The Gathering: Chapter 9 - Late lunch with a beautiful woman

previously

Then

We had made a breakthrough in our investigation of how rich dope fiend Harrison Ogilvy had met his end.

Black magic! Harrison Ogilvy had got himself mixed up in black magic! Things were starting to make more sense. Black magic was just the thing to appeal to someone like Ogilvy who had received more education than he could ever put to use. The occult often sucks in people who like to think of themselves as sensitive and of superior intelligence to the average Joe, so small wonder Ogilvy found himself performing the rites of evil. Of course, black magic is all hogwash (or so I thought then), but that doesn’t mean that the people who believe in it can't end up doing some pretty crazy stuff. Nothing is beyond people who get mixed up in that kind of thing. Grave robbing, human sacrifice, even sexual deviance - any of these things might have been what drove Ogilvy to his breakdown, and then the others went and murdered him to stop him blabbing. The foreign guy he mentioned was probably the leader of the cult, some kind of fast talking con artist who could lure in over-sensitive saps and get them working to serve his interests. I found myself thinking that the foreigner was probably leeching money off Ogilvy and the others. Maybe he had partly killed Ogilvy to put the fear of God (or the Devil) into the others, to reinforce his power over them. Well he wasn't going to get away with this! Even if the cops weren't interested, I was going to see that he was brought to justice.

But Lomax was not quite so sure that this is what we were dealing with.

"Oh come on, black magic, in this day and age? This isn't mediaeval Germany, no one takes that kind of stuff seriously anymore."

"You think so, Bobby? Sure, you don't get people talking in the papers about how they're proud worshippers of the Devil, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. And it gets reported too, when those lunatics do something that brings the law down on them. Jeez, Bobby, remember all that stuff in Louisiana last year."

"I remember it, but that was different, that was all that voodoo stuff."

"It's all the same! It's all stupid people thinking they're getting one up on everyone else by doing a deal with dark powers. OK, so it's all hokum, or all just some magician doing conjuring tricks to rip off the gullible, but that doesn't mean the people mixed up in this kind of thing don't find themselves getting up to some crazy stuff."

"OK, maybe you're right." I could tell that Bobby didn't really buy it, but he couldn't argue with my enthusiasm. "So what are we going to do about it? How are we going to track down whatever black magic buddies Ogilvy might have had?"

"That I don't know," I replied. "That I don't know yet. I'm hoping that the woman from the funeral comes back to me. If not we will have to pursue other lines of inquiry. I might see if I can have a word with Miss Ogilvy. She might know something. Or maybe some of those old buddies could be hit for some more information."

So we waited for the dame to come back to me. In the meantime I filled in Maddocks on how our search for his dope buddy's killer was going. Well, filled him in somewhat vague and general terms. I didn't like the idea of Maddocks knowing that we were up against some kind of sinister black magic cult. It was the kind of thing I could easily imagine setting him off again, and next thing his wife would be calling me to go fish him out of another opium den. So I just told him that we were pursuing some definite lines of inquiry and hoping to get to closer to putting away the people who had done in Ogilvy. I did not go into any further detail, telling him that I did not want to compromise the investigation. He seemed happy enough to hear that we were doing a thorough job.

I spent a lot of time in my office. I had, after all, given the woman my office number, so if she was going to ring me anywhere it would be there. I told my secretary that I was expecting a call from a woman, and that if she rang she was to be put straight through to me, no matter what. "What kind of woman?" she asked, to which I could give no very specific reply. As I result I found myself fielding calls from all kinds of idiot women who had somehow landed jobs in sales. But the woman herself did not call.

I was starting to think where else to take this. Maybe I could approach Ogilvy's sister. Everything suggested she was one tough cookie, so if she reckoned I was on the level a lot of doors would open for me. But if she reckoned I wasn't on the level going near her would be a big mistake. And how would I get near her? I suspected somehow that strange men who arrived at Ogilvy Towers looking to see Alanis Ogilvy would be shown off the premises in jig time. And going to the company offices would be a waste of time as well - she would have a lot of gate-keepers whose sole mission in life was to protect her from anyone she had not already decided she wanted to talk to. This could be a bit difficult, but I am a naturally resourceful man. If I had to talk to Alanis, I would. Ideas began to form in my mind.

But then I was able to put them away. Just when I had completely given up on the woman from the funeral, my secretary rang through to me and said there was a woman on the line. I expected it to be another caller trying to sell me the latest useless gadget, but instead a voice on the other end of the line said: "It's me."

"You took your time getting back to me," I said, trying not to sound too accusatory, making it more sound like a statement of fact.

"I wasn't sure I could trust you. I thought you might be working for Harry's stuck up sister. But I made my own inquiries. You don't work for anyone, do you?"

"I'm my own man," I replied. And it was true. I hated having someone else boss me around.

"I hate taking on the phone. When can we meet?"

"How about right now?"

"Sure. Where?"

I told her the name of the diner Lomax and I visited after the funeral. "See you there in fifteen minutes?"

"Sure."

She hung up. I told my secretary that I was taking the afternoon off. She smirked at me as I hot-footed it out of there. There was no doubt about it, the dame's voice had a certain quality to it and I think my secretary reckoned I was going to be doing more than having coffee and cake in my afternoon off. Let her think what she likes, I thought.

I got to the diner first. I ordered myself a coffee and took a booth. I half-read my paper and scanned the place. I suppose if I was becoming an investigator I would have to start acting like one, which meant developing some proficiency in the art of watching and noticing. The diner was quiet. It was that part of the afternoon where the lunch crowd have gone back to work but it's too early for people to be eating dinner after work. So who were the other people in here? That man with the moustache and the nasty suit, why was he stuffing apple pie into his face here instead of sitting behind a desk in an office? The other guy in the blue overalls, what was he writing at as he sipped his coke? I had no idea. If I was a real detective I would probably have been able to tell their whole life stories from a few details of their appearance. Instead I knew nothing at all.

Still, one thing I do know is what a beautiful woman looks like, and that's what came into the diner when the dame from the funeral arrived. From the way the clerk at the counter's mouth dropped open and the eyes of the other two as they followed her to my table I could tell they weren't used to seeing a knock-out like her in a place like this. And nor was I. I had seen other woman here before, of course, in having lunch or dinner with each other or their sweethearts. Often good-looking woman too. But they weren't like the lady who was now sitting in front of me. But she wasn't like them either. The other women who came here were good and ordinary. She was extraordinary. And she wasn't good, anyone could tell that from looking at her.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she said.

"Of course," I replied. "So you smoke?"

"No, I collect cigarettes," she said, in a sarcastic tone. "Of course I smoke. Can I have one, please?"

"Sure," I said, letting her take one from my packet and then lighting her, just as the waiter came over.

"Coffee," she said, before adding quickly: "And an egg and ham sandwich. With fries on the side."

The waiter scurried away. The lady looked at me and smiled a sad smile. "You're paying for this?" she asked.

"I suppose I am. So, tell me, what's your name?"

"I've got many names. But you can call me Lara. That's what Harry used to call me." She smiled again, the smile giving her face a heart-breaking quality.

"I'm -" I began, but she interrupted me.

"I know who you are. I have your card, remember?"

"Sure, I forgot."

The waiter arrived with her coffee. "Sandwich comin' right up!"

"OK, Lara," I said. "Beautiful as you are, I did not come here to buy you sandwiches. Like I said at the funeral, I think your Harrison Ogilvy may have murdered. And I think you might be able to tell me something that will put me onto the creeps who did it."

At that point her sandwich arrived. She tucked in hungrily.

"So," I continued, "Can you tell me when you first met Ogilvy?"

After gulping down some more mouthfuls and then swallowing, she said "Can I finish my sandwich first? I am kind of hungry."

I resigned to having to watch her eat. She did not eat her food in a diffident and lady-like manner, but like a ravenous beast. It did not show her at her best. It is hard to look beautiful and mysterious when you are stuffing your face. I drank some more of my coffee.

Eventually she finished. "God, I needed that," she said.

"Glad you liked it. Now, about Ogilvy?"

"Sure. I met Harry where I work. The Silver Bannister Club. You know it?"

I nodded. I had heard of the Silver Bannister. It was not a place with a good reputation. Something of my facial reputation must have betrayed what I was thinking.

"Hey! It’s not like that. I only waited tables."

"Sure. And what was Ogilvy doing in a place like that? Seems like a strange hang-out for a sensitive guy like that."

"Well believe it or not, he was there because he liked the music. Harry loved jazz."

I should have known. Jazz was just the thing that someone like him would have gone for. And not the kind of jazz they play in normal places, the jazz you can ask a lady to dance to, but the kind of strange jazz they played in the Silver Bannister.

"Did he come there alone, or with other people?"

"With other people, at first. Some of his friends. I saw some of them at the funeral. They didn't see me. Or they pretended not to. But they weren't so fond of the music. Harry kept coming in, but they didn't. And as we got to know each other better, he was happy to come in on his own."

"So you became… close?" I said, trying be as tactful as I could.

"Sure. We became lovers." There was no beating around the bush with this one, I thought. "I know what you think, that this a good time girl turned gold digger latching onto an innocent rich kid. Well mister, it wasn't like that. We were really in love. We both felt like we had met our true love. Have you ever felt like that?"

"No," I said sadly, "I can't say that I have."

"I thought so. But I can tell you, I've met a lot of guys in my time, but no one made me feel like when I was with Harry."

This dime novel romance was all very well but it was not why I was here.

"That's very sweet," I said. "So you were very happy together. But then what?"

"We were happy together. Very happy. But we had our troubles. Harry's family found out about us. They didn't like that. They didn't like a woman like me being with their boy. And that stuck up bitch of a sister, well she certainly was not my biggest fan."

"I see," I said. This was not really going anywhere.

"And then Harry told me he couldn't see me anymore. I was upset, I was very upset. He didn't give a reason and I thought at first it was his family, that they had got to him. But I don't think it was that. His whole manner was different, like he was hiding something from me, like he had found someone else. I don't think he had, though. Not another woman, anyway. I think it was those new friends of his."

"His new friends?"

"Yeah. He mentioned them at first, said he had some new friends he was working with on some stuff, not his work, but other stuff. But then he clammed up about them and wouldn't talk about them. He'd get uncomfortable if I mentioned them and change the subject."

"What do you know about these people?"

"Not much. I never met them. I think they were from here, mostly, but there was one guy from abroad somewhere. Harry seemed… well he seemed in awe of that guy, but he was afraid of him too."

"And do you know where he met these people?"

"Different places. When the foreigner showed up, I think he stayed with Harry at his apartment in town. Once that creep was on the scene, Harry never brought me back there and he wouldn't let me in if I called."

"Did you ever meet this foreign guy? Where was he from?"

"I met him once. Well, I saw him once. I was out in town and I saw Harry in a diner, with some guys. I hadn't seen Harry in a while. I think this must have been when he was getting in real deep with those other guys. I know that now, but then I was wondering what the story was, so I saw Harry in the diner and I decided to go in and say hello and ask why he hadn't called me. But Harry saw me before I got to their table. He was startled and he jumped up and ran over to me, almost hustled me out of the diner, giving me all this "darling we can't talk now, I'll ring you later". But I could tell. He didn't want his new friends to see me."

Lara now seemed like she was on the brink of crying. I instinctively took her hand.

"That must have been terrible." It wasn't the best thing in the world to say, but it was all I could think of.

"It was."

I took back my hand and continued with the questions. "And these friends of his, what were they like? Would you know them again?"

"Two of them were just regular guys. The kind of guys you see everywhere, the kind of guys that come to the Silver Bannister, the kind of guys you see in any downtown bar or diner. I've seen a lot of guys, mister, and there wasn't anything about those two that would make them stick in my memory."

"But the foreigner?"

"He was different. He looked at me while Harry was talking to me. And there was something about that look. A kind of pure hate, like he wanted me to curl up and die for having the nerve to come in and bust up his party. I'd know him if I saw him again. I only saw him for a few seconds, but I'll carry that face with me to the grave."

Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper, like she was afraid that this man would be lurking in the next booth listening to what she had to say about him.

"What did he look like?"

"Foreign. He looked foreign. And old. But not all wrinkled up and decrepit, like a normal old man. Just there was something about him that made him seem like he had been around a long time, longer than anyone has a right to be."

"When you say foreign, what do you mean?"

"Well it's hard to tell. He wasn't a negro or a Chinaman or anything like that, but he was darker than the average joe. There was something a bit weird about his features, something that made him look like his folks hadn't come over on the Mayflower."

"So this diner, where you saw them, where was it?"

"Downtown. Near the station. Marcy's. You know it?"

I nodded. I knew it. It was somewhere I had walked by any number of times.

"And anything else? Did Harry ever let slip anything else about what he was up to with these guys?"

"Nothing much. He said it was something big, something that would make everyone look up, but he never went into details. And if I started asking, he would clam."

"OK Lara, you've been a big help. If you think of anything else, call me."

"Sure mister, I will. But listen… I don't know how to say this, but you seem like a swell guy, so maybe you can help me out? My rent's due and I'm a bit short of dough. Things ain't been so good down the club lately, you know how it is."

I was wondering if she might pull something like this on me.

"Sure, I know how it is," I said. I took out my wallet and handed over a couple of bills. You might think me a sap, but you didn't have her sitting across from you, looking at me with those eyes. Lara was no angel, but she had something no man would find it easy to resist. I knew I would be lying awake that night thinking about her and I wanted to leave her on the best possible terms. I said to myself that this was just in case I needed to talk to her again about Ogilvy, but I knew that was a lie.

She seemed pleased with what I had given her.

"Gee mister, you are one swell guy. You should come by the club sometime. Listen, I gotta split." She got up to go and then in one swift movement bent over and kissed me on the cheek before exiting. The touch of her lips had me almost in shock, but my eyes followed her out the door, as I think did those of every other man in the diner.

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 8 - The popular novelist and the devil dog of doom

previously

Now

Rachel Maguire stepped out of her car, opened the boot and took out her bag before walking round to the hotel entrance.

"Hello," she said to receptionist. "I've got a reservation, my name is Rachel Maguire".

"Oh I know who you are, Miss Maguire," said the receptionist. "I've read all your books and I must say I love them all. We're all very excited to have you staying with us. I hope your readings go well - and I'm sure they will, everyone loves your books round here."

"Thanks," said Rachel, actually meaning it. She was at the stage of her writing career where she still liked meeting strangers who told her how much they liked her books. Meeting people who liked her books made her happy, so much so in this case that she did not correct the use of "Miss".

"You're down a bit later than we were expecting, did you run into any trouble on the way?"

"Well," said Rachel, "there were some road works that held me back so much it was after dark when I reached Carrick On Shannon. Then I got bit lost on the roads between there and here."

"That's always happening. They really should do something about the signposts. It's fine for us locals, but visitors are always getting lost."

"There was one odd thing," said Rachel, not sure if it was worth mentioning to the friendly receptionist but doing so anyway. "I was driving down a quiet road when I rounded a corner and saw, ahead of me, this big black dog. He was right ahead of me, blocking the road. A huge black dog, right in the headlights, just standing there on the road. And he didn't move, he just stood there."

"A big black dog," said the receptionist, an odd note creeping into her voice. "What did you do?"

"Well I swerved - I didn't want to hit him. I swerved past him and went on up the road, but when I looked back in the rear view mirror, I could see him there on the road, only he had turned around and was looking on after me. And there must have been some kind of trick of the light, but it seemed like his eyes were glowing bright red."

"Glowing red eyes!" said the receptionist. She sounded worried now. "That was no dog!"

"Well it looked like a dog," said Rachel.

"Oh Miss Maguire, it may have looked like a dog, but it was no dog. Round here there are things people have heard about from their parents and grandparents before them, and one of them is the Black Dog, or something that looks like a black dog, that people see on the road barring their way. Some say it is the Devil himself in the form of a dog, others that it is a sign that something terrible is going to happen. I don't know what it is myself, but I know nothing good happens whenever it is seen. Oh heavens, I hope nothing bad happens to you!"

"So do I!" said Rachel, trying to put a brave face on things but genuinely rattled by the receptionist's concern. In the safety of your suburban Dublin home it is easy to scoff at the folk beliefs of country bumpkins, but when someone tells you that what you have seen is a harbinger of doom… well, one can forgive her for being a bit alarmed.

"Anyway," she continued, "I'd better get up to my room."

"Oh of course, Miss Maguire," said the receptionist, the switch back to the normal work routine calming her somewhat. She fumbled for a key, told Rachel where her room was, gave her the times for breakfast, and then finished up by telling her to ring down to reception if she needed anything. Rachel went on up to her room and settled in. The place was clean and tidy, perhaps a bit old fashioned in the décor, but rather quaint and charming. Then she decided to go out for a stroll and perhaps see if there were any nice pubs in the town. It was a weekday night so they would not be too crowded, surely?

Back in the reception area she decided to ask about the lay of the land. "I'm going out to have a look around. Tell me, are there any nice pubs or bars here in Ballykillduff?"

"Well now," said the receptionist, "we have our own little bar here in the hotel which obviously we consider quite appealing. But there are some nice pubs out in the town too. But there are some not so nice ones, so you'd want to be careful, Miss Maguire."

"I see."

"We get a lot of those stag and hen parties here in Killduff, and the kind of pubs they go to probably would not be the kind of thing you are looking for."

"Probably not," said Rachel. "But would there be stag and hen parties here on a weekday night, at this time of year?"

"There's always some, but it's easy enough to spot their kind of place, so you'll be able to stay away from them. If I were you I'd stick to the local pubs".

"That does sound a bit better," said Rachel, who was imagining herself reading a book (or taking notes for her own next one) in a cosy local pub with an open fire and old men with dogs warming themselves while a trad session went on in a corner.

"The thing is though," said the receptionist, "the local pubs are not all the same, and there are some of them that someone like you wouldn't want to go into. You wouldn't think it to look at it, but this town can get a bit rough, and some of the towns attract a rather rough element. But there are some nice ones. The more respectable visitors here tend to like Meagher's and Teague's. Meagher's is good for food, and Teague's has traditional music most nights. And they're both beside each other, just round the corner on Main Street. But I would stay out of Duffy's, if I were you. They're a rough lot who drink in there and they don't like people they don't know."

"Thanks very much," said Rachel. "I will go and have a look at Meagher's and Teague's." Bidding farewell to the receptionist she went forth into the night.

Rachel nursed a pint while eating a pleasant meal in Meagher's and then went next door to catch some music in Teague's. The pub had a pleasant atmosphere and was surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday evening. Rachel found a small table but was very close to a couple seated nearby, a man with an odd combination of a carefully-trimmed and pointed beard with long hair that was distinctly unkempt, and a woman whose long red hair looked very much like its striking colouration came from a bottle. There was indeed music playing. Rachel nursed another pint and slipped into a relaxed frame of mind, not bothering to take her book or notebook out of her bag.

Then a sudden question from the bearded man jerked her out of her reverie.

"You're not from round here, are you?"

The man was looking at her with an intense expression. The thought flashed quickly through Rachel's mind that she had mixed up the pubs and gone to one where they did not like outsiders. Then the red-haired woman laughed and slapped the man playfully on the arm.

"Oh Tom!" she said. Her accent was North American.

"Sorry," said the man, whose name must be Tom. His accent sounded mor Irish. "Just my joke. We're not from round here either. My name's Tom."

"And I'm Cassandra."

"Oh hi," said Rachel. "I'm Rachel".

"Are you visiting Killduff?" asked Cassandra.

"Yes," said Rachel. "For about a week or so."

"We live down here", said Tom. "Well, we live outside the town. Accommodation's much cheaper than in Dublin, you know how it is. Our artistic endeavours did not really cover the cost of a pre-crash Dublin mortgage."

"Oh, you're artists?" said Rachel.

"Yeah," said Cassandra. "I do visual stuff, mainly conceptual things."

"I do experimental films," said Tom. "The kind of thing that never gets shown in cinemas". He laughed.

"And we make music together", said Cassandra.

"Sweet music," said Tom, chortling.

"Well, avant garde electronic music that most people would not consider music at all," said Cassandra.

"My favourite kind!" said Rachel.

"Really?" said Tom.

"Well, no," answered Rachel. "I couldn't really say it's my thing though it's not like I hate it or anything."

After that they chatted on a bit more. It turned out they had mutual acquaintances. Ireland is a small country. After comparing notes on different people Tom suddenly said: "Ah wait, I do know you from somewhere. I don't think we've met before, but I have seen your photo."

"On Facebook?" said Cassandra.

"No, stupid. In the paper. You're a writer, aren't you? You write those books".

"Yes," said Rachel, somewhat apologetically, as she reckoned that these avant garde artist types would probably not be too impressed by the kind of books she wrote.

"Oh yeah," said Cassandra. "Christmas Heartbreak, that was one of yours, wasn't it?"

"I'm afraid it was."

"I gave that to my mam for her birthday," said Tom. "She loved it."

"She did," said Cassandra. "He's not just saying that."

"That's nice to hear," said Rachel. Then the conversation moved onto other things. Eventually Rachel mentioned the strange black dog she had seen on the road outside the town.

"Might just have been someone's dog," said Tom.

"It was a bit on the big side," said Rachel. "The woman in the hotel seemed a bit spooked by it. She seemed to think it might be the Devil or something. Jesus, I can't believe I'm sitting in a pub saying that I might have seen the Devil!" She laughed. In this cosy pub it was hard to imagine the demonic impinging into the material world.

"That whole Devil Dog thing is a bit tradition all over England in Ireland," said Cassandra.

"Cass is into all that witchy stuff," said Tom.

"Yeah?" said Rachel.

"Just reading!" said Cassandra. "I like reading about it, but I'm not into all that stripping naked and worshipping the Earth business".

"More's the pity," said Tom.

"Anyway, there are a lot of local traditions that see that uncanny black dog thing as being an apparition of the Devil or a harbinger of imminent death," said Cassandra.

"Not to worry you or anything," added Tom.

"Oh dear," said Rachel.

"But even for people who believe all that kind of stuff, it's not necessarily that bad," continued Cassandra. "Some see the Black Dog more as a warning - it's like the dog is telling you, watch out, trouble ahead."

"Not so much a Devil Dog as a spectral watch dog?" suggested Rachel.

"Perhaps so," said Cassandra. "Either way, the dog is a sign of trouble. If you believe in that kind of thing. Do you have any reason to believe you might be cursed by dark forces?"

"Well, John Banville wrote a mean review of my last book."

"Oh dear," said Tom. "Have you made a will?"

The conversation move on again. Eventually Rachel found herself saying: "This really is a lovely pub."

"Yeah, it is", said Tom. "There's some nice pubs in this town."

"And some not so nice ones," said Cassandra.

"Oh yeah, Christ," said Tom. "Do you remember that one we went into when we came down here first? Real duelling banjos stuff. Everyone went quiet when we came in and stared at us until we left. I think if I have been with another guy rather than Cass here they might have started laying into me."

"It had a definite atmosphere," said Cassandra.

"Not somewhere I'll be going back to," said Tom.

"I must make sure not to go near it," said Rachel. "What's it called?"

"Mmm, can't remember," said Tom. "Duffy's, maybe?"

"It's the run-down looking place on Main Street," said Cassandra. "The one that looks no one in their right mind would ever want to go into it. I think we only tried it because Tom fancied getting down with the less sophisticated locals."

"I'll keep an eye out for it," said Rachel.

Rachel stayed a bit later in the pub then she had intended and only remembered as they were calling for last orders that she had to give a reading to a ladies' club somewhere in the local backwoods, so when Cassandra asked if she wanted one more she had to decline and say that she really had to be going.

"It was lovely meeting you," she said, as she got up to go. "I hope we run into each other again".

"Cheers," said Tom.

"Hey," said Cassandra, "if you're in town over the weekend, there's going to be a small festival on in the Courthouse Arts Centre. It'll be loads of weirdo music like we make, only done by people who are much better at it."

"We're organising it," said Tom, "so we have to try and drum up business. Ticket sales have not exactly been brisk. But it will be a lot of fun, if weirdo music made by men with beards is your idea of fun."

"I'll give it a go," said Rachel. "I don't really have anything else planned for the weekend, apart from book readings during the day."

They made their farewells and Rachel left them to return to her hotel. Her walk back took her past the rough pub that both the receptionist and the two artists had warned her against. Low, guttural noises came from inside it. She thought of sticking her head in the door to see what all the fuss was about, but even after a couple of pints she was not feeling quite so daring. She continued on the street to her hotel and turned in for the night.

But her sleep was troubled. Strange dreams and thoughts prevented her from resting properly. She imagined herself out on the streets of Ballykillduff again, only there was something strange about the place. The streets and the buildings around them seemed to be writhing. They were assuming a living character that was both animal and vegetable at the same time, with branches and leaves sprouting from the buildings while everything moved in a manner that called to mind the sinuous movements of a snake or reptile. In her dream she found herself once more outside the pub she had been warned against. The low noises of conversation she had heard earlier were louder now. Now, though, they did not sound like the idle chatter of a pub's customers engaging in their separate conversations, but as something more uniform, like the people in there were engaging in some kind of call and response with one solitary voice being followed by the whole pub saying the same thing - something that Rachel was unable to hear. Then the people inside the pub stopped their call and response… now Rachel could hear what seemed like laughter coming from them, but laughter of a kind that made her not want to know what the subject of the joke was. And then the door of the pub seemed to be opening outwards, and she felt a terrible compulsion to go in and join the customers, even though she knew that something terrible would happen if she did so. She could feel herself taking a step forward, even as the ground beneath her feet pulsed and the pub building stretched up and around her as though it was going to swallow her before she even stepped through the door.

But then she heard the bark of a dog - not the high pitched bark of a terrier but the low, powerful bark of a large hound. And she turned around and saw behind her, close but not too close, the same terrible black hound she had seen on the road earlier. This time there was no mistaking its supernatural qualities. The dog's eyes glowed bright red and it was hovering about the undulating roadway. It started to approach Rachel, walking even though it was not touching the ground.

And then she woke up. She was back in the hotel room. It was dark and quiet outside. Or was it? Maybe she had really heard the bark of a dog outside?

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 7 - Uninvited guests at a funeral

previously

Then

Bobby Lomax and I are continuing to investigate the death of one Harrison Ogilvy, a doper pal of our troubled friend Hunter Maddocks.

Lomax and I had found out some things about Ogilvy, but it wasn't enough. We would have to get closer to him to find out anything more. So that's how we found ourselves heading along to his funeral. Funerals are great places for snoopers. No one is going to ask why you are there and the occasions are tailor-made for people to strike up conversations about the deceased.

Ogilvy's funeral was a big religious affair. Lomax and I sat near the back, so we could more easily cast our eyes over the attendees. We could see his parents at the front, a frail looking older couple obviously none too pleased at the untimely death of their son. With them sat a woman I guessed would have to be the sister mentioned in the newspaper death notice. I caught a look at her face. It was one that would be considered beautiful if not for the hardness of her facial expression. I wondered whether this was her usual look or whether it was a response to the sudden death of her brother. Mourning becomes few people. The other mourners looked like a mixture of various members of the deceased's extended family, favoured employees of the family company, and some younger men who might have been those old friends of Ogilvy's that had apparently been cut off by him last year.

As the reverend droned on with this religious pieties (the usual stuff about God working in mysterious ways, about the divine plan being sometimes hard to fathom, about the deceased being with God now and beyond human suffering, and so on - the kind of thing I'd heard a thousand times before) I found myself thinking that so far there was nothing out of the ordinary. But of course, there would hardly be. It's not like the shifty characters who dragged Ogilvy out of that opium den would be here to pay their respects. And I certainly did not expect this sinister foreigner of whom he was so afraid to be sitting at the front of the church in a place of honour. But if we were to find out anything that would get us closer to finding the killers (if Ogilvy had indeed been killed), then we would have to talk to these people in the hope that something they would say - something that might not even be significant to them - would set us on the right track.

I looked around the church once more, this time discreetly checking out the people behind us in case any of them looked like they might be worth talking to. There were the usual kind of people skulking at the back of the church, the kind of people who were clearly at most distant acquaintances of the deceased or perhaps people who knew other family members and felt it was worth their while being seen to attend the service. But that's not all there was. My eyes were drawn to a woman sitting on her own near the back of the church. My eyes were drawn to her for two reasons - first of all, she was a knock out, although perhaps not the kind of woman who normally frequents the inside of churches. But I noticed something else about her too - her eyes. Under her heavily made-up face I could see she had been crying. She was not someone here out of a vague sense of obligation or a wish to pay last respects to a casual acquaintance. This was someone to whom the deceased meant a lot. And yet she was sitting there at the back of the church, on her own, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

"There's a dame at the back of the church," I whispered to Lomax, "and I think she may have been close to Ogilvy. I'm going to see what I can find out from her when the service ends. You try his old buddies. Spin them some kind of line and see what you can get out of them about his cutting them off last year."

He nodded.

The service ended and the coffin was hoisted up and carried outside. People began to file out of the church. Lomax and I moved as quickly as we could, but without drawing attention to ourselves, to get outside to where we could more easily latch onto whoever we fancied talking to. Once outside, I could see the coffin being loaded into the hearse while the first leavers milled around. The woman had left her seat as soon as people had started to move and was not waiting around outside. Where the hell was she? Then I saw her moving away from the church, a lonely figure escaping the throng. I hot-footed it after her.

"Excuse me ma'am!" I said, as I got closer to her. She turned around and eyed me suspiciously, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Her beautiful cheeks. Maybe I was wrong about mourning not becoming people.

"What do you want?" she said.

"I saw you walking away and I could see you were upset. Harrison Ogilvy obviously meant a lot to you. Do you have time for a few words? I'm trying to get to the bottom of how he died."

"Get lost! I don't want to talk to some snooper." She turned to go.

"Wait!" I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "I think his death might not have been an accident. You might be able to help me catch his killers."

She hesitated and turned around.

"I can't talk to you here. I don't want those snobs in his family to see me. I have to go."

"Let's talk somewhere else, then?"

"Not now. I have to be somewhere."

"OK," I said, and handed her my card. "That's my office number. Yeah, that's me, I'm not a cop and I'm not a private detective. Call me when you are free to talk."

"Maybe I will," she answered, almost smiling, and then hurried away.

I turned back to the crowd. Lomax was working a group of men who looked like they might be these old college buddies of Ogilvy. He didn't need my help so I had to decide who I wanted to talk to. I wasn't going to talk to the immediate family - I wouldn't be able to talk to them for long enough and did not want to make a direct approach to them at this stage. So I went up to a somewhat portly gentleman who was on the wrong side of middle age and said "Terrible sad business" as my opening conversational gambit. But our conversation was not particularly informative. The man I was talking to seemed to know Ogilvy through business. He repeated what we had already heard about his not being temperamentally suited to work in that world. He hinted that Ogilvy's death may indeed have been suicide brought on by his failure to thrive in the company his father had created. Beyond that, nothing of obvious consequence, bar the suggestion that Ogilvy's sister, Alanis, would now most likely take his place as heir presumptive of the family business. The idea of a company headed by a woman was obviously something of a novelty, but my companion believed that Alanis Ogilvy had what was needed to succeed in world dominated by men.

"She's got the balls you need to succeed in business," he said, crudely. "Unlike that poor dead brother of hers".

As the crowd began to move off after the hearse towards the cemetery, Lomax and I were able to slip away and compare notes in a downtown diner. I described my brief encounter with the crying woman and then the conversation with the chubby man.

"That dame might be able to tell us something," said Lomax, somewhat stating the obvious. He then went on to talk about his discussions with Ogilvy's old college friends. He had posed to them as someone who had become acquainted with Ogilvy through business and found they had similar tastes on many matters. Thereafter they had met occasionally for lunch, though Lomax noted to them that about a year ago their contact had ceased - Ogilvy stopped returning his calls and they met no more. This gambit worked - Lomax's story so chimed with the old buddies' experience that they opened up about how they too (his oldest and dearest friends!) had been similarly cut off by Ogilvy at roughly the same point of time. Lomax tried to gauge whether they knew what might have precipitated the change. They knew of nothing and were baffled by Ogilvy's shunning of them. But a chance question to them about Ogilvy's behaviour before he cut them revealed something that I instantly realised must be of significance.

"They said he had been continuing with his private researches, but that he had a new subject of interest. Apparently the various mediaeval Christian heresies had been a subject of fascination to him, but then he had turned away from that study and taken up an interest in the history of ritual magic and the occult".

"The occult?" I asked.

"Yes, all aspects of it," said Lomax. "Apparently he was always talking to the others about his studies in that area but they were not particularly interested. He apparently mentioned that he had entered into correspondence with some other scholars on all this."

"Great Scott, Lomax, do you see what we have here? Ogilvy develops an academic interest in the occult, and then cuts off his friends. I think I know what happened here. He went from having a theoretical interest in the subject to a practical one. And he found himself some new friends who shared this interest. The terrible business he was engaged in, about which he told Maddocks he was so concerned, was some kind of obscene black magic ritual. And his associates have murdered him to prevent their foul secret from being revealed to the world!"

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 6 - The Vicar, his wife and their friend

previously

Now

It was Sunday morning in Ballykillduff. The town's sizeable Anglican congregation were gathered in the Church of St. Michael, with the magnificent stained glass image of St. Michael slaying a dragon towering over the worshippers. A graphic statue of a similar scene was prominently displayed to the left of the altar.

The vicar offered up prayers for the soul of Joseph McMahon, who had drowned in the river only the previous week. As always, the left-hand side of the church was the more crowded, but the more sparsely occupied right-hand was where the most enthusiastic singing of the hymns came from. The vicar finished up proceedings with a reminder of a non-religious event that would be soon coming to the town.

"Do not forget that the Samhain festival will be taking place next weekend", he said, stumbling over the pronunciation of the Irish-language word. Gaelic had never been a strong-point of his and was not something that his schooling had emphasised. "There will be an art trail across the town and concerts in the Courthouse and here in the church." He stopped to look at a flyer the festival organisers had given him. "The musical events will feature artists from Ireland and abroad, playing all kinds of electronic and freaky folk music, whatever that is, and something called drone and psyche too. A bit different to what we listen to at home, let me tell you, but I'm sure there'll be something there with a nice tune or a beat you can tap your toe to. I'll be showing my own face at the concerts here - just to make sure they don't make a mess of the place!" He laughed, though it was not clear he was actually joking. "Perhaps I will see some of you here. God bless you all."

That was his traditional signal that the service was at an end. The choir struck up the last hymn, the right-hand side of the church joined in, and the vicar made his way outside the church so that he could greet his parishioners as they left.

As the vicar stood outside the church, greeting his parishioners as they went on their way, one young-ish man stopped to chat with him.

"Ah, Mr Cantwell. And how are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, vicar. And you?"

"I can't complain. God's work keeps me healthy. And how are things at the Manor?"

"A constant struggle to make ends meet. But you know how it is, vicar?"

"I can only imagine, Mr Cantwell".

If you knew nothing of Cantwell and were meeting him for the first time, his voice would suggest to you that he was not one of the plain people of Ireland. His accent was that minority one enjoyed by those people sometimes classed as Anglo-Irish - a kind of upper-class English accent but with the occasional strange twang that would never allow him to pass as a squire from southern England. Cantwell's immaculate Barbour jacket, shirt and elegant cravat, combined with his perfectly pressed trousers, reinforced the impression, as did the slight eccentricity of his hair, which was somewhat longer than was considered normal for the time. Cantwell was indeed the scion of an old Anglo-Irish family who could trace back his ancestry to the Norman Conquest. His family had been the major landowners in Ballykillduff as far back as records could tell.

It was customary for him to chat with the vicar after the Sunday service. As he did so, the parishioners leaving the church acknowledged them both. Some of them tugged their forelocks and muttered a "good morning Mr Cantwell" in a manner that was obsequious but with a faint undercurrent of surly resentment, while others seemed to greet him with what seemed like a genuine respect and even affection. The people who had been sitting on the right-hand side of the church were generally more likely to fall into the latter category.

"Awful business with that young lad drowning last week, vicar," said Cantwell.

"Indeed it is, what terrible burden on the poor boy's family. I only hope that the Lord will send them some consolation."

"There seem to have been a fair few of these drowning tragedies this year."

"That is a terrible indictment of our alcohol obsessed society, Mr Cantwell. The heavy drinking of these young lads and the nearby presence of the river makes for a dangerous combination".

"Indeed it does. But to brighter things - this festival next week sounds like a rather unusual business. Not the kind of thing the church would normally play host to."

"It is not, but the steeple restoration fund cannot be too particular. And the two organisers seem like nice people, though I suspect they are not exactly devout Christians. They're artists, you know."

"Yes," replied Cantwell. "I've seen some of their things in the Courthouse. A load of rubbish, if you ask me. I like to keep an open mind, but I do feel that art went to the dogs when pictures stopped looking like things. Still, I'm sure their heart is in the right place. And the church will be hosting quite a few of their concerts?"

"Oh yes," the vicar. "Mostly during the day. They'll have their evening concerts down at the Courthouse. But they are going to have one night-time concert, next Sunday. At midnight, in fact."

"At midnight?"

"Yes indeed, Mr Cantwell. They say it will be very atmospheric. I had my doubts about that one, but the organisers insist that nothing untoward will happen, though I will of course be along to keep an eye on things."

"I might show my face there myself. Ah, Mrs Deane, how delightful."

The vicar's young wife had been separately bidding farewell to the parishioners. Now she joined her husband and Cantwell.

"Mr Cantwell, always a pleasure. Will you be joining us for Bridge on Tuesday evening?"

"I would love to but… well I don't have a partner. Lucinda has gone back to Dublin. It didn't work out. I'm afraid we won't be seeing her down here again."

"Oh dear, how unfortunate," said the vicar. "But plenty more fish in the sea, eh?" He chuckled in a manner that was meant to sound reassuring but which came out sounding oddly salacious for a man of the cloth.

"Do come along, Mr Cantwell," continued Mrs Deane. "I'm sure we'll find a partner for you. "Gerard Murphy is always looking for an excuse to get away from that wife of his".

"I'm sure he is," replied Cantwell. "Very good, I'll see you then. Well, I must be off now, things to attend to. You know how it is."

He bade them farewell and climbed into his battered Range Rover and drove off to the Manor.

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 5 - The Police prove uncooperative

previously

Then

My dope fiend friend Hunter Maddocks has suckered me into investigating the clearly accidental death of one of his doper pals.

After leaving Maddocks, I went across town to the police headquarters. At the desk I said I wanted to talk to someone about the death of Harrison Ogilvy, because I had information that might mean that it was something other than an accidental death. I was told to wait. Eventually I was shown into an office to meet one Sergeant O'Bannion of the Homicide Division. He asked me what I had to say and I told him Maddocks' story.

"So let me get this straight," he said, when I had finished. "Your friend was in a dope den. There he meets this other doper, who turns out to be Harrison Ogilvy, who tells him that he has done some bad thing and that has put the fear of God into him. And Ogilvy is also afraid of the other guys he did the bad thing with, especially some foreign guy. Then a bunch of guys show up in the dope den and take Ogilvy away. And then this morning, your friend read in the paper that Ogilvy has died, so he jumps to the conclusion that he must have been murdered. Is that it?"

"That's about the size of it".

"Well look, I've checked up the files. Mr Ogilvy was found in the river. There were no signs of a struggle. Everything indicates to us that he was just walking along there one evening and he fell in and drowned. Sad business, but it happens all the time".

"Sure", I said, "but don't you think it's a bit suspicious that my friend saw him being roughly taken away from the dope den and then later that night he ends up in the river? Isn't it worth looking into? My friend is willing to give a statement on this".

"Look mister, if you know this friend of yours, then you know what dopers are like. That stuff messes with their brain, makes them imagine all kinds of bullshit. I can't be wasting police resources on every random piece of crap that dribbles out of some doper's mind."

"My friend is pretty clear that he saw what he saw."

"I'm sure he is. I'm sure he is. But look, there's another side to this. Harrison Ogilvy was a respectable man from a good family. He did in a tragic accident. His family are very sad. But now you want to say that he wasn't quite such a respectable guy after all? You want me to start asking all kinds of questions, insinuating that he was a doper and that he was mixed up in some kind of criminal activity? You think anyone's going to thank me for that? Jeez, mister, have some humanity. Leave these poor folks with their nice, good Harrison Ogilvy. I'm not going to take him away from them just because of what your doper friend has to say. It's bad enough that we all pretty much know he didn't fall into the river, he jumped in there all by himself, but we're not going to say that, and we're not going to start upsetting a respectable family by raking through the dirty laundry of his life. So that's it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear."

"Well that's that then. OK, mister, I've got real crimes to look into now, so I'll have to ask you to leave."

I thanked Sergeant O'Bannion for his time and left the precinct house with as much good grace as I could muster. I was now angry. When Maddocks told me his story about his doper friend I had no interest in pursuing it - like I said, I'm not a detective. But I am a law-abiding citizen who pays his taxes. As such I like to think that when the police are given evidence of a possible crime they will at least look into the matter rather than dismiss it out of hand. But that's just what the sergeant had done. Well, if he wasn't going to do his job, I would just have to do it for him. Someone had to get to the bottom of the Ogilvy business. Looks like it would have to be me.

But I wouldn't be doing this on my own. I knew I could rely on Bobby Lomax. I called over to him that evening and filled him in. He wasn't so sure.

"Gee, I don't know, we don't really have much to go on, and what do we know about this kind of thing? Maybe the cops have good reason to leave this one alone."

"The good reason is they're too goddamn lazy to bother. They think he killed himself and they don't see why they should make work for themselves looking into it further. Come on Bobby! When you read books about people having adventures, haven't you ever wanted to be in one yourself?"

"Sure, but is this really the thing for us? We're not detectives. Maybe we should hire a private investigator to look into it. I'd say between us we could afford it, especially if Hunter's willing to cough up".

"I'm not hiring a private dick. I was brought up to believe that if you have a problem then you sort it out yourself. So that's what I'm gonna do. Are you with me, Bobby?"

"Aw, heck, I suppose I am. But I hope we're not making a big mistake".

"Don't worry pal," I said. "This is no mistake. Come on, let's see what we can find out about this Harrison Ogilvy."

We began to make inquiries. We mentioned the death notice to people and suggested that we had heard the name Harrison Ogilvy before but could not place him. Some of our acquaintances could, though no one we knew was well acquainted with him. It appeared that Ogilvy was a man at that indeterminate point between youth and middle age. He was unmarried, which we had already gathered, as the death notice made no mention of a wife. Some suggested that he been a confirmed bachelor, with all that implies. He had had some involvement with the Rotary Club, but that had not become the kind of passion for him that it does with some people. He worked in the company his father had created. He lived in a large house in the suburbs, with his now aged parents and a younger sister, though he also kept an apartment in the city.

In character he appeared to be a quiet and bookish individual, with many suggesting that he was not blessed with the kind of temperament that would mark him out for a successful leadership of the family business. The opinion was expressed that if it had not been for the wishes of his father, he would have continued further with his studies and sought out an academic career. But he had kept in touch with his friends from university, who were now mostly employed by the city's various institutes of higher education, and had taken a keen interest in their research.

One titbit struck Lomax and I as being particularly interesting. He had kept in touch with his old college friends - until about a year ago, when he had apparently cut them all off. Could this be when he had taken up with his accomplices in whatever criminal endeavour he had become embroiled?

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 4 - Dawning realisation

previously

Now

Three of Joe's mates were sitting around in the kitchen-living room of the apartment they had rented for the weekend. Their faces were grey and they had the general demeanour of men experiencing the pain that follows a night of excessive drinking.

"Oh Jesus, I feel like shite", said one. Neither of the others felt that the comment warranted a reply.

A door opened and another young man in blue jeans and monochrome t-shirt came into the room, his face suggesting that he was suffering to an even greater extent than his fellows.

"Fucking hell, lads", he said in a tone as jocular as he could manage, "I thought I could hold my drink but I puked up so much last night I'm surprised I haven't turned inside out".

The attempt at humour made the others laugh. Their hangovers made them wish they had not.

"How did you get on with that bird you were chatting up last night, Cueball?" asked the fellow who had just been talking about his own vomitory experiences.

The young man who had somehow acquired the Cueball nickname went slightly red and then attempted a nonchalant tone as he replied "A gentleman does not dwell on such matters". There was no way that the quick hand shandy he had received while pressed up against the pub's fire escape could be dressed up as some kind of great erotic adventure. Best, he thought, to leave the details as oblique as possible and have the others imagine a considerably more exciting amorous adventure.

"Ah you dirty dog", said the newcomer. The others chuckled. "When did Macker get in?"

"He's still not back", said another of the young men, known to his friends as Lamper for reasons that were no longer readily apparent. "Must have got somewhere with one of those birds he was talking to".

"Or both of them!" said Cueball, in his best "wahey!" voice.

"Well he'll be back when they've worn him out".

"Squeezed him dry!" said Lamper, as though this was some kind of humorous remark. Which it was to his friends, who fell around laughing.

"Jesus Christ, I feel like shite", said the one who had already said that he felt like shite. "And we've another two nights of this".

"Fucking gaywad", said Lamper. "Can't hold your drink? Come on, let's go out for a fry up, that'll sort you out".

Out they went, which amounted to little more than leaving the complex in which their apartment was situated and heading to the pub they had been drinking in the night before, which was now coining it in selling greasy fried pig breakfasts to the stag and hen parties of the night before. There they ran into some of the other members of their stag party, including the soon-to-be-married man himself. As they were shovelling food into themselves Cueball noticed something and nudged Lamper in the ribs.

"Hey look, there's those two birds Macker was chatting up - but no sign of Macker".

"What of it, he probably went off for breakfast on his own or something. Or they've worn him out and left him tied up in their bedroom waiting for more".

"Lucky bastard", said Cueball, somewhat overemphatically.

"Hey lads, look who it is!" said the fellow who not long before had been talking of vomiting so much he almost turned inside out. The others started sniggering, with the exception of Cueball, as they noticed Cueball's lady friend of the night before arrive and join her hen party for breakfast. In the cold light of day she looked like something other than the sylph-like apparition Cueball had perceived the night before. Seeing her again he was now terrified to make eye contact for fear she would want to renew their acquaintance and progress it to a level of greater physical intimacy.

"Holy Christ", said Cueball, trying to bury himself in his seat and hide behind the food he was stuffing into his mouth. The rest of the lads laughed at his discomfiture.

After breakfast the lads went off on a pre-arranged boat trip and then went in the woods to play paint ball, which was mainly an opportunity to cover the stag in pellet wounds from head to toe. After that they found themselves back in the pub. Cueball was now somewhat concerned at the non-reappearance of their vanished friend, though Lamper was rather less concerned. "He'll show up in his own good time", he said, trying to imply that their vanished pal had far better things to be doing than join them for more drinks.

But Cueball could not escape the sense that there was something untoward about his continued absence. When they were out in the pub that evening he spotted the two women Macker, had been chatting up the night before, on their own and with no obvious sign of their vanished friend. Deciding to take the bull by the horns, he approached the two women.

"How are you, girls? Listen, I was wondering if you knew what happened to me mate… Joe?" Cueball had to pause for a second while he remembered Macker's actual name. "He was, eh, talking to you last night".

The woman looked blankly at him.

"He's about my height, dark hair, was wearing a Playboy t-shirt", Cueball said, helpfully.

"That prick", said one of the women, with surprising venom.

"He was talking away to us", said the other. "And then he nipped off to the 'bank machine' " (she mimed the air quotes) "and never came back".

"Arsehole," said the first. "If he didn't like us he could have just gone back to his mates without leaving us looking like spas".

"So you've no idea where he is?" said Cueball.

"Course we've no fucking idea where he is. He could be dead in a ditch for all we care".

Cueball apologised for wasting the ladies' time and went back to the lads. He was worried now. Where was Macker?

Later that night Cueball realised that he was running out of money, so he nipped out to the ATM. Some instinct that is inexplicable to science impelled him to take a short cut back through the laneway Joe had walked up the night before. And there he saw something that made him realise that Joe was not away somewhere getting his end away. For on the ground of the laneway he saw a single runner boot, of the very type that Joe had been wearing on the previous evening.

When Cueball brought his find to the others they were agreed - something untoward had clearly happened to Joe and it was necessary to involve the authorities. They disconsolately left their pints and went back to the apartment complex to ask the receptionist where the nearest Garda Station was.

"There's no Garda Station here in Killduff," he replied. "There used to be. But you know, cut backs".

"Well where is the nearest one now?" asked Cueball.

"That would be over in Carrick. I'll ring them for you".

He rang the number and told someone who answered that he had some lads here who were missing one of their friends, making it sound like this was something of an everyday occurrence. Then Cueball was put on the line to talk to a Garda Sergeant whose questions sounded like he was not really grasping the gravity of the situation. When the single runner boot was mentioned, the Garda asked was the other back in the apartment, rather than seeing this as an obvious sign that something sinister had occurred. After taking a very general description of the missing person the Garda asked Cueball for his phone number and said that someone might be over for him the next day.

That left the lads with nothing better to do than return to the pub, where they rejoined their stag party friends but were unable to throw themselves into the festivities with the appropriate gusto. Though they did all drink heavily, probably more so than the others, there was a pall hanging over them that had the others muttering what bad craic they were. One or two voices were heard muttering that they would be better pissing off back to their apartment so that they wouldn't wreck everyone else's buzz. The opinion was also expressed that Macker was probably off having the ride of his life with some bird they had not seen him pick up the night before. This, it was felt, would be typical of Macker.

The next day the Cueball, Lamper and the others came down for breakfast but declined to join the others on a fishing trip down along the riverbank. Instead they sat morosely round their apartment. They cracked open a few beers and sipped away at them, but their heart was not it in it. So it was almost a relief when Cueball's phone rang in the afternoon. A voice identified itself as that of a Garda sergeant in Carrick and asked Cueball to give his name and location. The Guard then told Cueball to stay there until he arrived, refusing to answer any further questions.

Half an hour later the Guard arrived at the apartment. "The news isn't good, lads. I need you to come with me to the hospital. There's been a body found in the river".

It was decided that they did not all need to go with the Guard, so Cueball and Lamper left the others behind and set off on the miserable journey to the county hospital outside Carrick. "They keep all the bodies in the morgue there", said the sergeant in a matter of fact way.

"Where was he found?" asked Lamper.

"A local fella was out walking his dog by the river's edge and noticed the dog getting a bit excited about something. He had a look and it was… well we think it was your pal".

Neither of the lads replied to this so the Guard went on in his matter of fact manner: "This kind of thing is always happening in Ballykillduff. Young lads up for stag parties are always having too much to drink and then falling into the river. Sometimes it's the girls too. People should be more careful".

"But we found our friend's shoe", said Cueball. "It was a good bit away from the river. Peope don't just take off their shoe and then go messing about by the water. Something happened to him, he didn't just fall in".

"You say that now", said the Guard. "In the cold light of day when you're sober there's no reason why someone would lose their shoe and then go and fall in the river. But when you've a feed of drink in you things get a bit different. Anyway, here we are now".

He parked in the hospital carpark and led them into the building, bringing them to the morgue. Cueball noticed that the hospital employees were not making eye contact - they must know the grim business they were here for. The morgue itself was staffed by a surprisingly attractive young woman. In other circumstances Cueball would have asked her out on a date. Instead she greeted them quietly and led them into a cold storage area, sliding out a covered body from a recess. The Guard pulled the sheet off the face.

"I have to formally ask you, do you know this fella?" he said.

There was no mistaking the face.

"Yes", said Lamper in a quiet voice.

"And what is his name?" said the Guard.

"Joe. Joseph McMahon", answered Cueball. He was talking quietly too. And he was chilled to the bone, not just from the cold environment they were in and not just from the miserable duty he was having to perform, but from the unmistakeable look of abject terror on the dead man's face.

Next Chapter

The Gathering: Chapter 3 - A mystery - or a wild goose chase?

previously

Then

We dropped Maddocks home. Mrs Maddocks thanked us and took in her husband who meekly followed her. Lomax and I knew she would want to be alone with him, so we did not intrude and left quickly, though I promised to call by the following day. I honoured my promise, leaving my office early to catch Maddocks before dinner. I gave him the talk - told him he had to stop what he was doing, that if he kept going on with his trips to the dope dens he would end up bringing shame on his family and worse on himself. I told him to go talk to a doctor, or a shrink, or a priest, or anyone who could help him get over what ever it was that kept bringing him back to those places of shame. I even said that if wanted to yap about his bad memories from the war he could talk to me, that he could ring me any hour of the day or night and I would come and see him. I would do anything to stop my old buddy from destroying himself and his family.

Maddocks was contrite. He told me that he had got over the bad experiences now, that he would be able to resist the urges that made him seek out the foul fruit of the opium poppy. If his terrible wartime experiences started coming back to him again, he would be able to face them down. And if they began to get to him, he promised me solemnly that he would get in touch with me. Anyone watching us talk would have been convinced that Maddocks was a changed man, that he would never disgrace himself again. But I knew him too well. How many times had we had this conversation? How many times had he promised me that he would never go near the dope again? And how many times had me and Lomax had to go fish him out from some seedy den of degeneracy? I told him that he hoped he really meant it this time, but I left him wit the sinking feeling that it would not be too long before I received another desperate phone call from the unfortunate Mrs Maddocks, a good decent woman who did not deserve the pain that her husband was putting her through.

So the following morning, when my secretary said that Mrs Maddocks was on the line with an urgent call, I was not surprised that he had failed but disappointed that it had happened so soon. It was less than a full day since I had last seen him - he had never relapsed so quickly before. But on answering the phone I realised I was mistaken. It was not Mrs Maddocks on the line - but Hunter Maddocks himself. "I have to talk to you", he said. "Not over the phone, I need to see you". He sounded real shook up. This was not good, so soon after his last episode, but at least he was calling me first.

"I'll be right over", I replied. Hanging up, I told my secretary that I would have to go, that she would have to cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. She nodded and got on with it. She was a good girl and I was lucky to have her.

Maddocks was alone in his house when I arrived.

"What's this all about, Hunter?" I asked.

"Take a look at this", he said, handing me a newspaper. He had drawn a circle around a death notice. Some guy called Harrison Ogilvy had died suddenly and the arrangements for the funeral were being posted. The name meant nothing to me. Big deal.

"Friend of yours?" I said.

"Not an old friend. But I know him. I met him the other day".

"Oh", I said, not sure why the death of this casual acquaintance should have so unnerved Maddocks.

"I met him at that opium den by the river. He started talking to me, I think because I was the only other white person there. Well, the only person like him, anyway, someone from a good family who had gone bad. He was like me, taking that dreadful dope to try and blot something out of his mind. But he wasn't a war veteran like I was. It wasn't something he had been through in the past that he was trying to forget. He told me it was something that had just happened."

"I see," I said, not really caring about some dope fiend whose sob story had touched Maddocks' heart. But I let him talk on. He was clearly shaken enough by the guy's passing that it would not take much to have him heading back to the dope joints to mourn him.

"He was shocked by what he had done", continued Maddocks. "He didn't tell me what it was, and I didn't ask. I was too out of it to do much more than listen. I think he partly didn't tell me because he was just babbling, but whatever it was, it was pretty awful, I could tell that - maybe too awful to tell anyone. He said he thought he could do it fine, but once it had happened, it suddenly hit him and he ran away into the night".

"So what do you think it was? Something criminal?"

"That goes without saying. But I don't think it was common or garden illegality, it was something worse than that. He was shocked at what he had done, absolutely shocked. And he was afraid. Afraid of the consequences of his actions. And of his accomplices".

"Accomplices?" I asked. "So he was not acting alone in this… whatever it was?"

"No, he was not. He had some accomplices, but there was another working with them that he was particularly afraid of. He was evasive, but it seemed like the accomplices were like him, whatever that means, but the other was different somehow. From what he was saying, he might have been foreign".

"I see". This did not seem too surprising a story to me. Maddocks' dope buddy had let himself get mixed up in some kind of shady criminal enterprise, headed up by a sinister individual from outside the country (as these things often are). Then he had got cold feet about the whole business and had some kind of breakdown, once he realised what the consequences of it all would be for him if he was caught. And you can be sure that he was the one who would be caught - the foreigner who headed up the operation would let his patsies see the inside of a jail cell for him.

"This happens all the time," I said. "Men like your friend from good backgrounds think it would be the most terrible fun to get involved in some kind of criminal caper. Real criminals are always on the lookout for these kind of people. They make the perfect foils for any such enterprise. But then when they are in too deep they realise it's not all a game, that if things go wrong they will be seeing the inside of police station, or worse. And then their criminal buddies won't be coming to pull their fat out of the fire".

"It's not like that," answered Maddocks. "Ogilvy wasn't afraid of the cops. It was what he had done that terrified him. And what the others would do to him".

"If I had to guess, I'd say he let himself get involved in the vice trade. There's some pretty rum customers in that kind of business, and anyone working in it could find themselves involved in some pretty unsavoury goings-on. He must have had a sudden attack of conscience, but he knew that his buddies would not want him to back out".

"It could be that, but look, whatever it is, this is a nasty business. He was trying to blank himself out completely with the dope, but he said there was no escape from what he had done. Or from them. And he was right".

"Yeah?"

"Yes, they came for him. Do you remember me saying that you and Bobby coming for me was like his friends coming for him? Well it was, kind of. When they arrived, they weren't taking no for an answer. They pushed the way through the place, led in by the boss there to check out all the white men there. They took one look at me and shook their heads, but when they saw Ogilvy they pulled him to his feet, punched him in the guts for good luck, and then dragged him out of the place. The paper seems to say that he died by accident, but I know he was murdered. And you've got to find out who did it".

"I've got to find out who did it?" I was somewhat taken aback at Maddocks' suggestion that I would have to turn detective.

"Yes, you'll have to. Bobby will help you, of course. I'll help all I can, but I can only do so much. You know what my nerves are like, any kind of shock will send me back to the opium den. I… I had to use up all my strength to call you when I read about Ogilvy in the paper, instead of just heading down to the riverside".

"But I'm not a detective! How can I find out who killed him? Anyway, doesn't our city have a police force to look into this kind of thing?"

"Sure, but if they thought there was any possibility of foul play, this would be in the papers already. By all means go to them and see if they want to investigate this, but I know what they'll say".

"If I go to the cops will you come with me?"

"I'd rather not. I don't want to draw their attention on my… on my weaknesses. But if you go to them and they are interested then I am willing to tell them what I saw and heard".

"OK, I will go to them. But tell me, how did you know the guy you met in the dope den is the same guy as in the death notice? Did he tell you his name?"

"He did, but I forgot it - until I saw it again this morning".

"I see. OK Hunter, I'm going to let the City's Finest handle this one. I'll report what you told me, so you'd better get ready to be interviewed by a homicide detective".

And with that I left him.

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