Holy guacamole!

The first time I spoke to Rebecca I was switchin around discount labels in Marks and Spencer’s food hall. I’d only seen her once before and couldn’t get her out of my head. Somehow I managed to get her to go for a drink. When the day came for it I was sick with nerves. Jody says to me at karate: “only one thing for it, lad. A couple of lines of Charlie and you’ll be right as rain.” I was always a great man for a spliff. I’d be smokin that doobie like a cobra suckin an egg. But never had coke. One line of it and I felt as cool as a snowdrop on George Clooney’s tuxedo. The date went better than I ever expected. She and I had a fine little romance. But after a few weeks, things went gaw-faced. After that, no matter how much of the stuff I stuck up my nose, it wore off fairly sharpish. I never felt as bad in my life…

I blame it on Rebecca. She’s the reason I’m in this mess. Here’s me on the Belfast-Dublin train, stealin squints every few minutes at the battered suitcase above my head. Liftin that thing onto the rack nearly put my back out. All I can think is: what’s inside? Whatever it is it’s bangin against the inside of the suitcase as the train goes from side to side like a mouldy auld lad makin his way home after the pub. Must be drugs, I says to meself. Too small for antin else.

Look round the train. No funny looks from anyone. An old lady to me right, bubble-wrapped in her thoughts. A businessman opposite her, big farmer’s head on him and little beady brown eyes, up to the gills in his Irish Times. The headlines blur together as I try to read them to focus on antin else for a minute or two.

In fairness, it’s not Rebecca’s fault at all. I just got up to ninety on a stupid and dangerous drug on account of me own stupid and dangerous carry on. It’s me own fault for not bein confident enough. Shure the worst person to doubt you is always yourself.

Tune out now for a few minutes. Turn off the tap. A whole lorryful of thoughts, no stoppin them when they come. No stoppin the rain on the island. I’m sure the shame is painted all over me face. Just pulled away from Dundalk now, two more stops to go. The ticket collector drops by every few miles. Big belly on him, looks like he’s had way too many hang sangvidges. A text from one of the lads. A load of drugs just went missin from a Garda station in Drogheda. Someone’s done a meme callin the place Drugheada.

I’m not sure about your man across the way. Is he lookin at me or am I just lookin at him? He’s still readin his paper. Shure anyone at all could be readin the Irish Times, pretendin to be respectable.

The train slows down comin into Drogheda and the old lady gets off. The businessman across the way puts his newspaper down. Two Gardai are in front of us now, movin around in slow motion. Checkin everyone’s bags they are. Oh Jaysus, I think, this is it now. Game over. It’s drugs alright in the suitcase. One of them looks down at me and points up to the case.

“Who owns this big yoke?”

The first thing that occurs to me is to say “it’s mine, lad, reel me in. I’m ready for a grillin!” But then the businessman across the way sticks his finger in the air.

“I do,” he says. He holds the Garda’s gaze, whips out sometin from his inside pocket and shows it to the Garda.

An ID card.

“Forensic evidence,” says he. “Dissident Republicans.”

“Oh very good. Thanks, Inspector,” says the Garda, and moves off.

Well wasn’t that some turn up for the books! I suppose now’s as good a time as any for a little celebration. George Clooney is waitin on me for an auld chinwag. Off to the jacks I go, me and me Dyson. I do a couple of quick lines, then another one. Things start to look a fair bit brighter now. For a few minutes, anyway; the panic and paranoia will be back shortly, throwin a cat among the pigeons. A right smack in the gob for the body and brain.

There’s only meself and himself in the carriage now. He keeps avoidin lookin over at me like I’m invisible. I can feel the train chug-chug more and more slowly as it glides into Dublin.

“When we get to Connolly, you walk ahead with the case,” he says, without lookin at me. “Understood?”

“What’s in it, anyway?” I says to him, cocky as you like.

“Something that’s no concern of yours,” he says. Still no eye contact.

“Oh, I’d say it is, now!” says I. “I’d say it’s every concern of mine. Considerin what I’ve been through these past few hours!”

In the heel of the hunt he looks at me. A pair of bitter, hateful eyes. There’s not a word out of him. But it’s the eyes that are doin the talkin and I hear every word of what they’re sayin. “You’re nothin, lad. Worse, actually. Less than nothing. The place be far better without you. A minus to a plus when they’re puttin you in the ground.”

My heart is thumpin away like there’s no tomorrow. Feels like there’s a snake in me throat.  

I can feel the sting of a tear behind my eyes, like acid splashin on the heart. A righteous rage piles up inside me.

I let a savage roar out of me. “Hey! What’s in the fucken case?”

No answer. The same sneer on the same snout. Same little snake eyes rollin around in his head.

I raise me voice now and slow it down, like you see sometimes in the movies. “Ah shure, don’t I know! An illegal consignment of hang sangvidges!” 

A watery auld smirk from himself, but still no answer.

Up I gets and pulls the case down onto the seat. A hoor of an electric shock shoots up my spine. Up he jumps. But I’m ready for him. I land him a stinger of an elbow in the gob. GAA special. He’s a big lump of a lad but it’s all flab. Stunned, he is. Stunned and disgusted, holdin his mouth and lookin at the blood on his fingers. He reaches around and what do you think comes out from under him but a big dirty fuckin black gun.

I feel the cold tip of the barrel as it touches my forehead. Now I’m holdin my breath, tryin to think of the most important thing of all for the moment that’s in it. And all I can come up with is: Rebecca. Jesus! But before I die I need to know somethin. It’s the only thing I need to know before he blows the head off me. Even more so than antin to do with Rebecca.

“WHAT’S IN THE FUCKEN CASE?”

I can see his beady little snake eyes in a blur, either side of the barrel.

“It’s none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Snakey. It’s all of my business!”

“Who are you callin’ ‘Snakey’?”

“You, ya cunt. You with your snakey eyes.”

“I’ll give ya Snakey, ya little prick!”

He takes a breath and breathes it out like there’s a bad taste in his mouth.

I hear the click as he pulls back the hammer.   

But there’s a change in the air. It’s like a crabby old cloud has shimmied in across the mountain. And a voice behind us, just inside the door to the carriage, lets out:

“Special Branch. Put down the fuckin gun!”

“This is police business,” Snakey roars. “Now fuck off!” The barrel of the gun wobbles against the side of me head.

“You’re no policeman, Cornelius,” the voice says. “I’ll give you three seconds. Then I’m goin’ to blow your face off. One!” 

“‘Cornelius!’” says I, thinkin I’ll land meself in a woeful fit of hysterics. “What kind of a name is that, Snakey?”

“Shut up, ya little prick!” says Cornelius.

“Two!”

“Would you not shorten it to Con or sometin sensible?” says I. “Con. That would suit ya. You bein’ a fuckin con artist!”

“Do you know what the two of youse can do?” says Cornelius. “You can go fuck yourselves!”

He shifts away from me and the gun comes away from my head. I look up and Cornelius is facin the voice, liftin his gun to cock it before he fires.

Now I can hear footsteps comin up the aisle from the other side of the carriage. All I can see is the back of Cornelius’s head. Then I can’t see it anymore. There’s a ferocious bang and the back of his head explodes. I look to my left and there’s a bloke in plain clothes with a dinky little machine gun, an Uzi I think, and a big red sweaty face on him. ‘Tis him that’s done the damage.

The voice comes up to me and looks at the case. He unzips it and flips back the top. Once it’s open, there’s a light that comes out of it. It’s the light you’d see in a traditional Irish pub. A shiny, brandy-coloured light that will keep you there skullin drinks all day if that’s your weakness. I peek inside and the skin is the first thing I notice. As brown as mahogany. A web of masking tape wrapped around the mouth, and the arms and legs are tied. It’s the tidiest little dwarf you’ve ever seen.

“Holy guacamole!” says the voice. “If it isn’t the little fella from Game of Thrones!”

The voice says: “is this your case?”

“Like fuck it is!” I reply. “That dwarf is as new to me as it is to you.”

“Are you sure about that now?”

“Shure didn’t Cornelius tell the Garda that got on at Drogheda ’twas his? Check yourself if you think I’m lyin’.”

“Oh, Cornelius!” says the one with the Uzi, lookin down at the corpse. “What are we goin’ to do with you at all at all?”

“Your man Cornelius,” says I to the Uzi fella. “What’s his game?”

The Uzi fella takes a breath and lets it out slowly, like he’s sorry it’s leavin him.

“The biggest chancer you’ll ever meet. A forger, fraudster, trafficker of drugs and humans, and whatever you’re havin’ yourself.”

A sound you wouldn’t hear very often breaks the silence. It’s the sound of a gagged, bound and knackered little dwarf. The poor little fella is havin the grandaddy of all panic attacks.