Chapter 12

The Wagners, who were not necessarily of German extraction, lived in a tall, imperious red brick house in the Drumcondra area of Dublin. Its sandstone façade was the envy of their neighbours, and the porch, built by Raphael Wagner himself, was an icon of an upstanding man, due to its eloquence, its stolid character, and the rhythm it conveyed to the educated eye.

Bravo.

Everyone commented on the porch, everyone in the vicinity, from Eccles Street down to Parnell square.

It was the talk of the town.

—Isn’t it lovely?

—Ah Jaysus.

—It makes the street.

—I wish I had a porch like that.

—Ah sure. It adds so much. To the area I mean.

But what the residents of Eccles Street did not know was that Raphael (called Raph by his close friends and associates) has built his porch from dirty money and this was the real reason why two men had sought (this being the operative word) to make an attempt on his life and the life of his wife the previous night.

Now things are coming together.

The had come in search of revenge, curtsy of that big black Bray man, who with a mild addiction to French pornography, dealt out most of the revenge to be had to Dublin during that period.

And now for the history lesson.

But Raph Wagner knew nothing of this, and when he saw Sergeant James Murphy (whom he thought was an absolute cunt!) enter up the pathway of his next door neighbour’s he thought of absolutely nothing.

—Sergeant.

Murphy stopped in his tracks.

—Doing well are we, Wagner?

—Mighty.

—Kill any children lately?

—Only the ones that deserved to die. I would not dream of anything else.

—Still living on this side of town, I see. When are you going to get yourself a proper house?

Wagner smiled a crocked smile and Murphy continued on his way up the path. Wagner took a deep breath and looked up at the sun and then down again at the ground. He smirked to himself.

Smile a smile. I’ll kill him. Cunt.

The woman who answered the door to Murphy was not the woman who had been assaulted the previous night. This much he could tell.

Good morning mam, said Murphy.

—I’m looking for.

—I know who you’re looking for.

—Indeed.

Murphy hated servants. He had a deep seated disgust for them. Their lives, he thought, were worthless. They were like dogs. Or worse. The leftovers which you fed to dogs.

Cunts.

They would eat their own shit if they had to.

The woman closed over the door and Murphy quickly stuck out his foot in order to halt the impending closure. The woman pulled back open the door and looked down to see what it was that had impeded her attempt. It was the sergeant’s foot.

Dirty shoes.

Her eyes travelled upwards, from his foot to his face (via his manhood, of which she thought very little), and her eyes came to rest on his, directly on his.

—You’re foot.

—Yes.

—Is in

—I would prefer

—the way.

—if I came in. I have some

—I would prefer

—questions for your

—if you waited there.

—employer.

The woman (let’s call her Mary) slammed shut the door. Murphy stood looking at the solid pine finish of the door, it gold brass knocker, its black bell. It certainly had a fine finish.

Maybe get myself one of them. Could do with a raise. Could do with solving something. Nothing but cunts dying up this way. They should really. Get rid of this side of town.

—Having some difficult officer?

Wouldn’t you know? Wagner. Murphy turned slowly to him and merely offered him a face of some sort.

I could not explain it.

Or describe it.

—What’s that meant to mean?

Murphy tried to ignore him.

—Do you know what I think?

Murphy did not want to know but he was pretty sure that he was going to find out what it was Wagner thought.

—I think you should take up gardening. It’s a great hobby. It relaxes the self. It’s stimulated too. Keeps the heart ticking. And you can bury anything you don’t like.

Murphy knew, because he was a policeman, that this was subterfuge.

—Don’t think I’m thick, Wagner.

—Oh I don’t. I’m sure you’ll solve the murder of José Antonio Remón Cantera!

Wagner laughed out loud knowing the Sergeant knew nothing of the recent assassination of the president of Panama.

Gunned down he was.

With guns.

Neither millions nor alms: we want justice.

Murphy, with one foot on the small lawn, made to go to Wagner.

—Sergeant.

The voice was behind him.

—She will see you now.

Murphy stared at Wagner, but it was Wagner who had the last laugh.

Haha.

—Remember Sergeant, you can always bury anything you don’t want!

Hafuckingha. Fuckinghahaha.

Bastard.

Wagner laughed to himself and closed his eyes and grimaced as he remembered how Tony and he had buried Officer Walsh’s previous understudy. For the life of him, he could not remember his name.

What was his name?

Was it Johnny or Wally?

Or Tommy?

Or Declan

No words came to mind.

Dig on.