The Bloomsday Dead (17 page)

Ulster had a thousand of these bombings in twenty years.

And the force behind them is still here. Unknown, undefinable. Waiting, watching, under the death murals of the Hunger Strikers, Mother Ireland, and the IRA. Tourists come and take photographs of these giant wall paintings, but I know that those are armed men on the street corners. Excons with walkie-talkie phones. Bookies’ runners wearing sneakers. Drug dealers in shell suits. Weans in the ubiquitous Yankees hats.

All along the Falls Road. This dingy terrace of redbricked houses. This heartland of the IRA.

Aye.

I turn down Valencia Street.

The Rat’s Nest.

A pokey corner pub, with grilles on the window and homemade speed bumps on the road outside to stop terrorists from the other side driving past and hurling petrol bombs.

I pause outside.

Take a breath.

Sniff the air.

Heavy thoughts, Michael.

Heavy and a little prescient.

But don’t worry, you needn’t fear the random Semtex bomb, the mobile phone ignition system, those roofing nails.

You just look out for bullets and the odd grenade.

You just look out.

I shake the cobwebs from my head, compose myself, and walk into the bar. . . .

Seen one paramilitary pub, seen ’em all.

Low ceilings, blackedout windows, pool table, dartboard. All male, all hoods, waiting around for something to do. Imagine an old-fashioned western. The piano player stops and everybody turns around, the villain looks up from the card table, and the doc says it’s probably best that you leave. No piano player, no poker, no friendly doc but an identical vibe. I strode to the counter.

“Are you lost?” the barman asked.

“No. I’m looking for Seamus Deasey.”

The young barman said nothing.

A pause.

A cold, elongated silence. I knew Deasey was looking at me.

I turned.

Six men walking over from a booth next to the pool table. All of them in jeans, T-shirts, and shitkicking boots.

“I’m Deasey,” Seamus said. He was the shortest of the six. Shaved head, pug face, long arms, boxer’s nose. In fact, he looked like a middleweight who could have been good but just wasn’t tall enough. Two of his mates were bringing over their pool cues. I stepped away from the bar in case the keep cold-clocked me from behind with a hurling stick.

“What the fuck do you want?” Deasey asked.

I let him get four paces away and as fast as a cat on vetvisit day I pulled out the .38-caliber revolver, extended my arm completely, and pointed the gun at Deasey’s broken nose. This was the third time I’d threatened someone with a bullet in the brain since arriving in Belfast, but this time I decided I was not fucking backing down.

Deasey didn’t react but his mates produced assorted hand cannons, shiny pimp pistols, and other flashy pieces of shite that would kill me just as good as a proper gun.

“You know who I am?” I said.

Deasey smiled, unafraid.

“Should I?”

“I’m Michael Forsythe. You might have heard of me, I killed Darkey White in America.”

Deasey nodded.

“Aye, I heard of you. You’re the rat Bridget Callaghan’s been looking for.”

“Aye, well, times have changed. Bridget Callaghan needs my help to find her missing wean. She’s called me to look for Siobhan. The last place she was seen was the Malt Shop with a ginger-haired kid. It’s one of your places and that’s why I’ve come to see you.”

“Great fucking story. You’re a regular raconteur,” Deasey said and winked at his mates, who dutifully chuckled.

“I want to know the name of the kid that met her in the Malt Shop,” I said, and nodded the gun at him.

Some of his buds made a move but Deasey stopped them. He didn’t want them screwing up and getting him killed. But even so, he didn’t look in the least freaked by the revolver.

“I suppose you believe your own hype, Forsythe,” he said.

“I have hype? I didn’t even know I had hype.”

“They say you’re unfucking-killable,” Deasey said.

I looked around the bar at the assorted ne’er-do-wells, killers, probationed terrorists, and murderers released under the Good Friday Agreement.

“I’m not here for trouble,” I said slowly.

Deasey laughed.

“Funny way of showing it.”

“I just need your help. I need the name of that kid,” I said.

“First of all, Forsythe, how in the name of fuck would I know the name of any kid that goes to the fucking Malt Shop on Bradbury Place. That’s not exactly my kind of joint.”

“Listen, Deasey, I don’t have the time. I know you didn’t want to tell the police, but if you don’t tell me I’ll bloody shoot you.”

“I don’t know who told you to come here, but you’ve put yourself in big-time shit.”

“The Malt Shop is your place. Chopper Clonfert told me that. The kid’s one of your dealers. Now, I know he wasn’t acting under your orders when he went after the girl. You would never have been allowed to kidnap Bridget Callaghan’s daughter in Belfast. The IRA do not want a war with her and the whole of the fucking Irish mob in America. But the kid was working for you and I wouldn’t want it to get back to Bridget that you were implicated.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“No, this fucking .38 pointed at your head is supposed to be a threat.”

“I had nothing to do with the disappearance of Bridget Callaghan’s wean. And I don’t fucking know anybody who has.”

“Deasey, just tell me the lad’s name and I’ll get out of here.”

“I’m telling you nothing, Forsythe,” he said, cool as mustard.

“Deasey, you must have been born stupid. When I tell Bridget you’re working with the kidnappers—”

Deasey interrupted as much to reassure his own men as me.

“You’re not listening, Forsythe. I don’t know anything about any fucking kidnapping. You said yourself no fucking hood in Belfast would kidnap Bridget Callaghan’s wean. And you’re right. There’s too much spread coming in from the States. There’s no percentage in it, see? It wouldn’t be good for business. You are barking up the wrong tree. Now get the fuck out of here and count your lucky stars you caught me in a good mood today.”

I sighed with impatience.

“Deasey, I’m not leaving until you tell me that kid’s name. Redheaded wee lad, dealer in your bar. You know who I’m talking about. I know you know. You better fucking tell me.”

“Or you’ll what?”

“I’ll fucking top you.”

“You’ll be dead before I hit the fucking floor,” Deasey observed.

“Aye. More than likely. We’ll both die because of some piece-of-shit pot dealer who helped lift Siobhan Callaghan,” I said.

One of the boys could take it no more and swung his pool cue at me. I shot him in the stomach. Someone else shot at me, missed, and almost killed the barman behind me. I rushed Deasey, shoved the .38 against his throat, and cocked the hammer.

“Tell your boys to be cool,” I screamed.

Silence, except for the gangster on the floor crawling about in agony.

“Cool it, lads, fucking cool it,” Deasey demanded.

I could feel his garlicky beer breath on my face. Nervous doglike pants.

Belly shot began weeping, retching. A .38-slug stomach wound from this range could easily kill someone.

“Aaah, help me, aaah,” he groaned, the smell of blood and guts permeating the room like frying onions.

“Better get him to the Royal,” I suggested.

“Do it,” Deasey said. “He’s dying.”

Two of the hoods picked up their fallen comrade and carried him outside.

“How did it come to this?” I asked.

Deasey was tense: shallows breaths, sweat, touch of the trembles.

“I didn’t have anything to do with taking that girl,” he said in a hoarse whisper, the fight gone from him now. The blood having brought home the very real danger that I posed.

“I know, Deasey, I’m not saying you did. But one of your boys did. Pot dealer in the Malt Shop. Skinny. All I want is his fucking name. You owe him fucking nothing anyway, and he’s implicated you in a piece of serious fucking shit.”

“Aye,” Deasey said.

“You know who I’m talking about, don’t ya?” I said, and dragged the revolver up along his face and rested it on his temple. It moved easily through his sweat.

“I know who you’re talking about,” Deasey admitted finally.

“That’s right. You’re going to give me his name and address, and he better be there when I call because if he gets tipped off between now and then—”

“Enough threats. Bridget Callaghan doesn’t scare me.”

“You shouldn’t be worried about her. You should be worried about me. You know how much damage your skull will do to my gun if I pull this trigger at point-blank range?”

“No.”

“None at all.”

It was a tough spot for Deasey. If he told me the name and address he would lose face in front of his men. But if he didn’t tell me, perhaps I was the sort of person who might just be mental enough to blow his fucking head off. I’d just shot one of his pals a minute ago. He might be next.

“I don’t know his address. I really don’t. I could find out but it would take some hours. If you give me a number I’ll call you up with—”

“Now, now, Deasey, up until now we’ve been honest with each other. I wanted to know the kid’s name, you didn’t want to tell me. Let’s keep it on the level.”

The revolver’s barrel was turning his skin blue.

“Barry?”

“Barry,” Deasey confirmed.

I turned to Deasey’s crew.

“Ok now, lads, Deasey and me are going to walk outside. The first character I see pop his noggin out gets it between the fucking eyes and the next bullet’s for Deasey himself. So I’d stay in here if I were you. Now everybody drop your guns and go behind the bar.”

No one moved.

“Do it,” Deasey said.

The gangsters put down their firearms and shuffled behind the tiny bar.

Still holding the gun to his temple, I walked Deasey to the door. To exit, I would have to turn my back on them. I turned, pushed open the doors. For a split second I was exposed. The hairs on my neck stood up. But no one was going to attempt to be a hero. We made it out into the street.

“Thanks for the information about Barry,” I said.

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to do you any fucking good,” he said with a thin smile.

“We’ll see.”

I removed the gun from his temple and stepped away from him.

“I hope you’ve got life insurance, because after this little display your loved ones are going to need it. Not that a rat informer has any loved ones,” Deasey said.

“Turn round,” I said.

He turned.

I cracked the butt of the .38 into the back of his head and let him collapse on the sidewalk.

I legged it as fast as I could down the hill. Kept running down the Falls Road and didn’t stop until I was safe in the center of Belfast again.

“Where’s the Lagan path?” I asked a passerby.

He told me, I caught my breath, winced as the slash across my gut decided to become very painful, and headed east for my encounter with Barry and a possible rescue of Siobhan.

Walking.

Jogging.

Running . . .

I wasn’t worried about Deasey’s threat.

If he was big talk, then it was all just bullshit. And if he was going to try and do something, well, he could fucking take a number and join the queue. Me and the evil had it sussed. He was small fry. I was Michael Forsythe.

Let them add to the legend. Let them believe it. Let them tell it.

He survived twelve years on the run and at least three hits. He lost a foot, escaped from a Mexican prison, and destroyed the empire of Darkey White.

He isn’t someone to be fucked with. He’s a ghost, a bogeyman.

They say that when he was conceived the good fairy was on sabbatical. They say that when he was born vultures perched themselves on the houses of his enemies.

And then a hazy disturbance over the water.

It’s ending now.

In a minute, gray clouds will rush in to fill the vacuum. The prevailing westerlies will banish that Saharan breeze and Belfast will become again the dour northern town of bricks, slate, and tarmacadam.

But let’s be Zen and appreciate the last few seconds of the golden light.

This is all new. There was no Lagan path when I lived here.

And it’s with some feeling of astonishment that I walk past the gleaming apartment buildings, condo complexes, and town houses.

Parapets, shutters, classical façades, in shades of coral and sunfaded white. Big windows that want to embrace the river and the city, rather than repel it. Someone made a fortune on the peace dividend around here. This used to be a scary towpath where street gangs would rule the day and the homeless would sleep at night. Filth, rusting shopping carts, and burned-out cars were the only ornaments for the choked water that was filled habitually with diesel and chemical pollutants.

But in the 1970s and ’80s terrorism and unemployment closed the shipyards and engineering works that ran along the river. The factories were gutted, the heavy machinery stripped and sent to Seoul. A decade of neglect and then the IRA cease-fire and the UDA cease-fire. The peace process. Millions from the United States and Europe for regeneration and suddenly this stretch of water must have seemed like a good investment. Clear out the factories, clean the river, make a nice Laganside path, build homes for yuppies.

Easy to look down on people like that. But hopefully they’re the future. Eventually the tenements and back-to-backs will disappear. And along with them the parochialism, the subordination of women, the mistrust of outsiders, the hatred for the other side. It might take a hundred years and a civil war but if these people are the vector of things to come, the evil will wither away and Belfast will be like any other dull, wet northern European city. And if I for one live to see it, I won’t shed a fucking tear. . . .

Game face on. I turned a bend in the river and saw the beginning of the long line of houseboats. Attractive converted barges that were tied up along the river. Some long and thin like coal boats, others squat, with an extra story on top. Most well maintained, decorated with flowers, all reasonably seaworthy. There were about two dozen of them moored behind one another stretching for about a quarter of a mile. They weren’t the famous teak houseboats of the Vale of Kashmir, but they weren’t the stinking old hulks that I was expecting.

The breeze turned. I shivered and felt the cold on my stitches.

He looked up from the book. He had sleekit eyes and was practically a skinhead, but I figured he couldn’t be that bad because of his canine and sartorial choices.

At least that was my assumption until he said, “Why, what are they to you?” with more than a bit of hostility.

“They’re nothing to me, I was looking for them.”

“Didn’t catch your name.”

“Michael Forsythe. What’s your name, if you don’t mind me fucking asking,” I said with a wee tone in my voice.

“Donald . . . Did you say Constable Michael Forsythe?”

“No.”

“Are you not with the police?”

“No.”

He put down the book, his eyes closed, and he shook his head as if he didn’t quite believe me.

“Well, listen, to tell you the truth, I was thinking of calling the police, so I was,” he confided.

“Why was that?” I asked.

“There’s a smell coming from their boat, something awful, so it is.”

“Which one is it?”

“It’s the next one along. Down there, so it is, just right ahead of ya.”

I looked to where he was pointing. One of the larger boats. A highsided, flat-bottomed cabin cruiser that had been moored there for some time by the look of the slime on either side of the fenders. It was shipshape but there were bits of paper and leaves sticking against the safety rail.

“Robby noticed something was up first yesterday and then I twigged the smell this morning,” Donald said.

“I take it Robby’s your dog,” I said.

“Aye, he is,” he said, offering no more information.

“What happened that got Robby so upset?” I asked.

Donald’s natural Belfast reticence and his desire to get this off his chest conflicted inside him for a few seconds but eventually the latter won out.

“Well, it was pretty scary. Lying in me bed. I don’t know what time it was. Maybe three or four in the morning. Robby starts growling and I tell him to shut up, but he keeps carrying on and I get worried. So I look around the boat and go up on deck and check the ropes and have a wee shoofty about, so I do.”

“What ya see?” I asked.

“Nothing. Everything’s normal.”

“Ok, go on,” I said.

“Well, Robby’s whimpering now and I don’t know what’s going on, I comfort him and he goes back to sleep right. But it creeps me out and I don’t sleep too easy.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I got up yesterday and I went into the Tech and came back last night, everything seemed fine, except that Robby was a wee bit out of sorts the whole day, but he does that sometimes, didn’t really think too much about it. But by this morning first thing when I woke up I started smelling the stink, so I did.”

“Aye.”

“Did you go over there?”

Donald’s eyes narrowed and he wiped his mouth. He wondered if he really should be talking this much to a perfect stranger. I smiled in the most friendly way I could. A smile that often has the unintentional side effect of scaring the bejesus out of people.

“Aye, I did go over. I said, ‘Barry, open up,’ but there was no answer.”

“Did you go on board?”

“No, I did not, it’s a strict rule around here, you don’t go on other people’s boats without permission. No way.”

“What did you do then?”

“Are you sure you’re not a peeler?” Donald asked suspiciously.

“I’m not a peeler, but I’m working for the peelers, so it would probably be in your best interests to answer my questions.”

“Look, I’m not causing trouble. I have never caused any trouble in my life, if you don’t count trouble at football matches and you’d be hard pressed to avoid a spot of bother at them Old Firm games cos they are—”

“Donald, please, what did you do next?” I interrupted.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything. I just minded my own business,” he said.

“Ok, probably very wise. Now, do me a favor, Donald, tell me about Barry.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Does he live there alone?”

“Nah, he lives with his mate.”

“Who’s his mate?”

“I don’t know, student from Scotland or something. Barry’s an art student at Tech. Photography and shite like that. Other bloke’s in the same racket, I think. Almost everybody on these boats are students of some sort. I’m at the Tech myself. This is spillover accommodation. I don’t mind it.”

“So Barry must be at least sixteen if he’s at the Tech?” I asked.

“Barry? Probably near eighteen, thereabouts. You could say he looks a good bit younger, though.”

I nodded. It all seemed correct so far, but I had to be sure it was the right guy.

“What exactly does he look like?” I asked.

“I don’t know, average looking, I suppose.”

“What color was his hair?”

“Ginger hair. He’s a redhead,” I said.

“Aye, he has a ponytail.”

“Does he have a black sweatshirt with a bird on it?” I asked.

“Aye. Owls Football Team. Wee tiny owl. Black, dark blue, something like that.”

“You ever see Barry with a girl?”

“Oh, aye, them boys are a couple of jack the lads. Wee lasses in there left and right, so they are.”

“Did you see a girl going in there in the last couple of days?” I asked.

“The last couple of days? Well, for a start, I haven’t seen Barry at all for two days. But before that, I think I just seen him and the Jock. No wee girls.”

“Maybe you heard a girl’s voice or noticed anything unusual?”

“No girl and nothing unusual until yesterday morning,” he said.

“At around three in the morning, right?

“Right.”

“The two boys normally come back that late?”

“Nah, the bars close at twelve, so they’re there pretty sharpish after that, so they are.”

I nodded, touched the .38 in my jacket pocket. If what had happened was what I thought had happened, I wouldn’t be needing the gun but you never knew.

“Ok, Donald, thanks very much,” I said.

“Are you going over there?”

“Aye.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said without emotion.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to sit tight and do nothing for the moment.”

“Do you think there’s been an accident or something? Maybe they left their gas on,” Donald suggested.

“Well, we’ll see.”

“I’ll go with you,” Donald offered.

“No.”

“It’s my neighborly and civic duty, so it is,” Donald said, annoying me now.

“No, you stay here. If you want to become a good citizen, you just go back to your novel and take it easy,” I said.

When I got closer I saw that the vessel was listing slightly. Obviously you needed to pump the bilges every couple of days and obviously no one had worked the bilges for at least the last twenty-four hours.

And of course there was the smell. The unmistakable stench of death.

I suppose that’s what Deasey meant when he said the information wouldn’t do me any good. And Donald was probably right about the timing too. The bloody dog had heard something with its dog ears. Something it hadn’t liked. Whatever had occurred had taken place yesterday in the wee hours.

I stepped on the side of the deck. The boat rocked slightly. The plastic fenders squeaked against the quay. I leaned on the safety rail and pulled myself on board. I found the door to the main cabin. I turned the handle. Locked. I examined it closer; no, not locked, jammed. Whoever had done this had exited the boat and jammed the lock shut with a line of wire shoved between the bolt and the side. Either of the two boys would have had the key so it wasn’t them.