Celtic Tiger

Celtic Tiger A novel by Evin Daly Editor: Dennis Liptrot © 1999-2009 Registered with the Library of Congress (ref 1-172339481) [email protected] Evin Daly Celtic Tiger (ii) Is é oileán na hÉireann go hiomlán, maille lena oiléan agus a fharraigí teorann, na críocha náisiúnta. The national territory consists of the whole island of Ireland, its islands and the territorial seas. Enacted by the People 1st July, 1937 In operation as from 29th December, 1937 Constitution of Ireland Evin Daly Celtic Tiger Page 1 The sun rose gently over the oily calm waters of Dublin Bay. Though it was mid-summer, the promise of a warm day was spoiled by a chill in the breeze. The River Liffey, the tidal artery that splits the ancient city in half, was swollen; its banks brimming to the top of its granite walls, the result of the combination of a high and Spring tide. The river’s dark waters gurgled as they mixed with the briny expanse of Dublin harbor, temporarily shielded from the open waters of the Irish Sea by the expansive stone arms of the protective Bull Walls. The morning light reflected in an orange glow off the eastern facing windows of the city buildings. The city was quiet, its inhabitants still in their slumber on this Sunday morning. Church bells pealed intermittently through the silence, their chimes marking the passage of time — it was too early for the first mass bell in this predominantly Catholic country. Dublin is a city in the throes of change; from a remote city situated on the fringe of continental Europe, into a truly European capital. Steeped in history, many of its grand buildings, notably the General Post Office, bear the scars of the violence that heralded the Republic’s Independence. The GPO’s six majestic columns are still pitted from the impact of bullets and shrapnel. The Vikings settled this city in A.D. 841 giving it its name Duibhlinn or “Black Pool,” since modified to its present spelling. College Green, the former seat of Parliament prior to 1804, and Trinity College basked in the warmth of the sunlight, their facades bleached near-white, not by sunlight, but from an intensive and successful battle by the city to scrub away two centuries of grime and soot. Grafton Street, the south-side’s main shopping thoroughfare, was quiet, it’s stores shuttered. The paved street was wet, garbage blowing in swirls. The upper windows of the buildings reflected the rising sun onto the street below. Two blocks away to the east the Sunday silence was disturbed. “Get these bastards outta here...”, Detective John Cullen motioned to his uniformed subordinate, in the direction of the media crews setting up on the other side of the now cordoned off section of Dawson Street. Cullen’s concern with the media was more for himself than the crime scene. He had been out until some hours before getting thoroughly plastered after what he recalled as “one bugger of a week.” In a dark mood he glowered at the cameras, his mouth dry, his breath putrid, as much from the booze as from the five Evin Daly Celtic Tiger Page 2 cigarettes he had already smoked on his ten minute ride to the city center. In his blind fumbling to get out of the house, he was unfortunately still dressed in the clothes he had worn the night before, evident for all to see, crumpled and all as they were. Shaunessy, his new side-kick, was uncertain how to handle this. The media wouldn’t budge even if he ordered them to leave at gun- point; they had a perfect right to be there, and Cullen knew it as well as Shaunessy. Spic and span, he had been in the force for four years; unlike his boss, he had little interest in drinking. His three months with Cullen had made him aware of the danger signals of an impending explosion of temper, so he did the right thing and changed the subject. “Don’t know how ya handle it boss,” he caught Cullen’s attention immediately, who turned on him, color rising in his face lest the young whipper snapper be referring to his fondness for the Guinness. “Handle what?” He dared him to say it, he’d knock his block off, if he said anything. “Oh, dealing with crap like this day in and day out, MB&R’s [murders, beatings and rapes]. Let’s go have a look-see.” Shaunessy sauntered off toward the blue tarpaulin that covered the front of the building. “Get used to it son, you will after a time.” Brazen little bastard, he thought, he was going to say it - he just found another way of doing it. Cullen didn’t appreciate the inference that he had a drinking problem. He was nothing like those losers at the AA meeting he had attended eight years before at the suggestion of the police human resources department. Wished he had a handful of aspirin. Better still, a hair of the dog - maybe the Pathologist had a flask. Maybe Jesus would appear and turn the pending rain into wine...he’d have smiled at his wit if it wouldn’t have hurt so much. Shaunessy smirked, breathing a sigh of relief as he saw Cullen follow. He didn’t want to be the lead story on the evening news — the rookie cop who had pissed off the media. Finding someone impaled onto the front door of the Lord Mayor’s house on a Sunday morning was, to put it mildly, disturbing. Worse, the television cameras had arrived before the still warm cadaver could be removed, tagged and bagged. When a group of late night revelers had come across the site less than an hour previously, the cadaver had been alive; stammering in a bloody rush, his tongue cut out, the door and the steps underneath awash with fresh blood. A soiled note printed on what was later determined to be government stationery was found tacked to the door. After it was photographed in position, it was carefully removed for later forensic examination. It could hardly have been described as a person at all. His mind was gone as were his fingers, cut to the stumps. His eyes, what was Evin Daly Celtic Tiger Page 3 left of them, scudded around aimlessly, sightless, the eyeballs empty of fluid, dribbling coagulated dark clotted blood onto his deeply bruised and lacerated cheeks. That he was alive at all was a miracle. Shock should have taken over, driving his suffering mind into oblivion. But he was pumped full of amphetamines, delivered intravenously, awakening his brain to the torment emanating from his exposed nerve endings. What distracted the media was the reptilian-like coil that lay at his feet protruding from his abdomen like a hose. He had been disemboweled as a parting gesture. The ambulance which arrived at the scene carried qualified medical personnel, none of whom knew what to do. It took the empathy of a passing surgeon on his way home after pulling two shifts at the Mater Hospital, attracted by the flashing lights and his medical instinct, to put the guy out of his misery. Administering an oddly high dosage of morphine, injected slowly, the body slumped first into unconsciousness and, after a few long seconds, shuddered into death. The white stumps of his fingers stopped moving within seconds as his heart, already at the point of seizing, froze, clenched in contraction. The ambulance crew followed the doctor’s example after he had retrieved a pair of heavy pliers from the building’s janitor. They helped him lower the cadaver, vomit and blood stained, its dead weight unyielding as they heaved and shoved, as if trying to minimize suffering. The coroner and the forensic Pathologist on call were not so pleased that the body had been touched at all. Crucial evidence could have been disturbed but the surgeon was in no mood. They were all good friends anyway, knowing each other in the Dublin medical social circles. All knew that their plans for Sunday lunch were shot. The surgeon was somber as he walked to his car, a numbness spreading throughout his body as his anticipated day of golf at Portmarnock was replaced by the unexpected emotions resulting from his first mercy killing. The paramedics would have nightmares for some time afterwards. The sight of the amphetamine saturated flesh twitching as it lay on a gurney, intestines draped over it like a huge coiled worm would make certain of that. Cullen’s first thought was that the hardwood door would have to be refinished, though the holes through which the dozen or so nails had been driven could be easily disguised, albeit putty-filled. It would take repeated sanding to remove the body fluid stains, he thought as he let Shaunessy take the notes. He thought the better of asking Pathologist O’Connor for an aspirin, he looked a bit the worse for wear himself. Everyone from the department was busy taking photographs, interviewing the ashen faced, and quickly sobered, crew who found the victim. They wouldn’t be able to handle even the thought of breakfast for the rest of the day. Evin Daly Celtic Tiger Page 4 “Phil,” Cullen grunted to his side-kick who wasn’t looking the best himself as he tried to avoid looking at the body but was still drawn to look, fascinated by it. “Phil, for fuck’s sake...” “Yeah boss.” “Lets go over to South Anne’s Street and grab a bite...and a fuckin’ aspirin.” “Right yer are boss,” Shaunessy was only too happy to get away.

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