The Chisellers Page 12

  As Cathy was rushing back to Number 43 and the party, she saw the shadowy figure of a man walking towards her half-way up the street. His swagger made Cathy think it might be Mick and this was confirmed when he called her name. His step got a little quicker and when they eventually met at the gate of the Browne household they hugged each other and kissed passionately.

  ‘Sounds like a hell of a party,’ Mick said, nodding towards the house.

  ‘Yes, it is. You’re about to meet the Brownes at their best — or worst?’ Cathy said demurely.

  ‘Well, you’ve talked so much about them, Cathy, I feel I know them all already. So come on, let’s go and meet the Browne brood.’

  Cathy giggled, and holding hands the two of them entered Number 43. They looked into the front room which was jampacked with the older neighbours. Peggy McDonald was very drunk and treating the audience to a rendition of ‘Frankie and Johnny’. Peggy was just coming to an important line in the song for which she leaned down to her husband’s face and spat out: ‘That there ain’t no good in men!’ This brought a huge cheer from the women in the room and howls of laughter from the men. Cathy and Mick withdrew quickly.

  In the hallway Mick looked up the stairs and saw a young boy sitting on the top step. He had what appeared to be a sketch pad on his knees and his hands were working furiously.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Mick asked.

  ‘That’s me youngest brother, Trevor. He just keeps drawing all the time - I think he’s a bit slow,’ Cathy answered, and pulled Mick towards the back door where the main action was taking place. They went down the two steps to the back yard and Cathy walked over to the bar where Buster and Dermot were now pissed drunk and trying to sing ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ in harmony with the record that was playing in the marquee.

  ‘Dermo! Dermo! Where’s Mammy?’ Cathy called over the din.

  Dermot turned to Buster and said, ‘Buster, is my face red?’

  ‘Red? No, Dermo, your face isn’t red.’

  ‘Then she mustn’t be up me arse.’

  The two exploded into laughter, wrapping their arms around each other as only drunk men can.

  ‘Dermo, I’m serious, where’s Mammy?’ Cathy was now a little annoyed.

  Dermo copped on. ‘Sorry, Cathy, I was only messin’. She’s inside somewhere - you go in and get her and I’ll give your man a drink!‘ he offered.

  Cathy squeezed Mick’s hand. ‘D’yeh mind, Mick?‘

  ‘Not at all! You go and get your mother, girl, I’ll have a chat with the barman.’

  Cathy vanished into the marquee and Mick stepped up to the bar.

  ‘What’ll it be, sham?’ Dermot asked.

  ‘Oh, a pint of Guinness, I suppose, seeing as how yeh have it there.’

  ‘We have Guinness, we have Smithwicks, we have Harp, we have any draught yeh want, sham, isn’t that right, Buster?’

  ‘That’s right, Dermo.’

  ‘Browne and Brady, purveyors of fine draught beers,’ Dermot chuckled as he began to pull the pint.

  With two-thirds of the glass full, he placed the pint on a drip tray to allow it to settle. Dermot now turned his full attention to Mick.

  ‘So, sham, you’re the boyfriend we’ve all been hearing about?’

  Mick smiled. ‘Well, be Jaysus, I hope so. Otherwise I’ve wasted a lot of money over the last couple of weeks entertaining somebody else’s girl.’

  Dermot laughed heartily, liking the man immediately. ‘I can tell by your accent that you’re not from Dublin. Where are yeh from?’

  ‘Cork,’ Mick said simply, and nodded towards the pint which was now ready for topping up.

  Dermot took the pint up, pushed the pump handle forward, and began to top off the creamy pint of Guinness. He placed it in front of the foreigner from Cork and continued with the questions.

  ‘So, tell us, what’s your name, sham?’

  Mick picked the pint up, studied it as a first pint should be studied, then answered, ‘Well, me name is Michael, but the boys in the station call me Mick.’ And he began to take a long mouthful from the cool pint.

  ‘Well, then, Mick it is! Now listen, Mick, if ever yeh need a bit of cheap gear — station? What fuckin’ station ?’

  Mick withdrew the glass from his mouth and carefully and slowly licked the white creamy moustache left on his top lip. He then smacked his lips and turned his face to Dermot. ‘Finglas Garda Station, I’m a Garda there.’

  Dermot could have done with some help from Buster as he stumbled backwards, but Buster was doing his best to stand up straight while still throwing up behind the two stolen Guinness kegs. Mick O‘Leary smiled and took his pint to the doorway of the marquee.

  He arrived just in time to meet Cathy, who had her mother by the hand, and Agnes in turn held Pierre by the hand. The trio stepped outside the marquee into the fresh night air to meet Cathy’s boyfriend. Cathy made the introductions.

  ‘Mammy, this is Mick.’

  Agnes looked up into the face of the man, and at that moment for the first time realised that her daughter was now a woman. His features were plain, with the exception of a slightly oversized, pointed nose. His smile was toothy and his handshake was warm. Agnes smiled at him.

  ‘You’re welcome to our home, son, I hope you’re lookin’ after my daughter.’

  ‘Be Jaysus, missus, I’m minding her like the crown jewels,’ Mick replied, and held onto his smile.

  Pierre coughed. Cathy took over once again. ‘Mick, this is Pierre. He’s my mother’s ... my mother and Pierre are ... he’s kind of like a father to us,’ she finally settled on.

  Pierre beamed. Had she had a month to prepare, Cathy could not have picked an introduction that would have flattered him more. Pierre extended his hand, and Mick took it and shook it warmly.

  ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Pierre.’

  ‘It is also very nice to meet you. I have tremendous respect for men in uniform. I wore a uniform myself, you know ... yes indeed, when I served with the French Foreign Legion.’

  Agnes interrupted. ‘Don’t mind him, Mick, he’s full of shite.’

  ‘No, no, my darling, it is true,’ Pierre exclaimed.

  ‘Sure it is, Pierre luv. Next ye’ll be tellin’ me that ye’re really James Bond and you’re only workin’ in the Pizza Parlour as a fuckin’ cover.’

  Mick and Cathy burst out laughing. Pierre pretended to be hurt, but also saw the joke.

  ‘Here, Pierre, take Mick over to the bar and get him another drink. I want to have a word with me daughter,’ Agnes instructed.

  Pierre put his arm around the young man’s waist, for his shoulders were too high, and guided him back towards the bar, while beginning a story of how he had single-handedly captured six Algerian terrorists with only a toothbrush and a Gillette razor as weapons. The mother and daughter looked at them as they walked away.

  ‘Well, Mammy, what d’yeh think?‘

  ‘He looks all right. But Jesus Christ — a guard! I don’t know, Cathy.’

  ‘Ah for Christ’s sake, Mammy, it’s a job, not a disease-’

  Agnes turned towards her daughter and looked into her face. It was a face she recognised well - she had seen it in a mirror twenty-four years before. She took both of Cathy’s hands in hers.

  ‘Tell me, sweetheart, what do you think?’ Agnes asked.

  For a moment Cathy dropped her eyes, then, lifting her head, she returned her mother’s glance.

  ‘I know it’s only a couple of months, Mammy, but I think I love him.’

  Agnes squeezed Cathy’s hands a little tighter. ‘And when he kisses yeh, luv, d’yeh feel a little feather runnin’ up and down your spine?‘

  ‘Yeh! I do!’ Cathy answered excitedly, not realising that anyone else would have felt this.

  ‘Then you’ve found the one - and don’t you ever let him out of your sight, luv.’ Agnes said this with a big smile and went to let go of Cathy’s hands, but Cathy held on a little longer.

  ‘Is that what you
felt, Mammy? With Daddy - the feather runnin’ up and down your spine?’

  Agnes’s smile was a sad smile. ‘No, luv. With your father it was an ice cube. I didn’t get the feather ’till I met Pierre. Now come on, let’s go and get our men.‘

  Cathy gave her mother a huge hug and the two ‘girls’ went to join their partners.

  There followed a couple of hours of singing and dancing and the night air above Wolfe Tone Grove was filled with laughter and merriment as the drunken crowd celebrated the twenty-first birthday of a good man. Agnes Browne was filled with joy and pride in her family, and although the ferry had taken a small piece of her heart across the water to England, what was left of that heart now overflowed with happiness.

  Rory danced crazily with his friend Dino - the two lads obviously didn’t have any luck with the girls that were there, Agnes thought. Cathy sat on the lap of her Garda boyfriend, and they talked and looked at each other as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Mark celebrated the official age of becoming a man, though Agnes knew that this boy had been a man since he was fourteen. Dermot and Buster Brady for some reason were upstairs, putting things into the attic, and Trevor was sound asleep in his bed.

  Suddenly the music stopped and Agnes heard the DJ blow into a microphone and announce: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen! A bit of quiet, please. We’ll have a few words from the man of the moment - Mr Mark Browne.’

  The announcement was greeted with a huge cheer intermingled with a bit of friendly name-calling from Mark’s football team-mates, and as Mark took the microphone, Agnes rose from the back step and walked to the doorway of the marquee to hear his speech.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ Mark began, only to be met with jeers and calls of ‘Go on outa that!’ Mark laughed but went on. ‘Friends and family! I can’t thank yis all enough for the many presents I’ve received. It’s great to see so many friends here, both from town and from Finglas, in our new home. I asked the DJ to let me speak for two reasons, and neither of them were to make a speech. The first reason was to say thank you, not the one I just said, but a special thank you to a very special person.’ All heads turned to the doorway where Agnes Browne stood. Betty went behind the DJ stand and returned with a huge bouquet of roses. Mark took the bouquet from Betty, cradled it in his right arm and continued his speech. ‘I have here in me arm a bouquet of roses — there’s twenty-one yellow roses and three red ones. I want to explain what they’re for. The twenty-one yellow roses, Mammy, are to remind yeh of where yeh were and what yeh were doin’ twenty-one years ago. I hope I was worth it.’

  Agnes stood in the doorway and just slowly mouthed, ‘Yes!’

  ‘The first red rose, Ma, is to say thanks for all yeh gave up to try and make things better for us.’ There was now total silence in the marquee. ‘The second red rose, Ma, is from all of your sons and your daughter to remind yeh how much we love yeh - and the third red rose, Ma, is because I wanted an extra one in the bunch ’cause I want you to know that if I could round up all the roses in the world and gather them into this tent here tonight, you’d still deserve one more.‘

  Agnes walked to her son and gave him a hug. She took the flowers and held them close to her like a new-born child. She embraced Betty and their tears mingled, and suddenly she was surrounded by neighbours and friends - and trying to feign indifference.

  Mark once again got the attention of the crowd and when he had reasonable silence continued his speech. ‘I’m not finished yet. I would also like to announce that with the permission of Mrs Collins and me Ma — tonight me and Betty are gettin’ engaged.’

  This was met with a huge cheer, and while the crowd clapped and roared, Mark smiled and slid a single-stone engagement ring onto Betty Collins’s wedding finger. She was immediately surrounded by every teenage girl in the tent and whisked away to a comer where the ring would be perused, tried on, and spun in wishes. Right on cue the DJ hit the button to play, yes, once again, Cliff Richard singing ‘Congratulations’.

  Chapter 13

  LONDON

  IT HAD BEEN A VERY CLOSE SHAVE. Manny sat in the holding cell of Maidstone police station. It had been too close. He had gone to Maidstone to meet a new client, taking with him a small sample of heroin and a small sample of cocaine. Maidstone was well out of his area and he didn’t know a lot about the place, so maybe he should have known better. Manny, however, was not adverse to a bit of expansion and when the opportunity came to have a sub-distributor in Maidstone, he thought: What the heck?

  The meeting had been set up for a lane at the back of premises called The Silver Skillet. The Silver Skillet was an up-market eatery with cabaret. As Manny sat on the side of a dustbin, awaiting his rendezvous, he could hear the stand-up comedian rattle them off upstairs. The place was in an uproar of laughter. Whoever the comedian was, he had them by the balls.

  Manny saw the police car slowly pass by the end of the lane. It didn’t stop, but instinctively Manny got up and began to walk further down the alley. He didn’t see the policeman at the other end, but thankfully the constable had forgotten to turn off his radio and once Manny heard it crackle he took off like a jack-rabbit. He sprinted through a pedestrian shopping area. All the shops were closed and shuttered and his footsteps echoed loudly around the concourse. So too did those of the now-pursuing constable. Within two minutes Manny had reached his Sunbeam Rapier.‘ He slammed the door, turned the ignition and gunned the engine, flung the car into first gear and screeched out of the shopping-centre carpark.

  After three minutes of hard driving the view in Manny’s mirror was clear. He exhaled, relaxed and eased his foot off the pedal. Suddenly out of a side road the black police Jaguar pulled in behind him with the blue light flashing. Manny took a sharp left and gunned the engine again. The police car broke hard and didn’t make the bend. The driver had to reverse to get it to right itself. It then followed at speed. The short overshoot by the police car had given Manny enough time to open his passenger window and toss out the two little bags. He watched in his mirror as the police drove past the spot where he had dumped them. He then took a sharp right, followed by the police car. Just a couple of hundred yards into this street, Manny indicated and pulled over. Four policemen jumped from the car. It had been a set-up.

  Manny’s window was now rolled down and as the first officer reached him, Manny very said coolly, ‘Is there a problem, officer?’

  Manny was taken from the car, handcuffed and brought to Maidstone Police Station. They searched him thoroughly - very thoroughly - and found nothing. They then put him in a cell while half a dozen officers went back and retraced the route Manny had driven, searching the area as thoroughly as they could to see if he had ditched the drugs. They found nothing. Somebody had got an ounce of cocaine and an ounce of heroin, but it wasn’t the Maidstone police force. On their return to the station the officers removed Manny from his cell and formally charged him with dangerous driving. Before they had locked Manny up they had taken his personal belongings. One of the officers counted the money in Manny’s wallet, and it held two hundred pounds, so they now posted his bail at two hundred and fifty pounds. Manny was given his one phone call - they led him to a room, placed a phone in front of him and left him alone. Manny dialled the number carefully and hoped that Ben would be there.

  Ben Daly was half-asleep, sitting in front of the television he had rented from the shop below his bedsit when the phone rang. He walked to the hall outside the flat where the public phone hung and answered it.

  ‘Hello?’

  The caller was Manny Wise.

  ‘Manny, what’s up?’

  ‘Ben, mate, I’m in a bit of bower, I’m in the nick.’

  ‘Jaysus! Why, what happened?’

  ‘It don’t matter now. I’ll fill you in on all that later. For now I need you to get some dough. Do you have fifty quid?’

  ‘Fifty quid! Jaysus, no. I have about seven quid, that’s all, Manny!’

  ‘Have you still got the spare key to my apartment?�
�

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘Right, then, here’s what I want you to do ...’ Manny gave Ben strict instructions on how to open the safe’s combination lock. Begin at zero, go eighty-two to the right, back to zero, spin all the way around to the right, back to zero again, then go eighty to the left, and then go back to nine on the right, and then turn the locking handle. He told him to get fifty pounds in cash from the safe and to take a further twenty quid to cover a taxi fare out to Maidstone Police Station. Ben could tell from the way Manny’s final instruction, ‘Move your arse!’, was delivered that our Manny didn’t have the bottle for a prison cell.

  When Ben walked up the Edgeware Road he saw the police car parked outside the Chinese restaurant. He checked his pocket for the small torch he had brought and ducked down an alley to go into the apartment through the back door. He climbed the two flights of stairs up to Manny’s place, slid the key in the lock and quietly turned it. The door opened easily. He didn’t need a torch to find his way to the study.

  Before tackling the safe he checked from the comer of the window that the car was still in place. It was. He crossed the room and bent low to the safe. Ben had never opened a safe before in his life, but he followed the instructions Manny had given him to the letter. He was surprised when the safe opened first time. As the door opened wide, so too did Ben’s eyes. There was stacks of money! Manny had told Ben to bring along the fifty quid and some identification for Manny. He had told him also to make sure to bring his Irish passport which was in the back of the safe. Ben reached over the money and lifted a tray at the back of the safe. The first thing that caught his eye were two neat foil-wrapped parcels, one marked ‘CC’ the other marked ’HN‘. Ben knew exactly what these parcels contained. Underneath the parcels were some stocks, bonds, some official-looking papers and a yellowed envelope on which was written ’Dublin Papers‘.