13

Hannah dropped Noelie back to Martin’s; the plan was that Noelie would crash there for the night. She advised him to get some sleep. In the morning, she’d go with him to his sister’s and they’d help with the search. Martin said he’d like to come as well. He was on flexi hours and could go into work later.

As soon as Hannah left, Noelie called Ellen. She had a bit of news.

‘They’ve been through Shane’s mobile phone records. It seems as if his phone was switched off near Turner’s Cross around 3 p.m. In the morning, at first light, the search will focus on that area.’ Noelie said he’d be there.

He had one last idea. He drove back across town and up Cathedral Road. Passing the Dalton house he considered calling in but decided against it. At the junction with Knocknaheeny, he drove into a black pall of smoke drifting across the road from a nearby bonfire. Noelie slowed to a halt; he could barely see ahead. Somewhere in the distance a lively singsong was in progress. It was a city tradition to host community fires on St John’s Eve. Hundreds of bonfires, big and small, were being held around the county. When the smoke finally lifted, Noelie drove on.

Ardcullen estate was a triangle of houses off Augustine’s Drive, almost at the very top of Cork’s northside. It looked bleak and deserted. If there had been a local bonfire in the area it was long over with. Number 27 was on the back row. Years before when Noelie had last visited, he had found the house easily because of all the Celtic FC paraphernalia in the windows. That had since been dispensed with. There were no lights on but Noelie rang the bell anyway. On the second attempt he heard a door opening inside. A hall light came on and then a porch light. It took Goggin a few seconds to recognise his visitor.

‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Noelie Sullivan.’

‘Can I come in?’

Goggin hesitated and looked at his watch; it was nearly 11 p.m. ‘What is it?’

‘Need to ask you something.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

Goggin moved aside to let Noelie pass. The two of them went back as far as 1981 when they spent an evening together in a cell in Bridewell Garda Station in Cork after a particularly spirited anti-H-Block protest in the city. They were about the same age but while in the cell they also discovered that they had gone to the same school. It was a tenuous link but for some reason it mattered to them both. A while later Noelie helped Goggin find a good lawyer after Goggin was beaten up in the back of a garda squad car; different occasion, same cause. Goggin won a few grand in compensation for the assault and Noelie wasn’t forgotten.

That was a long time ago. Eventually Noelie left for New York and spent the best part of thirteen years in the States. On his return in the late nineties, he made an effort to get involved in politics again. A campaign against the privatisation of bin collections was underway. Through that he met Goggin again. He tried to renew their friendship but too much had changed.

By the turn of the millennium the electoral wing of the IRA, Sinn Féin, was busy cultivating a moderate, peaceful image. Goggin was now a party member and he seemed to be at the forefront of these efforts. He no longer wanted to debate any issue. The Good Friday Agreement, in particular, was off the agenda. Noelie found his old associate to be very defensive, as if he was now in charge of some holy canon that proclaimed that Sinn Féin and the IRA had only ever wanted peace on earth. Noelie knew that that wasn’t quite the truth.

They went into a small sitting room with an enormous flat-screen TV against one wall. Goggin didn’t sit but Noelie did anyway. He didn’t know how to begin.

‘So?’

‘I need to talk to someone high up in the Provos. Here in Cork. Tonight.’

Goggin’s face broke into a smile. ‘Are you on something?’ he asked.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Serious back, Noelie. Like, what the fuck? The Provos? What Provos? Haven’t you heard? They disbanded. The Provos don’t exist any more.’

As if to prove the point, Noelie noticed a stack of leaflets in the corner of the room. They showed the iconic Sinn Féin logo – an F plaitted through an S – printed on a background of the Irish national colours of green, white and gold. It was like the material was there to prove that Goggin was telling the truth and of course, in a way, he was. But Noelie was desperate.

‘My nephew’s gone missing. Happened yesterday.’ He hesitated. ‘I found this material about a supposed grass inside Sinn Féin. Have you ever heard of Jim Dalton?’

Goggin’s face lost its bemused appearance. Noelie continued anyway. ‘It seems like the cops may have set Dalton up, way back.’

Noelie’s host waved his hands wildly. ‘Not interested.’

‘Just listen.’

‘I know the Daltons, they’re trouble. I don’t want to know any more.’

‘Just give me a name then, someone I could go to.’

Goggin went to the sitting room door and held it wide open. He looked pissed off. ‘Bye.’

Noelie knew that this had always been a possible outcome but he remained sitting. Goggin rattled the door handle.

‘I said get out.’

Noelie left without another word. Outside on the path, he heard the door slam shut behind him. Immediately he smelled burning rubber in the night air. Walking to his car he also heard something unusual. It was loud and it came from high up in the sky. Eventually he saw a projection of light, as straight as a laser beam, being directed downwards over the centre of the city. It was a helicopter and he guessed it was positioned over the Lee. Could it be search and rescue checking along the river’s course, looking for Shane?

He sat in his car and put his head on the steering wheel.