The Murk Beneath_A Cork Crime Novel Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1 - Doc O'Reilly and a Machete

  2 - A Crucifix of Suffering

  3 - A Deal with the Devil

  4 - The Sum Total of Nothings

  5 - Rope Ladders and Wrapping Paper

  6 - The Devil's Snot

  7 - Damn and be Damned

  8 - You're On Your Own

  9 - Rum and Reasons

  10 - Boxing and Bagging

  11 - Good Old-fashioned Legwork

  12 - The Puppet Master

  13 - Apples and Bananas

  14 - Two Syllables is One Too Many

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About this Book

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2016

  by White Gate Press

  Cork, Ireland

  www.whitegatepress.com

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9956964-1-9

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9956964-0-2

  Copyright © L.D. Cunningham 2016

  Copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design

  © White Gate Press

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  All rights reserved. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  For Caroline and Conor

  PROLOGUE

  I stood over the dead boy and remarked how angelic he looked. Detective Sergeant Cotter grunted, then said, “You’d think he was asleep.”

  There was a December chill. Frost shrouded grass, branches … fingers. The early morning sun cast long blade-like shadows over the crime scene.

  “Why take the clothes?” Cotter asked, shining a torch on the boy’s corpse. “Why leave him naked?”

  I shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe he ejaculated all over them, took them for disposal, left the boy like a piece of rubbish.”

  Cotter grunted again, said, “Savage called. Says there’s a witness saw this fat bastard yesterday fiddling in his pants near the playground.”

  I knew such a fat bastard, had been rattling his cage of late, maybe too much given recent events. Cian Chambers was his name, a child molester out on parole, living not ten minutes’ walk away. His last offence had been public masturbation within ten metres of a primary school, so the MO fit. It had been my informal responsibility to ensure he kept his nose clean, that he knew the Guards were on the lookout for him. But it may only have served to ferment those sick urges of his, like agitating the beer in a pressure vessel.

  I looked at the boy again. Robbie O’Meara. Taken from a playground the day before while his mother was busy rummaging for his Santa sweater in their nearby car. I looked in his eyes – innocent, bewildered eyes. I looked at the ice-dusted twigs protruding over his body from a bush, as if the hands of Death itself were eager to snatch the boy into eternity. I wished those twigs would blind me. I felt rage. I felt guilt.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said. “I’ll head back, talk to the Chief.”

  “But we haven’t talked to the dog walker that found him yet.”

  “You’re well able, Barry. Get Murphy to tag along. It’ll be good experience for him. Let me know if the techs find anything interesting.”

  Barry just nodded, didn’t seem impressed by what might have seemed like disrespectful disinterest given the seriousness of the case and the nature of the crime scene.

  I signed myself out of the crime scene and took a detour to Chambers’s flat. Not exactly standard procedure, I’ll admit, but I felt responsible in some way for Chambers’s actions, felt I owed the boy some debt.

  As I walked, I remembered how people had looked blankly at us as we patrolled the streets looking for the boy. They must have sensed he was already gone. I think that’s the first reaction nowadays – to assume the worst of humanity, to plan a funeral before a homecoming party.

  What I should make clear up front is that I didn’t intend to strangle Chambers, but it was those eyes of his, you see. Those dead eyes. I wanted to choke some life back into them.

  When he answered the door, I only said I wanted to ask some questions. But when he tried to close the door in my face, I lost it.

  It didn’t take much to restrain him. I mounted his flabby bulk, pinned his arms down with my knees. I looked at his red face. I looked in his eyes. I saw nothing. No spark. No sense there could be remorse.

  I wanted to strip him naked, sodomize him with whatever I could lay my hands on. I wanted him to know what it had been like for the boy. Only he could never know, because he was a grown man and the boy had been only six.

  I went to work on him. I beat him until the fat folded over on his face, the cheeks peeled from the bone. Still there was nothing in his eyes. I got up. I kicked him in the ribs.

  “Can you feel nothing?” I shouted.

  No response. I got back down. I wrapped my hands around his fat neck. I squeezed hard. I could see little sparkles of light flitting before my eyes as I further tightened my grip. His eyes bulged, didn’t blink despite the blood pooling in the sockets. I kept squeezing.

  And then eventually, perhaps more out of pity for myself than Chambers, I stopped. My hands were shaking, dots of blood peppered along my shirt sleeves, my knuckles lost in the messy pulp of my fists.

  I read him his rights. His arms were limp by his side, one eye closed, the other staring through a split eyelid at the ceiling. As it turned out, I’d choked and beat him right into a coma – brain damaged, baby food through a tube, piss and shit into a bag.

  I looked up at the hall table beside him. Next to a telephone was a small brown teddy bear, a red ribbon around its neck tied into a bow. A lure to tempt little boys away from their mammies. The blood drained from my brain and I almost passed out.

  I got off light, relatively speaking, my many years of service taken into account, apparently. I was dumped out of the force without a pension, but there was no prison time. Front-page news for all of a day – paedo strangler, di michael bosco, cleared of criminal charges, expelled from gardaí. Thereafter, I was largely anonymous.

  As fucked up as things had become, however, I was at least comforted by the certain knowledge that no one had yet managed to molest or murder a child from a coma.

  1

  Doc O'Reilly and a Machete

  I found out pretty soon that there were few careers open for a disgraced Guard. I got a few slaps on the back for doing in a child killer, but they didn't add up to a proper job, at first. I eventually picked up one as a security guard with a company called Solid Security. I worked the graveyard shift minding a warehouse in Churchfield. I’d have considered it beneath me had I not been so desperate. After all, I’d gone from putting it up to gang bosses to sending loitering hoodies on their merry way.

  I barely made ends meet over the next two years. The rent on my one investment property fell short of the mortgage repayment, but I could just about make up the difference from my wages – much of it cash, under the counter.

  One thing in my favour was a sense of timing. I sold the investment property, a rat-infested hovel near the top of Blarney Street, to
some guy who might have been Armenian or Algerian or something. I'd been plagued by weekly calls about leaky pipes and smells from drains, so I was glad to be rid of it. I made a tidy profit of forty grand, but twelve months later had only twenty left. The arse had fallen out of the property market by then, so I didn't feel so bad about frittering away twenty grand I might never have had. I blew it on drink. On the hounds too.

  I became so accustomed to trouble that it was like a blood relative. It invited itself around like the randy uncle everyone dreads. The one who turns up at your wedding or your child's christening uninvited, reeking of alcohol. The same uncle whose funeral you go to anyway, because the sick bastard shared some part of you.

  Trouble had been taking its toll, though. I figured mostly it was the security job, my internal clock being out of sync, not seeing the sun nine months of the year. Only that doesn't make you put on four stone in weight. Drink does. Curried chips at the dog track too.

  I felt crappy enough that I'd been to the doctor a couple of weeks prior, had some bloods taken. Now I was back for what I assumed was bad news. I mean, when do you ever actually get good news from a doctor? Nothing wrong with you that we can detect is probably as good as you can hope for.

  After waiting nearly forty minutes in the waiting room, and tolerating the smell of stale piss that was obviously emanating from the old guy sitting across from me, the 96 FM hourly news report was interrupted as the doctor called out my name over the speaker.

  An Asian kid in short pants and with Bart Simpson on his T-shirt, maybe four or five years old, and with his tongue lolling because of whatever was eating away at his throat, watched as I rose from the seat. The kid’s mother slapped the back of his hand and told him to put his tongue back in his mouth before she pulled it out.

  I walked into Doc O'Reilly's office. I couldn't tell you his first name – he's always just been Doc. The old man – I would have guessed he was seventy or only slightly south of that – was sitting in a squeaky swivel chair. It was the same chair he'd sat in the first time my mother brought me to see him when I was just a young fellow – when she had been convinced I had TB when all I had was a dose of the sniffles.

  He wore slacks that were the colour of stomach bile. He had grey hair, grey skin, grey eyes, grey teeth. Like a black and white mugshot. His face was thin and his skin stretched out like Rizla paper so that I could see the sinew beneath.

  He was studying something on the screen of his laptop, some kind of spreadsheet. I guessed it was my blood results. My very essence reduced to tabular format. He looked up and waved me to a chair next to his desk.

  “Feck sake, Michael,” he said without so much as a prior pleasantry. “Have you cut down on the black pudding like we talked about last time? Not judging by your cholesterol level. Or your ALT count. You have fatty deposits in your liver.”

  I regretted telling him about my penchant for Clonakilty black pudding at the previous visit. It would probably be the stick he would beat me with every time the blood counts came down on the wrong side of improvement. I like the Clonakilty, the way the oatmeal falls apart in your mouth, the way that blood mash melts and releases the intense flavour.

  Doc keyed awkwardly on his laptop, muttered something in frustration, found what he was looking for, and frowned. He was holding a promotional pen for some drug in his hand.

  “156 over ninety-four last time. Right, get your sleeve up.”

  Doc put a rubber tube around my arm and fastened it with Velcro. He pumped it until it felt like my nails would pop off, muttered again, waited for the pulse to stabilize. I think he derived more enjoyment from dishing out pain than curing it.

  “Shite,” he said.

  “What?” I said and straightened my back.

  “Gone up. 162 over ninety-seven.”

  Doc coughed a rasping smoker's cough that sounded like rusty ball bearings in a brown paper bag. Sixty a day, no inkling of quitting. A self-confessed hypocrite.

  “You've cut down on the fags too, I hope,” he said.

  “Uhuh.” I was lying.

  “Remember what I keep saying about that?”

  “Do as you say, not as you do?”

  “Exactly. I'm an addict. I give myself ten years if I'm lucky. Can't quit. But you can, right?”

  I had my doubts. It wasn't like I hadn't tried before. Doc was motioning the drug pen towards me like he was shaking the ash off a cigarette.

  “Uhuh,” I said after a pause.

  “Keep it up. And cut down on those builder's breakfasts too. Or you won't see sixty. Does that spell it out for you?”

  Right then sixty seemed like bonus territory.

  “Got it.”

  Our conversations were always this candid. I'd hate to get a cancer diagnosis from him. I give you three months, at most, of rapidly deteriorating quality of life, then a painful death where you will spend your final hours crying out for morphine, I could imagine him telling me. He might even have pissed on my grave for good measure.

  “No dicking around, Mickey. Come back to me in three months. No significant improvement and you'll need to be medicated. For blood pressure and cholesterol. That's a lifetime deal. You take that shite, you stay on it. That clear enough for you?”

  “Yeah, crystal.”

  He hadn't mentioned meds before. I hate taking pills – the fucking things seem to treble in size as I swallow them – so it freaked me out a little.

  “Go on, clear off,” he said.

  Charming as always.

  Later that morning I was at home in Blackpool Village. I prefer to call it the Village because to do otherwise would be to admit it was just a suburb. And I'm not the suburban type.

  The house isn't fancy – a two up, two down with a small bathroom in an extension to the rear with a toilet that backs up every other week; an iron bed that wouldn't look out of place in a Victorian insane asylum; a fourteen-inch black-and-white TV; nothing so modern as a dishwasher. A CD player with a tape deck and radio, though – I'm quite proud of that.

  I took a bottle of Jameson from a kitchen cupboard, put it on the table. I sat down, stared at it for a bit. I consider it a noble drink. It’s what real men drink, especially when alone.

  I still had the doc resonating in my ears. Fatty deposits in your liver. I put a double measure of whiskey into a tumbler. I sniffed it, felt it burn my sinuses. Gotta quit, I thought. It wasn't that I was running headlong into a coffin – I was staggering there, wheezing like a deflating balloon.

  I sipped from the glass. It burned my lips. Then it burned the inside of my mouth. I swirled it, allowed it to singe my tongue. I guess I was punishing myself, torturing myself. I dared myself to swallow. I chugged it, almost coughed it back up, and threw the crystal tumbler at the sink. It shattered everywhere.

  I buried my head into my palms, combed my fingers into my hair, scratched my nails on my scalp. It felt like zero Kelvin in my head, the synapses inert, nothing firing. I felt a cold gloom descending over my brain like a fire blanket, deadening everything.

  Fuck it. I'll get back on that horse. Stick my two fingers up at … at … everything. Fuck it!

  I picked up the bottle and walked to the sink, avoiding the tumbler shards. I emptied the remaining whiskey into the sink, some going down the plug hole, some of it mixing with the putrid dishwater trapped in dirty bowls and mugs. It's a start.

  I went to the drawer below the cutlery one, opened it, and took out a pack of Benson and Hedges. One step at a time, one step. I slid out a cigarette and lit it. The hot smoke seemed to permeate my brain, get it all firing again. I sat back down.

  I'll do something tomorrow. Make a difference. It was early – my late, of course, given the night work – only eleven-thirty. I felt tired, more so than normal. I dragged myself upstairs and lay on the bed.

  I fell asleep with my clothes on.

  I woke at six drenched with sweat, my legs cocooned in the bed sheet. I’d had a recurring dream again – one with my father calling to me
from the boot of a rusted car. It was almost dark. My joints ached and my heart was labouring to squeeze whatever rancid juice I had that passed for blood around my withering body.

  I got up and scratched and stretched myself. Working nights was definitely taking its toll. 6 p.m. was breakfast time in my world.

  Have you cut down on the black pudding?

  I'd made a start with the whiskey; I could allow myself the black pudding. I cut two slices of Clonakilty instead of the usual three. A little thicker than normal, though; maybe a fifteen-percent reduction overall. One step at a time. Two slices of lightly-buttered toast, mug of Barry's Classic Blend tea. Two slices of fried … no grilled Clonakilty black pudding.

  I had a twelve-hour shift starting at 8 p.m. I worked five nights a week – forty taxable hours above board, twenty hours under the table in cash. The job just about paid a living wage. I wore a Solid Security uniform – blue shirt under a dark navy sports coat that had a portcullis crest on it, navy heavy-duty pants, boots that laced up above the ankles. Nothing but a torch for protection.

  The warehouse was a distribution centre – Druid Distribution. Lorries came and went, wheeled long trailers to loading bays where conveyor belts brought goods for the manual workers to shift onto the trailers. But from about 10 p.m. till 4 a.m., the place was usually deserted.

  I decided to dispense with my hip flask. Or you won't see sixty. But it was late October and the wrong wind could put a chill through you, so I brought a scarf. The Bensons would help too, but I couldn't afford the speed at which I knew I would want to smoke, so I just brought the one pack. I would have to pace myself, allow myself just the one fix every thirty-five minutes. An addict like myself calculates down to the second.

  Walking kept me warmer than sitting on my arse, so I moved about a lot, circling the compound over and over. It made me wonder why I kept putting on weight. I had a walkie-talkie and checked in with the base every hour. I had a mobile phone too, just in case. I had the number of the head office and the nearest twenty-four-hour Garda station.