Chapter 9

The waves rose up and fell again.

Fell up and rose again.

Be still my beating heart.

Their effect upon the shore was calming to all who stood and watched and listened to them. Each ebb and flow of the tide brought with it a slight simple sound. A clean repetitive sound that made all seem ok.

Slush.

Or wish.

Something akin to that.

Or nearly that, for when looking for the equivalence in words to sounds in nature, we would be better perhaps to cut our own tongues out and gesticulate widely.

That may picture things a bit better.

The sun hung high in the sky and it gave Sandymount Strand an air or atmosphere of the summer. Though it was only Autumn, most said, in particular those in the know, that the weather was good for this time of year.

Like a second summer.

An Indian.

—If the first was one at all.

—Ah Jaysus you’re fucking right.

—May was shit and so was june.

—And what would you say of July?

—Shite.

—And August?

—I will not honour that with a reply.

There had been so little rain and those who walked along the shore filled themselves with hopeful thoughts of the future.

They are so happy.

—Maybe it’ll be all good!

—Maybe this year will be our summer!

—Maybe the Wall will come down.

Maybe.

Maybe.

How hollow heart and full of filth thou art.

But this kind of decree was fatuous, particular to the Irish, who optimism nothing could alleviate.

Except a potato famine. And the Black summer of ’47. Haha, said the British, as they binned a bucket load of spuds.

Or a financial crisis of course.

The sound of every bank shutting its doors.

In the cockle lake, adults and children paddled, getting whatever water they could; for the tide, as always, was out, and the baths, built by the Merrion Promenade Pier and Baths Co. in 1883, were in a sad and sorry state. The concrete baths section, which resembled a small harbour, stood idle, a laughing folly to the Irish Free State.

—Free, me arse.

—Infuckingdeed.

Away from the crowds, from those who were bathing or sunning themselves, from those who were happy, from those who were exposing their children to the elements for the first time, stood two men, approximately equidistant from each other.

Like two circles without any centre.

Like.

Leave it.

The one closest to the shore stood still, unaware that he was being followed, unaware that since he had left his house at six this morning another man had trailed him, shadowing his every move.

The other man had followed him diligently keeping his presence in abeyance.

So he watched him, from his shelter, looking at the ways in which he moved, or did not.

It was ten o’ clock (for those who are interested)

The first children could be seen in flight on the beach, running and splashing and thrashing in the water.

—Hurrah!

Young souls. Have full of life they are. Pity them.

It was fine day for autumn and overall October had been good. It had rained of course put less than most months.

What a hubbub, thought the man, closest to the shore.

What a fucking hubbub.

Fuck this for a shower of cunts.

The man farther from the shore prodded the sand with a long sharp stick. He was wearing a shabby blue suit, with a brown pull over. His white shirt was even shabbier still, being without cuffs or collar. In all, he was the image of destitution, an abject thing of no concern.

But this was far from the truth.

Of course.

In reality, he was a trained and savage killer, a man who enjoyed murder for its own sake. A man like many men, a man for whom killing was a sport, a joy, a moment to confess to the almighty that life had not been good to him. A man who could take down man, woman, or child, for the cost of a tram ride across the capital.

A man who.

A man for whom anything was possible, especially with regard to the realm of death.

O, bittersweet death! I love thee!

He seemed consumed by the sand, by those dead things embedded in it, stones and shells and the like of them. Every so often he would bend down and pick up a stone or two, stare at them, and then put them in his pocket. He loved them. For they reminded him of the life he had before, that other life, that so-called life, when he was a.

How interesting.

How very interesting.

But these acts, the picking up and casting down of stones, were but diversions.

Merely.

In reality, he had been following the other man since the early morning. Granted, it had been tedious. It had been boring. One step at a time. But he had done it all the same. He had stuck with it. One step at a time. That’s it. For no other reason than to see where he would go. For he had little interest in this old man. It was really his son that he wanted. It was his son that he was supposed to kill.

He will lead me to him. He will take me. There. Of course. Maybe. Watch him.

It was the Bossman who had told him and sent him to Sandymount in order to find this other man called Joe Baron.

The Baron family had controlled all of the area south and west of Sandymount until the foothills of the Dublin Mountains. Since the Bossman’s terrain on the south side only began with Irishtown, he had decided of late, to expand southwards.

Why not?

Exactly.

Why the fuck not?

Joe Baron was a bollox, an empty whore of a man, to put it mildly. He had fucked all in his vicinity and those who still paid their duties did so with much embitterment. It was with all this in mind that the Bossman sought him out in order to destroy him. Joe’s father Joe had sensed this but said nothing. He was old. He had done all he had to do, killed who he had killed. And in truth, he resented the bravo attitude of his son and secretly longed for his death. It was with this in mind that he had actually told the Bossman where he would be and that he should get someone to follow him. He would lead this person to his son and then he could do the rest.

The rest that had to be done.

This was where Mac came in.

There was nothing more poetic than a father killing his son, Joe senior thought.

—Nothing more poetic. Haha.

He had hoped that after the death of his son, he could retire: hand everything over to the big black fuck and leave, go to England or something. Even Europe, for he heard France was doing well, since the end of the war.

But the Bossman, that “big black fuck”, had other plans. Why not kill two birds with one stone. Get them both out of the fucking picture.

—This poetry. Is it not?

Mac carefully eyed the old man: studied him. His gaze fell over him. He was not sure if Baron knew that he was being followed? He could not be sure.

Was this a set-up?

Mac thought for a moment that he was being set-up, that something would go horribly wrong, that he would be captured or killed, and thus be incapable of completing his mission.

Maybe Declan Walsh wanted both of them?

Maybe. Fact fuck.

He pushed these thoughts out from his mind, into the direction of the water. Away from me. He walked along and skipped lightly down the little dry dunes noting the waterless rivulets and how dry they were.

They reminded him momentarily of how his own life was.

How he no longer had anything at home to go home to.

His wife and child were dead.

They were gone.

That was the truth. The truth of the matter.

Killed in some questionable accident when Mac was off in England doing a job. But he believed no one. Not even the Bossman. It had not been an accident. There were no accidents in his line of work. All happened because it happened. Because someone made it happen.

Cui Bono.

The old man in front of Mac left the sandy area of the strand and walked across the rocks and over to a newspaper vendor and purchased the morning newspaper.

The daily.

Opening it out in from of him.

The waves in the distance rose and fell.

Old woman a.

Fell and rose.

Wish.

Calm.

He looked at them and then looked over them into the distance, his eyes piercing the wide void of sea and sky.

He did not see Mac.

He turned and walked inland, westwards towards the town, towards his own house, where he awaited the final confrontation with his son.

He knew what would happen, or, at least he thought he did.

He could picture it, imagine it.

—Son.

—Father.

—I have something to tell you.

—Touché

But can we really know what will happen, before it does, truly?

Doubtlessly not.

At that stage, Mac had also moved off the sandy area of the strand, across the rocks, and was now walking in front of him, westwards towards the town, towards his final confrontation with Joe Baron Senior.

At least that is what he thought.

From Sandymount Strand, they turned, the following the other, on to Seafort Avenue, and then on to Sandymount road.

The whole process took little over fifteen minutes and when it was over, both men were seated, with some distance still between them, but not as much as before, in a little café toward the north end of the street.

It was not Four Seasons, thought Mac, but at least they might serve good coffee.

They did not.

Or at least they did not on that day.