CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Unless you've been there, you can't understand the knot this kind of waiting puts in your gut.
Neither of us wanted to eat, read, watch TV, not even talk. We just sat and waited and ran through scenarios in our minds. It was the new longest wait of my life, vastly out classing the time we spent outside the bank. That one had only involved meeting a bank teller. This one, if we could stick it, would probably lead to our legs being broken. How do you mentally prepare for that? I felt like a cold fish preparing to put its jaws onto a jagged hook.
When the bang finally came to the door I had to force myself to move. It was like I was cemented to the chair.
I know I've said it before that I'm not easily intimidated, but this was different and God was I feeling scared. Not scared for myself. Not entirely anyway. That's what made it ten times worse. I wouldn't honestly have worried about a broken finger or two for me, or even a leg if it would protect my children, but not being able to do anything if they chose to punish Will... that was truly terrifying, mortifying, humiliating.
And then the aftermath. Explaining it all to Marianne, how I had screwed things up, made the wrong decisions and left our little boy with broken legs. Football was one of the only things he was even half interested in for God's sake.
Our whole lives could fall apart. Everything we had put together, Marianne and I, in our quiet ordinary little lives and our quiet ordinary little home. All our kids had every had to fear was not having the latest iPad, iPod or whatever else was doing the rounds of teen popularity.
Just let us keep our old lives God, please. I was praying. Chanting almost. I'm an atheist, but as the old saying goes, there are no atheists waiting for violent debt collectors to break their children's legs.
Nevertheless, somehow we got through the hours and the hammering on the front door wasn't going to go away.
I forced myself to move, but it felt like I wasn't connected to my body any more, like I was walking on the moon. Whatever that feels like.
Opening the front door of my boring little home was going to change everything in our lives forever. One way or the other.
Not opening the damn door would change everything as well and neither of the scenarios were good.
Come on Dennis Small. You can do this. These guys are just common criminals. You've got the whole of society on your side. Except Darklow Garda Station of course and Derek Reilly. Oh yeah, and local politicians weren’t interested either.
I motioned for Will to stay where he was but I needn't have bothered. The poor kid was frozen, stuck to the kitchen chair.
I took a deep, deep, deep breath and made a very long walk to the front door.
Just run. Get the fuck out of here.
No way.
You can't run away from your problems. Get it over with now.
My mind and my heart were racing.
I watched as the door opened and I guess it was me that turned the latch although I don't remember doing it. The same big bruisers as the previous night, Rafa and his hulking, menacing, terrifying side-kick.
Rafa leaned in and picked me up by the lapels. The jacket shoulder linings cut into my armpits and began to split. I couldn't take my eyes off the big, ugly, monstrous spider web tattoo on his neck. The same as local hard-man Derek Reilly only a bit bigger. It wrapped all the way around to his throat.
Funny the things you notice when you are in fear of your life.
I should have been thinking about what to say to stop these morons from crippling me and my son.
"Nice tattoo," I said, "does it mean something?" The words came out of my mouth but they might have come from Mars. It was some kind of involuntary trauma response, beyond my conscious control.
It stopped him. For a breath at least. He was surprised. So was I. He didn't stop for long though.
"You cheeky little toe-rag," he lifted me up until our noses met. I gagged with fear and the disgusting smell of rotting seafood that was his calling card, "never you fucking mind about my tattoos mate, where's my fucking bread?"
Language Always so foul-mouthed. As though things weren't bad enough I had to deal with that as well.
"Here." I struggled to get the bundle from my pocket and then handed him the envelope stuffed with exactly sixty €50 notes. Three thousand Euro in all. He counted it, placed it neatly into his coat.
"Where do you want me to start, sir?" He asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You owe my boss 36 large and all I have here is six fucking monkeys."
I was confused. Monkeys? 3000 divided by 6 equals 500. One monkey = €500. Right. Like I should have been able to decipher his loan shark street language.
"Until I receive the outstanding 33 grand, where would you like me to start the damage? Would you prefer the house? Or would you prefer I start with you personally. Sir."
"Personally?"
He leaned in closer. "Yeah. As in your 'person'." The grip on my jacket lapels, shirt collar and chest hair began to choke me. I began to feel sick in my stomach.
"The house." I gasped.
"Thought so. Most people say that. Although occasionally you do get the odd exception."
He nodded to henchman number two who produced a baseball bat. Tool of the trade I suppose. Number two took a look around and then motioned to our living room door.
"How about in here?"
Will was in the kitchen. Damn. It would have been better to start there.
Rafa nodded and hauled me over to the door to get a good view.
Henchman number two's eyes settled onto something that brought a smile to his face. I followed his line of vision to our daughter's beautiful Bechstein model 8 piano with its polished Rosewood case. Insured for €9000, the amount we paid for it and worth way more to a loan-shark in one piece than in splinters all over my cheap living-room carpet.
"Guys. Please...."
One arching blow was all it took to destroy 6 to 8 months of timeless craftsmanship. One blow and one horrible cacophony of battered keys. So easy to destroy, but I would like to see one of those morons try to make one.
"Lovely," Rafa sighed, "I've been waiting for this all day."
I realized also that the insurance policy I had wouldn't cover this. I knew that because I was the one who drew it up.
"You idiot, I could have paid a quarter of the debt with that...."
Rafa laughed.
Then he nutted me.
"Only one fucking idiot I see here sir. Ha ha."
After that the rest of the damage didn't take too long and nothing was quite as shocking as seeing the Bechstein shattered down the middle by a tattooed gorilla with a baseball bat.
Will had been completely right.
We should have just sold the damn thing immediately. Gotten it out of the house. Now all I had left was the remaining €8500 to pay off and the insurance policy cancellation fee.
I watched as the crazy dream rolled on.
A goon in my house smashing things with a baseball bat.
Ireland. Wickford. Darklow. Sunnyvale. People come here on holidays to get away from the stress of the big city.
I began to feel dizzy. The bat swung again and again, smashing and battering all the mementos of our struggling, lower middle class lives together. Bottom to middle of the range stuff all of it. The piano had been the only item of real value, but nonetheless, these were some of our most treasured possessions.
Eventually it was all over.
"I find the living-room is generally a very effective place to start destroying a house Dennis. Do you know why?" Rafa said.
I shook my head.
"Because it is the place where families most often relax together."
I stared at him, uncomprehending.
"You don't need to be relaxed right now mate. You need to be out there getting our money for us, init?"
I nodded my head.
The telly, sofa, armchairs, coffee table, pictures, bookcases, glass cabinets, and stereo system were all nicely and thoroughly done.
I don't even want to talk about the piano.
"By tomorrow mate, or you're next. You don't want that, now do you?"
He was right.
A very short hour later my wife and daughter arrived home. I was still sitting in the broken arm chair I had collapsed into. Will was trying to tidy up the broken pieces of our family portraits, shards of glass and broken dishes. At least I'd saved him his legs though. It could have been worse.
"You're early." I said.
Marianne didn't speak, she just gaped.
Where do you begin explaining?
"Loan-shark. Will is in debt for 36 thousand Euro They'll be back in just under 23 hours to collect."
Easier than you would think if you know how.
My daughter was in tears on the floor next to the remains of her piano.
My wife still gaped.
"Why's there only €3500 in the bank account?"
The gaping turned to panic.
"I meant to tell you…" ."
"Tell me what?"
More gaping.
"Look... that's not important now. I don't understand this. A loan-shark? What for?"
"A ring."
"A ring?"
"For his girlfriend."
"What girlfriend?"
"Fiona."
"Fiona Mulligan?"
"Ah ah."
"Not...."
I nodded in the affirmative.
"Fiona bloody Finnegan?"
"Ma." Will pleaded helplessly.
Marianne took a deep breath and then slowly, slowly exhaled.
"What are we going to do?" She always was and always will be an amazing woman. I thought she would have finished wrecking the house in anger, but she consistently managed to surprise me and now her self-control brought a modicum of calm to us all.
Then it came to me. My next bright idea.
"OK. Now I can go to the police. Garda Thicke wanted evidence? Here it is. Now they'll have to declare a crime scene and make a report. Prints will be taken, all the usual. We'll have the protection of the law. I'm not going to let this criminal scum rule our lives. This is why I pay taxes. This is why I obey the law. This is why I work hard and this is why ordinary people like me don't have to be afraid of these low-lives."
The silence was deafening.
I picked up the phone to make the call.
"Put the phone down." Marianne was serious and very calm.
"Huh?"
"Put it down."
I was confused, I have to admit. I rarely would contradict anything that Marianne advised. Over the years I had learned, often the hard way, not to doubt or oppose her.
"Just look at what happened to you last time Da." Will added. "What evidence do you think the Gardai will get here? These guys may be scumbags but they aren't stupid. They were wearing surgical gloves." He was right. They had both worn gloves."There'll be no prints. Nothing to prove they were here. And anyway, like I already told you, the Gardai are as afraid of them as we are."
Marianne nodded her head in agreement.
I put the phone back down. My world was see-sawing under my feet. I felt off-balance. How did my wife and son even think they knew this? We had no connection to the law other than to make complaints about public order, co-ordinate Tidy Towns and neighborhood watch activities and charity events.
Then, my daughter's voice was a surprise in all this. She was the quietest one in the family.
"You guys can't be serious".
She was incredulous, indignant.
"Where's my piano gone? What happened to it?"
"Jesus Christ." Will rolled his eyes. "Is that all you're worried about?"
"Shut up you. This is all your fault anyway you stupid idiot."
Will's chin began to tremble. "Ma?" He pleaded. Suzy was surprising everyone.
"That bloody piano was the only thing I had." She was exaggerating obviously, but metaphorically I could see where she was coming from and I could see she was fighting back the tears as well.
"Where are we living?" she continued. "Is this a war zone? Of course we can go to the police. Whoever did this doesn't deserve to get away with it, no matter what Will did. Besides, this was my piano, not his, so they owe me. Come on Dad, don't listen to them. I'll go with you."
Sense at last, I thought. Suzy was certainly a smart kid. Only 15 and already with concert pianist potential. Nothing like my poor old Will all his bad luck.
"If you go to the Guards, I'm leaving now." Marianne was as serious as I had ever seen her.
"What's going on here? Where are we? We live in a small town. I sell insurance for a living. We own a small house and we do Irish dancing and yoga and go on fishing trips and…"
I was lost for words.
"What the hell is going on? Marianne?"
"Dennis, please... ask me anything else. Please. I'll explain everything later, just don't ask me to tell you now and for God's sake, please don't go to the police."
The tears really started then. Marianne first, then Suzy. Will wasn't far off either. Marianne never cried. Not under stress anyway. Maybe for a tear-jerker movie but never under pressure. Things weren't adding up and I couldn't make any sense of it, but whatever the explanation, I just couldn't watch her cry.
And I had to trust her.
"Dad? Mum? Are you serious?" Suzy screamed through her sniffles and tears.
"OK." I took a deep breath and looked at Marianne. "What do we do now?"
I deserve whatever I get for this kind of stupidity. Only family can make you this crazy.
End of SKIN, Part One of the Tattoo Series
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