Ah! que la vie est quotidienne.
(Oh, what a day-to-day business life is.)
Jules Laforgue, Complainte sur certains ennuis
The John Hewitt had been packed with afternoon diners, barflies and the inevitable freeloaders looking for liquid freebies, but, as Karl had predicted, the crowd was now dispersing to greener pastures. The legendary wolf pack of booze-nosed journalists who monopolised the long wooden counter had all but disappeared, leaving only a small hard-core to protect the fort against marauding non-combatant civilians.
Karl sat in the back room, watching the front door, his back against the wall – a habit he had picked up in his card-playing career. He was drinking a glass of water – a sacrilege in the cosy pub and restaurant, but he wanted to keep his head clear.
Just as he glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, a familiar figure entered through the doors, glancing about.
Stocky, bearded, a well-worn face and wearing a cut-off sheepskin jacket, Ciarán Murphy looked every inch the fierce mountain man he was. Three years ago, Ciarán had been languishing in a prison cell, charged with the murder of a man found with his throat cut in a secluded forest section of the Cave Hill, just outside Belfast. The man, a notorious sex fiend, had raped Ciarán’s young daughter, Bronagh.
Fortunately for Ciarán, his wife Greta – a childhood girlfriend of Karl – contacted the PI, pleading for any help he could give. Within days, through his criminal and police contacts, Karl had the information he needed. The only witness against Ciarán, Jimmy Grason, had been a police informer, a fact not disclosed before or during the trial. Grason himself was suspected of having committed sex attacks over the years, but was seen as too valuable an informant for the police to put in jail. The case was quickly dropped.
Karl raised his hand, and Ciarán nodded before threading his way between tables to the back room.
‘How’s it hanging, Karl?’ said Ciarán, sitting down.
‘Like that lousy bastard, Albert Pierrepoint. What’re you having?’
‘I wouldn’t ignore a pint of Harp if someone was kind enough to place it in front of me.’ Ciarán smiled, showing more gaps than teeth, a testimony to the many legendary scraps he had been involved in as a bare-knuckle street fighter in the bloody and dirty streets of Belfast.
‘How’s the family doing?’
‘Doing great. Greta said hello. Your own?’
‘I haven’t heard any of them complaining lately, so I must be doing something right.’
More small-talk ensued until the waiter brought the pint of Harp. Ciarán made half of it disappear in a two-second gulp, while Karl paid.
‘Thirsty, were you, Ciarán?’
‘Just wetting a parched throat.’
Karl waited until the waiter left before getting down to business.
‘This rodent is not your typical run-of-the-mill type. It’s dangerous. Very dangerous. I’ve tried to persuade it to leave – verbally and forcefully – but it’s stubborn, to say the least. My way wasn’t too effective, I have to admit now.’
‘No problem. I’m probably a bit more persuasive than you. Do you want it exterminated, never to be seen again?’
‘No. Nothing like that. I don’t mind the never-to-be-seen-again bit, but not exterminated. Just that it goes back to where it belongs – and stays there, never to darken these lovely shores again with its greasy tail.’
‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of accommodation, Karl.’
From his pocket, Ciarán produced a packet of mints and offered the open roll to Karl.
Out of politeness, Karl availed himself of one. It was warm, the heat generated from the pocket nestling close to Ciarán’s ballbag. Karl gingerly placed the mint in his pocket, saying he would have it later. He removed an envelope from the same pocket, handing it to Ciarán.
‘All the details are in here, along with a few expenses.’
‘I don’t want any money. I owe you big time.’
‘Take it. Get yourself some sleeves for that coat.’
Ciarán grinned. Pocketed the envelope. Finished the remaining beer in one swallow. Stood. Shook Karl’s hand. Left the pub. No more words spoken.
Karl made himself scarce a minute later.