Читать книгу Northern Heist - Richard O'Rawe - Страница 9

TWO

Finbarr O’Hare’s face is as pallid as wet bonding plaster and his eyes are as black as the devil’s tongue. His father, Johnny ‘Panzer’ O’Hare, and Gerard ‘Geek’ O’Reilly – red-haired, red-faced and red-necked – watch Finbarr as he emerges from the farmhouse, which is affectionately known as the ‘Big House’. The 22-year-old strides purposefully across the farmyard towards the middle barn. Panzer rubs the grey stubble on his chin. There’s something on that gobshite’s mind, something nasty. Panzer’s suspicions are compounded when Finbarr lifts a pitchfork from the side of the barn and disappears through the barn door. ‘Go see what he’s up to,’ Panzer says to Geek.

In the middle barn, two mechanics, Rudy and ‘Apple’, are looking under the hood of a lorry. Another mechanic is down in the pit, working on the underside of a black Nissan car. Three piles of new tyres are stacked neatly in a corner. In another corner, fifty used car batteries and new exhaust parts fill the elevated shelving. A radio blasts out the latest hits from an oil-stained bench. A bare-breasted woman smoking a large cigar looks down from a calendar.

Finbarr walks over to the two mechanics and, holding the pitchfork in both hands, thrusts it into Apple’s left thigh. There is a scream of unsolicited agony as Apple turns around, the spanner in his hand poised to strike back. Finbarr puts the pitchfork to Apple’s neck, one hand flat against the base of the tool and the other holding the shaft from above. Apple drops the spanner.

Geek charges into the barn. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

‘Don’t ever call me a bastard again, or I swear,’ Finbarr says with a wicked grin on his face, ‘I’ll leave your windpipe so full of holes, people will think it’s a cheese grater.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘Shut your fuckin’ grease-trap!’ Finbarr growls, his hands gripping the pitchfork even tighter.

‘Finbarr,’ Geek shouts, ‘put it down and get out! Go on, get out ta fuck.’

Finbarr backs off, the pitchfork still pointed at Apple.

‘Rudy, bring Apple over to the Big House and patch him up.’

‘You’ve got off light,’ Finbarr says as he reaches the barn door. ‘Next time …’

‘Out, Finbarr,’ Geek orders. ‘Now!’

Finbarr leaves.

Apple puts his hand on his thigh, and when he brings it up again, it’s coated in blood. ‘The bastard stuck me in the leg! I’ll—’

‘You’ll thank your lucky stars he didn’t stick you in the windpipe,’ Geek says.

‘Are you going to let him away with this?’ Apple says in a hysterical voice.

‘I’m going to report it to the boss.’

‘Is that it? You’re going to tell Daddy his son was a bold boy? Is that all you’re going to do?’

‘What else do you want me to do? Shoot him? Maybe I should tell Panzer O’Hare you want his son shot?’

Apple screws up his face and turns to Rudy. ‘Fuck this. Take me to the hospital.’

Rudy looks at Geek, who nods his approval.

Ructions pulls up into the O’Hare farmyard, switches off the ignition and stares at the bronze statue of his grandfather on his horse, Phantom. The plaque on the plinth simply reads: THE DEVIL. Ructions had hardly known his legendary horse-dealing ancestor, but he has a vivid memory from his own sixth birthday, of standing outside the large gateway to the family’s stables in Yewtree Street, off Belfast’s Falls Road, and of holding his Granny Mary’s hand.

He still recalls the detestable fawn overcoat that covered his knees, the woolly ski mask that roasted his ears and the hearty pong of horse manure. In his granny’s other hand was a small white pipe, which she sometimes wedged into the right side of her toothless mouth. From beneath her black shawl, whiffs of white hair stuck out, while dough-coloured skin scarcely covered jutting cheek and jaw bones. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, James,’ Granny Mary had said, sucking on the pipe. ‘The Devil and his disciples will be coming soon.’ Bewildered, the young lad looked all around. On the far side of the stables’ entrance, the yellow streetlight seemed to flare up before becoming smothered in the early morning fog.

Even now, decades later, Ructions can hear the clip-clop of hoofs on the cobblestones as three horsemen emerged from the fog at the entrance to the stables. In the middle had been The Devil, hunched and riding bareback on his palomino gelding, Phantom. On each side of him were his sons, Johnny and Bobbie. Bobbie, Ructions’ father, was leaning forward, stroking his horse’s ear.

Ructions can still remember how he had shuddered at the sight of The Devil on horseback. The lapels of his grandfather’s ankle-length brown overcoat had been pulled up to meet his black, crumpled hat. The only visible facial feature was his eyes, which, in the child’s vivid imagination, seemed to be glowing red. The Devil glanced down at Granny Mary, touched his hat with his riding crop, and steered Phantom to the left, breaking into a trot in the direction of Raglan Street. Granny Mary saluted her husband by raising her pipe, a lipless smile spreading on her sallow face. To this day, Ructions could recollect how he burned with envy as twelve of The Devil’s disciples followed their principal down the street on their way to the docks, where the animals would be shipped to England for sale.

The sound of an approaching engine catches Ructions’ attention. Panzer, with Geek alongside him, drives around the side of the Big House in his four-seater golf buggy, a golf bag set in the back of the vehicle.

Stopping some way from Ructions, Panzer turns to Geek, ‘And how is Apple?’

‘It’s not much more than a scratch,’ Geek says. ‘He’ll survive.’

‘I know Apple. He’ll remember this. I should talk to him.’

‘You should talk to Finbarr.’

‘Sure.’

‘I mean it, boss. The lad has a shotgun temper.’

‘I hear you. Now, how’s he coming along otherwise?’

‘You asked me a year ago to prepare him to take over the hands-on side of the business …’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Well, he’s almost there.’

‘Almost?’

‘Almost,’ Geek says. ‘Besides his short fuse—’

‘Yes?’

‘He can be a bit chilled out, you know?’

‘Okayyy.’

Geek chops the air with his hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he has only to be told something once and he gets it. Like, this kid is … he’s laser-sharp. For example, your bar isn’t making money—’

‘It hasn’t for years.’

‘Finbarr has an idea to turn that around.’

‘He has?’

‘Yeah. He thinks you should lease it out at a reasonable rate and do a deal with the lessee on the profits from the gaming machines. That way, instead of losing dough, the bar makes you a few quid, and you still own the licence and the property.’

Panzer tilts his head thoughtfully and strokes his ear. ‘That’s not bad, not bad at all.’

‘If, if you were of a mind to lease it out,’ Geek says, ‘I’d like a rattle at it. I’ve been in business before.’

‘I know. If I remember right, your taxi business was flying until—’

‘Until that cunt Tiny Murdoch decided to close me down.’

‘Remind me again.’

‘He sent the ’RA to warn me to close down my taxi depot and when I didn’t, he had it burnt.’

‘And then he broke your leg?’

‘Yes. The cunt. With a breeze block.’ Unconsciously, Geek reaches down to rub his right leg.

‘When was that?’ Panzer asks.

Geek responds immediately. ‘Six years ago – 12 October 1998.’

Panzer raises his left eyebrow. ‘If I were you, I’d be careful about calling Murdoch a cunt. You’re right, he is a cunt, but he’s an IRA cunt, and that makes him dangerous.’

‘The fucker had my leg smashed with a breeze block – for nothing.’

‘I know he did,’ Panzer says, his voice trailing off. ‘Now, back to Finbarr.’

Geek is not ready to return to the subject of Finbarr. He must make sure that the idea of him leasing Panzer’s pub is firmly fixed in his boss’s head. ‘You’ll keep me in mind, though, if you do decide to lease the pub?’

‘Sure,’ Panzer says. ‘So … Finbarr.’

Geek runs his tongue around his parched lips. ‘He can be off-piste, if you get my meaning.’

‘Will he be able to run this place?’ Panzer asks pointedly.

‘He’s not quite there yet but yes – yes, he will.’

Geek glances suspiciously at Panzer. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, boss? Why’s it suddenly so important that Finbarr gets involved?’

‘You’ve had him for a year now, so it’s hardly sudden. Look, he’s turning out to be a pain in the ass, if you must know,’ Panzer says, barely able to disguise his exasperation. ‘He needs the discipline of responsibility.’

‘Don’t all kids? I’ll take him down to Dublin with me next week, shall I?’

‘Good idea. But make it clear to him that he’s there only as an observer. These druggies are dangerous hombres.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Geek says, walking away. He turns back. ‘This Dublin thing …’

‘What about it?’

‘Are we getting into the drugs business, permanently, like?’

‘No. This is a one-off.’

‘Good. I don’t like drugs.’

Seeing Geek move away, Ructions approaches Panzer and gets into the passenger seat of the golf buggy. Not for the first time his attention is drawn to his uncle’s startling weight loss. What’s going on with you, Panzer? What are you not telling me? You’re looking more like The Devil every day. Has his errant spirit transferred to you? ‘It’s a good day for mountaineering,’ Ructions says.

‘I need to catch a dog trial first,’ Panzer says, driving over behind the stables to his dog track.

The oval-shaped, sandy track is 660 yards in circumference, but the trial distance is only 525 yards – the length of an average greyhound race. Private greyhound trials have always been a nice earner for Panzer; his discretion is celebrated, and owners throughout Ireland know that whatever times their dog records, it never leaves his track.

Panzer speaks to a middle-aged man in a duffle coat. He has a hugely impressive Salvador Dali moustache and a lanky teenage sidekick. Ructions takes out a fifty-pence piece and twiddles it from one finger to the next. Down at the starting stalls, the handlers put two yelping dogs into the traps. One handler speaks into a two-way radio. The artificial hare is released. The stall doors open as the hare flashes past, and the dogs bolt after it. As the leading dog blazes past the finishing post, Panzer and the man with the Dali moustache click their stopwatches simultaneously, while the teenager goes after the greyhounds. After a while, Panzer looks down and scuffs the ground. Ructions has seen this routine before; it’s anti-up time. No one gets ripped off, but Panzer always comes out of these things richer than when he went in.

A fat rat disappears behind the back of the stables and scurries along the wall into the nearby field. ‘I’m gonna have to do something about these rats,’ Panzer says as he gets into the driving seat of the golf buggy.

The drive across Hannahstown to the Black Mountain is interrupted only by occasional greetings from walkers and joggers, most of whom know Panzer as ‘The King of Hannahstown’ – a title bestowed upon him by an over-zealous press. They pull up just below the BBC Television mast and alight. Ructions lifts the golf bag and slings it over his shoulder. A pathway of squishy, rubbery mats cuts a corridor across the mountain. It seems to Ructions that the mats, with their hundreds of tiny squares, are losing the battle against the encroaching moss and bogland. Nature is the real king up here. Soon they cross the wooden bridge, veer right, and then carry on to the end of the rubber pathway. They toddle along silently, each man cultivating his own thoughts, until eventually they cut down the mountain and halt before a steep drop.

‘My God,’ Panzer exclaims, ‘will you look at that?’ He inhales deeply, his chest expanding and his shoulders rising and falling. ‘I’ve been up here hundreds of times and every time, it just … it just knocks the malt out of me.’

‘It never lets you down, that’s for sure,’ Ructions replies, his eyes straying right to the hazy Mountains of Mourne.

Belfast’s two giant shipyard gantry cranes, ‘Samson and Goliath’, reach up into the ripe late-autumn sky. Two cross-channel ferries pass each other in the shipping lanes of Belfast Lough. A doe rabbit bolts out of the side of the mountain and runs into a bank to their right.

Ructions reaches into the golf bag. ‘Five iron, M’Lord?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, O’Hare,’ Panzer says fancifully. ‘I rather think I want distance today. Perhaps the driver?’

‘An excellent choice, M’Lord.’

Both men put their tees in the ground and set their golf balls on top of them. Ructions’ practice swings have the fluidity of one who knows what he’s doing.

‘So, nephew, our insider,’ Panzer says, ‘do you trust him? I mean, do you really trust him to—’

‘He’s a she,’ Ructions says, ‘and yeah, she’s sound.’ Ructions draws back slowly and drives the ball so far that it disappears beneath the curvature of the mountain.

‘Not bad,’ Panzer says, standing over his ball. He steps away and sits down on a large stone. ‘So tell me about her?’

‘Her name’s Eleanor Proctor—’

‘A Prod?’

‘No, she’s a Catholic who married a Prod. You would’ve known her old man … Tommy O’Driscoll.’

‘“The Fair Man”?’

‘One and the same.’

‘I knew Tommy well. He was the best councillor ever to sit on Belfast City Council. Did me a few turns with planning applications, he did.’ Panzer addresses his golf ball, then turns back to Ructions. ‘What’s she like, this Eleanor?’

‘She’s feisty.’

‘What way feisty?’

‘She knows her own mind; she’ll not be led.’

‘Not even by you?’

Ructions hesitates as he tries to find the right words. ‘She’s a strong woman.’

‘You never answered my question.’

‘She’s helping us because she wants to.’

‘Ah, but why does she want to?’ Panzer asks. ‘That’s what I want to know. What’s in it for her?’

‘Me.’

‘You?’

‘Me.’

Panzer kicks the ground below him, just like he had done before he settled up with the greyhound owner with the Dali moustache.

Come on, Panzer. Spit it out – whatever it is.

‘You’re wondering what’s going through my mind, aren’t you?’ Panzer says.

Ructions shrugs.

‘I’ll tell you. I’m asking myself if my right arm has fallen for the mark.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous? I’ll be as ridiculous as I fucking well want to be.’

Ructions zips up his golf bag, an act not unnoticed by Panzer. ‘Shall we head back?’ Ructions says.

Panzer stands directly in front of Ructions. ‘You don’t think I’ve a right to ask hard questions?’

‘Sure you have, and I’ve no problem answering them. But suggesting I’ve fallen for the mark—’ Ructions points his finger. ‘That’s way out of order. I deserve better than that from you and you know it.’

Panzer puts his hands on Ructions’ shoulders and looks into his eyes. ‘Ructions, son, this is serious shit, and I don’t mind admitting I get the jitters every time I think of this job. I can’t remember myself ever being so edgy.’

‘So am I. But it’ll be all right, boss. Believe me, it’ll be sweet.’

Panzer sighs deeply. ‘I honestly hope so – for both our sakes.’

‘You’ve my word on it, it’ll be fine.’

‘Your word is good enough for me.’ Panzer waves his hand dismissively. ‘Your turn.’

Ructions unzips his golf bag, takes out a ball and hits it down the mountain.

‘So tell me, how did Eleanor meet the Prod?’

‘Eleanor met Frank Proctor at Queen’s University. They were both on the Students’ Executive Management Committee and they hit it off. She graduated in sociology and politics and he in economics. She became a social worker, and he’s a banker.’

‘Does she know about Maria?’

‘Yep.’

‘She can’t be too happy about her being around.’

‘She isn’t, but I’ve promised I’ll drop her.’

‘I’ll leave that end of things to you. You’ve a flair for handling the women,’ Panzer says, addressing his ball again. ‘That Maria comes from good stock. Her father, Mickey McArdle, dabbled in the greyhounds for a while. Good man. Helped me out on a few occasions when I needed to … well, smoothed some wrinkles.’

‘What type of wrinkles?’

‘The less said the better, Ructions. Let’s just say, he’s top-drawer. Mickey’s a real family man, so end things well with his daughter. Now, what’ll Eleanor be like in the cop shop?’

‘I’ve sat her down and talked her through it. She’ll do. Besides, she’s the last person the cops will suspect.’

‘So the last shall be first – Matthew 20:16,’ Panzer says sternly. ‘Ructions, make no mistake about it, nobody – but fuckin’ nobody – will be beyond suspicion after this little set-to.’

Ructions nods. ‘You’re right.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘I know I am.’

Close by, barking dogs distract Panzer at the top of his backswing. This results in his golf ball slicing to the left. Panzer turns to Ructions. ‘Fuckin’ mongrels,’ he says in disgust. ‘Who else knows about this?’

Ructions clamps his lips shut in case his thoughts tumble out. Who else would know about it, Panzer? I’ve been working on this robbery for over two years – on my own. Know why I’ve worked on my own, Panzer? Because I won’t fuckin’ tout on myself to the cops. ‘You, me and Eleanor,’ Ructions says cordially.

‘We’ll need somewhere to dump the loot after the job.’

‘I’ve a camel’s hump sorted.’ Ructions whispers into Panzer’s ear, telling him the location of the dump.

‘I like it.’

Ructions can sense a dangerous scepticism in Panzer’s tone. It’s as if Panzer has yet to be convinced of the robbery’s bona fides. He reckons that a spot of flattery and a pledge of allegiance might ease the situation. ‘Boss, I want to be clear about something: this is your job, not mine. If you want to pull it, that’s fine with me.’

‘It’s our job,’ Panzer says, grinning. He pats Ructions affectionately on the cheeks. ‘You’re a thoroughbred, kiddo, a fuckin’ thoroughbred.’ Panzer embraces Ructions. ‘It’s you and me, Ructions, all the way. Fifty-fifty – that’s it.’

‘There’s one good thing …’

‘Only one?’

‘The cops will think the wrap-the-green-flag-around-me boys are behind it.’

Panzer hesitates before replying. ‘That’ll hold up, but it’s difficult to say for how long. Remember this – irrespective of what the cops think, the IRA will know they didn’t do it and if they find out that we did do it, they’ll have Tiny Murdoch up looking for his fifty per cent tax.’

‘Aye. Like we’d give it to them too! Fuckers!’ Ructions replies with a sneer.

‘The Provos can be a right pain in the dick when they want to be,’ Panzer says, grim-faced. ‘We can’t afford one loose word. No outsiders.’

Ructions coughs delicately. ‘Boss, don’t take this the wrong way—’

‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘I’d prefer if—’

‘If Finbarr is shut out.’

Ructions winces. ‘Does he know about the job?’

Panzer lies. ‘No, he doesn’t. And if he did, would it matter?’

Ructions pretends to clean the face of his golf club with a cloth in order to avoid Panzer’s stare. ‘I think it would.’

‘Why? Why would it matter if I were to tell my son about the job? He’s a smart kid.’

‘I know that, but he’s unpredictable and we can’t afford unpredictability.’

‘I don’t accept this unpredictability bullshit,’ Panzer says. ‘You’ve a bee in your bonnet about Finbarr.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I would.’

Ructions decides that, on this occasion, silence is better than confrontation.

Panzer sets a ball on top of a tee and lies again. ‘My son doesn’t know anything about the job and he won’t find out from me.’ He sweeps the horizon in front of him with his driver, addresses his ball and smashes it down the mountainside. ‘That’s more like it,’ he says.

The vital concession secured, Ructions knows to move on. ‘I swear to God,’ he says, ‘I’ve had sleepless nights going over the people I’d pick to do this heist. Who’d cover our backs if there’s a shoot-out? Who’d be blabbermouths in the cop shop? Who’d have the wit to keep their traps shut after the job, when the money’s in their pockets and the IRA starts beating the bush for answers? Never mind Finbarr. I don’t think we should involve any of our own boys in this.’

‘Not even Geek?’

‘Not even him.’ Ructions grimaces and, for emphasis, taps the air in front of him with his clenched fist. ‘What Geek and the rest of the boys don’t know, they can’t tell – even if they’re taken away and tortured by the paramilitaries – which is very possible.’

‘There’s a lot of sense in that.’

‘Panzer, I’ve put the deal to the farmers and they’ve accepted the terms – subject to your final approval, that is.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? You know, Ructions, my hands are so far into my pockets here, I can count the goosebumps on my balls.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a second. But the return will be phenomenal. We should be looking at tens of millions. Not only that, but what we don’t want is for the farmers to come away from this feeling like they’ve been cut up.’

‘If that’s the way it has to be. Who are the farmers?’

‘We’ve used them before: Kelly and McCann.’

‘Good choices.’

A police helicopter approaches and hovers about one hundred yards in front of them. A plain-clothes police photographer leans out of the helicopter and takes photographs of the two gangsters. Ructions puts down a golf ball and aims it at the helicopter. He misses. Both men turn their backs and bare their backsides. When they pull up their trousers and turn around, the police photographer gives them the one-finger salute.