Brennan had a stroke. It’ll look better for him when he’s in the home—rather than have people thinking he went mad.”

Patrick Reilly wanted to apologize again but his uncle wouldn’t let him.

“You were only trying to do the right thing by the man and I appreciate that. It’s a hard job and some of us break down under it—only we’d never admit to that.”

He reached forward and put his hand on his nephew’s bowed shoulders and helped him straighten up a bit. “You did the right thing and I know you were busy with the wedding and what happened after that.”

He laughed at Patrick’s reaction and topped up their drinks a little. “Nothing happens in this diocese without my knowing about it, either after or afore. Go on now and get some sleep. You can have the morning off, tomorrow. I have a few missionaries back from Africa who’ll be delighted to come out and say the Masses for you.”

He drained his glass and reflected for a moment. “I suppose it’s just a sign of the times. The Island of Saints and Scholars is having to call its missionaries back to do God’s work at home.”

He looked up and smiled at his nephew. “Go on now and take your drink up with you. I’ll let myself out. Everything will be as right as rain when you wake up.”

Patrick might have argued but he was too tired. And what his uncle said made as much sense as anything he’d heard. And it was as kind as anything he’d ever heard.

*

As he walked out to his waiting car, the Bishop missed the old times when things like this could have been nipped in the bud. He and the ruddy-faced man, or John Joe as the bishop knew him, often talked about that.

They usually met in the graveyard up in Bohernabreena.

They came in separate cars and looked for all the world like they met by accident.

From the road, nobody would be able to make them out, anyway. Just two old men in coats, hats, and scarfs, visiting the graves of lifelong friends. Moving from stone to stone, from either side of the cemetery, until they met somewhere near the middle. Where, sometimes, they chided each other like an old married couple for their past sins against their children, the people of Ireland.

Other times they just came to bare their souls aloud to each other. True confessions before all that was holy to them—the dead around them.

Sometimes they had business, when their mutual interests converged. They were both practical enough to know that they had to work with each other. Otherwise, who would steer the ship now that all the statesmen were gone?

**

“Is it taken care of?” the Bishop had asked without looking up.

“It’s as good as done.”

“Is it done or not?”

“We’re just waiting for them to make their moves and then we’ll kill the two birds with the one stone.”

“If that Boyle lad comes to any harm . . .”

“Pat? Do you really think that you’re the only one that Bart would have looking out for him?”

“Right so.” The Bishop turned to walk away but John Joe reached out to him. “Pat. Your nephew.”

“And what about him?”

“I think he’s getting lonely.”

If anyone else had said it the Bishop would have glared them down but John Joe didn’t spread idle gossip.

“I’m not saying for sure but it’s just I saw him and the ex-nun, in Bewley’s one day.”

***

Jacinta couldn’t face it in case it was bad news, so Jerry answered the door. They knew it was the Guards. It was far too early for anybody else. They’d had sat up all night, smoking and drinking pots and pots of tea.

“Come here quick,” Jerry called back to her. “Come and see what the cat’s dragged in.

“No offense,” he added in deference to the two detectives, standing on either side of a bedraggled looking Danny, shivering and clutching a West Ham duffle bag to his chest.

“Ah, sweet Mother of Jesus. You found him safe and sound?”

The younger detective nodded and nudged Danny forward into his mother’s arms while the taciturn one almost smiled.

“You’ll come in?” Jacinta asked them as she sobbed and hugged her prodigal son. “For a cup of tea?”

“Or something stronger, if you’d prefer,” Jerry enthused as he stood like a curate—the bar kind.

“It has been a long night,” the younger detective admitted and waited.

“It has,” the taciturn agreed and followed the Boyles into their kitchen. “But we’ll just have the one cup. We don’t want to be imposing.”