Chapter 3

They did not know what area they were in. It was too dark to tell. But they knew they were on the North side all the same.

Strange.

Sights and sounds told them so. Smells. Various individuals, coming and going. Yes. All of this spoke of the North side.

A tramp of two.

A bag lady.

—Ah Jaysus.

Voices too.

Shoeless children scampering past, no sign of kith or kin.

Little bastards. Will never see their tenth birthday.

—This is awful.

—Calm down.

—Calm? I am fucking calm. I just don’t like confusion.

He was not calm.

—I’m not confused.

He was confused.

—I fucking am.

How could they be somewhere they didn’t recognise? They both new Dublin, they both grew up there. Dublin was theirs. It had not changed that much. Of course there was the Free State. Naturally. And all its buildings. A new Ireland for everyone. A dem. But still. Dublin was Dublin. A city built by the British.

Fuck off.

Still.

They were lost all the same.

—Where the fuck are we?

—I couldn’t tell you.

They passed rows and rows of terraced houses, all the same colour, all the same shape.

Brown.

Limestone, I think.

Or granite.

—We’ll never find this house.

—This is a right mess.

It was true. The similarity of the houses did not help their situation. How could anyone live in those conditions? Quinn took a cigarette from a small bronze cigarette holder and then offered one to Seamus.

—Cigarette, Sheridan?

—Indeed.

The young boy took it in his beautiful hand and placed it at the tip of his mouth and licked it and sucked it.

Beautiful.

Smell.

Smoke rose from his lips: lipping.

They smoked, the lights of their cigarettes the only lights on the street; amber flickers brightening up their weathered faces in the darkness.

Tired now.

—Are we going to guess?

—Guess? Are you mental? Are you.

—He said it was the forth house on the left. Number nine, I think.

Quinn pulled heavily on the butt of his cigarette and exhaled nervously. He watched the smoke as it dissipated and disappeared into the night air.

Watch it. As it goes. Up. Into the air. Into. Nothing.

—We don’t even know if we’re on the right street. We could have gone wrong.

—What makes you say that?

Quinn pulled a piece of crumbled paper from his trousers pocket. Eccles Street. We are supposed to be on Eccles Street. He unfolded it, carefully, and tried to read the words that were scrawled on to it.

—It says Eccles Street.

—What street is this?

He looked around, in vain. They were no street lights on and he was too far away from any corner.

Fucking words.

—I think we too a wrong turn coming in from Cabra.

—Not at all.

—Where in fuck are we?

—Stop shouting.

An urchin, most likely blind, passed them by.

It seemed that nothing was going to happen. Not tonight anyway. But this was not unusual. People destined to be dead did not always die on the day they were destined to die on.

To be dead on.

What would that matter?

Sometimes they died on other days. For example, a man scheduled to be murdered on Monday did not always die that day. Even if they did find him. Decisions in real time, as the Bossman said, were far from perfect. They were … em … not perfect. But that did not mean they could not be wrong and that someone would still have to answer for them with their lives.

Fuck it, said Seamus.

He pushed passed Quinn and knocked on the first door that he came across. The knock was loud and its echo reverberated into the street and up over the other houses.

Knock, knock, knock.

Ah no, Sheridan.

Several lights came on, but no one came to their windows, which was strange.

You would think that they would.

—This is all wrong.

While Quinn thought this to be true, Seamus (who was a bit of a liability, given his young age) denied it strenuously.

This all happened with any sign or action, and in all honesty it did not coincide with the present narrative.

If I am out of my mind, thought Seamus Sheridan, then that’s all right with me.

The woman who answered the door was middle aged and of medium build. She wore a white dressing gown, under which was a lace undergarment. It revealed far more than it should have, as Seamus could see the bloated paunch of her belly poking out, looking at him.

Hairy belly.

He paused momentarily to look at her navel.

—Excuse.

Before she had the chance to open her mouth further and enquiry why it was that two gentlemen (of dubious character) were knocking on her door in the early hours of the night or morning, Quinn struck her in the face with an 11oz leather slapper, DMP design. The woman fell backwards to the floor with a loud thud and gripped her face with both hands in a torrent of agony.

—Jesus, Quinn.

Seamus turned and looked at Quinn.

—What? Did I knock on the door?

Seamus said nothing.

—Then shut the fuck up to fuck.

Quinn stepped past him and looked down at the woman.

—I don’t think that’s her.

—Are you sure?

Wrong question.

Quinn gripped the woman by the hair and pulled her head up towards him. She was leaning against the wall and her legs were all floppy. Her hands left her face in an awful panic and they gesticulated wildly in the air. There was plenty of blood.

Fucking bitch. Stop moving.

Of course.

His eye pressed close to hers.

Eyes.

Next to hers.

Eyes.

Is it her?

It was an awful sight.

—Shut up to fuck, would you?

Quinn raised his hand again as if to say I am going to fucking kill you, really I am. At the sight of this gesture the woman calmed somewhat and let her flapping hands fall faintly away.

She was whimpering at this point and the left side of her face was badly swollen and it was very possible that her nose was broken.

Sniffeling.

Poor girl.

That was Seamus’ assessment.

—Could you not just have hit her?

—I did.

—I mean with your fist.

—Is it not all the same?

—It is not. There are substantial differences. One including breaking the victim’s jawbone.

—Ah Jaysus. Would you not fucking cool it? Are we not going to have to kill her anyway?

The woman’s eye’s suddenly widened and she forced them in the direction of Quinn, wrongly believing there was sympathy to be found there. Quinn looked at Seamus and shook his head.

The woman opened her mouth.

Don’t, said Quinn, a finger raised pointing, level with her left nostril.

—Why do you always do this?

—For fun.

—For fun? What fucking fun is there to be fucking found here?

Seamus was silent.

Quinn let the woman fall to the floor and stepped away from her. It was only then (why?) that the woman started screaming at the top of her lungs, so loud that lights came on upstairs (where they not already) and across the road (ditto), and in several other houses (etc.) that were not across the road.

Let there be light.

Including the other houses, which all had their lights on, it seemed now the whole street was lit, artificially, by some strange spectral presence.

It wasn’t.

There were noises.

Other noises.

The sound of feet falling on the floor, doors opening, etc.

Seamus stepped forward from behind Quinn and dealt the woman a swift kick to the side of her head and her screaming ceased, temporarily.

Fucking cunt.

He seemed to enjoy it.

—We better get out of here.

—I know.

—This is a right fucking mess.

—I know.

—Do you? Could we not have merely waited until tomorrow? What was all this for?

—For fun!

—So you told me. I am not laughing. We have a half dead woman and nothing else to our advantage.

—At least there is that.

—The Boss won’t be happy.

—Ay Jesus. Would you ever relax!

—I am not writing this tomorrow. You can report to the fat cunt.

Seamus shivered at this expression.

By now, they were on Dorset Street, walking down in the direction of O’Connell Street.

Nelson’s Column.

The walked quickly, with a good inconspicuous stride. The clock, shining from the top of street, told them it was ten to eight. The streets were mostly empty.

Empty streets, I am thinking of you.

—It’s early.

—Indeed. It’s very early.

—Do you fancy a packet of chips?

—Where?

—Over the bridge, on Westmorland.

—Why not. I have to clean up anyway. That bitch’s blood is all over me.

The young lad looked at Quinn.

A lot of blood.

You may believe at this stage that Quinn was concerned with the blood which covered his hands from purely police reasons, that is, if one of the great Garda Siochana of the Irish Republic (the Free State) were to stop him, and ask him to explain himself.

But this was not true.

Quinn merely abhorred blood to point where he considered is unclean, and where as he enjoyed seeing it on others, he disliked it on his own person.

—Are you fucking coming?

Quinn had stopped, in the middle of O’Connell Street, and was staring upwards at the Nelson’s Column.

It would be there for eleven more years.

But he could not have known that.

Could he?