Young Bulls and Matadors

By Fran Blanc

“Young Bulls and Matadors” Synopsis

After a drug deal goes wrong. Stephen Coakley and Sean Buggy narrowly escape capture and are left to pick up the pieces of their crumbling drug empire. They owe two million euros for drugs that they lost and now have no way to pay the debt. They beat senseless those who owe them drug money, but ignore all warnings to pay their own debts. They set about killing their rivals, but their actions attract too much attention. They are targeted by the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation and one dedicated investigator, Michael Cunningham, who is determined to end their crimes. Coakley and Buggy flee to Spain and try to re-establish their drug empire with larger scores destined for northern Europe. However they soon draw unwelcome attention from the Spanish authorities and other more fearsome criminals. They are unable to exercise the slightest restraint and their efforts to make ‘hustle money’ quickly runs foul of other underworld figures. This criminal fraternity in Spain are an older more cunning breed and as the “Blanch Boys” underestimate their rivals, they pay a price. Back in Dublin no one is sure if they are dead. Each rumour is hungrily devoured by a self serving journalist, Lang, who rewards police for any information on the duo. He connives to move up the corporate ladder but, like the Blanch Boys, he is immune to the suffering of those whose lives he has ruined. Ordinary decent citizens are caught up in the violence. Archer is a pensioner, who interrupts a car thief and whose life is threatened. His assailant’s name is ‘The Gadget’, a poster boy for the modern hoodie/thug. ‘The Gadget’ is a compulsive car thief and vandal. There are also white collar professionals who, by their inaction, facilitate criminals and hinder the work of the police.

The book taps into the real feeling in Ireland and the UK that crime is out of control. Everywhere it seems the streets are not safe to walk. Burglaries, car thefts and assaults are commonplace and neither police nor politicians seem able to stop it. The action is mainly set in Spain, Dublin, Monaco and London. We follow two dysfunctional individuals who wreak emotional and physical carnage wherever they go. Their inability to back down and their talent for making enemies, serves to hasten their destruction. This is a new breed to which nothing and no one is sacred. Fear and violence are their expressions. Drugs are the currency. They have no fear, no joy or compassion. There is no love in their world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fran Blanc
• Release date: Mar 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311990839

Book preview

Young Bulls and Matadors

by fran blanc

To run with bulls, the full grown ones, those with horns wider than the width of their shoulders, will make a man face all manner of fear. To run in front of the bulls, you have to be brave, mad or swept along with the crowd. You feel the rush of testosterone coursing through your veins, fully aware that a beast with the capability of killing you without any emotion bar rage, could with an extra stride, out pace you and terminate your place upon this earth with a single turn or flick of its head. To be gored or trampled by a bull does not always result in death, but for those who survive, including matadors of the bullring, the physical and mental scars are carried for life.

To know that a man could be capable of having the same kind of killing rage as one of those beasts is unsettling, but they do exist. These men walk among us. They are normally as placid as the juvenile animals that spend their days feeding in the parts of Spain that shimmer in the mirage heat. They get to know which of their fellow beasts they can dismiss with a single glance. Or others that require a postured threat, no more than a casual brushing past but just enough to show that a pecking order must be established. Then there are those that need a sterner lesson. A rubbing of heads, or locking of horns enhanced by the releasing of the stored forces within. This is the path of those young Spanish bulls, hoping that they will lead the charge through the streets one day.

These hopefuls graze the bars and night clubs of the Costas, finding out that their shoulders and horns get bigger and sharper the more drugs they sell each night to the alcohol fuelled holiday makers determined to enjoy the €500 all inclusive fortnight in the sun. But looking on from a distance, rarely seen, and known to only a few are the Matadors. They are the ones whose shoulders are developed beyond that of any running bull, and whose horns are much sharper. These matadors don't just supply the young bulls with the holiday-maker highs. They know each of them and watch every move of their prodigious young. They learn who they are, where they are, who they fraternise with and where they spend their euros. Very little gets passed them. A cold steely eye is always watching from the shadows for those that want to graze alone. Those young bulls that want to jump the fence and try their luck by running alone. These get the glance or a brush past. If by then the young bull has not taken the warning, then heads are knocked, or the ultimate show of force is engaged. The horns and concealed savagery are unleashed resulting in only one thing, the death of that young bull.

Then when the deed is done, quietly and out of view, his carcass will be removed from the arena, to be interned somewhere never to be found. The grave is unmarked and cold. There is no brass plaque telling what a fine beast he turned into, how brave he was. There are no dates or scant mention of the town where he ran, or the arena where he saw for the first and only time, the Matador that cut him down. His inevitable death after the picadors and bandeleros had worked on him for an hour or so before, softening him up for the cous de gras. There is no mercy or compassion, no feeling at all, not even hate. There is no emotion, no love in their world.

Chapter One

Alicante, Spain

Guardia Jose Garcia Hernandez cursed the intensity of the sun as he stepped out of his Guardia Civil police car into the blazing heat. There was no shade to park under and he and his partner held their breath as a wall of heat enveloped them. The dry dusty earth had not seen rain for several months and as the ground baked under the afternoon sun the air above it shimmered. He walked a few steps he heard the rasping noise of a nearby cicada grow louder.

Do you know anything? asked his partner.

Only what we heard on the radio, answered Hernandez. A farmer found something.

Can’t it wait until after siesta? said his partner.

Apparently not, replied Hernandez.

Hernandez was aged in his forties with a wide gut that hung slightly over his belt. His crisp green uniform was stained with sweat and beads of perspiration formed in between his grey spiky hair. His partner, Manolo, was younger by twenty years, a new recruit to the Guardia Civil, he still had an exuberance for the job that amused his older colleague. Like Hernandez he had deep brown Mediterranean eyes but possessed sharper features and his skin was less wrinkled. Manolo was clean shaven and physically fit. Both of them were tanned from the summer sun which was powerful enough to make them squint behind their Ray Bans.

A farmer hurried down the dusty path towards them. Donde? barked Hernandez and the farmer beckoned them into the shade of the orange grove. Manolo lingered in the shade where the temperature was lower, but the relief was short lived. The heat was still unbearable. Cicadas rasped nearby but elsewhere all was still. After travelling fifty metres through the orange grove Hernandez was surrounded by a swarm of flies. The farmer stopped near a clearing and pointed them forward. Hernandez noticed his reluctance to continue. After a few steps he realised why and was forced to stop. The stench made him gag instantly. He turned away and tried to shield his nostrils. In front of him lay an exposed pit. Lying in the shallow hole lay two partially decomposed bodies. He could see the rib cage protruding from one of them where animals had disturbed the grave. The other corpse had part of the scalp missing and he could see the white skull bone underneath. He looked a little closer and saw two small holes bored into the bone. Manolo turned away to puke. The extra smell made Hernandez close to retching. He reached up and pulled some orange leaves off a nearby branch and held them over his mouth and under his nose. The leafy aroma masked the stench a little. Hernandez turned back to the two bodies. He saw men’s shoes on the feet of both bodies and male shirts and jeans. Both of them had fair hair. Their faces were badly decomposed, one of them was missing a hand.

Usted unfortunates pobres, he said. What have they done to you?

He leaned forward and saw something underneath the clothing on one of the bodies. Hernandez took a deep breath and strained further to reach into the shallow grave. Something caught his eye in the dirt and the sun glinted off his watch and he moved his hand toward the object. He touched it and began to flick the dirt away with his finger.

We’re not supposed to disturb the crime scene, said Manolo. What are you doing?

It’s alright, Hernandez told him. Relax.

He kept flicking the object until it came free. Hernandez saw it was a passport. He picked it up carefully by the spine and examined it. He blew a little of the dirt away carefully and saw a purple cover with a gold harp and the letters E-L-A-N-D embossed. He blew some more dirt away and more letters were revealed.

Well? said his partner.

Ireland, said Hernandez. It’s an Irish passport.

You’d better put it back, said his partner nervously.

Just a second, answered Hernandez.

He carefully flicked it open until he saw a photograph. The image was of a man in his thirties. His name was Martin Smith. The smell from the grave became unbearable so Hernandez closed the passport and replaced it under the body. He stood up and turned towards his partner. Manolo was ashen faced and was breathing heavily.

This job used to be easy, he said. Nothing but drunks and traffic. What the hell happened to us?

"‘Extrangeros’, replied Hernandez. It’s the foreigners…and their drugs."

Perhaps it is a mugging? asked Manolo.

Hernandez shook his head. No mugger would leave a passport, he said. It’s worth money. This one is about drugs. Nothing else could cause this savagery. This one will be trouble for us.

What do you mean? asked Manolo.

There will be a lot of publicity, an international enquiry, said Hernandez.

You think?

Yeah, this one will be a real pain in the ass.

Hernandez walked a few steps and turned to look at the grave once more.

I’ve seen enough, he said. Now we call the experts.

Sweat dripped down the side of his face as he walked along the dusty path back to his car. Little clouds of dust swirled around his boots and he bounced along. His excitement caused him to quicken his pace. He reached the car at the bottom of the path and sat into the baking hot seat. He felt his backside scorching as he reached for the microphone and tried to raise the dispatch operator.

"El donor en el detras, he repeated. A real pain in the ass."

Chapter Two: Six Months Before

Roaringwater Bay, County Cork, Ireland.

What are you going to do with your share? asked Sean Buggy as he turned to his friend in the driver’s seat. The other man drew heavily on a cigarette and the interior of the Range Rover was briefly illuminated by a soft orange glow.

I need a house, said Stephen Coakley. Those fuckers in the Criminal Assets Bureau seized three of them I bought last year.

Stephen Coakley was tall and strong with a round face set hard in permanent anger. His eyes darted left and right and the corners of his mouth were turned down into a perpetual scowl. His skin was dry and pale from a poor diet and too many cigarettes. He was in his mid thirties but his face portrayed a weariness more than the measure of his years. His expression was deadly serious and his brown eyes gave little inkling to the cruelty they had witnessed. His partner in crime, Sean Buggy, was only a few years younger. He had a baby face unmarked by the experiences of a life of crime. His green eyes sparkled with a playfulness that transformed suddenly into a savage rage. He had long eyelashes which gave him a gentle, almost feminine appearance, but this was not his nature. Buggy’s brown hair was greased down his forehead towards his face and his muscular frame sat uneasily in the confines of the cramped cabin. Together the two men commanded the heroin, cannabis, amphetamine and ecstasy supply in the West Dublin suburb of Blanchardstown. They called themselves the ‘Blanch Boys.’

Sean Buggy was a feared man in his community. Drug addicts bore the scars from his beatings. While Stephen Coakley was the brains of their organisation, Buggy was left to enforce their rule of law and keep everyone in line. He did this with a casual savagery. Each week one drug addict with a debt was selected at random from the two hundred or so under his control. Victims had faces slashed and bones broken. He burned one young mother with cigarettes while her children watched. News of this attack served to enhance his reputation. As a feared man he considered himself untouchable.

A soft rain bathed the car as the two men sat staring out the windscreen into the blackness of the night. They could hear the surf pounding on Baltimore strand and the occasional glimpse of white water as the crests of the waves hit home. Out in the bay there was nothing to be seen but an inky blackness.

I thought those houses were in your sisters’ name, said Buggy. They were, his friend replied. Didn’t matter… they took them anyway.

Shockin’…

Yep. Another drag on the cigarette briefly illuminated their faces.

Doesn’t matter, said Coakley. We’ll sell some more ‘blow’ and buy some more houses. There’s always pricks who will buy our stuff. They don’t know it’s mostly talcum powder. They think the stuff makes them cool.

Buggy sniggered. Pricks... he whispered.

Both men resumed their vigil looking out into the bay. After a while Buggy turned on the heater once more to fight off the chill of the night. The gentle whine of the motor was the only sound. Theirs was the only vehicle for miles. Behind them on the hills little pin pricks of lights signalled an isolated farmhouse or bungalow.

I was thinkin’, said Coakley after another pause. If we can pull of a big score, it might be time to move…

Where? asked Buggy.

Dunno, maybe Marbella, that’s where most of the old timers go.

What are we going to do? Retire? enquired Buggy.

Nah. That’s for pensioners. We do what we’ve always done. Except this time we do it on a continental scale rather than just poxy Dublin.

Time to move up in the cannabis trade… said Buggy.

Yeah, grow the business as it were… said Coakley with a chuckle.

Buggy turned on the radio and a chart song played.

Turn that shite off, said Coakley, irritated.

Your showing your age son, said Buggy. That’s good stuff."

No way man, replied Coakley. I prefer my rock stars dead. Hendrix, Morrison, Keith Moon…

Linda McCartney… interrupted Buggy.

Shut up, said Coakley smiling.

Suddenly a light blinked several hundred metres offshore. The water churned around it so that neither of them could be sure.

Did you see that? Buggy said excitedly.

Yep, they’re early, said Coakley, his eyes darting at the inky horizon.

The light blinked again. Coakley started the engine and hit the main beams twice. The light in the distance blinked again.

Now we wait, said Coakley. The two men sat in silence for some minutes waiting. The rain bathed the windscreen with a soft drizzle forcing Coakley to use the wipers. They scanned the darkness constantly watching for activity. Coakley looked around for any other vehicle but saw none. The beach was deserted. Buggy sucked nervously on his cigarette, drawing the smoke through his gritted teeth his face set in a hard frown as the tension gripped him.

They waited another few moments. Coakley switched off the engine so he could hear. They rolled down all the windows and listened to the still of the night. The rain deadened the sound coming from the shore. It was so light that the drops did not even make a sound on the roof.

Are you sure….

Yes, snapped Coakley. The instructions were to stay put.

After a few moments they heard a sound. It was barely audible at first but then they recognized a definite buzzing noise.

Here they come, said Coakley, with a sigh of relief.

The noise got louder and the two men strained to see what was making it. Then they saw something move in the blackness. A Zodiac rubber dinghy was approaching in the darkness. As it drew closer Coakley saw the outline of two men inside it. One of them was sitting on what looked like bales of hay. A broad smile spread across Coakley’s face. He moved forward in anticipation. As he did so he glanced in his rear view mirror. Something caught his eye. A set of headlights moved along the road towards them. Behind it was another set and a third behind that. He turned around sharply to get a better view. Then he saw something else. Some way behind the three approaching vehicles he saw lights. They were blue and flashing.

Fuck… he spat.

Buggy looked up instantly and followed his friend’s gaze. His jaw dropped as he realised what was happening. Coakley instantly reacted. He started the Range Rover and slammed it into low gear. It’s wheels churned in the sand. Coakley pointed the Range Rover back up the beach away from the access road. He was driving in the dark. He did not dare turn on the lights.

Call ‘The Gadget, he ordered Buggy. Tell him to get fresh wheels and meet us in the nearest town before dawn.

Where’s the nearest town? offered Buggy embarrassed.

Skibbereen, you muppet, barked Coakley. "With a bit of luck the dopey cops have not sealed off all the roads.

What if they got the helicopter? asked Buggy above the whine of the Range Rover.

Then we’re fucked, came the answer.

The range rover whined in low gear as it made its way along the beach. The police cars came screeching to the end of the road and uniformed police hopped out and ran onto the sand. The Zodiac driver saw them and reacted quickly. He tried to turn into the waves but one of them caught the dinghy on the starboard quarter and flipped it up. Several of the bales became dislodged and moved to the rear of the boat. The driver started screaming at his accomplice to balance the boat as it started shipping water over the wooden transom. As they watched the water slopping over the rear of the boat they did not see another large wave approach them. It caught the rubber dinghy square at the beam and flipped it over. Both men were pitched into the surf and started screaming in panic. The bales of high grade cannabis resin were wrapped in plastic and waterproofed. They floated towards the shore as further waves pushed the men, boat and bales towards the waiting policemen. One of the officers shone a light at the spluttering seamen and illuminated twenty bales of cannabis floating in the dark amid the waves.

In his rear view mirror Coakley watched the beam of light illuminate the shore as the two sailors struggled ashore into the waiting arms of the police. He clenched his teeth angrily as he spied the bales of cannabis tumbling in the surf onto the sand.

Someone’s going to pay for this, he said.

Chapter Three: ‘The Gadget’

Anthony ‘The Gadget’ Cronin was an eighteen year Dublin delinquent with fifty-five convictions for burglary, car theft and violent affray. He had robbed petrol stations, houses, warehouses and people, even little old women. What he could not rob he wrecked. When he was sixteen he and a gang had kicked a man to death on Dublin’s busiest street, O’Connell Street. They were never caught. He was short and skinny with narrow rat-like facial features. He had big ears and a slit in place of a mouth. He always wore a cotton tracksuit, even as he froze in the dead of winter, because he did not know any better. He was so stupid that he could barely write his own name. He signed it ‘Kronin’ because he could not spell.

‘The Gadget’ had few friends, no loved ones and a girlfriend who was pregnant. ‘The Gadget’ had one redeeming talent. He was a genius with cars. He could steal a car in seconds and drive it expertly at harrowing speeds. That was how he had come to the attention of the ‘Blanch Boys’.

It was an hour before ‘The Gadget’ got the voice message on his mobile. He heard that Coakley and Buggy were in trouble and that the Range Rover, recently acquired for them, was stuck in sand. They had abandoned it and were on foot. Now they were heading for a town, whose name he could not remember. Worse still he was seriously concerned as he sped through the night in a newly stolen BMW seven series. Although the lights on the car were up to the job, it was his lack of schooling that was at fault. ‘The Gadget’ could not read the road signs.

Fuck it, he exclaimed as he ripped through the darkness tearing down the road doing a steady one hundred and forty kilometres per hour. It was four in the morning, he was driving a top class freshly stolen motor with the windows rolled down and the radio on full blast. ‘The Gadget’ was in his element. He was happy doing what he loved most...joyriding. He glanced down at the speedometer and eased off slightly on the accelerator. He did not want to wreck the car. Not tonight, he had already wrecked over seventy vehicles in his short life.

Detective Michael Cunningham of Ireland’s National Bureau of Criminal Investigation stared at his fingers as he rapped his knuckles on the table. He was trying to remember the details of the evening for his report. Already he had made a number of sketchy notes on the foolscap page but his concentration was poor and the work was made difficult by his mood. Cunningham was fuming, a number of his suspects had escaped in a four wheel drive vehicle. The police had only noticed the oversight as they congratulated themselves on intercepting the bales of cannabis. He looked over at the bales, neatly stacked against the wall in the local Garda station. There were twenty in all, being well wrapped, they had survived immersion unscathed. His men had captured all the drugs and the two men in the zodiac. The coastguard had intercepted the yacht used to transport the cannabis and captured two more suspects aboard.

But it was not enough, Cunningham wanted all the participants to the deal and he had only captured the delivery boys. He took a deep breath and sank his hands in his face. His hands still tasted salty from the Atlantic Ocean and like his feet, they had yet to warm up properly. Cunningham was forty five years old, with a healthy head of spiky auburn hair and a youthful appearance. He kept himself fit and slim, unlike many of his colleagues. He was tall, six foot two, with long legs and a muscular frame made strong by years of playing sports. But as fit as he was, he had tried unsuccessfully to run the length of the beach and follow the tracks left by the four wheel drive. As he sat shivering by the table he felt a cold pulse run up his spine. Not for the first time, Cunningham began to feel his age. He smiled ruefully to himself. His wife called them distinguished, but those flecks of grey hair were now unwelcome. A large heavy set man appeared at the door.

Not a bad night’s work, said the local Superintendent with a cheery smile. Cunningham looked at him scornfully across the incident room in Skibbereen Garda Station. The ‘super’ had a big podgy face with rosy cheeks, red from the onset of heart disease. He was about fifty years old and tall, with a frame filled over the years with pints of porter and sausages. The superintendent was a jolly man with two front teeth missing from playing Gaelic games in his youth.

It would have gone better if my request for air support was granted, Cunningham complained. And it would have gone better if my instructions had been followed about a silent approach, he said angrily. Who was that clown with his blue lights on? He very nearly cost me six months of preparation…

That was Driscoll, one of our new boys, said the superintendent. He got a big excited. Sure this is the best excitement round here in ages…

Cunningham shook his head wearily.

Ah don’t be like that, replied the Superintendent. Sure didn’t the whole lot make for a nice haul. It’ll look great in the press won’t it? I sent my best uniform out to be dry cleaned for all the cameras tomorrow. You know how it works, otherwise others will take the credit.

How is the search going? Cunningham demanded. Why wasn’t that end of the beach sealed off as I requested?

Driscoll took a wrong turn in the dark, said the superintendent as he rummaged in a drawer.

The incident room was an office in Skibbereen Garda Station. Phones and laptop computers littered a table in the centre of the room. Outside at the booking desk the prisoners were being prepared for secure transport back to Dublin. Cunningham sat at the table looking at his shoes. They were soaked from running up the beach earlier, after his vehicle had become stuck in the sand. It’s useless to fight it, he whispered, turning away. He stood up and stretched himself out and then sat down wearily again. Cunningham was dead on his feet. He had not slept all night and he knew he would not get any rest until later that evening.

The superintendent pulled a framed photograph out of the drawer and presented it to Cunningham. This will cheer you up, he said. See anyone you know?" Cunningham seized the photograph impatiently. He spied the lines of uniformed officers carefully until his eye settled on a figure sitting in the front row.

Can you see your grandfather? asked the superintendent.

I see him, replied Cunningham," staring at a young man in the photograph. He looked down at the list of corresponding names and saw his own.

It was taken as he was presented with his bravery award, explained the superintendent. The presentation took place on the same day as I was invested into the force. That’s my class photo. He was a hero that day, we all heard how he had disarmed two gunmen without a weapon. All the new recruits were in awe of him.

Cunningham smiled. He told me before he died that it was the most stupid thing he had ever done, he said.

You’d be doing well to get a Scott Medal for bravery, said the superintendent. That’s some legacy to live up to.

I have been trying, said Cunningham. But my grandfather believed there was good in everyone. I think he eventually changed his mind. Not very heroic….

Keep the picture, said the superintendent smiling. I have a copy…somewhere. As soon as you introduced yourself I made the connection. Mick Cunningham, your grandfather, was famous."

A different time, said Cunningham wearily. I wonder what he would make of today’s criminals…. He looked around but the superintendent had left the room. Cunningham rubbed his cheeks and felt the first bristles of a new beard growing on his bare chin. He wore a blue fleece jacket and a brown Barbour jacket over that. He had dressed for the cold but not well enough. The chill he felt the night before was still making him shiver and the tiny room was poorly heated.

Like his grandfather Cunningham had entered the police force believing there was good in everyone. But after years dealing with hardened criminals he had become disillusioned. Like his grandfather he hid his doubts from those closest to him. Like his grandfather he had once hungrily coveted the promotions that signalled success, before becoming disinterested. Consequently promotions had been denied to him in latter years. One reason was that Cunningham did not socialise with his colleagues. He passed over the regular Friday night drinking sessions. As a consequence he was regarded with suspicion by his peers who did not consider him to be a ‘team player’. Although he shared his fellow officers’ banter, the heavy socialising was missing. Cunningham gave off an air of disinterested aloofness, which irked some of his colleagues. Although he did not ‘fit in’, he didn’t really care.

His phone rang. A colleague from the Garda Press Office asked him to confirm the number of bales of cannabis stacked against the wall. Cunningham had the answer immediately. He had counted the twenty bales five times. The Press Officer then read a prepared statement to Cunningham so he could check all the facts before they were released to the media. The statement was followed by an invitation to broadcast and print media to photograph the haul.

Gardai at Skibbereen in association with the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, have intercepted two hundred kilos of cannabis resin with a street value of two million four hundred thousand euros. The find was made at Roaringwater Bay, West Cork after a planned search. One yacht and a small dinghy have been seized. Four men have been arrested. One British national aged in his thirties, one Spanish man in his twenties and two Moroccans in their twenties are being held under Section 2, Criminal Justice (Drug Trafficking) Act 1996. A search is continuing for two men seen in the area earlier. Gardai have asked farmers in Baltimore area of West Cork to search outhouses and farm buildings.

Cunningham was dozing off when his mobile phone rang a second time. He looked at the dial and recognised the number. He jumped up and left the room as the phone chimed cheerfully. Outside a cold wind sliced his skin as he answered the call.

Lang! You always make me go outside in the cold to speak to you, complained Cunningham.

Yeah well, you don’t want to get caught talking to me, replied the voice on the other end. Can you talk? he asked.

Yeah, did you get the statement? asked Cunningham.

Yeah, all eleven lines of it, said the reporter.

Cunningham laughed. You guys are always bitching about the short statements the press office gives out. You’re lucky they tell you anything for free. I would make you beg for every line.

Then I’m glad you’re not in charge, said Lang.

Am I getting the front page? asked Cunningham.

You bet, said Lang. And three more inside. Same deal as before?

Yes, no names. Just the ‘National Bureau of Criminal Investigation’.

In glowing terms, said Lang. Don’t worry I’ll make you look good.

You’d better, said Cunningham. I need good PR in this job. Anyway what do you need?

Which gang? asked the reporter.

Blanch Boys, said Cunningham. This is going to hurt them.

Why?

They got ratted out by a rival gang, said Cunningham. Probably the one they attacked last month. You remember the shooting outside the fitness centre.

So this is revenge? asked Lang.

Possibly, said Cunningham pulling his collar up to try and shield himself from the biting wind. Someone knew the Blanch Boys would get hurt by this bust."

Why?

Because they haven’t paid for the stuff…and since the Criminal Assets Bureau seized their cash and property they can’t pay for it.

Christ! said the reporter. They’re well screwed.

Exactly!

Who do they owe the money to? Lang asked.

Moroccans, we suspect. There is a Spanish connection too. We think the yacht left Gallicia in the North of Spain.

I know where Gallicia is… said the reporter.

Sorry, I forgot you went to college, Cunningham teased him.

The reporter let it slide. What about the English guy?

He won’t say much but his prints will tell us who he is, said Cunningham and he paced back and forth in the car park trying to warm his legs.

My guess is he is one of the Costa Del Sol brigade or maybe Costa Blanca, I believe that is getting popular with scumbags as well. said the detective. Anyway, will that do?"

Just wondering, asked the reporter. Who was there to meet them?

We found tyre tracks in the sand. They got away. A stolen range rover was found later some way up the beach. Two sets of tracks led away. They are on foot. We don’t know who.

How did they escape? asked the reporter. It’s a peninsula.

We had assistance from the local Gardai. That’s all I want to say about it.

And they screwed up? offered Lang.

Was there anything else? asked Cunningham, changing the subject.

No… said the reporter.

It’s a good yarn, no?

Super story, said Lang.

Should be worth more, no?

The editor will only stretch to five hundred…

Fine… in the usual manner. See you on Wednesday.

Done.

Cunningham hung up the phone and hurried back inside to the warmth.

David Lang dropped the phone back in the receiver and paused for a minute. The busy newsroom was alive with the clacking of keyboards and televisions blaring out news channels. The Irish edition of ‘The Son’ was housed in a modern bright office replete with fast computers and flat screen televisions. Lang looked around the open-plan third floor where reporters were putting together the next day’s edition. Here and there groups of reporters congregated in small groups. Others chatted down phone lines or worked quietly over a laptop or a computer keyboard. A tall middle aged man wearing a pink tie walked over to Lang.

Well?

It’s like we thought, said Lang. They messed up. They didn’t catch whoever was waiting.

No matter, said the editor. Go big on the drugs find, get me a picture of the yacht. What else have you got?

Not much, some political stuff, an opinion poll, said Lang.

Shite, go big on the drugs find, you can firm it up yes?

Yeah there’s plenty. Turns out the Blanch Boys overstretched themselves, they never paid for the drugs and they won’t earn the money now.

Ouch, that’s good. Page four five six and seven with a big picture of the hash, said the editor.

London wants page five for the Colin Farrell story.

Fuck London, those pricks in Canary Wharf haven’t a clue. I’m going to lunch, the editor said.

Sure, said Lang. Enjoy, he added enviously. He pulled out a cheese and ham sandwich and began munching it as he trawled a TV station’s teletext channels looking for news stories.

Fuck him, he whispered. When I get his job I’ll be having boozy lunches too. No more sandwiches at my desk.

Lang was thirty five but looked older. He was of average height but hours spent in a sedentary job had piled on his weight and he had neither the time or energy to work it off. He spoke well with only a hint of the regional accent he had grown up with and now considered a little shameful. He looked around the newsroom at his co-workers. Lang was clever but possessed a ruthless competitive streak many of his older newspaper colleagues found distasteful. They spoke to him occasionally of the camaraderie among reporters they had enjoyed in previous years. Lang did not believe in such sentiment. He was out for himself and he didn’t care who knew it.

The phone rang and he picked it up. Newsroom, he said.

Have you a picture for page five, the Colin Farrell thing, barked a voice at the other end in a strong English public school accent.

Archie! How nice to hear your dulcet tones. How’s the weather in Canary Wharf today…

Fuck off Dave, said the sub editor in his clipped received pronunciation. Have you a picture or don’t you?

The editor here wants page five for a big drugs find we had last night.

Tell him to stuff it up his arse… said Archie slamming his phone down.

Pricks, said Lang into the lifeless phone. They’re all a bunch of pricks.

The sleepy hamlets of the Bantry Peninsula had once been home to thousands of rural dwellers long since departed for New York, over a hundred years before. Stone ruins and overgrown walls littered the landscape where they once lived. Sheep grazed amongst the former homes of families and clan who had long since vanished. The rest of the landscape was littered with large stones left over from the last ice age, many of which Coakley and Buggy had tripped over during their hike in the darkness. Now in the strengthening dawn they could see the outskirts of Skibbereen, County Cork and the route to safety.

‘Skip’ was a former market town that had been transformed by tourism and a large influx of recent immigrants. The area was heavily dependent on visitors. It had recently experienced a boom as developers and investors snapped up properties. In the wintertime these properties were deserted and the town reverted back to the sleepy rural farming setting it had once been. As usual, the weather was wet and cold.

Coakley and Buggy were soaked, tired and irritable by the time they staggered off the beach, through the fields and into town. They had been friends for years and had never had a serious row. But now they were close to losing their cool. ‘The Gadget’ was several hours late and his excuse was not going down well.

What do you mean you can’t read road signs you dopey fool, what use are you?" shouted Coakley when they eventually met up near a deserted building on the outskirts of town.

The Gadget mumbled his apologies. Buggy was sullen and silent.

Did you bring everything I told you to bring? barked Coakley.

Yes, said The Gadget sheepishly.

Then let’s get started.

Can we build a fire or something to warm up? asked Buggy. I’m freezing…

Don’t worry, said Coakley smiling for the first time in hours. You’ll warm up.

He walked over to the trunk of the BMW and held his hand out to The Gadget who offered him the keys. Coakley opened the truck and Buggy’s face fell instantly at what he saw.

Inside the boot of the car was the frame of a racing bicycle. Two shiny bicycle wheels sat on top of the frame ready to be clipped on. Beside it was a lycra cycling top, a helmet, cycling shoes and a set of goggles.

Coakley started to laugh. It’s only as far as the roadblocks, he said. Then when we get through Mitchelstown we’ll meet up and continue on our way. But if you like you can keep going to Paris and do the Tour de France. Either way you are leaving town looking like Lance Armstrong.

Do you think this get up will work? asked Buggy.

Sure, said Coakley. The cops are expecting two men crawling through a stream, he said. Not a single driver in an executive car wearing a crisp suit and a cyclist dressed for a speed stage. I’m telling you, the cops are dopey.

What about me? asked ‘The Gadget’.

You stay here for four days till the fuss dies down, Coakley told him. Then make your way to the safe house in Cavan. Have you got money?

Yeah, said The Gadget frowning. I always got money.

Good, said Coakley. Tidy yourself up a bit will you, you look like a knacker.

Ah fuck off Coakley, said ‘The Gadget’ smiling.

Instantly Coakley’s right arm shot out and punched ‘The Gadget’ hard into the mouth. The younger man fell back and reached up to feel his mouth. His lip was split and bleeding.

Jesus, what did you do that for? asked ‘The Gadget’.

Coakley moved menacingly towards him with his fists closed tightly and his teeth clenched. His eyes blazed in anger as he spat the words out.

Don’t you ever say that to me, he threatened. Not even as a joke. DON’T YOU EVER SAY THAT!

Okay, Okay, pleaded ‘The