First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (12 page)

‘No, not this fucking shit again.’ Said a sharp, familiar voice penetrating Tommy’s sleep.

A sharp pain fell on Tommy’s cheeks. ‘Get UP.’ The voice said.

Tommy tried to drift off again, and again the sharp pain struck his face. Whoever it was was slapping him.

‘What?’ He tried to ask, but this mouth couldn’t form properly, and all that came out was a slurry mess. He opened his eyes an inch and his vision was shut, just a blurry mass, but he knew that outline.

‘Aoife, sis.’ He tried to say, but had trouble on the s.

‘Fucks sake Tommy, you’re still high.’ And indeed he was, he tried to get up, and struggled; then looked down at why his left arm was painful: the belt he had used was still tied to his arm, with a stream of dried blood and opiate streaking down his forearm. The result of shooting up while still high. Two doses, in one night, this was getting out of control. Amid the cloud in his head a stab of guilt struck. Aoife! She wasn’t meant to see any of this.

‘I swear Aoife, it’s the first time.’ Said Tommy.

‘You lying piece of shit.’ Said Aoife, kicking him in the stomach.

Tommy burped up some vomit.

‘I’m calling your sponsor.’ Said Aoife.

‘No, don’t!’ Said Tommy, but she already had his phone and was flicking through the numbers to find his name. Tommy again tried to get up, but his nervous system wasn’t exactly functioning.

‘Hi, Peter? Aoife Bishop here. Yup, yup, Tommy’s sister yes. Well, I’m just ringing because I’m here in Tommy’s living room, and he’s in front of me strung out on dope. Mmhmm, indeed, yeah he was meant to be in work at least five hours ago. Yeah, sure I can. Ok, see you then, goodbye.’ And then, she hung up.

‘We’re going to a meeting at three.’ Said Aoife.

‘Ok, I’ll sleep until then.’ Said Tommy closing his eyes.

‘It’s on in twenty minutes!’ Said Aoife, and Tommy squinted at the clock on the wall.

‘Balls, work.’ Said Tommy, trying to get up and this time just barely succeeding.

‘You’re in no state to work.’ Said Aoife.

‘But Anne, we were supposed to meet this morning.’ Said Tommy.

‘I know, who do you think called me?’ Said Aoife, leading Tommy from the sitting room out to the hall while he tottered on shaky feet. A strange image jumped into his head, of a dog they had had in childhood giving birth to pups, and one of them attempting to walk. That was no doubt how he appeared right now.
Shameful
.

‘How did she get your number?’ Asked Tommy.

‘She’s a Detective, I’m sure she managed to figure it out.’ Said Aoife, leading him to the door, and then unlocking it with her key.

‘S ok, I can walk.’ Whispered Tommy, and Aoife let go of his vomit strewn t-shirt. She unlocked the door and they stepped out into the rainy air. It made Tommy want to vomit, again, but he held it in.
For Aoife
. He was sure she would appreciate that one.

Tommy walked towards his Mondeo, but Aoife laid a persuasive hand on his shoulder, and directed him to her car. He got in the front seat and looked around: the car was neat, clean and smelled pretty. In other words wasn’t the product of Aoife’s sloppy lifestyle. She must still have been with that boyfriend of hers. What was that? Six months? Impressive record for her.

Aoife pulled out of Glenmaroon Road and headed straight for the N4. It was then that Tommy realised he didn’t know where the meeting was.

‘Where we going?’ Asked Tommy.

‘St Patrick’s Hospital.’ Said Anne.

Oh Jesus, thought Tommy; the wealthy man’s rehab (he had of course done his stint in there himself, most Gardaí preferred the Rutland, but for just that reason Tommy had chosen St Pats) – half the people in there would be just a few weeks into the program. There was one benefit to that however, that being that the majority of group members would be jealous of his stoned state, rather than horrified. Tommy rested his head against the dashboard, and the thought struck him that perhaps he would be locked up the moment he stepped into Pats, but then he remembered: the Mental Health Act 2001. He could only be sectioned if he was an immediate danger to either himself or others. Otherwise he would need to give his signature before they put him in a ward, and with that comforting thought he allowed his thoughts run away into dreams.

They weren’t allowed run for long however, as just several minutes later Aoife woke him. They were in the car park of St Patricks.

‘You paid the parking fee? There was no need.’ Said Tommy.

Aoife’s glance could have burned. ‘That really is the least of my worries. C’mon.’ She said and got out.

Tommy followed, allowing the raindrops to gather on his brow as he slowly trooped his way into the hospital. The front desk was manned by a woman with what was either blonde or brown hair, depending on how Tommy’s morphine addled eyes saw her. It was at least some ten metres away, so Tommy allowed Aoife strive forward and he just hung back near the doors, though not directly in front of them as they were automatic and those waiting on cushioned seating may not have appreciated the cold wet spray coming from the outside in a constant push. Aoife asked for directions, and after some checking was told where to go, then she came over, grabbed Tommy’s hand and brought him along. Aoife Bishop, the only thirty-one year old physics professor Tommy knew who wore nothing but tracksuits.

They walked down a corridor lined with beautiful art which, even in Tommy’s inebriated state, was something to behold. This hospital was an old, old institution; famous too, after Johnathan Swift had granted £10,000 to ‘the lunatics and idiots of Dublin’, and it had an air of history about it. It had an air of madness too, Tommy reflected, but when you’re stoned you just can’t make those kinds of judgments.

Before a green door, there he stood: grey hair and a short sleeved shirt, the image of working class success.

‘Well, the prodigal son returns.’ Said Peter Mullins, who just so happened to be Tommy’s NA sponsor.

‘I was busy, homicide and shit.’ Said Tommy, feeling awfully like a kid sent to the principal’s office.

‘You won’t catch many murderers in the state you’re in, you’re so stoned you couldn’t catch the clap in coppers.’ Said Peter.

‘Look I didn’t mean to fall off.’ Said Tommy.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just stopped coming to meetings and started shooting up dope; but didn’t mean to start taking drugs again.’ Said Peter.

‘It’s not that.’ Said Tommy.

‘What? Daddy was mean to you? Girlfriend split up with you? Save it for the meeting.’ He said, pointing to the green door.

‘Look, Peter, I really would rather we go get a coffee.’ Said Tommy.

‘Why? So you can weasel out of recovery? No, you’re going to go in there and show everyone in there why missing meetings is a bad idea.’

‘I’m suffering and you wanna make an example of me?’ Asked Tommy.

‘No, your family are suffering, your work is suffering. Whatever it is you’ve taken that makes your eyes go like that though, that’s preventing you from suffering anything much. Get in.’

And like that, Tommy followed him into the room. There were twelve seated there already, and doped up though he was, Tommy could still tell which were patients and which were from the outside – it was all about the coats. If you had a jacket or coat on your person, it meant that you had had to go out in the rain to arrive here. If you were however dressed in clothes distinctly unsuited for the outside, then it was obvious that to arrive at the meeting you just had to wake up and stroll downstairs – past lines of security of course.
Detective work, hu-rah!
The thought brought guilt into Tommy’s gut as he remembered that Amy’s murderer was still out there.

It was hard to believe that only forty five minutes ago he had been fast asleep –
What the fuck is going on?

Tommy sat through two stories before the focus of the group shifted to him. One concerned a man telling them about the desire to use, another by a girl talking about being followed the other day by a homeless man; he had smelled awful and shouted loudly and the whole experience had made her want to start using again. After that, an awkward silence fell and Peter used it as an opportunity to speak about Tommy.

‘So, Thomas, you look like you’re in some shape.’ He said.

Tommy, who had already had three cups of coffee from the machine in the corner, was beginning to slowly sober up. He glared at Peter.

‘I went back, ok?’ Said Tommy, indicating his vomit stained t shirt.

‘Any reason why?’ Asked Peter.

Tommy shook his head. ‘It’s just, been a lot. A lot of shit.’

‘Tell us about it.’ Said Peter.

‘This case, Amy Clancy. A dead fucking eleven year old.’ Said Tommy.

‘Was it stressful?’ Asked Peter.

‘It is stressful, it’s very fucking stressful.’ Said Tommy.

‘Well, group, that’s biggest pile of shite I heard in a while.’ Said Peter and the room went quiet.

‘You don’t take dope because of an eleven year old girl, you take dope because you’re an addict, and have a sickness of the soul.’

Tommy shrugged.

‘No, don’t shrug. No matter how you look at it, you stopped coming to meetings, the medicine for your illness, and you fell ill again. Then you act surprised when you sleep in and miss work. Yes, your job is stressful, but welcome to life. Will you admit that you are back in the thralls of addiction?’

Tommy glared at him, he was doing this in front of a crew of people? They seemed as awkward as he felt, though to be fair it was a room full of junkies, hardly a hotbed of composure.

‘Yes.’ Said Tommy

‘Will you admit you are currently in the thrall of a savage state of mind?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Are you willing to get clean?’ Asked Peter.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Do you want to get clean?’

Tommy hesitated because he knew what answering yes would entail, but he could hardly run away, now could he?

‘I do.’

‘Good, welcome to Narcotics Anonymous. Speak to me after about arranging your DT’s, now; does anyone else want to share?’

Another did, a boy barely gone eighteen told them about his love for violence. Tommy held in the panic. Panic, because he knew what was coming, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.

After the meeting Peter introduced Tommy to man he called Flynn, who apparently until two years ago lived on the streets. Tommy didn’t recognise him, but knew undoubtedly, from his size alone that he hadn’t struggled at all to get the best spots around Dublin. He was six foot four, bulging chest and arms and skin streaked with tattoos.

‘This guy lives in a council apartment, ever since he got off the streets.’

Tommy nodded to him.

‘You’ll be doing your DT’s in his place.’ Peter said.

Tommy looked at Flynn, surprised, however Flynn just smiled.

‘Don’t worry, you won’t be disturbing me, I don’t have any things, family, or friends to disturb.’ Flynn said.

Tommy nodded his understanding.

In the waiting area Aoife was sitting with her legs underneath her and her glasses on, reading the
Independent
. She arose when she saw Tommy.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Asked Aoife.

‘DT’s.’ Said Tommy. He really wasn’t very comfortable with it, he would have to take three days away from the investigation; but Peter was right, he was in no place to be searching for a killer now: he was just a few steps away from the streets.

‘Where? Here?’ Asked Aoife.

‘No, you have to stay at least a week, which I haven’t got. Plus, last time I got clean I wasn’t in the Gardaí, and the only way I could pay for it today is in conjunction with the job, and then I’ll ever be known as the junkie.’ Said Tommy.

‘So where?’ Asked Aoife.

‘My gaf.’ Said Flynn. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be keeping a very close eye on him.’

Aoife nodded. ‘So what do I tell Anne?’

‘That I had a TIA.’ Said Tommy. ‘It will cover perfectly, as all I’ll be locked up for is 72 hours.’

’78, you need six hours before you’re actually off the dope.’ Said Peter.

‘Yeah, alright.’ Said Tommy rolling his eyes.

‘Well, I bought you these.’ Said Aoife, taking out two packets of cigarettes; what was needed for a successful rehab. Then she wished him luck, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. Tommy appreciated the gesture, as in this state he must have looked particularly unkissable.

#

An hour later, the room was bare, a wooden floor and unpainted walls. A mattress in the corner without even a pillow, but Tommy lay on it just the same. At least there was an ensuite toilet, though whether he would remember the use it when going cold turkey was another question.

He lay back on the bed and lit up his first fag of the session. The butt flared and the smoke coated his throat: just beautiful.

‘Ok, I’m ready.’ Said Tommy.