The Rising (14 page)

‘Do you remember what I said about being punished? That’s why he did it,’ Caroline said earnestly. ‘He’s punishing me.’

‘That’s not true,’ I said, placing my hand on her arm.

‘The selfish little fucker did it to punish me. But he never thought about me, did he? He couldn’t forgive me.’

I tried to think of some way to convince her that she had made no mistake, but I could find nothing to say that might penetrate the aura of detachment that surrounded her.

On the way home, I caught the end of Patterson’s press conference on the radio. I recognized Rory Nicell’s voice as he reassured the public that An Garda had a handle on the drugs trade around the border. It was possible that the deaths of Martin Kielty and Lorcan Hutton were connected but, at this stage, he said, we were not looking at the involvement of any other persons.

‘That’s bullshit,’ I said to Debbie, turning down the volume slightly. ‘Hutton was shot in the head. Kielty was stabbed in the chest and burnt. They couldn’t have killed each—’

Debbie interrupted me, turning the sound on the radio back up. ‘There’s your friend,’ she said.

The interviewer was now speaking to Vincent Morrison. Did he feel in any way guilty about the death of Lorcan Hutton? she asked.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘Why would I?’

‘An Garda did suggest that vigilante actions from groups like The Rising would simply force dealers underground. Might the actions of The Rising not have contributed to Hutton’s disappearance and death?’

Morrison responded that the group were simply ‘voicing frustration’, and led the interview in a different direction by taking umbrage with the ‘vigilante’ suggestion. He reminded the interviewer that he was a community activist, not a member of The Rising.

‘That must make you happy,’ Debbie said, turning the volume down. ‘The chance for a public smack on the wrist for Morrison.’

I shook my head. ‘Morrison’s not responsible for Hutton’s death. He was killed weeks ago, judging by the state of the body.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find some way to pin it on him anyway,’ she sniped, undoing her seat belt as we pulled into our driveway.

‘What have I done now?’ I asked, though the slamming of the door was the only response I got.

When I went into the house, Penny was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. My parents had been watching the kids for us so we could go to the funeral. I knew, from both the expression on her face and the fact that she was awaiting our arrival, she had a request to make.

‘Daddy, can I go to the cinema tonight with my friends?’ she blurted before I’d even managed to close the front door.

I knew that Debbie’s anger with me was due in no small measure to my refusal to allow Penny to go to the disco.

‘Of course, sweetie. I’ll drop you round and collect you again, though.’

Penny flashed me a smile, then turned and thudded up the stairs to her room, from where, a few seconds later, we heard the bang of her wardrobe door being flung open and the first of many clothes hangers hitting the floor.

My father was putting on the kettle to make us some tea. Debbie tried hard to maintain her anger but had clearly overheard my conversation with Penny.

‘Don’t think this makes it all all right,’ she muttered as I passed her.

‘Not even if I pay for her popcorn too?’

I collected Penny’s two friends from their respective homes and drove the three girls down to the cinema. The twilight sky was still an inky wash over the horizon. The girls chattered happily in the back seat, whispering conspiratorially to each other then erupting into gales of laughter when I glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. On one such occasion I caught Penny’s eye and she smiled mildly in a manner that reminded me of Debbie.

We stopped at the cinema and I gave Penny twenty euros to pay her way in and buy some popcorn and drinks for the three of them. When they got out of the car she waved in the window happily, though I noted that she did not give me her customary kiss on the cheek.

I watched until the girls had disappeared inside before pulling off. As I approached the car park exit, a large black 4x4 drove past me. The driver glanced in my direction as he drove by me, raising his hand in salute. In the seconds of his passing, I recognized Vincent Morrison. In the passenger seat sat his son.

I stopped at the exit, wondering whether to go back and collect Penny. I knew that, to do so, in front of her friends, would not improve my relationship with either her or Debbie. In the end, reluctantly, I drove on.

I reached Letterkenny before 8 p.m. and headed straight to the station. Irvine’s rally was due at eight thirty in the town square. Patterson had arranged for two squad cars of Guards to be on site, ostensibly to marshal, though the numbers attending were unlikely to be high enough to justify such attention.

‘Intelligence tells us The Rising has an active membership of only a dozen or so. Hangers-on might make the numbers up to twenty. Don’t take any shit,’ Patterson told me before we left the station. ‘Bring Irvine in on anything. Be creative,’ he added.

The rally had begun by the time we arrived in the town centre. Someone had brought along a small amplifier to which was attached a single microphone. Irvine stood on a set of concrete steps leading up to the cathedral. Intelligence may have suggested twenty in attendance: in reality the figure was closer to fifty, amongst whom I recognized a few faces from the protest at Hutton’s.

Irvine was shouting into the microphone in order to be heard but held the mike so close to his mouth that his words were lost and fuzzy with static. Still, the sentiment behind them was fairly obvious: drug dealers deserved no mercy; someone had to protect the local community.

The crowd in front of him clapped at each statement, some more enthusiastically than others. Patterson’s deployment seemed to be having some effect, for some of those gathered twisted their heads occasionally to see if we were still sitting on the roadway watching them. One or two of the younger fellas at the front pulled scarves over the lower halves of their faces.

Eventually, Irvine addressed our presence directly.

‘It’s good to see An Garda protecting the community. Maybe they’re afraid someone’s going to sell drugs here.’

The crowd laughed as required.

‘They know what would happen to them if they did. We’re not taking their shit any more. If the Guards won’t do anything about them, we will. The Rising shows the people of Donegal aren’t prepared to tolerate any more drugs on our streets. We have a voice, which is good. Sometimes, though, you need more than a voice to deal with the scum that sell drugs to our kids.’

Applause here. Some of the more militant turned towards us, slow clapping in our direction. Other members of the crowd, though, seemed less comfortable with Irvine’s sentiments.

‘The only good drug dealer is a dead one,’ Irvine shouted, his front-row acolytes raising a cheer of approval.

‘That’s enough for us,’ I said into the radio transmitter in my car. ‘Incitement to violence. Let’s bring him in.’

The two teams of Guards began to move up through the crowd, heading towards Irvine. I noticed some of the people at the back begin to peel away, sensing something was about to happen. Others not only stood their ground, but seemed to swell slightly, as if this was the real event of the evening, the reason they had come in the first place. I noticed one or two of the youths who had covered their faces reach into coat pockets. I whistled across to two of the uniforms on the far side of the grouping and pointed to the youths. ‘Blades!’ I shouted.

I saw Tony Armstrong prise one of the planks of wood off a park bench to his left and hold it above his head. Irvine stayed where he was, mike in hand, shouting encouragement to his followers to stand firm against aggression.

A boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen, lacking the self-control of the older men there, was the first to strike, lashing out at one of our uniforms with a penknife. His action, and the shout of protest it elicited from the uniform he lunged at, provided the catalyst for others to join in. I noticed a few of my own colleagues similarly swell with anticipation as they reached for their batons.

The boy with the knife was the first to feel the impact of their use. A second uniform approached him from the side, his baton raised high above his head and brought it down so sharply on the boy’s wrist it must have broken.

Armstrong moved suddenly forward, swinging the plank of wood he’d lifted, hitting another Guard on the side of the head with enough force to knock him to the ground. Armstrong raised his foot to kick at the prone man but several of my colleagues lunged forward and brought him down.

I shoved my way through, shouting to the men to get Irvine and to get back to their cars. I saw fists, feet, batons all swinging, the dull thudding of flesh being struck accompanied by the grunting of twenty odd men, their breaths harsh and fogging in the chilled air. Taking out my phone I called through to the station for support, then moved into the centre of the fracas, trying to separate the more vicious of the Guards from the people they were attacking, but any efforts were ultimately futile.

Irvine was moving down now into the crowd, twisting up his shirtsleeves, as if preparing for manual labour. I shouted to the two uniforms closest to me and pointed towards Irvine. As the three of us moved towards him he turned and lifted the stand of the microphone he had been using and brandished it at us. The younger of the two uniforms removed his baton and moved forward, swinging it towards Irvine, despite the fact that Irvine himself had not yet attacked anyone. I became aware of lights flashing around us and at first assumed it was the blue lights of the squad cars I had called. Then I noticed Charlie Cunningham, standing up on the steps where Irvine had previously been speaking, camera in hand.

‘Don’t!’ I shouted, too late, as the uniform brought his baton down on the side of Irvine’s head, splitting the skin of his bald scalp. Irvine smiled broadly, even as he turned towards Cunningham to have his photograph taken, the left-hand side of his face badged now with his own blood, his arms outstretched, before the Garda who had hit him pummelled him to the ground.

A few hours later, Irvine was led into one of the interview rooms in Letterkenny station. He had forsworn the opportunity to go to the General Hospital first, preferring to have the wound on his scalp sealed with paper stitches in the back of the ambulance. Dried blood still streaked from the top of his head to his jaw line. He had called for his lawyer, Gerard Brown, who had duly arrived. I had encountered Brown many times before, normally when interviewing the more amoral inhabitants of the borderland region. In fact, having Brown as representation was virtually a mark of criminality.

Irvine hardly needed legal advice; clearly a veteran of police interviews, he had the routine down pat. He denied everything, said little and looked bored throughout our conversation. He had no recollection of where he was the night Kielty was murdered, he didn’t own a white van and had never heard of Ian Hamill.

After Irvine had been cautioned, Brown immediately stated his intention to file charges against the Guard whose unprovoked attack on his client had been photographed. He placed the picture on the table between us to emphasize the point. In the fracas that followed, I had forgotten to tell Patterson that Cunningham had been taking photographs. He looked from the image to me and back again, shaking his head.

‘You file whatever charges you want, Mr Brown. Your client was seen to raise a microphone stand against my officer. He encouraged vigilante behaviour in a public forum and incited violence against members of the community.’

‘Drug dealers,’ Brown corrected him.

‘Your bread and butter, I’d have thought,’ Patterson said. He continued before Brown could respond, ‘While we’re on the subject, two have turned up dead. Murdered. One of them your client threatened in a public house in Strabane a few weeks ago.’

‘Allegedly.’

‘We have a witness statement,’ Patterson said, stretching the truth a little.

‘You have the word of a barman,’ Irvine said.

‘We have a Mass card with your organization’s name on it.’

Irvine looked at me blankly.

‘We didn’t send anyone a Mass card,’ he said.

‘Kielty’s partner says otherwise.’

‘Then she’s lying,’ Irvine stated. ‘Where’s the card? Let me see it.’

‘We’ll let you see nothing.’ I was grateful for Patterson’s interruption for McEvoy had told me that Kielty had dumped the card.

‘Now, what about Lorcan Hutton?’ Patterson went on. ‘Did you know him?’

‘I knew
of
him,’ Irvine said. ‘Most people did.’

‘You wouldn’t have threatened him at some point too, would you?’

‘That’s a ridiculous question, Superintendent,’ Brown said. ‘And this whole thing seems spurious. You have the word of a barman that my client threatened Martin Kielty – that’s it. We all know that that means nothing. You have some bullshit charge about inciting violence. Unless you have something concrete, my client is leaving.’

‘We know you threatened Kielty, Mr Irvine: you said yourself tonight that the only good drug dealer is a dead one.’

‘You were doing your job properly, I wouldn’t have to say things like that,’ Irvine began. He was interrupted by a knock at the door.