The junkie’s face was lit up with reverence. He seemed to have stopped breathing, entranced by what was in Kearney’s hand. It was a small plastic bag with about two grammes of light-brown powder in it. I had never seen heroin before and wouldn’t have been sure if it really was that. But the junkie’s expression confirmed it.
His hand darted out for the package, but Kearney withdrew it easily in time.
‘Hold yer horses, boss,’ he said. ‘Are ye sure ye want this? Don’t ye know that it’s fuckin yer life up?’
The junkie whined and moaned, reduced to a pathetic state, like a child crying for sweets.
‘Do ye hear me? I asked ye are ye sure you want it. This shite will fuckin kill ye.’
Realizing an answer was necessary to get to the smack, the junkie mustered his attention enough to look into Kearney’s eyes and whine: ‘Ah man, don’t worry about it, bud, give me that gear and that’ll be the last of the stuff I’ll ever touch. I just want to have a little bit, man, ye know what I mean. It’s been a shite day … me bird … normally I wouldn’t take it off ye but me bird, I was robbed … ah man just give us the gear will ye.’
‘I’ll give it to ye if you want it. Are ye sure, then?’
‘Yeah bud.’
‘Fair enough. There ye go.’ Kearney handed the incredulous junkie the bag. I watched it change hands.
‘Off ye go and enjoy it, now!’ he called as the junkie hurried away in the opposite direction, hand clamped around the package, newly energized.
Kearney started to cackle, watching the scampering addict turn off the quiet street.
‘What the fuck was that?’ I said. It was like I’d broken out of a trance.
‘Relax, man.’
‘What was in the bag?’
‘What do ye think was in it? Gear. Smack. Think I’m a liar?’
‘Where did you get heroin from?’
He shrugged, turning to give me his attention for the first time. ‘I got it. Doesn’t matter where. Ask me no secrets and I’ll tell ye no lies.’
‘Is it poisonous? Is he goin to die?’
He giggled. ‘Affirmative. Yes. That’s correct, Matthew.’
‘Jesus!’ I put my hands to my head, started pacing up and down.
‘Ah, give it a rest, would ye. Give over the bleedin melodrama. Ye knew what we were goin to do.’
‘What you were goin to do. But no, I didn’t know ye were goin to give him poisoned fuckin heroin.’
He was serious now, his voice hardened: ‘No Matthew, not just me — we. You knew what we were doin. You said you were up for it. Are ye denyin it now?’
‘No. Yeah. I am denyin it. I thought ye were havin a laugh. I didn’t believe ye.’
‘Well ye can believe me now. But think, what are ye goin to do about it? Cos ye know, I’ve got ye recorded at home, saying ye were up for killin a junkie with me. So yer fucked.’
I looked at him, standing there, not smiling, watching me. I started to panic.
‘Oh Jesus, Kearney, what the fuck? Give it a rest, stop yer messin. I didn’t say that, I didn’t mean it. Leave it out, will ye?’
‘It’s not too late to help him, ye know. If you want to, ye can run after him and try and find him and tell him —’
I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence: I had already started running, fast as I could, through the alleys past Talbot Street, looking for a solitary junkie among the afternoon crowds in the city centre.
Two hours later I sat on the bus home, on my own.
Rain pelted down on the city. I looked out the window; the faces I saw were sinister; the laughter all sounded wrong, full of menace and mockery. It all sounded like Kearney’s laughter.
I hadn’t found the junkie. I had looked and looked but he was gone, vanished.
I couldn’t eat my dinner that evening. I heard my ma whisper something to my da in the sitting room behind me. He lowered his Evening Herald to watch me through the door, while I sat in silence at the kitchen table.
He came in and shut the door behind him. Then he sat down, folded his arms on the table and said, ‘Tell me straight, Matthew. Have you been takin drugs?’
42 | Kearney
The buzz was extreme, even better the second time. All that night he couldn’t sleep, his mind fizzing with ideas and visions. The next morning, frazzled and jerky but still ecstatic, he decided to go back in for another shot. He sensed that his discipline was slipping and he had to rein it in or he’d be undone. But then he thought, Fuck it. He bounded down into the basement to reef up another helping of rat poison, and took the bus into town.
It was a grey morning. Deciding he should probably chop and change the locations to avoid any kind of pattern forming, Kearney let his legs take him through the dull weekday murmur of the city centre, along Harcourt Street, all the way to the canal. There, he stepped down to the quiet, grassy bank and walked alongside the water. And, soon enough, he came upon what he was after: another wizened, babbling old drunk, slouched on a bench by the archway of a bridge. Kearney gulped on the Red Bull he’d bought to keep himself perky, and approached. This would be easy as fuck, just like the first time. And this time he was going to take a souvenier.
‘Shift on up a bit there, boss,’ he said when he reached the bench. ‘Here, I’ve a few cans with me, perhaps you’d like to share them.’
He was a pro by now. He sat with the scruffy tramp and plied him with booze. Feeding him the second can Kearney said, ‘Listen now, Padre Pio. There’s only one thing I ask of ye on this fine mornin. Ye can have all the drink ye like from me, but I hope ye won’t mind if I make a little film of ye. Just for, like … the Church. To show them the good work or whatever. Alright?’
The tramp was indifferent. Kearney took out his mobile and started filming. This smelly fuckhead wasn’t as manic or embittered as the first one. He didn’t say much at all, just supped on the can with quiet gratitude. Kearney giggled freely, not bothering to mask his derision. The alco had an innocent-looking face, which made it all the more hilarious. Kearney poked his cheek with his finger, pushing in the skin and making noises like you’d do for a baby, gurgling at him. The alco didn’t give a fuck.
When the tramp had finished his third can of Devil’s Bit, it was time to cut the banter. Time for a little vino.
Kearney gave him the bottle and made him wave for the camera. He laughed and slapped him in the head, eliciting a low, tremulous whine. Then he went for a walk.
The lack of sleep was starting to catch up on him. He stopped off at Insomnia for two double espressos — a tip Dwayne had given him in Boston, useful for getting to work when there was no speed or coke around. Wired anew, he marched back into the centre, crossed O’Connell Bridge and stopped in at Dr Quirkey’s arcade. He played House of the Dead for a spell, exhilarated by the exploding faces of zombies and chainsaw-motherfuckers as he shot them repeatedly at close range. The crossfire thrills — caffeine, guns, blood and noise — coupled with the awareness of what was waiting for him back on the canal bank, fused into an intense and indiscriminate eroticism. As Kearney unloaded again and again into the screen, his cock pulsed in his jeans, his jaw fell open and his eyelids fluttered. During a pause in the game action, he scanned the teeming din of the arcade: everywhere, eager little sluts, moaning to be defiled, pouting for the rape.