Witnesses

1998

1998The phone had rung twice in five minutes and lasted as long each time. Someone was persistent, and worried, lifted it when it rang again and listened to the rewind key that triggered the video cassetted memories so long paused in my head. Drowning the voice on the other end with its incessant questions, and without speaking ended the call. Half an hour later it rang again, once, and stopped, but my mind was flooded and blotted the tears on my face again, and the whispers began. The pause button now disengaged. The dead no longer muted, another having joined them, and knew this time they would not rest, nor allow me respite. My hand shook as I poured another whiskey, draining the mug as the archived tape in my mind continued to wind back to the events of long ago. I poured another larger tardis of memories and holding the bottle tightly to my chest raised the beaker in my trembling hand.

'To you Rod my old friend, Slainte,' and gulping the amber liquid down settled back in the old leather chair. Closing my eyes in solemn thought, unable to resist the pull of the year as it flooded my mind plunging me to another time and the wreck of the past. To the four friends in the old matinee movie with the same cast, and where it all began, with the two boys in once upon a time.

I left in a car named 'The Tardis' before 07:00 am, pretty much disgusted with life. I’d been eleven years and three months in the South of Ireland and was fed up with it, and if anyone had told me in 1989 that I’d have been there that length of time. I would have looked at them thinking they were mad, but I had, and that was a fact.

There was an ominous feeling that came over me approaching the Irish border that only anyone who has lived in the North would understand, and knew it wouldn’t be washed away with coffee.

The alcohol I’d consumed the night before. The broken sleep in the armchair and the name Morgan, had made me ill-natured enough without the unwelcome weather I drove into before Newry. Compounding the grim sensation slinking through me since I'd been awakened rather than woke, and still hungover when I’d dialled the number that was answered on the second ring.

''It's been a long time,'' they said.

''I'll be heading your way.''

''You heard then, when?''

''When I'm coffee'd up enough to drive.''

''That's not what I asked Tim, and you won't want to hear this but I'm going to say it anyway. I'm guessing it was Feets who rang you. Do not be meeting him until I talk with you. I'm arranging for you to stay in the Twilight. It's a good B&B, and out of the way. You do know though that it won't take them long to figure out you're back.''

''That you didn't die in 1972, and when they do, will go after you with everything they've got, meaning there's no need to flag your whereabouts to them.''

''They're more powerful than ever these days, and word is with these new talks, dirty deals already in place. Think legitimate gangsters who can hoover up anyone they want without fear of the law. So you'd better pull yourself together quickly Tim, because the city you left all those years ago is not the same as it was back then, and neither are its people.''

I bit my lip, more so to contain what had built up in me during the years of limbo'd exile. Twenty-six years of anguish and guilt piled atop another, and no matter how hard I drank, always there the next morning. I'd thought remaining obscured, detaching myself from the people I cared for was the way to go, it wasn't.

I knew what Kelly meant having kept up on the news from gossip town. A place that seemed to have oozed from tales of the unexpected. A succubus city draining the spirit from one and all. The sun nothing more than a spotlight there, and each day the same play on the same stage, but I trusted Kelly.

''Tim?''

''It was Feets. I thought it was you when it rang. I didn't say hello, just listened and only now questioning how he got the number because only you and Rod ever had it.''

''I recommend you stopping at Brady's in Downpatrick, the coffee packs a hit and they serve good food. Best disconnect that line before leaving. I'll see you soon.''

It wouldn't have done any good to tell him that a third person had the number, and that was down to Kelly.

''Take it Karen, in case you ever need him,'' and she had. Writing it into her pocket diary without a name, and whilst Feets had been hovering around her for the last couple of years, helping with the garden and any repairs she'd needed. Karen was careful, having learned to be the hard way.

It was only after talking with the landlord about Rod's possessions, clear how Feets had come by the number.

''I couldn't just throw his things out and phoned his cousin. When he came over I left him to it, but everything seems as it was. Probably nothing of value. If you wanna take anything, please do,'' said the landlord.

Kelly had searched, but there was no sign of the Filofax. The photo album had been a surprise with photos of the Whelan family, and of them as kids, when they knew how to smile. One photo of Rod with his Mother yelled out though. The date on the back said August-93, and taken by Dee. Emma Whelan's eyes still filled with pain and directly behind Mother and son, Tim's caravan. Funny that Feets had been saying for years, that Tim was alive, and maybe Rod in one of his drunken stupors had shown Feets the photos.

'At Tim's Caravan' was a big announcement. Thankfully, there were no mountains to be seen in the background, and caravan parks were many, not only in Ireland.

Remembering when Feets had suddenly become closer to Karen, and alarm bells had sounded.

Tailing him enough times to know he was working for the two branchmen and the corrupt Provo’s. Speculating thereafter how long he'd been on their payroll and what they had on him, but while they could run a trace for Tim, they'd find nothing.

The call from Feets would have been geared towards gathering information, like what road Tim would be taking into Belfast.

Presumably an arrest on a country road would be what the branchmen had in mind. Removing him then to a pre-arranged place, to torture, and then kill him, but Kelly had alternative plans and that’s why Tim needed to be in Downpatrick. The delay was important and the death to come, a necessary statement.

After removing the bum-line from its socket, I reset the cafe's upstairs extension nullifying the pirate line that Kelly had set up in 1989. A time of resolutions, promises, but had never went home. Never went North, and since I was supposed to be deceased, didn't really matter.

The name change was part of my madness to live ordinary, and as Jim Degan, had hope.

Before leaving, I’d sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette, recalling my arrival in Killymoon. It may have been a culchie town, and my family had old connections to it that I had wanted to explore, but didn’t, and while

it had become a sort of spiritual awakening for me. That was more so through the homeless people I'd come to know while working in the cafe that I managed getting day work in.

Soon enough grabbing any nights, and rather than throw away good food at the end of the shift, fed people.

Darby, Bill, and Breena had slept in the alleyway long before I'd arrived in the town, and having witnessed them lifting scraps from the skips took to wrapping the leftover food up in cling film. Placing the wraps on top of a wooden pallet with three bottles of lemonade that yours truly paid for.

It meant a lot to them, and sure counted a lot to me in the nights thereafter when sitting in their company many times to the break of dawn. There are though always those who look down on those less fortunate, and in Christmas week 1997. Eight years in the job and my shift over; carrying out food for the two old men and one elderly lady, to be disappointed.

Bob the owner and his sneering informant Mal, stepping out from the parked car. The baseball bats in their hands a statement of their intentions, and while the alley was floodlit, there was no CCTV.

''So, this is how you repay me giving you work and renting you a flat. By feeding these f*****g vultures my food. Go and pack your things Degan, you're fired. There'll be no severance pay either, looks to me like you used it all up on these bums. Now step aside or you'll be joining them in the morgue.''

I was tired of his bluster, and had had enough of his and Mal’s snarky remarks.

From beggars, tramps, and refugees from the North. To the s****l innuendos aimed at women who I'd presumed were local, but who'd never actually been present in the cafe, and had told them in no uncertain terms, a number of times, that it had to stop.

Mal had mocked me each time, but Bob quickly calling a halt to his mouthing, and usually patting my shoulder in mock surrender.

Those things were only pauses, and another day; launched their diatribes on a young woman who'd stopped in for a meal, who fled crying. Kelly had been present that time, and claiming to be a journalist, threatened the cafe with exposure. When Bob, Mal, and the Bowden brothers swamped the smaller Kelly at the doorway demanding the video camera, I stepped out from the kitchen.

Not to help Kelly, but to save them, because Kelly was a killer. I cleaned up the mess left behind, that was teeth and blood, telling Bob I was transferring to night-shift with immediate effect. I think he wanted to say something, but couldn't talk as I was crushing his windpipe. His eyes though told me it was good with him, and knew one day they'd seek retribution except that turned out to be one night.

''Step aside northerner or we do you first,'' screamed Mal.

''It’s ok sir, we’ll leave now. Please don't hurt the man, he didn’t mean any harm,'' said Breena.

''You’re going nowhere b***h. First, we're going to f**k your boyfriends up, then you in more ways than one,'' hissed Bob. Who along with Mal missed the joys of Christmas week that year.

Daithi 'Dee' Hansen, the local beat, and a boyhood friend from Belfast, accepted their statements of unknowns, but Dee knew the score.

I visited them in hospital on Boxing day just to be sure they had their stories right. Offering Bob a fair price for the cafe and the two flats above that went with it. He found it a little difficult to make his mark, but I helped him out, and even shook his broken hand on the deal. His gasp the affirmation of that deal.

My legal representative, like Dee had no problems writing their names, and witnessed me place the cheque for a thousand punts in Bob’s other broken hand, squeezing his fingers.

I thanked him for his business acumen, and wished him well for his future, but he became somewhat animated, and the others left us alone to speak in private.

It was hard to understand the gibberish coming from his broken jaw and mouth, and thinking some water would help him only made him choke, but thankfully he settled down once I’d whispered in the one ear he had left, about the money he’d save on headphones should the other one fall off.

I think he was happy with the deal though, I know that I was.

The largest of the accommodation had two bedrooms and I gave that to the old timers, and put them to work in a new business that I renamed 'The Exile.'

Two months later, Bill Monroe and Breena were married. Darby and I attended, both as friends and witnesses.

They didn't have a honeymoon, but to enable them some time together. Darby left for Drogheda and I; for the Wicklow mountains. Returning eight days later, to the news that Darby was dead, and the Monroe's still frightened from the visit of four men and the beating they’d suffered.

I killed Mal a week later. I couldn't find Bob, but left his bat at the murder scene and went looking for the Bowden's.

''My sons are on holiday, your workers must be confused, or going senile, and most likely your other worker was muddled too. Imagine trying to fish with broken arms,'' grinned Cat, before closing the door, and she was right.

Darby's autopsy confirmed two broken arms and a fractured skull. He was also found face down on the edge of Lough Varna, a fly rod next to him, but he'd never fished.