settle with all these fellas coming into the country and starting their own gigs.”
Breen leaned in over the table.
“Is that what’s going on at the moment, these shootings the past while?”
“‘Spring cleaning,’ Murph calls it.”
“Murph.”
“My contact, takes me around and about. My tour guide. Told me that the guy killed the other night was a friend of his. The name of Mulhall, I think.”
“Really,” said Breen. “Isn’t that kind of, well, too close for comfort? Pardon the cliche and all that.”
“Well Murph doesn’t seem to think so. ‘It’s only messers and two-timers need to worry,’ says he.”
“And this character was a friend of his,” said Breen. “What does he say about his enemies, I wonder.”
Fanning couldn’t be sure if Breen was ahead of him here in the irony stakes. He thought again of their early days together as students, when Breen was an awkward gobshite that he had taken under his wing in the Film Society.
“Murph’s not the fastest bunny in the forest, I have to say,” he said.
“You trust him?”
“As much as I trust any skanger, I suppose.”
Breen smiled.
“Plus he keeps telling me how well-in he is. Mr. Untouchable.”
Breen‘s smile faded into a dreamy look.
“‘Spring cleaning,’” he said. “‘The Rites of Spring.’ Plenty grotesque.”
He rearranged himself in his chair. His eyes slipped out of focus for several moments, and then snapped back to Fanning’s.
“Tell you what, Dermot Fanning: you’ve got the makings of a damn good documentary here. A damned good one.”
The anger detonated into Fanning’s chest. He tried to match Breen’s grin.
“We need the whole ball of wax,” he said. “Inside out. The full emotional whack: characters, levels, conflict. Family, feuds. Revenge. The voices, the faces. You won’t be able to take your eyes off them.”
“It sounds huge.”
“There’s a series in this, for sure. I’m telling you, I started out with the usual, you know: a knockout pilot, and eight episodes ready. But that won’t be enough, it just won’t. There’s so much.”
Breen smiled again.
“You are the real McCoy, Dermot. By Jesus. You’ve got the fire in you.”
“I hope that’s a good thing?”
“Of course it is, don’t be silly. Of course it is.”
“‘Stories tell the higher truth.’”
“I was waiting for that one,” said Breen.
Fanning didn’t want to notice that a tail of Breen’s shirt had become dislodged, and now hung over his belt.
“We’re talking The One,” he said. “Look, I know I’m just rabbiting on here. But have a look over the summary, the first chapter. I know you’re a busy man.”
“No sweat, Dermot. Never a problem. It’s the story, the writing, in the final analysis — always. And by God I know you have it in you.”
Fanning watched Breen’s hand resting on the folder, as though to guard it. He knew he should leave it at that, but he couldn’t resist.
“Ask me where I’m going right after,” he said. “Ask me.”
“Okay. Where are you off to?”
“A dog fight.”
Breen sat up.
“You mean dogs fighting?”
“Exactly. Murph has an in, and he’s bringing me.”
“Where are you going to see this?”
“About two miles from where we’re sitting.”
Fanning waited a few moments. He was pleased with Breen’s reaction.
“I don’t know the address,” he went on, “But it’s the real thing. And a lot of the big shots show up.”
“The bad guys.”
“Yep. It’s a kind of neutral place, where they might bump into one another but no-one starts throwing shapes. Business gets discussed, and all that. But it’s for betting. Been going on for years.”
Fanning finally felt he was getting through to Breen. He stared at him.
“Oh. And they go for blood-lust, I’d have to say. That medieval thing, it keeps on coming back, you see.”
Breen’s blank expression gave way a little. He gave Fanning a rueful look.
“Savage,” he said. “Incredible. But are you going to be able to handle it?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I.”
“Christ, I hope, you know…”
“I’ll be okay. But you can see where this could go.”
Breen nodded. Then something slid into his thoughts and his face changed.
“Absolutely, yes. Okay. Let me know. Okay?”
Fanning had chosen his words carefully for this moment.
“I wanted you to know first,” he said.
Breen’s schmoozing smile appeared He leaned on toward Fanning.
“Thanks, Dermot. That means a lot to me to hear you say that. A lot.”
“This is the one. I’m sure of it.”
“If anyone can get this — I mean really get it — it’s you, Dermot. We’ll talk?”
Chapter 6
The motorway began its long, banked inland, and Sugar Loaf mountain slid into view over the trees. Minogue eyed the low clouds shrouding its peak. The rain would surely have started up on Calary Bog and its Protestant church where they were headed.
“What?” Kilmartin asked, with the urgency of the suddenly awoken.
“You were asleep.”
“I am not. What did you say before that?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Well you cursed. Under your breath. That I know.”
“I must have been thinking of someone else.”
A heavily loaded lorry overtook them, swaying a little as it returned to its lane. There were left-hand drive cars coming toward Dublin from the Rosslare ferry now. Many towed caravans, French a lot of them.
Kilmartin sat up, and turned in his seat.
“Oh oh,” he said. “Thought I heard something. Action stations.”
The blue lights of the Garda car came up fast in Minogue’s mirror. He checked the speed, and felt for his wallet. The squad car went by at ninety. He got a quick look at the two Guards inside. They were in traffic gear. The passenger with a mobile to his ear looked to be about twenty.
“Bigger rogues than us to be chasing. What speed were you doing?”
“Seventy something,” Minogue said. “Eighty, maybe.”
He was already anticipating the route from the turn-off at Kilmacanogue, along the Roundwood Road that climbed up to Calary Bog.
It had been months since he had been up here. The houses would peter out within a half mile of the motorway, he recalled, and then more and more rock would surface in the scruffy, marginal fields. A mile or so in,
