Blood River

By Frank Lawlor

In the town of Rathdubh, in the midst of the recession, Billy (the midget) O’Shaughnessy’s criminal empire is thriving. Not content with his existing enterprises, O’Shaughnessy sets his sights on extorting money from the town’s more affluent citizens. When Richard Dimpley refuses to pay up, O’Shaughnessy brutally murders the businessman and his wife, Lilly, in their own home.

A mysterious American, Jack Barnsdale, arrives in town at the time of the murders and has everyone guessing. After a chance, contentious meeting with the dapper American, O’Shaughnessy is wary of him and his reasons for being in Rathdubh, especially now that business is flourishing.

Sent from the Murder Squad in Dublin to head up the murder investigation and expecting a straight forward case, Detective Bobby Coppinger finds himself embroiled in a complicated case as the murders escalate on his arrival.

A town rife with corruption and paranoia, stretched to the limit, Coppinger is in a race against time to halt the murders, while suspicious of those around him, including the Police. While all fingers are pointing at O’Shaughnessy, Coppinger soon finds out that there are other forces at work.

A quirky crime novel with many twists and turns, will Coppinger have bitten off more than he can chew in his quest for answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Lawlor
• Release date: Apr 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463159101

Frank Lawlor

Born in Listowel, Co Kerry, Ireland, a heritage town known as the literary capital of Ireland, like a lot of Listowel natives it was as if I were compelled to write. When I am not writing or reading thrillers I like to work out in the gym. I have a passion for MMA, boxing and football and love a drink. I have self-published and been published in the past and Irish Psycho is my latest offering. If you take the time to read my book I would love to hear what you think. Feel free to message me on my Facebook page. Best of, Frank.

Book preview

Blood River

Frank Lawlor

First published in 2018

Copyright © Frank Lawlor 2018

The right of Frank Lawlor to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN XXX X XXX XXXXX

Table of Contents

Monday 14th May

Tuesday 15th May

Wednesday 16th May

Thursday 17th May

Sunday 20th May

Monday 21st May

Tuesday 22nd May

Epilogue (Sometime in mid July)

Acknowledgements

In Memory of Frank O’Carroll

1939-2017

Monday 14th May

In the South West of Ireland lies the recession-ridden town, Rathdubh. Like an abandoned carcass left to rot, its economic woes continue unabated, giving rise to its darkest days since the Irish Civil War.

A pompous Percy McNulty blamed the town’s problems on the previous Government’s neglect and was spelling it out for the benefit of his listeners during a rare visit to Corker’s Pub in the Mall. McNulty had initially come to the bar to pay local builder, John Allen, for repair work he had recently done to the roof of his Georgian mansion, and with Allen refusing to take no for an answer, McNulty reluctantly agreed to stay for a drink.

With a keen interest in politics, McNulty had nothing but contempt for the ruling elite in Dublin who callously disregarded his impoverished hometown as if it were a cancer. Standing proudly in the middle of the bar, a bar that looked like it was on life support, he was full of himself talking down to those of a lesser social standing than himself. One hand in his trouser pocket and the other gesticulating wildly, he was lambasting the obscene salaries of Government Ministers, the recent reckless behaviour of the banks and the huge increase in crime, while the other patrons listened with interest to his tirade with interest.

‘They should all be strung up, every banker and politician,’ he thundered. ‘What they did to our country is despicable. And now with this austerity like a noose round our necks, there will be nothing but suffering and hardship for years to come.’

A number of his listeners grunted and nodded in agreement, while others raised their glasses in a toast to his scathing oratory.

‘So true, Percy,’ Allen agreed, staring glumly into his pint glass.

‘Listen to this clown,’ someone bellowed from just inside the front door.

All heads turned to focus on Billy O’Shaughnessy sauntering through the bar, his eyes wild and full of mischief. A four-foot ten-inch midget, it was common knowledge the thug despised the town’s gentry and everything McNulty and his like stood for. ‘Well if it isn’t McFucking Nulty,’ he scoffed, pointing a hostile finger at the socialite. ‘The town squire in his tweed and linen, looking as if he has just returned from some major diplomatic expedition from abroad.’

McNulty’s shook with fear. As terrified as he was of O’Shaughnessy, he tried put on a brave face by standing his ground.

‘I beg your pardon! If you don’t mind, we were in the middle of a private conversation here,’ he scolded.

While the others in the bar dared not say a word, O’Shaughnessy gritted his teeth and glowered at McNulty.

‘Conversation! Since when did you ever have a conversation with the likes of them? What would you know about suffering and hardship, living in your big mansion on Madison Drive?’

As tension mounted, all eyes were on the pair. Conflict never failed to draw attention, especially when there was a possibility of it turning into a brawl. And when it came to O’Shaughnessy, there was no end to what he could do, given his reputation for violence.

Quaking in his boots, McNulty coughed to clear his throat.

‘Listen, Billy, none of us wants any trouble. We’ve just come in here for a quiet drink and to be left alone,’ he protested, glancing around at the others for support. With nothing but fear in their frightened eyes, he knew none was forthcoming. Instead, they dropped their gaze evasively to the floor.

His lip curling into a sneer, O’Shaughnessy squared up to the socialite and cocked his chin at him.

‘You know what, McNulty, I am sick and tired of the likes of you and your ramblings. You are just like those scumbags in Government, spouting bullshit as if you had an answer for everything. You use big words that nobody understands and have the likes of this lot eating out of your hand because they don’t know any better. Look at them,’ he thundered, gesturing to the others with a sweeping hand. ‘Not one of them has an iota of what you’re saying, not that it would make any difference to them, bunch of fucking wasters the lot of them.’

McNulty noticed the others respond with suppressed mutterings and uneasy shuffling. Though they may well be upset with O’Shaughnessy’s harsh words, not one of them would be brave enough to confront him, knowing they would suffer serious repercussions from the gangster and his associates.

McNulty felt a migraine coming on. He knew the possibility of a having a civilised conversation with the uncouth O’Shaughnessy was near on impossible and could quite easily lead to a beating, something he would avoid at all costs. As much as he wanted to reprimand the brute for his derisive remarks, he thought better of it. As always, there would only be one winner in the end. Instead, McNulty decided it was better he take his leave before things got nasty, as they usually did with O’Shaughnessy. On his departure, he knew the midget would hold court and bask in the attention of the others, who would sheepishly pander to him with false approval, terrified of his wrath if they didn’t. Glancing at his watch and hastily finishing his wine, McNulty turned to Allen.

‘Christ, I almost forgot! I have an important appointment elsewhere,’ he lied.

‘I won’t keep you then,’ Allen said, waving him away with a flick of his wrist.

‘Well off you go then,’ O’Shaughnessy snorted. ‘And make sure you shut that door after you when you leave,’ he mocked, delighted in showing those in attendance who was in charge, as they all watched McNulty stride for the exit with his head bowed in embarrassment.

Though a midget, O’Shaughnessy made up for his deficit in height with his fearlessness. Having a reputation as the most feared man in Rathdubh, unlike the others in the bar, he would never allow someone like McNulty to speak down to him, especially in public. Because, in the hostile world O’Shaughnessy existed, keeping face was everything to a man like him.

When McNulty stepped out of Corker’s Bar, he was suddenly aware of a cold nip in the air untypical of May. The weather was now becoming as volatile as the town itself. He wished he had worn an overcoat, as the sudden drop in temperature sprung him effectively from spring into winter.

About to set off on his way, he felt the need for another drink after his nerve-racking encounter with O’Shaughnessy. The time just after 8pm, he decided to stop off at a more upmarket bar at the far end of the Mall. There he could enjoy a peaceful drink before returning to the solace and solitude of his mansion.

He had only taken a couple of steps when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a clothes shop window to his right. Dressed in a herringbone, three-piece suit and brown Enfield boots, though he could do with losing some weight, he thought he looked elegant and distinguished as always.

Still on edge after his encounter with O’Shaughnessy, McNulty was further unnerved on passing a gang of shady looking teenagers loitering in the middle of the pavement. He could see nothing but contempt in their eyes as they gazed at him from under their hoods with upturned eyes. A forgotten generation, their future had been squandered by the previous one who had burdened the country with crippling debt, having bankrupted it with their reckless borrowing and greed during the Celtic Tiger years.

Further on, he noticed a couple of shop fronts had been recently boarded up, relics of what were once vibrant businesses, now daubed with graffiti.

From a side street, an old lady emerged. Wearing a black shawl and leaning on a crutch, she stepped out in front of McNulty. Like an apparition from the Famine, she was clutching a paper cup. Her filthy hands gnarled and wrinkled, she coughed croakily, drawing mucus from her lungs before spitting into a dirty rag and blowing her nose in it. McNulty winced in disgust as she held her cup out in front of him and dropped her gaze.

‘Any chance of a few euros to ward off the hunger?’

McNulty took pity on her and threw a lump of change into the cup.

The old hag peered in her cup and bristled on counting her windfall. Her rotten teeth like violated headstones in a barren graveyard, she smiled at her benefactor and made the sign of the cross.

‘Bless you. You are so kind.’

McNulty tipped his head at her. ‘My pleasure,’ he said and was about to continue on his way when he noticed a sudden change in the air. He glanced up at the sky to see it had recently filled with storm clouds as had been forecasted. Almost immediately, rain began to bucket down, followed by a cracking flash of lightening that sent chunks of plaster from a nearby building smashing to the ground. Seconds later, a loud clap of thunder shook the town to the core.

The old hag pulled her shawl over her head and grabbed McNulty’s arm. ‘You better get indoors, or you will catch your death,’ she advised and then hastily hobbled off in search of shelter.

McNulty slipped his suit jacket over his head to protect himself from the rain and made a dash for it, finding shelter in a shop front recess further on. As he watched the rolling black clouds cast dark, sinister shadows over the town, he could sense something ominous in the air. Something that would have shaken him to the core had he realised Rathdubh was about to undergo its darkest period in recent history, a chain of events that not even the devil could have conjured up.

Nel O’Sullivan lived alone in an old white-washed cottage on the periphery of Reidy’s Wood on the outskirts of town. Since the death of her husband, Aldo, the shrill nocturnal cries and the sound of creaking branches from the nearby wood increasingly unnerved her and left her feeling vulnerable.

In her modest living room overlooking a small clearing and a dirt track skirting the wood, Nel liked to spend her evenings by the fire. With an anglepoise for light, she liked to pass the time reading paperback novels while sipping the occasional glass of stout to fortify herself against her solitude.

Dressed in a hand-knitted cardigan, brown tweed skirt and sturdy boots, she epitomised a country woman from a bygone age.

The fire needing a boost, she refuelled it with a concoction of turf and wood, casting a warm glow over the room and insulating it from the biting wind howling outside. Whatever about before, tonight she felt more uneasy than usual. From the nearby wood, she could hear the accentuated shrieks of disturbed birds that spoke of an intruder in their midst.

Unable to concentrate on her book any longer, she reluctantly put it down. Gathering herself, she tried to identify a sound that would reveal the source of the disturbance. With the house creaking and groaning from the assaults of the stiffening gale, she could feel her body tense as her vigilance increased. As nervous as she was, she peeped out her front window and was alarmed to see what looked like a silhouette of a man emerging from the swirling darkness. Further to her dismay, he appeared to be running in the direction of her house. She cursed herself for not having taken the advice of her neighbour, Bridey Nelligan, and purchased herself a mobile phone for emergencies. If ever there was a time she needed one, it was now. Terrified for her safety, she dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest carving knife she could find. Her hands shaking like a palm frond in a hurricane, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the wall mirror next to the living room door. Staring back at her was a lonely and petrified old woman in the winter of her life. Having recently read tabloid reports of defenceless old ladies living alone and being targeted by criminal gangs, a vision of herself being bludgeoned to death by some raging maniac had her body trembling. A drop of cold sweat trickling down her spine, she rid her herself of her morbid thoughts, gripped the handle of the knife firmly in her hand and spun on her heels. As frightened as she was, she was determined to defend herself to the death if necessary and returned to the living room.

Taking slow, tentative steps as she approached the front window to take another look outside, she nearly had a heart attack when a searing flash of lightening revealed a frightening image staring in at her. Terrified beyond belief, she let the knife fall from her grasp. Her heart in her mouth, she stumbled backwards from what she could only describe was a ghoul. Barely able to breathe, her legs threatened to give way as she stooped over to retrieve her knife while keeping one eye fixed firmly on the window.

‘Mother of God, protect me!’ she choked, sure she was about to perish at the hands of an evil monster.

It was only when the abomination knocked frantically on the window that she recognised Hunter Bolger, the grandson of her old friend, Kathleen. Relieved beyond words on knowing she was no longer in danger; she ran into the kitchen and put the knife away. On her return to the living room, she quickly unlocked her front door and invited the wretched youngster inside.

With Hunter framed in the doorway, she scanned him from head to toe. ‘Jesus Christ, look at the state of you!’ she exclaimed, still shaking from her traumatic experience.

Initially thinking the markings on his face were dirt, she now realised that he had only gone and marred himself with a hideous skeletal tattoo. The handsome young man she once knew was now disfigured beyond belief. In addition to his tattoo, his jet-black hair, now styled in a Mohawk, further accentuated his pale complexion. Furthermore, he had a curved barbell inserted though the sweet spot of his nose, a straight barbell through the bridge of his nose and both ears pierced with bone plugs. Nel wondered what his deceased grandmother would have made of him if she were to see him now. She recalled an afternoon many years ago when Kathleen paid her a visit accompanied by her young grandson. Hunter, she remembered, was a picture of innocence and hardly spoke a word all evening. Now, nothing but a shadow of himself, and from the stories that Nel had been hearing about him around town, it was also apparent he was doing drugs. Gazing into his bulging blue eyes and dilating pupils, she wouldn’t be surprised if he were on them now. What other reason would he have to be out in Reidy’s Wood on a terrible night like tonight? His Harrington jacket and faded jeans saturated, she ushered him into the room and procured him a clean towel from the hot press to dry his hair with. Pushing him closer to the fire so he could warm himself, she enquired what he was doing in the wood on such a dreadful night.

‘It’s a long story,’ he mumbled, his eyes appearing to pulse and throb as he proceeded to dry his hair.

Nel shook her head in dismay. ‘And what the hell have you gone and done to your face?’

‘It’s a tattoo. They are all the rage at the minute.’

Nel grimaced. ‘Not like yours they’re not. Mother of God, if your grandmother could see you now, she’d be turning in her grave.’

Taken aback by Nel’s unexpected reprimand, Hunter dropped his head and stared forlornly at the floor.

Nel stood firm. ‘And you still haven’t told me what you were doing in the wood.’

His eyes rolling around in their sockets, Hunter lifted his gaze and blinked several times as he tried to regain his focus.

Nel recoiled in shock. ‘Jesus Christ, what on earth have you taken?’

‘A microdot,’ he muttered as the acid appeared to take hold of him.

His eyes getting bigger by the second, Nel thought they were about to explode or pop out of their sockets. Worried for her safety, she knew that a person on drugs was never to be trusted. And someone who had disfigured himself to the extent that Hunter had, whether he was the grandson of her good friend or not, he definitely wasn’t of sound mind. As reluctant as she was to send him back out into the storm in the state he was in, she also didn’t want him in her home any longer. If he started to hallucinate, there was always a possibility he might flip and turn on her. Her mind made up, she decided to send him packing without further ado.

‘Listen, Hunter, I don’t mean to be rude here but, I am expecting a guest at any second now and, I don’t think it’s a good idea, you being here in the state you are in when she arrives,’ she lied.

Something sparked behind Hunter’s eyes. ‘I need to go anyway,’ he said. ‘The shapeshifters are waiting for me outside.’

‘The what?’

‘The shapeshifters,’ he repeated. ‘They said they want to transform me into a bear.’

Nel sighed and threw her eyes to the heavens.

‘In that case, you had better leave right now then,’ she insisted.

Hunter didn’t need to be told a second time. Looking like he was in a trance, he drifted towards the front door. About to turn the latch, he paused momentarily and turned to glance at a spot on the ceiling that caught his eye. Smiling inanely, he reached out his hand and stroked something imaginary as if he were caressing a loved one’s cheek.

Her cardigan wrapped tightly around her, Nel nudged Hunter out of her way and flung the front door wide open. When she peered outside, she was relieved to see it had finally stopped raining. A full moon competing with scudding clouds for visibility; it was unlikely Hunter would meet anyone scarier than himself on his way home. Grabbing hold of his jacket sleeve and giving it a tug, she roused him from his reverie.

‘You’re in luck, young man. The rain, you’ll be glad to know, has stopped,’ she informed him, giving his sleeve another tug.

Indifferent to the elements, Hunter stepped out into the gale and paused just outside the front door. As if denoting something of interest, he pointed to a spot in the cloud-cast sky and turned to Nel.

‘See, I told you the shapeshifters would be waiting for me.’

Nel shook her head despondently. Hunter was a reflection of everything that was wrong with Rathdubh of late; another victim of the scourge of O’Shaughnessy’s drugs no doubt. Still, as bad as he was, she almost took pity on him.

‘You take care of yourself and mind you don’t trip up in the dark,’ she advised him.

His mouth twisting into a contorted smile, Hunter caught a glimpse of something imaginary in the distance and gave chase. Within seconds, he was swallowed up in the gloom.

Glad to see the back of the youngster, Nel briskly withdrew and shut her front door. Concerned for her safety, she turned the lock and drew the bolts, hoping she had seen the last of Hunter Bolger.

The hatches battened down, Back in Rathdubh, its residents were waiting indoors for the storm to pass. A marauding wind sweeping through the town – carried with it an odious stench from the cheese factory sited prominently on Blood River – a river that skirted the periphery of town en route to the Atlantic Ocean.

Hunter Bolger caught a waft of the factory’s nauseating smell, causing him to puke on the fern and bracken on the fringe of Reidy’s Wood. Weak from retching, he took a moment to get his breath back before continuing on his way. As he ran alongside the eerie wood, the trees appeared to morph into prehistoric creatures. Stands of ash, oak and beech appeared to launch themselves at him and quickly recede as he upped his pace.

By the time Hunter arrived in town, the storm to his relief had abated significantly. A clearer sky was now playing host to a rising full moon that created a shimmering, silver glow over the town. A confounded Hunter felt as if nature were playing games with his mind. It was as if he were stepping from one macabre scene into another in a fantasy movie with him playing the leading role. Though thoroughly fatigued, he trotted through the town centre. He was desperate to get to the safety of the east side and his humble abode.

Still some way from his destination, it unnerved him to see street gangs loitering in shop front recesses and on street corners in the town centre. Loud and boisterous, they were smoking dope and making a nuisance of themselves hassling passersby. Dressed in saggy jeans and hoodies, they were trying to give the impression they were urban gangsters.

Of late, Hunter didn’t like having to pass through the town centre at night. Tonight, though, he was too freaked out to care after the unsettling hallucinations he just had out in Reidy’s Wood. He would take his chance, hoping his new facial tattoo would be enough to ward off any undesirable encounter with the loitering street gangs.

As he accelerated through the Mall, his heart skipped a beat when he stumbled on another gang hanging around outside a dilapidated phone shop. Though gripped with fear, he slowed to a walking pace and stuck his chest out in an attempt to put on a brave front. A couple of the young hoodlums stepped out in front of him and broke into a fit of laughter while pointing at his face.

‘Fucking idiot has only gone and tattooed his face,’ one of them honked and sent the others into hoots of derision.

Another member of the gang stepped away from the shop front. His lip curled into a sneer, he cocked his chin at Hunter and growled, ‘Quickly move the fuck on before I give you a slap, you retard.’

Glad at having avoided a conflict, Hunter made a run for it, the taunts and mockery in their laughter still ringing in his ears.

Further ahead, he spotted a tall gentleman standing in a shop front recess, a thin plume of smoke spiralling from a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Relieved that no one from the gang he just encountered was in pursuit of him, he paused momentarily to assess if the stranger posed a threat to him.

Drawing tentatively closer, he detected a smile on the other’s face. Distinguished looking, the man could easily have pass for a character from a fifties Hollywood movie. Dressed in a black double-breasted suit jacket and trousers, black leather shoes and black fedora, the man oozed elegance and style. Hunter was sure he had to be from out of town. No one from Rathdubh, other than a few people like Percy McNulty, would dare to dress so ostentatiously. Fewer still would pose so confident and self-assured in a town where menace stalked the streets at night-time.

As Hunter passed the stranger with trepidation, from the corner of his eye, he watched the man continue to puff on his cigarette. About to make a dash for it once again, he was stopped in his tracks on hearing an American accent.

‘You okay, young man?’ the stranger called out of him.

Hunter turned to glance at the stranger, who was by now leaning casually against the recessed window. One hand in his trouser pocket and the other flicking a barrel of ash from the end of his cigarette, the man smiled at Hunter as if he were expecting him to stop for a friendly chat.

Intrigued, Hunter relaxed his guard a little, pondering if he should engage this enigmatic character or continue on his way. There was something about the stranger that had Hunter spellbound. Striking in appearance, with his short dark-hair, square jaw and finely-chiselled features, he was like a cross between an Armani model and a comic book hero. And given the night he’d already had, Hunter wondered if he were hallucinating yet again and if the stranger were an illusion or flesh and blood like himself. It was only when the man smiled at him and put him at ease that he decided to engage him and put his mind at rest.

His vision blurring once again, Hunter tried to focus on the stranger who appeared to clone himself a dozen times or more before transforming into an amorphous haze. In an attempt to rid the murk from his mind, Hunter shook his head and was glad to see the stranger and his surrounds come back into focus. No longer smiling, the man gave a disapproving shake of his head. In his American drawl, he advised Hunter to get himself home immediately before any harm came to him. ‘This is no night to be out tripping, young man,’ he further advised.

‘What the…?’ Hunter exclaimed. ‘What makes you think