It’s a miracle she hasn’t frozen to death, or at least succumbed to double pneumonia! The burly inspector mused, eyeing the scantily-clad lady-of-the-night turn her back to the biting east wind in a fruitless attempt to light a cigarette.
“I hate this job.” The young detective Garda muttered from the driver’s seat of the unmarked police car.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mac glanced sidelong at his colleague.
“Well, in any other job, I’d be either out on the town or tucked up in my bed at this hour.”
“There’s fear of you; aren’t we out of the weather? Not like that poor misfortune over there.” Mac lowered his window. “Hey; over here.” To the young detective’s amazement, the inspector beckoned the girl towards him.
“You can’t, we’re supposed to be on discreet observation.”
“What better cover could there be than to be seen propositioning a working-girl?” Mac favoured his apprentice with a wink as the shivering girl cautiously approached the vehicle. “Sit in.” Mac prompted, remotely unlocking the rear passenger door.
“Got a light?” She asked, ignoring the invitation.
“Sit in for a minute,” Mac repeated, flourishing a brass zippo lighter.
“Are you arresting me?” Her pale blue eyes flickered challengingly as she pulled the door shut. “Because if you’re not, I must warn you that cops have to pay just like everyone else.” Sweeping her long fair hair back from her face with splayed fingers, she leaned towards the lighter.
“Cops; what makes you think we’re cops?” Mac asked with feigned astonishment, flicking the lighter to life but holding it just beyond her reach.
“How much do you expect for a bloody light anyway?” As her hand darted towards the door handle, the central locking mechanism clicked home.
“It’s alright, Angel.” Mac sighed, handing the lighter to her. Angel lit her cigarette and took a couple of deep drags.
“If you already know my name; why are you watching me?” Smoke filtered through her crimson lips.
“Maybe we’re just making sure that you don’t fall into bad company; these are dangerous times.”
“Look,” she exhaled loudly, glancing from one amused face to the other, “it doesn’t matter a damn to me either way, but if it’s the coke boys you’re after, you’re wasting your time; they’re not there. If I were you, I’d try again in a few hours – maybe half-four or five. Can I go now?” At Mac’s pensive nod, his driver released the locks. Wordlessly, the girl slipped from the vehicle. Pausing at Mac’s window, she reached the lighter towards him. He shrugged.
“Keep it.”
“Thanks, I will,” she said, spinning back towards her beat in a swirl of smoke.
“Well, boss;” drumming his palms on the steering wheel, the driver eyed Mac expectantly, “do we go or stay put?”
“Wait a while.”
“I didn’t believe her either.” The Garda nodded, pleased that his superior concurred with his conclusion.
“I never said that I didn’t believe her,” Mac corrected softly.
“But she’s a whore; you can’t…”
“Take the word of a whore? Danny, I know a few whores whom I’d trust far quicker than some of the brass in this job!” As Danny digested the inspector’s words, a dark Mercedes cruised to a halt beside the girl.
“Get his registration.” Mac hissed as, after a brief discussion, the girl boarded the vehicle. “Right, now we can go.”
“Follow them?” Danny prompted, starting the engine.
“No, I think we deserve a cup of coffee.” As they turned right over the bridge and headed down the north quays towards the festive city lights, Mac had a question. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’ll be going home for a few days; yourself?”
“Ah, the usual.”
Four hours later, Mac returned the baleful glares of the five suspects in the Garda paddy wagon. Meanwhile, the white-suited forensic officers continued to ferry evidence from the terraced Georgian building to an awaiting armour-plated van.
“You called it right: Mac, deciding to go along with Mother Teresa.”
“Thanks, Danny, but the best Mother Teresa can achieve is sainthood; we have our very own Angel.”
“What decided you to go for it?”
“She spends more time patrolling this patch than we could ever hope to.”
“But how did you know you could trust her?”
“I didn’t, but in my experience people rarely lie unless they have a very good reason. Now, she knew we weren’t interested in her business, so the only reason she’d have to lie is if she was involved with the gang; in which case, the very least we stood to gain was another angle to the investigation.”
“She knew you’d lean on her if she set us up?”
“Not on her; on her punters, that’s where it hurts. Did you get the number of that Merc?”
“What Merc?”
“Good man!” The inspector lumbered towards the car. “Come on; let’s see if we can get a song or two out of those cherubs before their guardian angels show up!”
It was shortly before noon when Mac finally made it home to his Christchurch apartment; home to the same emptiness that awaited him every time he concluded a case. Free at last, he thought, flicking through the TV channels, free for a whole three days; free until the Santa shift on Christmas morning – free! Free to do what, and with whom? Sighing, he pulled off his shoes and swung his stockinged feet onto the couch. Almost instantly, he slept.
He turned right at O’Connell Bridge and started up the south quays. Why was he driving; why was he alone in the car? Both quays were choked with Christmas shoppers: fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, babies; people everywhere. Smiling, chatting, gesturing; each one interacting with everyone else. All ages, all races, all languages; all going home; home! It was then he spotted her: Mary, snug in her new fawn coat with the fake fur collar. Swinging from her hands, Bobby and Jenny skipped along apace, the flashing multicoloured lights reflected in their shining eyes. Too late, he saw the Santa hat immediately in his path. Even as he leapt on the brake pedal, he felt the sickening thud, as flowing fair hair, low-cut white lace blouse and black leather mini-skirt shot over his windscreen, the scarlet nails of her long slim fingers clawing at the crisp evening air. Angel! He had killed Angel! “No!” he screamed.
“No, no, no!” Falling sideways off the couch, his forehead hit the edge of the coffee table a glancing blow. Stifling an oath, he raised an exploratory hand, hoping against hope that the oozing clamminess on his brow was due to sweat; it wasn’t. A quick wipe with a dampened towel revealed only superficial damage. Mac grunted his relief: there would be some bruising for a few days, but he had survived worse.
“Cut yourself shaving, Mac?” The barman grinned, placing the customary coffee before the policeman.
“A perk of the job,” Mac replied eyeing the cup distastefully. “Give me a half-one as well.” The barman raised a questioning eyebrow; the inspector scowled. “It is bloody Christmas; isn’t it?” He downed the raw whisky in a single gulp and stormed towards the door. Back on the street, he shouldered his way through the little crescent of humanity that had paused to listen to a group of carol singers, and then headed towards Temple Bar. That’s the beauty of the city, he mused, rounding a corner, we’re always just a few steps away from anonymity.
By the time he encountered the two younger men, Mac had long lost count of the number of drinks he’d had, and the number of bars he’d visited. Was the music here even louder than in the previous pub? It must be: his head was throbbing. He called another round; that was the great thing about drink: usually he wouldn’t be seen dead talking to his present company. Why are people so quick to pass judgement? Everyone should be given a chance; after all, it was Christmas. But something was wrong; why was the barman shouting, enough? Enough? Mac knew when he’d had enough, and it wasn’t now; but everything was okay, his friends were taking care of him. Cool night; the music fading; no traffic; darkness; he is falling. No, he is being forced to the ground; he is being mugged; mugged? Blindly he swung his right fist and was rewarded with the satisfying crunch of knuckle on nasal cartilage. Scrambling to his knees, he managed to deflect the kick that was aimed at his head. Grabbing the foot, he twisted it viciously; that was when he felt a weird numbing sensation, just to the left of his navel.
The light hurt his eyes. As he blinked furiously, a face slowly swam into focus, Angel!? No, it wasn’t Angel but it was an angel, a real angel; she had a halo! The vision moved closer; the halo seeming to evaporate as she moved clear of the circular ceiling light: a nurse, he was alive! Her lips moved, but no sound came; he tried to speak but his throat burned. She pressed a tasteless lollipop against his lips; he tried to bite into its tantalisingly cool moistness. No, no! His brain screamed as lollipop, angel and ceiling all faded to oblivion.
The scene was repeated whenever he opened his eyes: time after time the fleeting ecstasy of water on his lips, only for it to be withdrawn as suddenly as it had been applied. The nurse was talking again; this time he could hear.
“Take it easy, you’ve been through a rough old time. Do you know what happened to you?” After a lot of effort he managed to croak.
“No; was I mugged?”
“Don’t try to talk; let me explain. You’ve had surgery – three days ago – you sustained a stab wound to your bowel. It was touch-and-go for a while but, fortunately, your colleagues got you here in time. You’re out of danger now and we hope to have you out on the ward in a day or two. It could have been a different story if you’d had to wait for an ambulance.”
“Water, please?” She produced the lollipop again.
“I know this isn’t much help but I’m afraid it’ll be a while before you can have a proper drink.”
“Never again,” he mumbled, misunderstanding; “never again!”
Three days later, Mac tested his throat on his first visitor.
“It’s great. I don’t have to leave the bed for anything. I don’t eat, I don’t drink, I don’t even have to go to the jacks, and I don’t have to put up with your driving.”
“Ah, you’re on the mend, it’s just a pity the surgeon didn’t remove the contrariness.” Danny grinned.
“Thanks to you, Danny; I owe you.”
“I only drove the bloody car; it’s your guardian angel you should be thanking, ‘twas she found you.”
“She; who?”
“Angel. Your snitch; she turned out to be your guardian angel after all. She nearly fell over you, and once she recognised you she called the station. As luck would have it, I was just across the river when it hit the radio.”
“Have we got an address for her?”
“She phoned anonymously, but she stayed with you until I got there.”
“I’ll be out of here in about a week; you have until then to find her address.”
Another three weeks went by before Mac was strong enough to make the visit.
“Really, it’s no trouble to wait.” Danny teased as he stopped the car outside Angel’s Usher’s Quay apartment.
“Scram! I’ll call you when I’m ready.” Mac growled, wincing as he eased himself from the car.
Mac was disappointed by Angel’s appearance. Instead of the expected revealing top and short skirt, she wore a loose Aran sweater over shapeless navy tracksuit bottoms. She was barefoot, and devoid of jewellery and make-up, and with her hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked the epitome of vulnerability.
“Is this a good idea?” She asked, eyeing him closely.
“I thought I should at least say thanks!” She stepped aside; he nodded and edged past her, pausing uncertainly in the narrow hallway.
“It’s straight through!” Closing the front door, she waved him forward, following closely behind. “Tea?” she suggested “Or a drink; I think I have…!”
“Tea is good, thanks.” He took the indicated seat. “You’re cosy here, Angel.” Mac scanned the lived-in order of the compact room. His arrival drew only a passing glance from the tiny tabby kitten that toyed with a bespectacled Santa doll in a box of rainbow tinsel.
“It does the job, and my proper name is Angela!” She said, wiping a corner of the coffee table with her sleeve.
“Is there anything you want; anything I could get for you?”
She poured two mugs of tea and then flopped into her other armchair. Flicking the zippo lighter to her cigarette, she shook her head.
“Look around you,” she waved a dismissive arm; “what could I possibly need?”
“How did you find me?” He asked, nibbling at a chocolate-chip cookie.
“I saw you in the pub with those guys. I don’t usually do the pubs but, it being Christmas, there weren’t many punters on the street; you know, with plenty available crumpet at office parties, or brownie points with wives and girlfriends! I was worried, so I followed you outside. I knew it was serious when they ran out of the alley. It didn’t take long to find you. I had the number of the cop shop in my phone; I remembered your name from the report of that drugs-bust in the papers.” She paused to take a pull of her cigarette and then nodded towards his midriff. “How bad is it?”
“Well, the worst thing is this bag.” he patted his left side. “You see, they had to do a stoma on me – until the bowel recovers – it’ll be gone in a few months; I guess I’ll be grounded until then.” She nodded sympathetically.
“I know;” she nodded sympathetically, “they’re messy things. My mother had one, towards the end.”
“I’m sorry. How old were you?”
“Fourteen; fourteen going on forty…” She took a final pull of her cigarette, emitting a little hollow laugh as she extinguished it in a Mickey Mouse ashtray.
“Have you other family?” He probed gently; she shook her head.
“Nope, that was it; just her and me.”
“But how; how did you survive on your own?” Angela lit another cigarette.
“How old would you say I am?”
“I couldn’t really say; it’s always difficult with girls.”
“Well, there you are. Even an old street-wise cop can’t tell.” She grinned at the horror in his eyes. “Relax, Inspector, I’m legal now, or should I say, of legal age…”
“God, you’re younger than my daughter!” He gasped, shocked at the thought.
“Maybe in years…” Her smile stopped someway short of her eyes. “It’s not that bad, Inspector, I wasn’t exactly a child prostitute! After Mum died, I was farmed out to an aunt, down the country. I went back to school and things were all right for about a year but then her husband began to take an interest in me.” Mac stifled a curse; Angela glanced at her watch. “Whenever she’d go out: to bingo or to the ICA or even to confession, he’d get fresh. At first he was all nice and friendly, giving me cigarettes and offering me drink, but I soon discovered that everything has its price. The day that I finished my Junior Cert, I raided his secret gambling fund and just took off. It was the summer holidays, so my old Dublin friends’ parents didn’t take any notice when I stopped for a few days here and there. While hanging around the city, I came to the conclusion that, if he had wanted me; others would, so why not get paid for it?” She checked her watch again; Mac stirred uneasily in his seat.
“If it’s the time, I, I, I’ll pay you…” he stammered, fumbling with his wallet.
“No, no,” This time her laugh was genuine. “It’s far too early for the street. I have a class, for the Leaving Cert, it’s at eight.”
“Oh! Don’t worry, I…we’ll drive you…there’s plenty of time!”
“How many have you; children?”
“Two. Bobby is twenty-three and Jenny is almost twenty-one. They live with their mother.”
“Oh, you’re on your own?” He nodded. “How do you manage with… with your wound?”
“Oh, a nurse calls every few days to check up on me; it’s fine, really.”
“What happened with your marriage?” She asked casually, draining her mug.
“It was my fault. I was a drunk, so the top brass moved me up here to keep an eye on me. Mary stayed behind with the kids, and we just grew further apart; then she met someone else.”
“Was that when you met Anne Browne?” Agape, he met her frank blue gaze. She handed him a dog-eared photograph. His arm was draped over Anne’s shoulders, her eyes smiled through the decades, just as deep and non-judgemental as her daughter’s had an instant before. As if from a great distance, he heard his voice.
“I’d been here about a year and still married, we had an affair and she…”
“Had me,” the words hit him like a shotgun blast; his mouth opened and closed as he groped for something to say. “Well?” she prompted.
“She just vanished. I tried but…I never knew; I swear…”
“She moved to England; it didn’t work out; she came back when I was two.”
Wordlessly, she pulled on a pair of grey woollen socks. “If I’m to make my class on time…” She tied her boot laces and donned a green waxed jacket. Together, they paused at her door – a wall of silence between them.
“What now?” He finally croaked.
“You could walk me to school… Dad,” she whispered, slipping her arm into his.
DoubleSpeak 