Firewater Blues Read online

  FIREWATER BLUES

  CAIMH MCDONNELL

  Copyright © 2022 by McFori Ink

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Caimh McDonnell

  Visit my website at www.WhiteHairedIrishman.com

  First edition: March 2022

  ISBN:978-1-912897-32-2

  CONTENTS

  Author’s note

  Prologue – What a Tangled Web

  1. Demons

  2. There Is a Flame that Never Goes Out

  3. Husbandry

  4. For Whom the Bell Tolls

  5. Animals of all Kinds

  6. Gobshitery on a Budget

  7. Nothing Is Ever Going to be Real

  8. Exiles

  9. Road Safety

  10. Guess Who?

  11. The Importance of Preparation

  12. Statues of Limitations

  13. Put Up a Sign

  14. Arnie of Academia

  15. Terry Hodges Is Not the Most Highly Paid Courtesan in Ireland

  16. Prepare to Lose All Respect for Otters

  17. The Problem Is a Problem

  18. The Best Company Money Can Buy

  19. What’s More Anonymous than Anonymous?

  20. The Best-laid Plans

  21. An Evening’s Stroll

  22. The Invisible Man

  23. Friends Reunited

  24. By the Light of Burning Bridges

  25. Disco Inferno

  26. Who Knew an Explosion Could Go Wrong?

  27. The Appliance of Sweet Science

  28. This Is Your Life

  29. With Friends Like These, Who Needs Enemas?

  30. An Auld Acquaintance

  31. Retail Therapy

  32. You Can’t Make an Egg without Breaking Some Omelettes

  33. Jailbreak

  34. Finding Stuff Is Hard

  35. Dance Like Nobody Is Watching

  36. A Drink Before the War

  37. Gluttony Loves Company

  38. The Wild, Wild West

  39. Firewater Blues

  40. Great Balls of Fire

  41. While You Were Sleeping

  Epilogue One – I Told You So

  Epilogue Two – We Begin at the End

  Free Book

  Also by Caimh McDonnell

  Eagle-Eyed Legends

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Hi there reader-person,

  Normally, these notes are intended to prepare North Americans for the horrors of reading things spelled correctly or to apologise to everyone for the fact that I have even less respect for chronology than I do for the meaning for the word trilogy. To be honest with you though, I’ve already covered that in the previous notes. If this is your first Bunny book, firstly, welcome, and secondly, where the hell have you been? Thirdly, if you’re wondering why this note is here, it’s mainly because my wife told me to write one, and she can be surprisingly scary.

  Having said that, just so you know, the majority of this book takes place in the year 2000, straight after Dead Man’s Sins, which itself followed on from the events in Angels in the Moonlight. If current trends continue, the 16-year gap between Angels ending and A Man with One of Those Faces starting will require a further ninety-three books. And yes, don’t worry, I’ve already planned them out.

  The next twenty-six will be great. There’s going to be a tricky patch around book thirty where Bunny gets into the didgeridoo and while books fifty through to fifty-nine – which will be set entirely in space – will be hugely unpopular, it’ll be nothing compared to the backlash towards books sixty to sixty-eight which are just rehashes of earlier tales told from the perspective of a hurling stick.

  Luckily, book ninety-three will be when Bunny wakes up in the shower and realises that all of the other books were just a dream.

  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this book as much as I will enjoy the sausages that I have been promised for writing this note.

  Mmmmmmmm, sausages!

  Sláinte!

  Caimh

  In memory of Michael McDonnell & Karl Jones.

  The best of fathers, the finest of men.

  PROLOGUE – WHAT A TANGLED WEB

  Sometime in 1999

  The Spider sighed. It should really be a smoke-filled room. That’s where this sort of meeting would have taken place in the good old days. He wasn’t old enough to have been around back then, but he’d heard stories. When he’d realised that this was his vocation – making and breaking careers, doing deals, changing the fates of entire nations – he’d imagined conducting his business in a smoke-filled room, possibly with a well-aged and extortionately priced single malt set before him. As it was, the meeting was taking place in the juice bar of an obscenely expensive gym in the City of London, and the drink in front of him was something he’d selected from the menu at random, and he had no intention of touching it. For all of that, it was still that kind of meeting.

  The man the Spider had been waiting for took the seat opposite. Eric Stringer. His juice abomination looked even worse. A bit of celery was sticking out of it. The Spider wouldn’t have been able to pick Stringer out from the legion of other middle-aged men in Lycra that infested the place, all exercising with an air of sweaty desperation. Collectively, they appeared to be putting more effort into fighting their middle-aged spread than some countries had put into the Second World War.

  The Spider didn’t need a gym. While he didn’t look it, he was ex-military and a tad old school when it came to his fitness regime. He looked nondescript by design. He liked to blend in. He also viewed excess muscle as an utter waste of space. Speaking of which …

  Stringer was Scandinavian, but not the tall, good-looking sort. No, he’d come from the shallower end of that gene pool. He had a 2000-krona haircut over a twenty-krona face. Fresh from the shower, he offered the Spider a glib grin by way of a greeting. He was almost of a slim build, nearly attractive, and had an air of ostentatious wealth about him that he probably thought made up for the absence of personality.

  “Did you find the place okay?”

  “Have I ever given you the impression that I’m the type of person who can’t find a building without assistance?”

  Stringer drew his head back, unused to such sarcasm from someone he considered an employee. “I was just making conversation.”

  “The time for that was” – the Spider glanced at his watch – “seventeen minutes ago, when this meeting was supposed to start.”

  Stringer leaned forward and jabbed his finger in the Spider’s direction. “I think you’re forgetting who the client is here.”

  “Your bosses are. So, do you have a message for me from them?”

  “Not as such.”

  The Spider tilted his head to one side. “Excuse me?”

  “I just wanted to chat through a few things.”

  The Spider picked up his briefcase and got to his feet. “We’re done.”

  “What?” said Stringer, looking shocked.

  The Spider turned to go.

  “Look, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot here.”

  “Have we?” asked the Spider, still facing the door.

  “I apologise for my lateness. I appreciate your time is valuable.”

  The Spider relented and
sat back down. “Right, prove it. Why am I here?”

  Stringer glanced round to make sure they weren’t being observed. They weren’t. There were just three other customers in the juice bar. One was a man who was tragically trying to pick up the girl working behind the counter, despite their age gap being such that it would’ve been more appropriate for him to be picking her up from school. The other two were a couple the Spider guessed had been screwing but were now discussing why they no longer were. Human nature, in all its grubby glory, was his business.

  Risk assessed, Stringer lowered his voice. “I have concerns about the candidate.”

  “What concerns?”

  “They’ve only been a minor political player up to this point.”

  The Spider ran a finger down his silk tie. “I’m aware of that. That is precisely the point.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. We are gifting someone the highest political office in their country in exchange for them doing something they very definitely will not want to do. The bigger the ask, the bigger the get. You need someone who very definitely needs you. If it was going to be easy, then you wouldn’t need me.” He gave a smile that also served as a warning for how little patience he had left for being questioned. “And trust me, you do need me.”

  “The budget—”

  “Is the budget. This is a complicated endeavour. Making a prime minister costs money.”

  Stringer sat back and picked up his juice. “It’s actually ‘taoiseach’.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Prime Minister of Ireland is known as the Taoiseach.”

  The Spider raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, I know that. I have a rule of not using words from languages that I do not speak. After the three months my team and I have spent prepping for this, rest assured that I know more about the Irish political landscape than anyone who is in it. Now, will there be a pop quiz, or can I go about my day?”

  “What about the timeline, then?”

  “Eighteen months to two years.”

  “Can it be moved up?”

  “Of course,” replied the Spider as he pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and clicked it on. “Very easily.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Yes. I’m going to give you a phone number. It’s for a general in the Korean People’s Army – fourth biggest in the world, if memory serves. You’ll need to see how much he’ll want for invading a rainy island on the outskirts of Europe, and I don’t imagine it’ll come cheap.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  The Spider clicked his pen off. “You’re right, but it’s either that or I put this pen through your eyeball. Ever seen someone do that?”

  Stringer paled.

  “No, I don’t imagine you have. Fine, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to leave here and do the job your employers have contracted me to do – in the timescale I have specified, for the budget we agreed. You try and pull another power move to prove to your bosses how invaluable you are by strapping a saddle on me, then I will terminate our relationship. What do I mean by that? Well, let’s leave that to your imagination. I want you to savour every meal you eat, every car key you turn and every window you pass as if it is your last, because trust me, one time it will be.”

  Stringer had started to sweat again, and looked like a man in need of a second shower. “There’s no need for threats.” His voice cracked as he spoke. “We were merely looking for some reassurances.”

  “Fine. I am very good at what I do. How do you know that? Well, people who do what I do and aren’t very good at it don’t remain people for very long. There is no scenario here in which failure isn’t fatal for me, because while people think knowledge is power, it really isn’t. Knowledge coupled with failure equals an unacceptable liability. Console yourself with the prospect of my failure resulting in it becoming your job to hire the people to kill me. Incidentally, they will be incredibly expensive and I strongly suggest that you don’t try to renegotiate the price with them either, as believe me, they will be worth every penny.” The Spider picked up his briefcase, got to his feet and strode towards the door. “We’re done here.”

  Chapter One

  DEMONS

  Eighteen months to two years later

  Arnie tilted his chin towards the sky and felt the light rain kiss his face. Waves of electricity ran up and down his arms. They’d taken some pills as well as a few bumps of coke, so he couldn’t be sure what was causing it, but something was kicking in. He felt as if his feet might leave the ground at any second and he’d rip right through the cloud-filled sky.

  Maybe it wasn’t the drugs at all. It might just be the thrill of anticipation. He’d been looking forward to this all week. It was 3am on a Tuesday morning. He and Ricardo had picked that time deliberately. The streets needed to be quiet for what they had planned. A rainy night in the arse-end hours of the morning was perfect – nobody would be hanging around who didn’t need to be.

  They’d been careful, scoping out the location earlier in the week and finding a CCTV blackspot where they could change into the black hoodies he’d bought specially, which were to be dumped and burned immediately afterwards. (He’d briefly considered getting the hoodies with a special logo on them, but he’d realised how stupid that would be and was glad he hadn’t mentioned it.) When it came to trying to identify them, the cameras dotted round the city centre would be useless.

  It had all started a few months ago. Some drunken old tramp had asked Ricardo for a cigarette and then got all aggressive when Ricardo had told him where to go. They’d all given the guy a few slaps – even Karl, although he’d been drowning in remorse the next day. Pussy. Arnie had played along, of course, agreeing that what they’d done had been out of order and while they’d been drunk, that was no excuse.

  The next time, it had just been him and Ricardo, and on that occasion, the homeless bloke didn’t do anything to start it. They’d given him a right kicking. At some point, without much being said, he and Ricardo realised they’d found a kindred spirit in each other.

  As Ricardo explained it, what they were doing was almost a public service. All these wasters were lying about, scrounging for money, making the place look bad. The pair were simply giving them an incentive to get their lives in order.

  A couple of weeks ago, they’d cranked things up a notch. The lighter fluid had been Arnie’s idea. It didn’t work the first time because, irony of ironies, Ricardo’s lighter failed and the guy stumbled away. Bloody but unignited.

  Last week, though – whoosh!

  All over the newspapers the next day, too, and the day after that.

  It had been weird on the DART into town, as people had sat around him, reading about what he’d done. The article itself was full of all the pant-wettingly tedious outrage you’d expect – as if it were the first crime ever to have been committed in Dublin. Please! Arnie saw three lads laughing and joking about it too. They were a cool underground thing now. Like Fight Club.

  He and Ricardo had talked about it and decided on one farewell trip before they’d knock it on the head. They’d walk away as mysterious legends – the bogey men that tramps told one another about. Ricardo was already at college over in Galway and Arnie was heading to UCD in September after finishing his gap year. The last thing they needed was to mess up their futures with a bit of fun that got out of hand.

  They were in Temple Bar, up behind the Central Bank, with its determinedly dull, grey-stoned façade. It always seemed as if it were trying to look too boring ever to be doing anything naughty with your money.

  Ricardo slapped Arnie on the shoulder and pointed. Huddled in one of the corners sat what looked like a large bundle of rags. It moved. Arnie looked round to check there was nobody about, then smiled and nodded. They sauntered over.

  As they approached, he could see the bundle was a man with a raggedy old sleeping bag wrapped around him.

  “You alright there, brother?” asked Ric
ardo, all sweetness and light.

  This only elicited a mumbled reply.

  Ricardo leaned in and tapped the knee of the guy’s stained trackie bottoms. “Y’alright there?”

  The knee was jerked away and a slurred response came from beneath the sleeping bag.

  Ricardo stood up and pulled a face. “Feck’s sake, man. The stench of booze off him. I might not even need this.” He drew a bottle of BBQ lighter fluid out of his pocket and smiled.

  Arnie checked round them again and pulled the camcorder out of his hoodie pocket. They’d debated whether to film it or not. On the one hand, it was a risk. On the other, this was their last time. If they were careful, made sure not to show their faces or say anything, they should be fine.

  “Are you ready?” whispered Arnie.

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Ricardo turned away and started fiddling with something.

  “What?” hissed Arnie. “What’s the hold-up?”

  “The cap on the thing. It’s hard to get off with these gloves.” They’d decided gloves were a sensible choice. No fingerprints. You couldn’t be too careful.

  Arnie leaned in to help. After struggling for a few seconds, Ricardo eventually used his teeth to pull the cap off the bottle of lighter fluid. It struck Arnie as a bad idea, but screw it, too late now. It was go time.