In Too Deep

(Contains adult language)

Sean sat alone in a dark confession booth, fighting back his tears. The mesh slat to his right took the shape of the crucifix. A door clicked open and light shone through the slat, before vanishing as the door shut.

“I wondered if I would see you again,” said the priest, sitting beyond the divider to Sean’s right.

The devil sat on his left.

“Read it to me one more time, Father,” Sean said.

The voice that spoke through the crucifix was soft, “I would be more help if you just told me—”

“Please… Father… don’t. Just read me the passage.”

There was a slight shuffle of papers, and the priest began, “Forthwith Judas came to Jesus, and said, ‘Hail master,’ and kissed him. Then they came, laid hands upon Jesus, and took him.”

Without a word, Sean left.

Moonlight spilled across the Liffey while the sound of beer bottles clattering carried from the other side of the river. Sean meandered with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, while his breath fogged in the cold air. A set of headlights crept from behind, casting his shadow lankly across the cobblestone.

“Finn,” called a hushed voice from behind. “Finn, where the heck have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Sean tensed, not wanting that name to follow him, not tonight. He turned and held up a gloved hand, blocking the car’s light. All he could see was the shadow hanging out of the driver’s window, but he recognised the voice. It was his handler. “Christy?”

“Feck sakes.” Christy stepped out of the car and closed the door, the sound loud in the quiet street. He paced over to Sean, and they walked together.

Sean sighed. “I’m sorry I had to—”

“See the fecking priest again?” Christy touched Sean’s shoulder, and continued, “Finn, it’ll be alright lad. We’re almost there. Five years of hard work and it’s all about to pay off.”

He released a large breath. The vapour rose and faded. “Feels longer.”

“Aye.”

Sean knew the question was coming and wondered whether Christy genuinely cared about his visit to the priest, or if he was simply trying to maintain a sense of familiarity. Five years and Christy was the only one from the outside Sean was allowed to contact. He’d requested a therapist, and Christy had come back a month later with the response, “Can’t lad. Too risky. Anything you need to get off your chest you tell me.” How could he tell Christy he wanted out of the gig? After five years of being deep undercover within the largest criminal gang in Ireland, how could he share his doubts now?

“So,” began Christy, the question, the reason he was here, incoming, “have they told you who you’re going to whack?”

Sean walked over to the river’s railing and placed his hands upon it. “Níl,” he muttered.

“What?”

“No,” he said. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The Guard’s never going to let one of their own commit murder. Not even to off some degenerate.”

Sean nodded.

“As soon as you know anything, and I mean anything: location, victim, accomplices – you let me know and I’ll pass it on. Conspiracy to commit murder, that’s all we need. Besides, I shan’t be hard to find. I’m stuck chauffeuring ‘round the old bellend, Mícheál. God knows I want to put that cranky so-and-so in cuffs meself. Alright?”

Sean nodded again. The truth lay on his tongue, involved in a bitter feud with a lie.

“Christy,” he said as his handler headed back to the car.

Christy turned, the headlights again shining and making him appear like an obscure shadow. “You right?”

Sean opted for the truth. “Tomorrow. The hit’s tomorrow.”

The next day, Sean met Liam, Mícheál’s son and Sean’s unwitting informant, at The Gaelic Warrior Boxing Club. The 6 AM session stunk to high heaven with sweat, while the sound of dozens of gloves smacking pads filled the large shed. Sean climbed the steps onto the main ring where Liam watched Patrick ‘The Bullman’ Doherty, a young gun who eyed the world title.

“Finn,” said Liam. “What’s the craic?” They clapped hands and embraced.

The first thing Sean wanted to do was to ask about the hit, but he was well practiced in pretending to be someone he wasn’t, so he kept his conversation cordial, waiting for Liam to bring it up. “How’s he going?” Sean asked, gesturing at The Bullman, who was busting a sharp combo on his trainer’s pads.

Liam tilted his head, a habit usually reserved for discussing drug trafficking, and muttered, “He’s got talent but he’s a bit of a hothead. I should get him in with you. Teach him how to stay calm.”

“Calm?” Sean laughed. “I don’t remember being calm, I just remember being belted.”

“Nonsense,” said Liam. “I didn’t take you on cause you can scrap. I manage hundreds of boxers. They can all do that. You can handle pressure, Finn. That’s why we chose you for today.”

Sean’s insides tensed, but his eyes remained unflinching. “Nothing I ain’t done before.”

Sean hadn’t told Christy the entire truth last night. He had told him the hit was going to be today, which it was. He also said he didn’t know who they were taking out or where, and that was the truth. But he had said Liam wouldn’t be there, and that was bollocks.

“Well, you ain’t done none like this,” said Liam. “It’s a Garda. A dirty coppa.”

Sean looked towards the boxing class taking place on the floor, hiding his reaction from Liam. Cold air swept over his skin. His shoulders shuddered and his mind flashed to images from four years ago: He was twenty-seven and the bright lights dazzled overhead. The coach was there but he hardly remembered him. He remembered Mícheál and Liam in his corner. His opponent was some hard-bred scouser, as bald as a hard-boiled egg, with a mashed nose and a bitter scowl. The scouser eyeballed Sean, and Sean was shit scared.

“Don’t worry about that prick,” Liam had said. “He don’t look tough, it’s some inbred deformity.”

Sean turned and leant over the corner ring. Mícheál rubbed his shoulders, speaking sternly, “Come out with three fast jabs. Bam bam bam. He’ll slip the last one, then pow right hook. You tracking?”

Sean nodded and spat out agreement over his mouthguard.

“Alright,” said Liam. “Give ‘em hell.” The bell dinged.

It’d been a tough fight, one that went the distance and when it was all over, the name “Finn!” was called out. He’d won and the rest of the night was a blur down at Temple Bar. But before the first pint was raised, Sean had been overcome with a feeling, a deep relaxation that settled itself across every inch of his skin. A feeling that told him he didn’t have to watch over his shoulder anymore. A feeling that said, ‘relax. They trust you… and you trust them.’

“You trust me, don’t you Finn?” Liam patted his shoulder.

Sean swallowed and turned back to face him. “Of course I do,” he said, his heart burning. That same flame that used to cinder at almost every conversation in his first year while he wormed his way in. Now they had discovered he was undercover, that he was a rat, and they were going to off him.

“Good,” Liam said. “Trust is important.”

A car pulled up in the drive, visible beyond the shed’s rolled up door. Christy stepped out of the front, shot Sean a troubled glance, and opened the back door. Mícheál, the old-school hardman and head of the largest drug trafficking cartel in all of Europe, stepped out.

Mícheál, grey haired with a stalwart face, raised his hand and beckoned the two men. “Come on lads, Christy’s driving.”

In the backseat, Sean kept his arms folded, squeezing his ribcage as it rose and fell with measured breaths. Liam was on his left, silent and staring out the window as the streets of Dublin flitted by.

“I’ve been in this game for over thirty years,” said Mícheál from the front seat. “And I’ll tell ya one thing, I’ve learnt a lot. Firstly, if it falls into your lap, then it’s too good to be true. Left here,” he said to Christy.

Christy flicked the indicator. “If you tell me the location, I can just punch it into Maps.”

“No,” said Mícheál. “Where we’re going, I don’t want the phone to remember.”

Christy’s eyes burrowed into Sean through the rear-view-mirror.

Mícheál’s gnarled finger appeared in the space between the two front seats, and he continued, “Second thing relates to the first. Be careful who you let in. The people you shouldn’t trust, the ones who are out to get ya, they make it easy. Make your life seem easy, I mean. Anything worthwhile is earned through hard work. Same goes for loyalty. The same thing I’m telling you, Finn, I’ve been telling Liam all my life: if it comes easy, it’s cheap.”

Apart from the occasional direction from Mícheál, the rest of the drive was silent, although Sean was in constant communication to the Lord:

‘God Almighty, I ask for your courage as I venture once more into the crossroads. I’m torn between lives and ashamed to admit I have worn a mask for so long that I have forgotten my own face.

I used to honour this job, finding those who lived between the cracks of a broken system, but I find myself slipping deeper into the same space with each passing hour. I am in too deep, and I fear the greater sin: to break my oath to the Garda Síochána, or to turn my back on what has become my family. 

I’m to blame, Father. I sowed the seeds of betrayal, and now I reap the bitter harvest.

As Dublin has witnessed my struggle, may the heavens hear my plea. Pull me from this labyrinth, Lord, once and for all. Amen.’

Christy pulled up at Ballymun, just north of the M50. Their destination was a large pasture that stretched between Dublin Airport and a litter-filled caravan park.

“We’re walking,” said Mícheál.

The clouds above were a lamb of grey, and although the grass was short, the men seemed to trudge. They were heading in the direction of the airport, by the pasture’s boundary where a snarl of bushes clambered along a chain-link fence. A shovel stood pressed into a mound of dirt and beneath that opened a wide and deep hole.

“You really think we trusted you, you fucking rat?” said Mícheál, turning around with a black pistol in his hand.

Sean closed his eyes, trying to dampen his blazing heart. His lungs pulled in a thick breath of air which only fed the fire more oxygen. He wanted to cry like he almost did in the confession booth, and figured he very well might. Why not?

Sean opened his eyes and saw the pistol aimed straight at Christy.

“He’s an undercover,” said Mícheál. “Been pretending to be my driver, all the while sniffing around my backside.”

Christy’s hands were up, his eyes wide as headlights. “No. I’m no coppa.”

“Dirty bastard,” said Liam as he pulled out a pistol of his own, a small silver revolver.

Mícheál pointed at his son’s gun. “Finn, you’re doing the honours.”

Liam held out the revolver. “Do this, and you’re one of us for true.”

Sean took the revolver which was heavier than he anticipated. It sat in his palm, the same size as his hand. The bullets’ golden casings stuck out from the chambers. One sat by the pin, anticipating the spark that would explode Sean free from the maze that had become his life. He just didn’t know where to aim it. At Mícheál or Christy.

“Who owns this pasture?” Sean heard himself say.

“Don’t worry,” said Mícheál. “I know the farmer; the land is only ever used for grazing. The hole’s deep, and they don’t crop here. The soil will never be disturbed. No one will find him.”

Sean took a moment, hearing the screech of a plane’s engine as it readied for take-off, then he aimed the gun at Christy. “On your knees.”

Christy took a step back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Goddammit, get on your knees.”

Christy began to bend—

“Turn around,” said Sean, not wanting to see his face. “Turn around and get on your knees.”

Christy’s eyes were darting around as if trying to find some sense in the world. He turned and got on his knees. “Please,” he began. “Please please please, Jesus Christ. Please God, please.”

Sean stepped behind Christy and held the gun to his head. Off in the distance, a plane began its long ascent into the clouds above.

“Please,” mumbled Christy. “Sean please.”

Sean leant down, kissed Christy on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “My name is Finn.”