Black Water

  First published 2018

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  Nautical House, 104 Commercial Street, Edinburgh EH6 6NF

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2018

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 202 2 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 162 9 in paperback format

  Copyright © Cormac O'Keeffe 2018

  The right of Cormac O'Keeffe to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without

  permission in writing from the publisher.

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

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  To my amazing wife, Jacinta, and our three children,

  Adam, Quinn and Fay

  Contents

  Prologue

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  51.

  52.

  53.

  54.

  55.

  56.

  57.

  58.

  59.

  60.

  61.

  62.

  63.

  64.

  65.

  66.

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  I’ve killed the boy.

  Shay ground his teeth at the realisation.

  The side of his head throbbed from the impact of the explosion and, with his nose split and swollen, he struggled to breathe as he ran.

  Orange flames danced against a canvas of black. On the other side of the perimeter wall, he heard the canal waters hiss as crackling debris hailed down.

  If the gang was inside the building they were blown to pieces, Jig with them.

  A sheet of corrugated roofing slammed down in front of him, searing his shin. He winced, but forced himself on.

  So, this is how it fucking ends: risking my life searching through rubble for bits of the boy. After everything I’ve sacrificed.

  Somewhere behind, the detective shouted at him to come back. But, ahead, Shay thought he could make out screams. Distant sirens echoed along the warren of Dublin’s streets.

  The remainder of the warehouse heaved and groaned. He was out of time.

  Fuck it, I’ve nothing to lose.

  He stumbled forward, his face bubbling with the heat. His ankle twisted over something loose on the ground, tipping him off balance. Spitting blood from his lips, he looked down and followed the forks of yellow light.

  Something small was smouldering.

  It looked like a runner.

  A child’s runner.

  1

  Jig liked the word SNAP. The sound the wipers made when he ripped them off the car. And when he wrote the letters on the page, his tongue curled against his lips.

  He took the path in jumps, inches from the canal’s black waters. But when he saw the swans, he stopped. They were clustered here and there, asleep, their long necks curled into their backs, their heads buried under layers of thick white feathers. Like little soft icebergs, lit up by streaks of yellow from overhead lights and the silver haze of the moon.

  He had slipped out of his gaff no bother. When the bottle fell from his ma’s bed onto the floor, and the snorting started, that was the green light. He had kept on his tracksuit and runners so he was ready to go. He remembered to put on his gloves before taking the wipers and the note out from under his Man U pillow.

  The canal was still. A gust of wind wrapped around Jig’s face, carrying a waft of roasted sweetness from the brewery. He checked the time on his phone: 2 a.m.

  He ran, the wipers in his gloved hands and the note in his pocket.

  He had a job to do for Ghost.

  Mary heard a noise at the front door, then footsteps running off, light, like that of a child. She swung her arm to turn on the bedside lamp and knocked something over. Easing herself out, she placed the double picture frame back up, her eyes drawn towards the old photograph on the right. A fine big man, chest puffed out, a mop of black hair brushed to the side, eyes looking into the distance. It was her favourite of James.

  She couldn’t help but glance at the photo next to it, taken years ago. Leo leaning forward, grabbing a friend’s head at his nineteenth birthday party, beaming a wide and wet smile.

  Frozen images melted in her mind. James, sitting at the front window, watching and waiting for Leo to come home. James, on his deathbed in hospital, refusing to let the cancer hollow him out without seeing his son one last time. And Leo, when he did visit that time and looked for ten thousand euro.

  ‘Da, I need it, Da. They have a bullet for me . . .’

  But James was lost in a nightmare world of pain and sweeping tides of morphine. Mary had roared at Leo to get out. It was the last time she heard from him. But not the last time she heard from the lowlifes who wanted their ten thousand euro.

  She put on her slippers and reached for the dressing gown. At the tiny landing, she turned on the light for the bottom of the stairs and peered down. There were long black rods or something inside the door.

  Instinctively she went to grab the railing, but stopped, remembering the top fitting had come out completely from the crumbling wall. She pressed her two hands against the walls either side and stepped down.

  The black things were wipers. Her heart jumped.

  Oh God, they must be from the car.

  As she neared, she could see a piece of paper on the ground. A voice inside told her not to, but she picked it up, her hands shaking. She dragged a short breath.

  SNAP. TALK TO COPS AGAIN UR NEK WIL B NXT.

  Blood drained from her body. Her legs buckled.

  As she fell, her head smacked against the edge of the hall table. The force of the blow twisted her head and shoulders around and she went crashing onto her back.

  The note sailed into the air.

  Her eyes fixed wide open, blinked once, then twice.

  Jig ran his hand through the reeds. They were swaying and rustling now. He tingled at the sensation. The wind had grown teeth.

  Lampposts rattled as he sprinted. The water was flowing stronger, spilling over the locks onto the chambers below.

  He wondered what Ghost would say about the job. He imagined bony fingers t
ossing his hair and Ghost saying, ‘Good job, little man.’

  I’ll be in big time with Ghost now, I will.

  A swan stirred. It unfurled its neck and shook its tail.

  Jig knew from the brown feathers it was a young swan. That was what his granda had said. A cygnet, he’d told him, was what they were called. He thought he could see a sprout of white feathers. Jig stopped and stared for a moment.

  Then he karate-kicked the air and ran.

  2

  The blows rained down. White fists and red-raw knuckles crunching on bone. Shay shuddered at the pummelling to his arms and hands, tossed at his moans for mercy.

  Noise was dragging him away from his dream.

  Bang. Bang . . . Yang. Yang.

  Shay peeled back the sheets and flexed his wrists. They often throbbed with the memories.

  The intrusion was the scream of an alarm from outside.

  He eased himself out of bed and shook his head, the racket aggravating his tinnitus. He stood up, his feet arcing at the touch of the cold floorboards. He loosened his tight boxers and stepped silently to the window. Opening a blind, he tried to pierce the darkness, but he couldn’t determine the source of the siren.

  He curled back into bed behind Lisa, warmed his feet and fixed on her hair. For a moment he expected to see the ripples of long blonde curls. He moved to push them out of his face, away from his nose, like he used to, a few years ago. When his vision focused, it revealed short straight brown hair and a pale thin neck. He remembered the day she arrived home from the salon. He knew why she did it, but never brought it up. Nor did she.

  The scumbag grabbed her hair and licked her neck, the fucking animal.

  That, and what Shay did afterwards, had landed them here. To this life.

  The sense of being fucked over, of being trapped, of trying and failing to get his life – their life – back, scratched at his skull and clawed at his stomach.

  The walls and windows began to shudder. The Garda helicopter must be overhead, he thought.

  Red lights flashed behind the blinds. He got up and looked out again; a fire tender was coming to a stop. Away to his right was the source of the noise: a car, now ablaze. Thick yellow flames curled into the night.

  Ghost and his crew at work again, he thought.

  He would see Ghost at the next match, as usual. The boys nearly shat their arses if he even looked at them, they held him in such awe.

  I know what Ghost’s game is. Digging his nails into some of the boys. Like Jig.

  He strained his neck to try and see the helicopter, it seemed that close. But then the vibrations subsided as it pulled away, towards the canal.

  The noise from the car became more tortured, screeching one second, then receding. Two firemen pulled hoses, like long, bulbous snakes, and extinguished the flames with bursts of foam. Massive plumes of smoke puffed up.

  Upright on the edge of the bed, he pulled at the skin under his eyes, then glanced down at the thin frame curled tight under the sheets.

  He fretted over her reaction, once the sleeping tablet wore off.

  ‘You see that?’

  The morning light pained Shay’s eyes as he blinked them open.

  Lisa had her back to him, hands pressed hard against her hips.

  ‘Yeah, a car went up on fire,’ he said, keeping his tone measured and slipping out of bed. ‘You were out for the count.’

  He started at the sight of the smouldering shell, bare and black in the bright morning sunshine.

  ‘What a lovely thing to have on your doorstep,’ Lisa said, casting a look in his direction. ‘I bet you it will be there into next week before those useless lumps in the council remove it.’

  She scrunched up her nose at the smell of molten metal which had infected the room. Shay knew she was being pulled down. His stomach tensed.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said.

  Shay watched three kids running from different directions to the car, whooping with delight. They circled the wreckage, kicking at it. Another boy, around six or so, emerged screaming, dragging a golf club behind him, the head of it scraping and slapping off the road. As he neared the car, he arced it up over his head and slammed it down on the bonnet, greeted by hoots.

  Lisa recoiled at the noise, her face tightening.

  ‘Why car all burnt, Daddy?’ came a little voice from below.

  Charlie had crept past them. Molly followed. They put their hands on the window sill and stood up on their tiptoes.

  ‘They’re bold boys,’ Molly scolded, pointing her finger at them, ‘they shouldn’t be doing that.’

  Lisa turned her back on the window, and the kids. Shay saw the moistness in her eyes as she shuffled towards the door.

  ‘Listen, Lisa . . .’

  Shay wanted to say something more, but couldn’t find the words. Lisa turned, her features tight against her pale skin.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  Shay sensed the kids stiffen, looking up at them.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What were you going to say? That we’ll be out of here soon?’

  ‘We will, Lisa. It can’t be much longer, won’t.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t? Which?’

  Shay moved forward to hold her shoulder, to reassure her, but she shrugged him away. The kids jumped now at the banging outside. The hammering was getting more frantic.

  ‘You’ve been saying the same thing since we were dumped here,’ Lisa said. ‘A lot of our stuff is still in boxes. We’ve nothing up on the walls,’ she said, swinging her thin arms around. ‘We barely have any shelves. We’re half-living here.’

  She paused. But he knew what was coming.

  ‘You said it’d be a year.’

  ‘I know,’ Shay replied, his stomach clamping. ‘But what can I do? It’s not my fault.’

  Her face strained again at the clang of metal on metal.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  3

  Crowe sprinted over the bridge, her runners crunching on scattered shards of glass. She turned right and down the other side of the canal. She dipped her head to an oncoming gust, her black ponytail brushing her shoulder.

  She was stressing about the sergeant exam. Her second interview was just yesterday. She thought it had gone well. That’s what she told the doubting voices in her head. Now it was up to how the bosses would write her up.

  Recommended. Better still, highly recommended. That’s what I want.

  The run was doing the trick.

  A swan splashed onto the waters, rousing her. It pushed its chest up, unfolded its great wings and flapped them. In the distance, the gentle ‘jing jing’ of the Luas tram chimed.

  Crowe pushed herself down the path as Canal Road Garda Station loomed into view from behind the flats. She watched a blade of sunlight cut across its facade. The station didn’t look like a bastion in the war against gangland: a long, dull yellow block, peppered with aluminium windows, fastened with mesh grilles. It could be a forgotten office building, she thought – save for the communication mast towering behind it. Coming to a stop, she eyed the latest graffiti scraped into the thick wooden entrance doors.

  Rats Out.

  She heard male voices behind the frosted glass at the public counter, laughing. She thought about saying hi, but her hand hesitated at the door. She felt too self-conscious in her running gear. Knowing the guys, they would be twisting their big heads to have a good gawk at her.

  She strode towards the shower, hoping it wouldn’t splutter as usual between hot and cold.

  ‘Calling Detective Crowe. Come in Crowe.’

  She smiled on recognising Grant’s chirpy voice. She hadn’t heard her behind the screen. The lads had probably been laughing at one of her stories.

  ‘Hey there, girly,’ Crowe said, swinging around.

  ‘You know I hate landing stuff on you, and you in early, all fit and sweaty,’ Grant said. ‘But there’s a possible suspicious death on Larkin Road. Number 36. Elderly woman. Peters is already there. I can leave
it for someone else?’

  ‘No. Duty calls, Garda Grant,’ Crowe said, smiling. ‘Just let me have my luxury power shower first.’

  Crowe processed what Peters said as they walked through the house next door to Ms King’s. She climbed over the rusted low railing separating the back gardens, pulling up her trouser belt to counter the weight of the Sig and shoving her bag around her back.

  They stepped through the door into the kitchen. She glanced at the wooden units, dull green and with a shiny metal strip along the border. A tea cosy sat up on top of the fridge.

  It reminded her of her grandmother’s kitchen. She felt a sudden pang for the woman inside.

  With the curtains closed, the sitting room was in semi-darkness. The room felt cramped. A rickety coffee table jutted out in front of a sofa. Scraps of paper and bills lay scattered on it. An old portable gas heater was lodged in one corner, a bulky television in the other. A Sacred Heart painting dominated the chimney breast, its red light encasing a small white cross at the bottom of the frame.

  Crowe coughed at the thick air and moved towards the front door. She halted when she saw bare white legs, parted at awkward angles, the hem of a dressing gown thrown back. She eased closer, pulling out latex gloves from her bag and slapping them on.

  The woman’s shoulders were twisted away from Crowe, while her face tilted towards her. Dark eyes stared out. Crowe twitched at the sight, then resumed her observations. There was a matt of congealed blood and hair on the left side of the woman’s head, circled by black bruising.

  Nasty bang, she thought, looking around for the cause. The edge of a hall table was blunted, revealing pale wood under the dark veneer.

  All of which drew her to what might have been the cause of the woman’s fall. The broken wipers looked odd lying near her head, right under the letterbox. The note Peters mentioned had landed on the woman’s chest, opened out.

  Crowe pulled out her phone and took some photos: of the blow to the head, of the table’s edge, and the position of both. She stepped carefully over the body and took photos of the wipers and, lastly, the note. The writing was clearly visible.