Authors: Roger Barry
‘Get out of the car, asswipe’ he said, pointing the revolver at Chad.
He began to tremble, but remained in the vehicle. Carter made a swipe at him, hitting Chad on the temple with the butt of the gun.
‘What’s the matter, you deaf as well as stupid? I said, out of the fucking car’.
Chad managed to half stagger, half stumble, out of the vehicle, and stood shaking by the side of the track. Carter, still in his seat, fired a single shot and hit Chad in the face. Lowanski got out of the car, and went over to the prone body of Chad. He bent over the corpse, slapped his knee, and erupted in a burst of hysterical laughter. When he was finished, he turned back to Carter.
‘Why, you fucker, you lucky, lucky fucker’ he bellowed.
‘Carter, if I were you, I go straight home and buy a lottery ticket. Today’s you’re lucky day. You only done and shot him in the eye. Straight thru the fucking eye. There’s not a mark on his face at all. Mind you, his eyeball’s somewhere in that field over there’.
He took a pair of shades out of his breast pocket, and put them on Longston. He guffawed again.
‘Look, not a fucking sign he’s wasted with these on’.
He put the shades back in his pocket.
‘Hey Carter, you packed everything, right?
Carter went back to the trunk, and opened it.
‘Everything but the kitchen sink’
He removed two pair of disposable white overalls, and a couple of pairs of gloves. They proceeded to put them on.
‘Grab the chainsaw and bring it over, then. Charlie boy here is gonna lose his head. And, while I’m performing this delicate procedure, grab the spade and lime and make a start over at that ditch. No, actually I need you over here first, to hold out the arms while I take off the hands’.
Lowanski proceeded to cut off the hands at the wrists with the chainsaw. As they fell to the ground, Carter picked them up, held them aloft, kneeled on one knee, and started singing.
‘Maaaammeee, Maaaaammee, the sun shines east, the sun shines west, but I know where the sun shines best…’
‘Will you quit fucking around?’ ordered Lowanski, but unable to keep a smile off his face.
‘Hold up the torso while I take off the head’.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ asked Carter.
‘I’m going to take it out bowling, what d’ya fucking think?’ replied Lowanski, whereupon the two of them burst out laughing again.
‘Be fucking serious, this is no laughing matter’ he said, smiling.
‘Right, you start digging, while I strike up the furnace for old kingpin here’
Lowanski headed for the building with Chad’s head and hands under his arm. He waited for the furnace to get up to full heat, then threw in the identifiable pieces of the former Chad. Lowanski gave another little snort.
‘Right through the fucking eye. Whatever next’.
*****
Brad picked his way through the debris as he approached the red brick viaduct, in front of which sat an elderly man, huddled close to a small fire. Wilson shot up, as if he was about to take flight, a look of terror in his eyes.
‘Take it easy, old timer, I’m not going to harm you. I just want to talk, is all’, said Brad, showing his badge.
Wilson’s body relaxed slightly, but only slightly. His eyes still said ‘I’m outta here’. He looked behind, then scanned the horizon, trying to ascertain if the Detective was alone.
‘Look, I’m a police officer, and I’m only here to ask you a couple of questions. A girl was admitted to Massachusetts General hospital, in a pretty bad way, and I’m just trying to find out who almost killed her, and why. Sally Carmichael, her name was. Do you know her?’
Wilson nodded slowly.
‘And are you the one who rang it in?’
He nodded again.
‘What happened?’
‘All I know is, some men came over, and beat Sally up real bad, then they shot her. I thought she was going to die. Is she ok, did she make it ok?’
‘She’s ok, she’s alive anyway. She’s bust up pretty bad, but she’ll live. Who beat her up? Were they druggies, did they look like crack heads?’
‘They looked like you’.
‘Like me?’
‘Yeah, they weren’t no kids, weren’t no crack heads neither. Looked just like you, dressed like you, and all’.
‘How many were there?’
‘There were four of ‘em. But only one of ‘em done all the hurtin’, much as I could tell’.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Wilson, Wilson Jones’.
Well Wilson, do you have any idea what this was all about?’
‘Don’t know nuthin’. Sally’s a nice girl. Never caused no harm to anyone. Helped me out more times than I can recall. Helped Tom out when he came around. Trouble only came when Tom came’.
‘Who!’
‘Tom. Tom arrived last Monday, had nothin’ except the clothes on his back. Sally took him in, looked after him. Tom’s a nice guy, I like him, but when Tom arrived, so did trouble’.
Brad quickly pulled the pictures from his pocket.
‘This wouldn’t be Tom by any chance, would it?’
‘Yeah, that’s him’.
‘And, do you know where he is now?’
‘Went away a couple a days ago’
‘Do you know where?’
Wilson hesitated, unsure whether to say more.
‘Look Wilson, I’m not looking to hurt Tom, I’m looking to help him. The same people who did what they did to Sally are after Tom, and if they catch him, they’ll do the same again, or worse. If you know where he’s gone, you have to help me find him, before they do’.
‘I overheard Tom and Sally talk a few times. I think he might be gone…..to Ireland’.
‘Ireland?’
‘That’s what I heard’.
So,
thought Brad,
that Chinese guy, Mr. Li, who Tom was supposed to meet, is dead. His girlfriend, Christine Lawlor, is dead. And the girl who took him in, Sally Carmichael, is left for dead. This Tom Feeney guy sure is carrying a lot of baggage.
*****
Tom stood up after finishing his burger, and headed for the rest room. Once there, he looked in the mirror. ‘Jesus’ he muttered, ‘I am a sorry sight, that’s for sure’. He washed his face, and tried to fix himself up as best he could. He knew nothing short of a shave and shower, coupled with a change of clothes would improve him, but that would have to wait.
He began to trek the road to Dromore West, sticking out his thumb at any approaching vehicle, but to no avail. Eventually a car stopped. It had blacked out windows, gold alloys, a fairing on the trunk, and seemed to be vibrating to some form of rap music. He approached the car, and looked in the open window. It contained three youths. Tom felt a bit wary, considering what had happened the last time he had dealings with three youths in Ireland.
Fuck it,
he thought,
I’ve nothing left to steal anyway.
‘Hi guys, any chance of a ride?’
‘Where ya headin’ for, mister?’ the driver shouted over the thumping bass riff.
‘I’m looking to get to Easky’.
‘Well, we’re headin’ into Ballina, so we can drop ya at Dromore West, and you’ve only got another four miles or so to go’ bellowed the driver. ‘Hop in’.
Tom hopped in, and the car took off like a scalded cat, spewing gravel in its wake. Tom was getting the beginnings of a headache, and his ears felt as if they were going to start bleeding, when the car suddenly came to a screeching halt.
‘Well, here y’are, Dromore West’ said the driver triumphantly, as if it had been an achievement to get this far without ending up overturned in a ditch somewhere along the way.
‘That’s great fellas, thanks’.
The car sped away, and silence descended. Tom never appreciated the peace and quiet that he was experiencing just now, at any previous time in his life. He began walking the Easky road. The few cars that passed kept on going.
Not surprising,
thought Tom. Night was drawing in, and he probably looked like some form of psychopath as he trudged along in the half light, he guessed. Exhausted, he finally reached the village of Easky. The surrounding fields were in total darkness, the road ahead illuminated by the dim glow of the street lamps.
Now what?
The warm glow from the windows of a bar a small bit up the street beckoned. Tom approached, and entered. He was reminded of some old westerns he’d seen, where the sheriff entered the saloon, and all conversation suddenly ceased. All that was missing was the piano stopping in mid tune. He approached the counter, the locals eyeing him with curiosity, and the barmaid studying him scornfully.
‘Hi, I wonder if you could help me’ asked Tom.
‘Depends’
‘I was wondering if you happen to know where I’d find a man called Pat Feeney?’
‘Who’s askin’
‘Oh em, I’m Tom Feeney, his nephew’
‘His nephew?’
‘Yes, his nephew from America’
‘Wait here’.
Slightly more relaxed, but still cautious, she made her way to the end of the counter, and proceeded to dial a number on the bar phone. After a muted conversation, she returned.
‘Mister Feeney will be up shortly. You’re to wait here. He said to give you anything you’d like, so what’ll it be, son’ she said in a more relaxed, almost pleasant manner.
‘I’ll have a whisky please’
‘There you go lad’, she said, pouring out a large measure of Jameson.
Tom took a sip. He could feel the heat on his tongue, as the whisky slowly made its way down to his toes. He looked around the bar. The conversation had begun again. The locals seemed to be looking at him in a different light, more respectful, fearful even, thought Tom. Then again, maybe it was just the whisky affecting his judgment. A few minutes later, the door swung open, and in walked the unmistakable figure of Pat Feeney. The locals all nodded courteously as he passed them by. He approached the bar.
‘Well Tom, lad, welcome to Ireland. You look like a man who’s been in the wars’.
‘It’s a long story’ answered Tom hesitantly.
‘I guess we’re in for a session then’
Pat turned to the barmaid.
‘Maggie, bring that bottle and another glass over to the snug. Me and my nephew here have a bit of catching up to do. Come on lad, and we’ll have a chat. Some of these feckers here have ears the size of elephants’ he continued, gesturing to the assembled drinkers, who immediately turned, as each seemed to become fixated with their own private stain on the bar room floor. They made their way to the snug, and sat down. Pat poured them both a large tumbler of whisky.
‘Well Tom lad, what brings you back to the land of your ancestors? I presume you’re not here for the surfing, judging by the state of you’.
Tom took a swig of the whisky, followed by a deep breath, and began. He left out nothing. Pat listened in silence, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the different objects in the snug, occasionally widening slightly at something incredible Tom might say, but never interrupting. When he had finished, Tom turned to his Uncle, as if looking for assurance.
‘Well Tom, it looks like I was right. It seems like you were in the wars after all. Your story sounds like one of them espionage thrillers you might pick up in an airport bookshop, something to pass the time on a long flight. But it’s not like that in real life, is it Tom? The sound of a bullet ripping through living tissue can’t be replicated in a book. It’s a lot dirtier in real life, eh lad?’
Tom nodded slowly, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
‘I think it’s time to get you home lad. Maybe the whisky wasn’t such a good idea after all, given all that you’ve been through’.
Tom followed his uncle, a little unsteadily, out to the car. The journey to the house was short. As Tom stepped out into the yard, two snarling German shepherd dogs came bounding out of the shadows.
‘Down’ ordered Pat, and they immediately stopped, and returned from wherever they had emerged.
‘Better than any alarm system invented by man’ commented Pat absently.