Paddy Nemesis Read online

  Paddy Nemesis

  By

  Phil Cone

  © 2012 Phil Cone

  This book is dedicated to Dylan

  Other people have a nationality, the Irish & the Jews have a psychosis. – Brendan Behan

  When Irish eyes are smiling, watch your step.- Gerald Kersh

  Something is rotten in the State of Ireland

  Chapter 1

  It’s fair to say I enjoy the spoils of war; I don’t get paid well enough to feel a grandiose sense of morality about doing the right thing.

  So here I am, eventually off the DART, desperate for a pint, and maybe half of the speed in the little baggie I had somehow obtained - coating my gums, the fucking spoils of war.

  I skipped down the stairs into the bowels of the station. Past the Allied Irish ATM that was always broke, past some homeless drunk auld fella, with cracked skin and the same deranged look in his eyes as I had in my own. He asked if I had change. Yes I had, thank you very much, but I wasn’t going to give any to him. I didn’t know why he asked me, to be honest, I looked like his Dorian Grey - or maybe he looked like mine.

  Out - into the bright light of Amiens Street, sauntering my way between two airport coaches and narrowly missing a truck heading for the port. Couldn’t wait for the tunnel to open and get them off the road, too many RTA’s caused by them. They were too noisy, and just cluttered up my city. Those austerity measures really stuck it to the flattened pedestrian.

  The head on me, if it was a hangover, it was now taking the piss. I didn’t have that much to drink last night, no need for Dutch courage anymore, been at this job near enough eight years. Could be the stress, the fucking stress of it all. Could be that the occasional use of contraband had started becoming a bit more regular than I anticipated - but I was in control of that.

  I’d gone through a pack of paracetamol this morning like they were Smarties, and the headache still hadn’t shifted.

  The lucky punch that junkie skanger got on me half hour ago didn’t help. If I had a hat to tip him, I would have done - took me by surprise, complacency induced by tiredness. In all honestly, he had just made it worse for himself in the long run and now my left hand throbbed, swelling around my knuckles, ice pack required and a half litre of vodka.

  It was a good night on the rip, drinking by myself, and contemplating the yin and yang of life’s tapestry, which at the moment looked like dried vomit on the face of an ugly monkey.

  The weather was schizophrenic, an hour ago I was standing on the platform at Dun Laoghaire station getting soaked on my lonesome, kicking at the ground and wondering who my next target would be. Job Satisfaction at an all time low.

  Now the jacket was off, covering my hand, t-shirt suntan, lobster bisque, and the sun was making me feel prickly and uncomfortable, dirt that could never be washed off, seeping up through the pores reminding me that its still there, omnipresent - like bad Irish weather.

  I hadn’t shaved for about a month, my hair required styling and not in an ironic way; it was greasy enough to fry an egg on. I wasn’t intentionally going for the whole Bobby Sands, Dirty Protest, 1980’s IRA terrorist chic. But if someone had come up to me and asked me my opinion on the way Her Majesty’s Prisons treated nationalist inmates; and whether I thought that smothering their cells in shit whilst reading Marxist theories and denying themselves a fish supper was all in a good cause, I’d have to say it wasn’t really that effective. Plus, all Irish terrorism is good for now is greasing palms with the Head Honcho Terrorist on Paddy’s Day over in Washington, beating up joy riders, raiding banks, racketeering, drug running, freelance bomb making consultancy for their brothers in arms in Columbia, shaking the Queens hand and the occasional foray into politics. Karl Marx must have forgotten the theory on that one.

  I like to think of my own “Ism” with regards to terrorists - Wankerism. It really covers all angles without having to write a theory or a mandate. And I’m too lazy to even expand on the whole idea of it, apart from the fact that they are certainly all wankers, and eventually I’ll kill them all or die trying - packed with explosives and a dog-eared paperback of socialist theories sticking out of my back pocket.

  I felt like a tramp who didn’t take to well to personal hygiene.

  I pulled the squashed pack of smokes from my back pocket, pulled out a fag and flattened out the paper so it looked less like a half-hearted u-bend, lit it up and inhaled, with weather like this, I didn’t mind smoking outside but sure, when did it ever stop me from smoking inside. Few minutes just here taking stock of things and figuring out shape my report will make, although in fairness the Criminal Assets Bureau should be writing it up. Fuck it, I’ll see what I can swing when I give the boss a call later.

  Smoke finished and flicked out onto the road.

  I jogged over the road and into The Master Mariner, not expecting it to be busy, but fuck - me there was nobody in at all

  It’s only round the corner from Store Street Cop Shop, and none of the lads from there use the pub because of the location - and the fact many a drinker in there has almost certainly spent a night in the cells.

  I shouted out to Gerry the barman for a pint, and headed into the jacks. Washed my hands, dabbed my finger into the baggie and then rubbed the speed round my gums like sherbet. Cotton wool mouth took instant effect and the lights started bouncing round my eyes, ball bearings in a small box, being thrown around in a blender; my face felt stretched, skin peeling and breaking. Needed to cool down, the instant rush of heat off the speed was making me boil. I sucked my finger clean of the powder and went back into the bar.

  One of Dermot Kay’s lads was sat up at the bar, he wasn’t there when I came into the pub. Early 20’s, 5’8”,cropped mousey blonde hair, blue eyes, three day stubble, slim, wearing a dark grey suit out of Penneys. The idiot still had the label sewed onto the sleeve of the jacket. Maybe he was going to return it. He was looking like he was trying to get his own slice of the action after Kay’s unfortunate demise and promising doormen for Gerry or a firebombed pub, you decide. This buck must be fucking desperate, everyone knows the Real IRA have this one, another addition to their little franchise, so close to Store Street, they could smell the pork.

  Gerry hands me over the pint, smiles at me, nods over to this lad at the sheer stupidity of it all, heads out back to make the call to his contact.

  - You do know the ‘RA look after this place right?

  This was me playing the bar fly.

  - Ah that’s just a fucking rumour, what would they want with this shit hole?

  - The Cop Shop?

  Silence of the stupid fucking lambs, then the light switch.

  - Shit.

  - Exactly. Gerry is on the phone to them now I’d imagine. I’d make like a tree and leaf.

  He didn’t say anymore, just necked his red lemonade, burped and pegged it out the front. Dermot Kay was a massive prick, and had a nasty group of family and friends under his leadership. I didn’t even know this lad’s name but realised straight away, he didn’t have tenacity or intelligence. He’d certainly go far in Mountjoy, good looking lad like that, although he’ll have to wear nappies the rest of his life.

  The powers that be believed them to be beneath their concern, more mouth than anything else. Even the other families or gangs or even recognised terrorist groups didn’t see them as a threat - more a circus act, a bunch of fucking clowns.

  Kay himself made it high enough up the ladder to come to my attention and became a forgotten number on my list of unsolicited kills.

  It was Christmas Eve last year and I wasn’t in the drunk tank.

  All that happened was that a young man, identified by his dental records as Dermot Kay, collapsed outside BT’s, fell forward so quickly that passers by didn’t no
tice half his face was missing from a bullet fired by my gun. It was typically dark and raining. Only when some of the shoppers got home did they notice that they weren’t splashed in the face by a puddle. By the time Kay had fallen, I was heading into HMV to buy Christmas presents. Nothing had happened outside as far as I was concerned.

  The news at six stated that Kay was a “vicious pimp”, who was rumoured to have controlled most of the prostitution around the

  Baggot Street/Fitzwilliam Square area. Most of his girls were from Eastern Europe and hardly anywhere over 18; most were under 16. He had kept them against their will, with a mixture of Heroin and fists. He had somehow made friends with some higher ranking Gards, who kept him off their shit list. Hence why he had never come to my attention before. Kay paid them back for their kindness with 13 year old girls who kept them company for their parties down in Waterford. They could do whatever they wanted to them as long as they didn’t come back tarnished, well - physically.

  I had got a call from a friend of mine, a nurse in the Mater. A young Russian girl had been admitted after being found unconscious in Phibsborough, her little skirt soaked with blood. She had been injected with a mixture of heroin and Ketamine. Had to be given a blood transfusion because she had lost nearly two pints of blood, vaginally and anally. It was a travesty, but nothing to do with me, I advised him. Sorry, what more could I say. He appreciated that, but when one of his female colleagues removed her clothes before they rushed her to the operating theatre, she had found a little note “keep Mr Policeman company. Don’t complain. You will be paid well on your return. I love you - DK”.

  I hung up the phone, then picked up the receiver and hit it off the wall. I walked to

  Baggot Street and round Stevens Green and back to Baggot Street. Eventually, I caught a glimpse of him walking towards Grafton Street and followed him. You couldn’t miss the swell of his stomach and left ear covered in little hoop earrings. The road was busy with wannabes and hangers on who all stood round like frozen fucking chickens, watching that cunt Bono busking for charity trying to remember the words to the songs he wrote.

  The rest was still being investigated by his uniformed friends, making his murder high priority. CCTV couldn’t get a clear view of the assailant. I was good at not being seen and there was no real witness that could give anything more in terms of detail than seeing Kay fall over, thinking he was drunk. The Gards had fuck all to go on; Another small victory for me.

  The mirror on the back wall behind the bar went along the whole length of the bar, it had the words “Jamesons Whiskey” stenciled every now and again across it as symmetrical as a Pollock. There were countless bottles of spirits all along the bottom of the mirror, I’d had many of them and felt nauseous as I made a mental tick list of what I had drunk, maybe I should make another tick list of which ones made me throw up.

  I see in the reflection the front door opening up behind me and a man in his 50’s, 6’1”, broad, hair so black that it looked like it had be drawn on by a pen, navy suit from John Phillips in London and tanned brown brogues, Loakes I think. He looks around him for someone, he doesn’t look happy, his eyes stern and tired, the fuzz in my head clears as the speed has reached its altitude and cruising along at 38,000 feet.

  Fuck it, he’s looking for me. No way I can hide, and I know exactly what’s got him so pissed. He looks towards me and see’s I’m looking at him in the mirror, storms over with an A4 manila envelope in his right hand, kicks the stool from underneath me and I collapse onto the floor. I roll over to my right and pick myself up and quick as I’d fallen over, ready to pull out my Glock 17 9mm, see that the man realises he has gone too far and clearly not as young as he used to be and I take my hand off the handle, both of us panting like asthmatic, obese love makers.

  - You’ve got some fucking explaining to do Clancy.

  What could I do, I knew this was what he was going to say, so I just nod and pick my stool up off the ground and sit back on it.

  - I know boss, I know. Where shall we start?

  That should be engraved on my tombstone: You've got some fucking explaining to do Clancy. At least call me Jack.

  I was nursing the pint glass like a refugee holding on to a cup of tea for dear life, thumbing the drips off the newly poured drink. Breathing in slowly - breathing in the aromas of stale piss, body odour, polish and the slightest whiff of actual beer.

  I realised that I was in the shit big time with my boss.

  Chief Inspector Daly, Sean to his friends so I called him Chief Inspector Daly. Wife with so much plastic in her body, she could be vacuum packed and sold as a kiddies toy. She had made a pass at me the other year, when Obama was over. Private function up at Dublin Castle, I was on security detail trying my best to tread on the Secret Services’ toes - mainly by pretending to be a controller for a taxi company over their radio frequency. I was subsequently tasked with patrolling the grounds with the lads in uniform, doing their best to look like doormen. She was outside having a smoke, and I went over for a bit of chat. I introduced myself, and she then pulled her low cut dress down to show me half a tennis ball stuck to her chest where her tit should have been.

  - Would you believe these are fake? Have a little feel.

  I think that's what she said to me anyway, maybe not the last bit.

  - Yeah I would actually. Hadn't you better go back in and stop trying to get us both in fucking trouble, Mrs Daly, wife to my boss.

  She did as she was told, not without giving me the finger first; and when I say finger, she deep-throated it, trying her best to be sexy but failing - like an aged porno star with saddles where her fanny used to be.

  Chief Inspector Daly hasn't been the same with me since. He may have rescued me many moons ago, but I no longer have to atone for it, and I certainly owe him no favours. Maybe she said I made a pass at her, or maybe he just thinks I'm reckless, or maybe I just keep bringing shit like this to his doorstep.

  He asked Gerry for a Ballygowen and placed the envelope on the bar and kept his hand on it.

  - A fucking Ballygowen

  - Yes, a fucking Ballygowen. So I'll fill you in on today's events, or at least how I perceived them to be.

  I gestured my left hand towards him as I gulped down too big a mouthful, in homage to his wife.

  I'd been working with the Curran gang for the past six months, no deep cover required as we already had a man in there and he vouched for me. I was perceived as the hired muscle, they were shoring up their defences, after a pissy tit for tat argument - one of the lads from the Majors gang in Crumlin fucked the wife of James Curran -Curran being held at the tax payers pleasure up in Castlerea.

  So shots were fired, heads caved in, and houses set alight; Then it all went quiet. The Sunday World found themselves having to write about something else each week. Our man from Havana, who was working for the CAB, gave us a call to say that Curran had millions of laundered money hidden away in offshore investments. He had property over here, in Dalkey, and a massive Stables in Waterford. He also said that some lads from the Majors, and a couple from the Currans had made an agreement to join forces - ousting James and gang banging his wife. The money was safe but with the upheaval this may cause, our man said that he would have squandered our tax-payers money with zero results, like holding a mirror to our current national situation.

  I got the call, telling me the targets were the newly formed Cabal, but under no circumstances was anyone to die. I couldn't promise that. So for six months I played the dumb muscle, hiding the independent in between the pages of the Star, fighting when required to do so, toting lines like a Hoover, and reading about crime and tits rather than reading Crime and Punishment.

  And today was the day. The green light was given for the Cabal to go the way of the Dodo. I'd been building myself up for this day, down at the port, in a mutually agreed location and then - the CAB fucked me. I didn't even get a chance to give anyone a slap. I'd left my Glock at the station, and only brought with me a cut throat
razor. I knew I'd have gotten a gun down there and didn't want to lose my own. I thought as soon as the uniformed cops came, commandeered by the CAB, I'd be at least able to give them a few kicks. But no. I'd been fucked - and not it a way where there's a cuddle after. I was desperate to do my job, and if I couldn't kill, at least put someone in hospital.

  I was in a white Subaru Imprezza 09, hanging back with our man - waiting for a call to say we could go on in and break up the barn dance. I smoked even though I was asked not to, it’s a company car and our man doesn't smoke.

  I told him he was in the wrong fucking job.

  It wasn't raining but it was promising to, and I didn't fancy the notion of getting wet for the State.

  I needed a stretch of the old legs - and to get away from this cunt - so I got out, lit up a smoke and heard the gravel crunching. I looked up to see three armed officers bearing down, sub machine guns primed and pointing towards me. I immediately put my hands up, turned around and placed them on the roof of the car.

  - You stupid fucking cunts I.....

  Before I could say anymore, my legs were swiped from beneath me - probably by a metal asp - felt like it anyway. I was cuffed and lead to a meat wagon, where I remained for what felt like an hour, or until I did what the officers outside were shouting at me to do and I calmed down.

  Once I was allowed out of the van, aching and in need of a really fucking good explanation, one of the officers told me that to make it believable, I had to be taken out of the equation - for the real criminals to believe that there number was up.

  - Fuck off.

  And the fucking thing was, I was still asked to write up a report on it. They told me that there were seven arrests, guns seized, drugs seized with a street value of three million and a complaint of police brutality, although that was me. They didn't bother searching the Imprezza and that's where I got the baggie from, clearly I omitted this from the

  report.