The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 7

  

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Chapter 7

Liam inserted a key in the front door of his second floor flat. The walls of the public hallway were painted dark beige and the twenty-five watt light bulbs in the light fixtures failed to illuminate the dim vestibule no matter the time of day. Liam narrowed his eyes to see the lock.

The humidity rose in the spring and caused the wood in the doorjamb to swell and stick. With a hard shove of his shoulder, Liam popped the door open, the groan of the wood reverberated through the hallway and flat. Liam flinched. He looked over his shoulder down the public hall before he entered his home to see if any of the heads of disturbed neighbors peeked out at him. Satisfied, he walked into his kitchen.

“Liam?” The sound of his wife Mary’s voice drifted into the kitchen. Her delicate voice sounded like a small wind chime as the tubes ring in the breeze. “Colman, your Da’s home. Please clean up your bucket and brush your teeth,” Mary said. Her voice came from their son Colman’s room.

Liam dropped his briefcase on the small round Formica kitchen table. He knocked over a glass of milk, the contents spilled over the table surface, and the glass broke into small facets. On a normal day, this topic triggered a healthy dose of his Irish temper. Today his anger did not rise to the occasion. The broken glass and spilled milk just another event added to the weight already laid his shoulders as he leaned over the table and bowed his head. The stress hummed in his ears, the sound overpowered him like a wave and pulled him under the water.

Mary walked around the corner from the living room to the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and smeared paint along the front. In her current project, she aspired to remove the hideous faded 1970’s flowered wallpaper from their bathroom and replace it with a nice shade of tope paint. She slowed as she looked at Liam’s face.

Mary Malone hugged her husband and held him close with her entire body. The warmth of her body reminded Liam he was not as alone as he felt. She kissed the side of his face and moved her head to look him in the eyes. Even with flecks of tope paint in her dark brown hair, he loved her wavy locks as they cascaded in feathers to her shoulders. The hair framed her heart-shaped face, with light freckles, not apparent at first glance. Liam found her front overbite sexy and wild. He looked into the allure of her pale blue eyes, capable of looking into his soul.

“McMillan?” She asked, but she knew the answer.

Mary and Liam Malone were best friends and confidants since they met in sixth class in primary school. As an eleven year old, Liam won over the favor of Mary’s family forever. Her older brother, confined to a wheelchair since birth, ran into trouble with street toughs. Young Liam came across him in an alley as three boys beat her brother. Liam fought all the boys, each four years his senior, and bested them. He threatened if they ever lay a hand on Mary’s brother again, his retribution would come swift.

Liam kept her apprised of each case he worked on, just in case something happened to him. Mary Malone calmed him and acted as the voice of reason in the relationship while Liam represented the emotional element and passion. For several weeks, Mary listened to her husband lay out the current case he investigated. While she commended him on his zeal, she reminded him he no longer worked on passion alone. He had others to think about, others who depended on him. Specifically, a young son who just finished throwing up in the freshly painted bathroom.

Liam nodded his head and did not look at his wife. “Yeah, McMillan.”

“How bad?”

“Not worst case scenario,” Liam said. “But not far from it.”

“What does that mean?” Mary asked. In the last few weeks, she feared for her husband’s career.

“Suspended without pay for a week,” Liam said as he looked down at his shoes.

Mary cradled her hand under his chin and lifted his head until he looked her in his eyes. Liam explained to her his assault on McMillan in the basement stairwell at headquarters. Mary listened with calm silence as her husband described the events that led up to the assault. He told her of his conversation with Jimmy Costello.

“Again, it appears Jimmy is consistent only in his inconsistency,” Mary said. “Your boss has no position other than to straddle the fence without actually taking a position.”

“And that’s why he still has a job,” Liam said.

“Perhaps,” Mary said.

Liam completed his vent and let out a long sigh. In their relationship, the long sigh signaled Mary’s time to process the information. Liam drained all the emotion out of a topic and Mary sifted through the remains, retrieved pertinent facts, and presented them back to him.

“So, what’s next?” Mary asked him.

“Next?” Liam asked, his voice rose in annoyance. He looked at Mary. He realized she would not bite at his emotional outburst and shrugged his shoulders. “Next week I go in front of the review board. Since this is my first time, it’ll be a formality and a light punishment. Jimmy’s been in front of them many times before in his rowdier days, before he learned to toe the line.”

“And what does he advise to tell them?”

Liam sighed again. He fidgeted with a loose string on his jeans. “He said to tell them I followed a lead a little too close, lost perspective, and shot too high. I should say I let my emotions run too high with an arrogant prisoner.”

“Admire the conviction and forgive the youth,” Mary said.

Liam’s nostrils flared and he turned his face away. Mary touched him on the cheek and nudged his face back until he looked her in the eyes again. “If you can’t say it to me without gettin’ mad, what chance do you have of lookin’ contrite in front of the board now, Liam Malone?”

Liam’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Yes, that’s right. You heard me,” Mary said. “Go in front of the board and lie like your arse depends on it. That’s what I’m tellin’ you, Liam Malone.”

“Even if I don’t mean it?”

“Especially today. Gardaí needs honest detectives, whether they know it or not. And if it means telling a little lie to be able to continue being an honest detective, that is exactly what you do.”

Liam nodded his head.

“So, Liam Malone,” Mary said. “Once you’re back on duty, what is it you plan on doing?”

Liam cocked his head towards his wife. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: once your wrists have been slapped, how do you plan on going about your job?”

“How do I plan on it?” Liam raised his voice. “All I did was arrest a criminal who extorted Irish citizens, and because Gardaí leadership is comprised of worse elements than those prowling our streets, I have to take the punishment. How do you think I’m going to do my bloody job? If I’m the honest man you think I am, the only thing I can do is work to take them down.”

“And what would that accomplish?” Mary asked.

“Well—“

“All that will accomplish is you losing your job, or maybe even worse,” Mary said. “I don’t want to think about either.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“We have to be smart,” Mary said with a calm voice. “Is it possible to be a good honest Garda and work within the confines you’re given? Can you focus on helping people hurt by the actions of the Gardaí, as opposed to arresting the friends of the Gardaí? You won’t step on your bosses toes if you help the little people get back up. Can you still be the boy who stuck up for my brother all those years ago? You can change your focus. If they can’t be arrested, change tactics and help the people affected. There are other ways in which Gardaí can help people.”

“What are you talking about, Mary Malone?” Liam asked. “I can’t believe you would say this to me. Am I to look the other way when crimes are committed?”

Mary turned her body and made a point to look across the living room into Colman’s bedroom. The visible walls covered in posters depicting Bono and The Edge of U2, Croke Park during the Gaelic Games, and the Irish National Rugby team. Liam saw Colman Malone’s head as he lay in the bed.

“You have a sick son to look out for,” she said. “Without a job, we can’t afford the medical bills to take care of him.”

Liam closed his eyes. Every discussion between he and Mary seemed to come tethered to the topic of Colman and his condition, and the weight of the line dragged his soul downward more each. At eight years old, the doctors diagnosed Colman with Leukemia. The brutal treatment included chemotherapy and radiation once a week. In Ireland, the medical treatment cost the family a considerable amount of money. The treatments also left Colman thin, weakened, and bald. The procedures left a physical effect on Liam and Mary, as the sight of their son in misery left them depressed.

Despite his illness, Colman showed high aptitude in science and a true excitement for learning. His teachers suggested Colman advance into an accelerated science program. Advanced science programs cost more money, and on Liam’s Garda pay, became difficult to budget.

Everything about Colman busted their budget and cost them money.

Everything was Colman’s fault.

Liam felt guilty for his negative emotions towards his son. He could never admit his thoughts to Mary. He felt the strain in the Malone family was Colman’s fault. He felt strain in his marriage was Colman’s fault. He felt their living conditions, despite his recent promotion and raise, lay still below poverty levels because of Colman’s medical costs. Therefore, in Liam’s mind everything dropped to his son, Colman.

“Why don’t you go in and see him?” Mary laid her hand on Liam’s hand.

Liam blinked as his thoughts returned to his conversation with his wife. “Not now. I wouldn’t be very good for his mood right now,” Liam said. He sat down at the table.

Mary sat next to him. “Any time you spend with him makes him happy.”

Liam looked away from his wife’s eyes. He knew Mary understood how the subject of his ill son made him uncomfortable. His specialty lay in his ability to control situations, from interrogations to conversations. However, he felt helpless in the presence of his son, and addressed his lack of control by ignoring his son.

“I know you had to watch your father die of cancer,” Mary said. “And I know that memory has infected your relationship with Colman. But, he’s your son and you can’t block him out. He loves you and needs you.”

“I—“ Liam stammered. “I’m sorry, I just can’t watch him like this.”

A tense silence hung in the air between the two lovers for several moments.

Mary shifted her position in the chair. The expression on her face changed. “We got a call today from something called the Garda Medical Assistance Foundation.”

“What does that mean?” Liam asked absently.

“They wanted to offer medical assistance with Colman if we participate in a program they are starting,” Mary answered.

“Okay,” Liam said.

“They said they would pay for Colman to do some experimental treatment for his condition. They said their treatment might put his cancer into remission. The procedure is experimental, but there have been successes. But, since it is a controversial subject, they are secretive, and we have to sign non-disclosures.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it seems to be too good to be true,” Liam said. “What’s the catch?”

“Well, they’d like us to participate in their study on fertility, which I thought was perfect since we wanted to have more children and having trouble. And there’d be additional money for us there,” Mary said. She hesitated. “And since the Gardaí sponsors this agency, candidates need to be in good standing with them.”

Liam cocked his head in her direction. “Which I’m not.”

“But you could be,” Mary said. “If you do what they want, and say what they want, you would be. And if you did it for the sake of your son, it would be okay. Our bills are really piling up and this organization can help Colman and us, it would get us out of the hole.”

“I don’t trust it,” Liam said.

“Maybe not, but we should at least listen to them,” Mary said. “No harm in talking to them about it.”

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The Fenian Avenger – Chapter 6

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Chapter 6

Following his meeting with Superintendent Costello, Inspector Liam Malone wandered the halls of the Phoenix Park Garda Headquarters. Unwilling to go to the basement holding cells to release his prisoner, he stood on the roof and looked out on the Dublin Zoon and stewed about his orders. His mind conflicted with his loyalty to Costello and the Irish people, and anger towards the corruption of the Gardaí management who wanted to him to look the other direction and allow criminals to thrive.

When Liam joined the force, he knew two choices lay out before him: go with the flow and go on the take or be an honest Garda at the bottom of the barrel. He envisioned the decision of which direction to go would be more dramatic. In reality, the situation was different. The good guys in white hats would not be there to encourage him to ignore the corrupt bureaucrats and arrest the bad guys in black.

The vein in his neck pulsed as the stress headache moved to his temples. He needed no mirror to know his face glowed a bright red. His feelings resembled a mass tangle of wires, uncertain which connection belonged to which wire. He could not trust his instincts, unsure of whom to trust. Liam knew Costello supported him and respected the detective work that went into his vocation, but now felt a sense of disappointment as his boss appeared too willing to throw in the towel to the corrupt bureaucrats. He knew Costello the shrewd politician would not stick his own neck out too far. Despite Costello’s reputation as a good resourceful Garda despite limitations of his superiors, Liam doubted his boss’ motivations.

Liam worked out in the weight room. He pushed his body, and knew his muscles would scream at him the next morning. Each exercise station decreased his anger. He showered in the damp dungeon that passed for a locker room, deserted this time of day, which allowed him to spend time under the hot water stream. The hard water hit his head and soothed his nerves. Rational thoughts probed the veil of anger that covered his brain. Liam would trust Costello; he did not have much choice unless he wanted to pursue another line of work.

Liam dressed and shuffled down the wide stairs to the basement holding cells, which also resembled a medieval dungeon. He calmed his nerves to start the release of his incarcerated prisoner. The name of the loan shark boss was John McMillan. For the last month, Liam tracked street level operations up to him. When Liam arrested McMillan earlier, he found the brazen thug as he shook down a single mother of five in the light of day on Parnell Street at the busiest time of day. Even after he identified himself as an officer, the smug McMillan ignored Liam and continued to beat on the woman. Liam found he enjoyed it when he applied a bit too much force. The arrest surprised McMillan, and he howled in the back of Liam’s car on the way to Phoenix Park. The thug threw around the name of Kieran O’Dowd and how this would be the end of Liam’s Garda career. If Liam were unaware previously of the connection to O’Dowd, he knew now.

Following Liam’s meeting with Costello, Liam understood McMillan’s reaction.

The main problem Liam had with McMillan was the bugger just made him nutty. The smug look on his face along with the pathetic pencil thin mustache above those narrow lips infuriated Liam. He could take this loser apart in an alley fight in no time. He looked like someone picked on in the schoolyard, not a criminal boss. McMillan was a tall drink of water and his clothes ill fitted him and hung on him as if they were on a wire hanger. Liam wondered how McMillan came to power. He was not tough enough to intimidate anyone, and fit no profile for a crime boss. However, once Liam put the pieces together with Kieran O’Dowd’s support, the picture cleared.

As Liam came around the corner to the booking desk, he saw McMillan at the counter.

McMillan turned his head towards Liam and started to laugh. “Come to let me out, have you now, fella? Well someone got ‘ere first.” McMillan said as he walked towards Liam. “I didn’t want to bolt without letting you know that all yisser ‘ard work was fer nothin’.”

McMillan brushed against Liam’s shoulder as he started up the stairs. A rush of adrenaline rushed up Liam’s body and his body boiled. Liam grabbed the back of McMillan’s collar and slammed his face into the stone block wall of the stairwell. “You think you won now, but I’ll be watching for you,” Liam shouted into McMillan’s ear, feeling his words stutter with the anger that coursed through his body. Each syllable punctuated with a new thrust of McMillian’s face into the wall with a dull thud.

Liam let go of the crime boss and stepped away. McMillan turned around, his body shaking and his hands touched his face and came away with blood. His nose and front teeth covered with blood, dripped down to McMillan’s shirt.

McMillan looked at his hands in shock, then up at Liam. His mouth moved, but no words came out of his mouth. His eyes would not meet the eyes of Detective Liam Malone. Uniformed Garda officers rushed to McMillan’s side and dabbed his bloody face with paper towels. Two detectives grabbed Liam by the arms and pulled him away.

With Liam restrained, McMillan’s confidence returned and he walked up to Liam.

“Bought yourself a bleedin’ suspension dere, fella,” McMillan said to him. “You better watch it or you’ll git worse.”

Liam lunged at McMillan, but with his arms restrained, he was not able to hit McMillan. Even so, McMillan flinched away from the detective.

McMillan turned and ran up the stairs from Liam, now in hand cuffs.

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The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 5b

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Chapter 5b

The Gardaí Serious Crime Squad occupied a corner of the open detective pit. The section consisted of a number of desks and one small office. From inside his office, Superintendent Jimmy Costello leaned back in his chair and surveyed his kingdom. The office chair protested the movement with a series of screeches and pops. The cramped office, just big enough for the scratched metal desk and visitor chair, appeared cluttered. To get to his chair, Jimmy turned sideways and squeezed past the desk. Scattered papers and file folders covered most of the desktop. Buried under desk clutter lay an assortment of items, such as a model of the Eiffel Tower, a lava lamp, a dead plant, and framed pictures of his wife and children. The warped wood-paneled wall resembled Costello’s desk with a mish-mash of items hung or taped, such as a framed photograph of Costello and Gardaí Commission Brian McGuiness, several photographs of famous rugby teams and players, and numerous newspaper articles related to famous cases handled by the Serious Crime Squad.

The warped plastic windows that faced the squad room made distorted everything like a fun house mirror. The department replaced the smashed original glass on the windows several years back after a nasty brawl broke out in the squad room. The stink of the fight arose because it involved not criminals or suspects, but started between three detectives who argued over the World Cup. Today the window reminded Costello of how things went wrong from innocent circumstances. Scratches and dents covered the plastic windows, which now displayed a hazy grey color. Rumors placed Jimmy Costello as the fourth member of the famous brawl. Being the political mastermind, Jimmy managed to purge his name of all involvement. Instead of a reprimand for the brawl, Jimmy Costello ascended to the top of the Serious Crime Squad and straightened up his act. He managed the unit with efficiency and steered the fine line to handle cases in the face of corruption in the greater Gardaí that grew every day.

Costello leaned back in his chair. He squinted as he read the sheet of paper in his hand, his glasses no longer strong enough for his aged eyes. He propped his feet on the desk and exposed a timeworn pair of shoes with holes on the soles. In recent months, he noticed his hair started to show streaks of silver fibers in his once auburn mop. A new goatee adorned his face, much greyer than his hair. Unused to the beard, he often stroked the hair on his chin, too aware of how wicked itchy the beard was. Jimmy Costello’s appearance sent a message he was lax in his job and life overall. The mistake many people made is when they missed the sharp glint in his eye under interrogation. Adversaries who made this error found themselves in trouble. Those who knew Jimmy Costello knew of his razor sharp mind. He commanded the respect of the squad and his peers for as a nimble politician who did not compromise his soul in the process.

Liam Malone slipped into Costello’s office and mumbled the obligatory “sorry” for no reason as he sat in the visitor chair. The newest detective in the Serious Crime Squad, Liam Malone caught Jimmy’s attention while at the Academy. Liam continued to impress after graduation with stellar performance in his first year as a Garda uniformed patrol officer. He added to his CV when he worked undercover in drug and crime cases, and excelled as his work dismantled of one of the most violent gangs in Dublin. He adapted to his new life as a married man, he wished to spend time with his young wife and son. Liam sat for the Inspector’s exam, which qualified him for the Interview Boards.

He skipped the rank of Sergeant, a supervisory level in the uniformed Gardaí. Liam spent his compulsory one-year stint on the OCU (Organized Crime Unit), and applied for a position in the Flying Squad, which dealt with armed robbery, and spent two years the unit. A patient man, Jimmy monitored the career progression of the young star on the rise. He took Liam to the club often. When Liam racked up enough service time under his belt, Jimmy invited him to join the Serious Crime Squad.

Once under Jimmy’s wing, Liam did not disappoint with his work in the SCS. Liam approached every case with enthusiasm. Jimmy loved his attitude and honesty.

However, honesty led to a problem in the Gardaí climate.

Back in the Stone Age, young Garda Jimmy Costello noticed a disturbing trend in its infancy. Any organization dealt with a certain amount of corruption along the fringes, a given when wealthy criminals, low-paid law enforcement, and ambitious bureaucrats come together in the same brew. This trend, however, became more prevalent with each passing year of the country’s depression. Today, an officer not on the take was uncommon. Crime, business, and politics infiltrated the Gardaí. In Jimmy’s opinion, the Gardaí was no longer on the up and up and corruption no longer the exception but the norm. Many corporations expanded into organized crime, as sin took the lead as the only profitable business left in Ireland. These corporations found if they influenced decisions at Phoenix Park, their ride smoothed. The days when the Gardaí valued an honest detective were over. Reprimands slapped the wrist for those exceptional detectives who arrested the wrong criminals. An honest detective was a liability.

Jimmy’s distasteful duty on this day consisted of reining in his finest young detective. This job tested Jimmy’s skills with people. He did not want to break Liam’s spirit. Deep down, Jimmy respected an honest Garda, although the politics made it no longer prudent to advertise the fact.

Jimmy returned his attention to the piece of paper in his hand. He re-read the header, an interoffice memo from Brian McGuiness, the Garda Dublin Metropolitan Assistant Commissioner and the Big Cheese in Dublin. The memo addressed one of Liam’s cases that investigated an efficient and organized loan shark operation. Liam deftly worked his way up the hierarchy of the organization and, not only identified the boss, but also the corporate connections. The mistake Liam made no secret as to the identity of the corporate executive involved.

There lay the first plank in Liam Malone’s coffin.

The young detective sat across the desk from Jimmy. He looked so eager and naïve. In his eyes, he showed no realization of the circumstances he found himself. Liam became a dangerous man to the Gardaí establishment. The boyish hair, the gleam of his blue eyes, and the near skip in his step betrayed a juvenile nature in Liam Malone. Jimmy Costello knew Liam would not take the request to step down from this case well.

“Let’s talk about your loan-shark,” Jimmy offered, unable to look his detective in the eye.

“Yeah, sir, funny you should bring that up, I wanted to talk to about this,” Liam said and opened his file folder on the desk. “I’m not certain just how to proceed. Sorry I haven’t come to you sooner. I thought I had the case in hand, but now I’m a little over my head. I’ve found the boss, but he has ties to KOD.”

Jimmy sighed. He dreaded this task. So much energy and talent, and no idea what he walked into.

As the largest corporation in Ireland, KOD, Inc. Founder Kieran O’Dowd acted as both Chairman of the Board and CEO. O’Dowd, as ruthless as he was charismatic, ruled business in Ireland with a quirky media personality and sense of humor. KOD had a hand in so many industries and ventures in Ireland and Europe that a conversation about what the conglomerate did not touch proved easier.

In addition, it was an unwritten rule not to touch anything associated with KOD or Kieran O’Dowd. Liam did not know this yet.

“Liam, I’m sorry to tell you this, now,” Jimmy said. He sat up and smoothed his hands on the rough surface of his desk. “Kieran O’Dowd is a generous benefactor of the Gardaí, and a critical individual to Ireland. KOD carries the Irish economy on its own. We exercise caution in how we use his name and his company’s name in conjunction with any alleged crime.”

“Sorry, sir, I understand he is well-respected,” Liam said. “And that is why I’ve come to you first about this.”

“Fabulous work, Liam. You are heads and shoulders above any of other inspector in the department. This lesson should come in time, but we don’t have that luxury. As detectives in the Gardaí, we need wisdom on how far to push a case. You were right to alert me, but it should have been much sooner, lad, and been quieter about the task. You need to understand the people to not mess with. Now, I’m sorry to be telling you this, but it’s for your own good.”

“Are you’re saying I should back off because of Kieran O’Dowd?” Liam asked. “If he’s involved in a crime, doesn’t he need to investigate and punish him? Or even if he’s wrongly connected, we need to investigate so we can clear him. Or least we need to advise him to choose his allies better or stop people who leached off of him.”

“Lad, I understand the desire to save people and bring the wicked to justice,” Jimmy said. “As inspectors, we use discretion and wisdom. You can no longer work like a beat Garda. Remember what Assistant Commissioner McGuiness said just a few weeks ago at our luncheon? If we enforced every health code, there wouldn’t be a restaurant in all Dublin still open. Well, the same goes here. Kieran is a public figure, and he takes a lot of criticism and is under a great deal of pressure as a visionary person. However, what he does is critical to the country and we have to be careful of what we do with information. We live in times when our country needs the top employer to put as many Irish to work as possible and continue to fulfill the vision to make Ireland a better country. What is more beneficial to Ireland? Is it Kieran in jail or in court over what someone in his organization may have done without his knowledge, or would we rather have KOD move full-force to advance Ireland? It is not about liking or disliking Kieran, which is not our job. Sometimes we have to help and protect loathsome people if they help the greater good. We must trust the bigger picture beyond what we can see from our positions.”

“This is nothing personal against Kieran or KOD,” Liam protested.

“Good, you’ve learned another lesson about detective work: Be impartial,” Jimmy said. “Let’s run this up and see what action they want us to take.”

“Sir, I’m going to proceed with this in the way you think best, please understand,” Liam stated. “I just would like to know, for the sake of my wisdom and how I should handle myself in the future. Is the Gardaí under the control of Kieran O’Dowd and KOD? I see their executives in here all the time, I hear references to agreements made with them, and Kieran often speaks at and attends our meetings. But, I also see crime bosses roam the street unrestricted and that drives me crazy. Now I have found a link between the two, which disturbs me.”

Jimmy Costello raised his voice and his eyes narrowed into slits. “Son, I am not on the payroll of KOD and I don’t take orders from them, nor am I in the pocket of organized crime,” Jimmy stood up and his metal chair hit the wall. “I can’t attest for all the Gardaí. I am simply giving advice to help your Gardaí career.”

“Yes, sir, I apologize if I said anything to offend you,” Liam said.

Jimmy snorted a quick breath and stretched his neck. When he spoke again, his voice softened. “I would be disappointed if you did not ask these questions and many men here in this department would not have asked such questions,” Jimmy said. He inhaled a breath and sat down. “Tell me, now. Does what I have just said sour you on the Gardaí?”

“Sir, I would be lying if I told you the idea of looking the other way while someone commits a crime isn’t distasteful,” Liam said. “But, I trust enough to believe you are looking out for my best interest.”

A pang of guilt hit Jimmy as he lied to his detective. “My bosses will react less benignly than I, so I would suggest you forget any information that connects Kieran,” Jimmy said. “I will tell them you came to me with this information and asked for advice, which you have, and that will make them happy.”

“And the gang boss I have in custody downstairs?”

Jimmy looked down at his desk. He spoke with pain in his voice. “Release him.”

Liam sunk in his chair. He appeared to deflate at the statement.

“Sorry, son, I know how you feel,” Jimmy said. “Each day gets harder to stomach, but this is of vital importance to your career. Don’t get too upset about the thug downstairs. Someone else will let him out if you don’t.”

“He’s just so arrogant,” Liam said. He stood up, opened the door, and shook his head. “Apparently, he has reason. He has more pull here than either you or I.”

Liam looked like a puppy with his tail between his legs as he left the office. Jimmy knew Liam was immature to assume no corruption in the Gardaí existed. Jimmy imagined how the lad must feel when his boss requested he turn his back on the people he wanted to help.

The boy would take the edict in one of two ways. He would accept the decision or fight the decision.

Deep down, Jimmy knew Liam Malone would not ignore his conscious for long.

Jimmy Costello knew he had to plan on how to protect his prodigy.


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The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 5a

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Chapter 5a

April - 18 years ago

Liam Malone took a swift step to the side as a uniformed officer struggled with a man in handcuffs. The prisoner knocked the hat off the officer’s head and it rolled across the hallway. The officer scooted across the hall, with the detainee pulled beside him, and picked up the standard dark blue Garda hat. The itchy cap, made of wool, displayed a brass badge with a light blue circle surrounded by gold and dark blue, outlined with alternate circles and fleur-de-lies. The remainder of the Garda uniform consisted of the familiar powder blue dress shirt, emblazoned with dark blue shoulder emblems, finished with a dark blue tie, a nameplate over the right pocket, and pleated blue trousers.

Liam flattened against the wall. Unable to avoid the handcuffed man’s momentum, Liam crumpled to the ground as the criminal bumped him in the groin. Liam let out a muffled grunt at the impact and pushed the prisoner aside.

“Sorry, sir, Detective,” the uniformed Garda said as he replaced his hat on his head.

“No worries,” Liam said and forced a smile. “You have yourself a wild one there, don’t ya?”
The officer shrugged. “Sorry, I’ll give him a whack in the jewels in a bit as payback. Sorry.”

Liam smiled as he brushed back a stringy shock of light brown hair across his head with his hand. He felt the word “sorry” was the most overused word in the Irish vocabulary and became almost reflexive in casual conversation, as the phrase started a good number of conversations where an apology was not necessary. As the term was such a norm in conversation, when conditions required a true apology, you practically needed to offer indentured servitude to make the applicable repentance.

On a normal day, foot traffic in these halls resembled a poorly engineered congested Paris intersection. With everyone in a hurry, usually only the rude and pushy survived, of course the rude and pushy softened their actions with numerous instances of spontaneous “Sorry’s” to make amends. Any attempt at conversation degraded in rapid time into shouts in order to rise above the din.

These halls were not for the meek. These were the halls of the headquarters of the Garda Síochána na hÉireann, in Gaelic meaning Guardians of the Peace of Ireland. The Garda, or Gardaí for plural, were the Irish law enforcement organization, similar to local police in the United States or Great Britain, or the Mounted Police in Canada The public usually just called the organization as a whole the Gardaí (pronounced Gar-a-die) and individual officers as a Garda (pronounced Gar-a-dee, Gar-a-day, or Gar-a-da depending on what dialect they spoke).

While not as large as their cousins in New York City or London, the Garda Force Region of the Dublin Metropolitan headquarters was the largest Gardaí region in all of Ireland. The force covered nearly as many crimes and cases as all the other Irish regions in total. A trend not likely to decrease in the coming years with indications the depression Ireland experienced showed no sign of alleviating.

Garda headquarters lay nestled in an out of the way northeastern corner of Phoenix Park. A large metropolitan park, Phoenix Park sprawled across the western side of Dublin, and was Europe’s largest urban park. The city populated the commons with Fallow Deer, who grazed within the walled confines. The government scattered monuments to its most prominent historic citizens along the grounds. The residences of the President of Ireland and the United States Ambassador to Ireland lay within the confines of the grounds. Strewn across the park were football fields, rugby patches, picnic areas, concert areas, and untouched wooded areas.

As funds dried up in city coffers, the ability to upkeep such a large park became difficult. A result of the cutbacks saw the wooded areas grow in size, become overgrown, and become no longer traversable. A new sub-culture called “Parkers” emerged. Outlaws and homeless thieves who lived in the urban woods and preyed upon visitors, Parkers touted themselves as modern day Robin Hood and the Merry Men living in Dublin’s version of Sherwood Forest. Gardaí pointed out the concept of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor as questionable in this case, since they gave no stolen money to the poor, unless you considered the Parkers were actually the “poor” in the scenario.

The Garda Force headquarters took a back seat to its neighbor, the Dublin Zoo, at the intersection of North and Zoo Roads, much to the appreciation of Gardaí. Over the years, the confines of the zoo provided Garda officers a way to conduct anonymous meetings with informants and other individuals away from the formality of headquarters. Garda personnel enter the zoo free as a benefit, which also includes access after public hours. Dublin Zoo administrators instigated this benefit to encourage Gardaí to become visible in the zoo. They trusted the added presence operated as an addendum to the existing security force. Phoenix Park was no different from the rest of Dublin and mired in crime and gang activity.

The Gardaí formed in 1922 when the Republic of Ireland gained independence from Britain. With law enforcement in Ireland fractured into many units at the time, Gardaí became a centralized presence and replaced the Royal Irish Constabulary, a division of the British police, and the Irish Republican Police, which operated regionally from 1919 through 1922. Originally called the Civic Guard, the Garda Síochána Act of 1923 renamed the organization as the Garda Síochána na hÉireann, and eventually merged with the Dublin Metropolitan Police, to form a single law enforcement body for Ireland.

Gardaí consisted of six Regions across Ireland: Eastern, Northern, Western, Southern, Southeastern, and the Dublin Metropolitan. An Assistant Commissioner ran each Region, and reported to a panel of three Deputy Commissioners, who worked for an overall Commissioner. Within the Dublin Metropolitan, the city divided into six districts: North, South, East, West, North Central, and South Central.

Always an issue with every large police force, corruption especially dogged Gardaí. During the days of the recent depression, Gardaí garnered a reputation of corruption at every level. From images and video on the RTÈ of uniformed Gardaí shaking down citizens for money, to stories of the majority of the force paid by outside interests, most citizens view Gardaí as the last people to call if you were in trouble. With the amount of corruption rampant, the fact Gardaí telephone number contained the numbers 666 amused Liam Malone.

 

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Chapter 4









October 25



Letter to the Shareholders of KOD, Inc.

From the Desk of Kieran O’Dowd

Chairman of the Board and CEO of KOD, Inc.



My Dear Shareholders,

I find myself in a dilemma. I worked hard to build and nurture KOD, Inc. from a foundling idea to the power we wield today. While KOD has flourished over the last seventeen years and taken our shareholders to great levels of wealth, I am saddened our Mother Ireland has not experienced the same level of success. Indeed, Ireland has suffered during the same parallel stretch. The depression in Ireland has lasted far longer than anyone ever expected. The skeletal hand of winter will not release grip on our once proud country and the snow clouds prevent the sun from shining on our emerald shores once again.

I am officially announcing our primary goal and priority at KOD will be the advancement and recovery of our once proud Ireland.

I pronounce that this depression will end within my tenure as CEO of KOD, and this company will lead in the effort to make this so. The people of Ireland will rise from the low state they find themselves in, and will no longer have to be the cute country with happy dancing people in green costumes who beg for the foreign dollars in our economic tin cups.

Ongoing projects at KOD have the potential to help the people of Ireland both now and in the future. These projects will make us stronger and bring us closer to being the great people we should be. Look to some of the top countries in the world, such as Britain, Australia, Canada, and the United States, let alone advancing countries in South America and Eastern Europe, and we will find people of Irish heritage who drive these advancements.

I do not believe this a coincidence, not for a moment.

Time is now to bring the power of our heritage home to Ireland.

I once read a book entitled How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill. This book discussed the concept in the written history, the world as ignored the contributions of the Irish people. Consider what Irish people and people of Irish heritage have offered the world. Look in the areas of artistic, spiritual, economic, scientific, historical, political, and spiritual influence and the Irish will are present. The world would not be as enlightened if not for the Irish people who have left these emerald shores to guide the accomplishments of other fledgling countries. We need to make the call of Ireland reach the ears of those people to come back and help their Mother.

Moreover, the Irish people who have remained true to Ireland and not left these green shores must begin the healing. Your country needs help in many ways: monetarily, spiritually, and emotionally. We need leadership. And we need soldiers.

With my leadership and monetary gifts, I choose to give back to our Mother.

To realize this dream, it may require the sacrifice of KOD profits. How could we not want to sacrifice to live in a country where our children can grow up with a better life?

Finally, I am reluctant to bring this topic up, but many are concerned about controversial rumors regarding KOD. A certain vigilante activist, who calls himself the Fenian Avenger, is the source of recent false accusations and bad publicity towards our company. Everything this alleged “hero” claims is a lie. We can only refer to this Fenian Avenger as a criminal, and not only by me, but by our respected Gardaí. This criminal cowardly broke into KOD headquarters in an attempt to steal information to implicate KOD as the scapegoat for all of Ireland’s problems. Do not allow this false Irish hero fool you. Leave the crime fighting to the real heroes of the Garda Síochána na hÉireann. This criminal assaults Gardaí officers, injuring them and worse. Would a real hero stoop to this level against Irish citizens whose sole purpose is to protect and serve the citizens of Dublin and Ireland? No, a hero would not act in this manner. No real hero would conceal his identify with a mask and run from authorities with questions about his activities. Only a person with something to hide handles himself in this way.

We at KOD will no longer stand for the actions of this criminal. KOD is donating money to the Gardaí for the sole purpose to destroy this false hero.

Eireann Go Brach,

Kieran O’Dowd


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Chapter 3

Excerpts from James Beardsley’s interview segment with Wendy Shade from his upcoming book The Profile of the Fenian Avenger

My children and I lived in an apartment above a pub named Mary Mac’s in Ballsbridge. The apartment could not have been more convenient to my job, but hardly the best environment to raise children. When I was a little girl, I dreamed I lived in a beautiful flat in Ballsbridge. That was before the Drop. By the time I had a family and the opportunity to move them into this old neighborhood, the village no longer held the same magic. On the wrong night, my kids were not safe here.

Years ago in my twenties, this location over a pub would have been a prime flat. Today, I can only find fault. The walls and floors, made from thin boards, offer no insulation. Throughout winter months, the wind blows between the gaps in the windows and the cold seeps through the walls and make the apartment bloody cold. On weekends, the noise from below keeps my children awake. Someone stole our air conditioner unit last year, so in the summer we have to open the windows and experience the smell of patrons as they urinate on the back wall of the tavern. Nevertheless, the place was clean, dry, and reasonably cheap, with plenty of floor space for all of our clutter. Quite sad, but we were happy to have this nice of a home. We are just a rednecks new to Dublin, and I heeded my father’s advice to “get up to Dublin and get a job” after my husband died in a Limerick mill accident.

On that October night, we ignored the first indication of trouble. An earsplitting din of noise penetrated our paper-thin walls from the street. Loud noises from Merrion Boulevard happened on a nightly basis and a fight usually spilled into the streets from the bar and gathered a crowd. So, as usual, I ignored the noises.

The first waves of heat through the walls caused us little concern. While this October night was not particularly cold, the blokes next door tended to crank the heat early in the fall. However, when I went to the nursery to feed my son, the heat in the room scorched my skin, coming from both the floor and walls. I grabbed my son and ran for the door. Before I reached the hall, the hot wall exploded in flame. Had I hesitated a second, the fire would have killed my son in an instant. My other children ran into the hall, each of them screamed my name. I drew them close in my arms. Before I took a step, the fire spread to the hall and walls of flame surrounded us, it blocked our way to the stairs and sealed off all other exits.

My five-year-old daughter saw him first. She said she could see a person as he moved through the fire. I held them tighter. I thought the terror made her see things.

After a few seconds, I also saw something move.

A dark figure walked stepped into the hallway in front of us, the flame seemed to part for him. My head swam, my thoughts confused, and my senses scrambled. This had to be a hallucination. My mind wanted safety for my children and created this vision of a hero. This figment knelt in front of us, cloaked in a hooded coat, but his face glowed green. I was convinced the Grim Reaper stood in front of me.

My oldest child spoke his name first. “It’s the Fenian Avenger,” he said.

I saw the Fenian Avenger’s mouth move, but the sound of the fire drowned out his voice.

He took my hand and helped me to my feet. He removed his long leather coat and wrapped it around my oldest children and I. He leaned his head close to my ear. His hoarse voice yelled into my ear.

“My coat is flame resistant,” he said. “Keep it wrapped around you and it will protect you through the fire. Hold on to my belt with both of your hands, I can see through the flames, but you may not be able to. Trust me.”

The Fenian Avenger took my two youngest children from my arms and smiled as if to reassure me. He hunched over to shield the children from the flames. I looked at him, and studied the uncovered shiny metal suit. The suit appeared fire resistant as well. I almost asked if they were safe in his arms, but I realized the stupidity of the question, because the Fenian Avenger would keep them safe, I knew he would. I hooked my fingers from both hands into his belt. He walked us through fire down the stairs. I closed my eyes tight. My children’s fingernails dug into my hand as they gripped me harder.

As the flames grew louder, I also heard the structure of the building creak and snap around us. My hands shook, slipping in and out of his belt. A large wood beam fell behind us. I screamed, but continued to follow the Avenger as he moved through the house.

I felt the Avenger kick something in front of him. After the sound of wood breaking, a cool breeze hit my face. I opened my eyes and saw my children and I perched on the landing outside my front door. I followed the Avenger down the metal stairs. Once on the sidewalk, I let the leather trench coat fall to the ground. The paramedics surrounded me in a moment and checked my children.

In front of me, the Fenian Avenger bent and picked up his leather jacket. My emotions overflowed with relief, happiness, and gratitude. I looked at my children and tears came to my eyes as I saw them alive next to me.

I turned back to thank The Fenian Avenger, but he was gone.

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Dublin, Ireland

October Present

The section called Ballsbridge suffered in similar fashion to the rest of Dublin. Before the Drop, prestigious Ballsbridge represented the prosperity and hope of the New Ireland with large Georgian homes and swanky stores lining the streets. Most foreign governments established an embassy in the village. A bridge spanned the River Dodder, still adorned with a sign that read Ball’s Bridge, and everyone called the neighborhood that name from that point. Ballsbridge Village displayed the disparity of pre and post Drop, a former upscale neighborhood now teetered on the brink of urban collapse. The village housed pubs, a college, and many former luxury hotels, some abandoned and transformed into drug dens. Stately older homes fell into disrepair after the economic collapse. More storefronts stood empty and boarded up than open. Business ventures still in operation barely functioned, stock full of dusty and slow moving merchandise people either did not want or could not afford.

RTÉ News presented a statistic on the evening news. Since the Drop, the occurrences of rainy days increased at a substantial pace. During the boom times, in an average month, Dublin experienced thirteen days of rain. Since the Drop, the number of rainy days increased to twenty-five, and overcast days rounded out the remaining days. Most Dubliners could not remember the last sunny day.

A five-block section of Merrion Road appeared more prosperous than the remnants of the once proud neighborhood. The area contained sparkling addresses such as the Royal Dublin Society, the US Embassy, and Herbert Park. The prestigious attractions still lay between interspersed empty or burned out husks of buildings past their former glory. Despite the eyesores, the section fared far better than the rest of Ballsbridge. A grocer occupied a central spot on Merrion Road. Fítheal’s appeared on the marquee, pronounced Fee-hulls, translated from Gaelic meant “goblin” in English. In actuality, Fítheal was the surname of the original grocer who opened the establishment in the twenty’s. A new green awning covered the entrance, fragrant flower boxes adorned the windows, exposed original brick floors added character to the interior, and a large crusty old manager who could tell a customer everything about a particular fruit or vegetable added charm. A constant stream of Dubliners moved in and out of the store, mostly because of the affordable prices. New products come in from the back, moved by men with dust and sweat pooled on their brows.

To the Gardaí, Fítheal’s Grocery presented the perfect definition of a suspicious business that operated as a front. Neighborhood residents speculated on how a small shop operated with the high degree of success in this economy. Speculation aside, people overlooked suspicious behavior on a business that made affordable to provide food to their families. Little evidence existed of any negative impact of Fítheal’s side business on the locals. In fact, in addition to prices, the store employed many residents, including numerous cashiers, who greeted each customer with a smile, and stockers who brought a continuous supply of fresh produce from the storeroom with a jolly demeanor.

As the stockmen passed through the double push doors into the back storeroom, their manner dropped like a guillotine into scowls as if the distaste of dealing with the rabble out front produced vile in their mouths. A pall of smoke filled the air of the warehouse. Combined with the humid odor of sweat, the foul atmosphere assaulted the nose. Past the legitimate shelves of warehoused stock operated the true business, this business made the owners wealthy. Half a dozen men operated two greasy rusted press machines and hand-cranked counterfeit twenty punt notes. The high quality of the notes proved sufficient to pass in the stagnant Irish economy, as most any local business found themselves desperate enough for any currency coming through the door to ignore the quality. On the front of each note in pastel shades of pink, grey, and blue emblazoned the logo of Banc Ceannais na hÉireann in Gaelic letters, and on the back the English translation of the Central Bank of Ireland. Organized crime in Ireland managed to stall the politicians who tried to persuade the Irish to join the European Union and adopt the Euro. Counterfeits of the Euro presented a tougher challenge than the Irish Punt. If Ireland joined the EU, it would make a dent in the only profitable industry in the country.

The printing press stained black in on the men’s overalls, t-shirts, dungarees, faces, and hands. Several bottles of Bushmill’s Irish whiskey passed from man to man, ended in the hands of a man who gritted a Churchill cigar in what passed as his teeth. 

The door to the alley in the rear of the warehouse opened. A large in a shabby grey suit swaggered into the room. Sweat glistened off his forehead and the damp spot under the arms of his suit expanded. He wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve and looked at the large patch of wet cloth. His moustache appeared twice the size of his face. He walked into the center of the room and waved a piece of paper in his hand.

“We made the list, lads,” he roared. “The South Balls made the list.”

“What you talking about, Errol?” The man with the cigar clamped in his teeth asked.

“The South Balls made the Garda’s most wanted list,” Errol said. “Imagine that boys, we pass off thirty percent of the bills to the local Gardaí station so they have spending money, and they got the nerve to put us on their most wanted list.”

“Bullocks, you just can’t trust criminals these days, even when they’re dressed as Gardaí,” another said.

The South Balls represented the new breed of up and coming Dublin organized crime groups. Mild in comparison with several of the other mobs, The South Balls focused on victimless crimes such as counterfeiting, gambling, and black marketing. Recently, the group upped the ante when they staged a daring broad daylight execution of an honest Ballsbridge magistrate who caused problems by having the nerve to show morals as he stood up to them and refused their bribes.

“How much do we have?” Errol asked his men as he looked over the stacks on counterfeit bills on the table.

The six men looked around at each other and each shrugged their shoulders. The last turned, picked up a stack of bills, and slowly started to count aloud.

“Oh bogger, never mind,” Errol said. “I don’t have that much time for you tossers to count it. Let’s get it boxed up and ready to go.”

The men scattered about the warehouse, dumped produce from boxes to ground, and boxed the counterfeit notes into the emptied boxes.

“You two,” Errol said. He pointed to the two youngest members of the group. “Go get us some more boxes.” The two young men disappeared down a corridor with floor to ceiling shelves.

A loud crack surprised Errol and his men. They men stopped their tasks when the sound of grunted voices came into the main room.

“What’s going on?” Errol yelled.

The sound of booted footsteps echoed in the silent storeroom.

From the darkened aisle, a figure came into view. Only the outline of the man appeared, though all in the room saw him as a tall imposing body in a trench coat. The silent room allowed the faint sound of fresh leather squished and the chink of metal to boom as the figure walked towards them. A single glowing oval pierced the darkness where the figures eyes should be.

A smooth steady voice flowed from the darkness. “You want to know what’s going on, do you, Errol?”

The figure stepped forward into the light.

“The Fenian Avenger,” a man whispered.

Urban legends of the Fenian Avenger proliferated through the Dublin underworld. His face struck fear into the criminals first. A green mesh mask extended from the leather exoskeleton suit entwined with a metal fiber that covered his entire body. The suit provided protection from knifes and protected him from a standard bullet. His nose, mouth, and chin exposed by the mask added a human touch. The mask contained a slim microphone embedded in the material, unnoticeable to anyone. At his waist, his utility belt resembled Batman’s in the comics. On his left thigh, a strap secured a long rod with a wicked electric tip capable to send a volt of electricity into a body. His eyes covered by a visor that with an eerie green glow. The mask ended at his hairline, and a mop of sandy brown hair dithered down to his shoulders. The Avenger stood tall with an angular muscular frame. Description in the gangland world described him at six feet eight inches and two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. In reality, he stood six feet four inches and tidy two hundred pounds soaking wet.

The members of the South Balls backed away in cautious steps from the Fenian Avenger.

“Don’t let him scare you!” Errol shouted from the safety of behind his men.

The four men looked at each other with tentative expressions before they advanced on the Avenger with slow steps. The Avenger’s gloved hands snapped towards the closest two men, grasped them by the neck, and cracked their heads together. The two men dropped unconscious to the ground.

In less than thirty seconds, the South Ball’s advantage in numbers dropped by four unconscious bodies. The two remaining men exchanged nervous glances. The blonde man on the left stepped back with a shaky leg.

“Get in there, you boy,” Errol shoved the young blonde man and he stumbled to the ground at the Avenger’s boots.

The blonde man lifted his head and gazed at the masked face of the Fenian Avenger. Tears streamed down his cheeks, the boy looked no more than nineteen years old to the Avenger. His lips trembled and mouthed the word “Please.”

The Avenger nodded his head imperceptibly.

The Fenian Avenger cocked his left arm in the air and swung his fist with speed and force. The punch appeared to everyone in the room to know the boy out. In reality, the swing was a nifty piece of stage fighting. A stomp of the Avenger’s boot simulated the sound of contact with the boy’s chin. The Avenger’s right arm pushed the blonde boy to the floor to complete the illusion. The boy lay on the ground and appeared unconscious.

Flick!

The sound of a switchblade opening pierced the large room.

The Fenian Avenger spun to face a dark featured man who held a six-inch blade. In his other hand, he held a broken bottle of Bushmill’s whiskey. He crouched and jabbed the switchblade towards the Avenger.

Clink!

The blade struck the Avenger in the abdomen, bounced off the mesh armor, and nicked the blade. The Fenian Avenger stepped to the side in a quick motion and the dark haired man lost his balance. The Avenger grabbed his wrist and twisted. The knife fell from his hand to the floor as the sound of bone crunching caused him to scream. He waved the broken bottle of Bushmill’s and struck the Avenger in the back, not enough to penetrate the exoskeleton. The Avenger drove his right elbow against the man’s forearm that held the bottle and snapped the bone. The bottle shattered on the concrete floor. The dark man howled even louder with the second broken limb.

The Fenian Avenger raised his left leg and spun in a half circle. He landed the side of his foot in the dark man’s temple. The Avenger applied his knee against the man’s shoulder, dropped him hard to the ground, and rested his weight on the man’s windpipe. With a quick blow to the chest, the Fenian Avenger forced the last gasp of breath from the dark man’s lungs.

***

The Fenian Avenger stood and scanned the room. His distinctive visor enhanced the darkened corners, recognized facial features to match against database picture, and allowed his partner at the control center to see everything he saw. The latest design of the visor, to allow advanced facial recognition, also limited peripheral vision. During the fight, he lost sight of Errol.

Whoosh!

The Avenger heard the sound just before his visor alerted him a fiery object approached him. His quick reactions allowed him to duck his head, and the flaming object flew past him, a bottle of Bushmills transformed into a Molotov cocktail. The bottle hit a rack of wooden pallets, which engulfed in flame. In a few seconds, half the storeroom became a glowing orange Hades as the temperature raised at a rapid rate.

“Damn, Angus,” the Avenger said into the microphone. “I hate wearing this getup. Not only do I look like a tosser, but I can’t see anything to the sides.”

“Can you stop whining for once?” The voice on the earpiece said.

The Avenger spotted Errol, he ran through the door into the storefront. The Fenian Avenger detached a nightstick, which he flung like a Frisbee. The stick caught Errol on the base of the skull and fell into the main section of the store unconscious.

The Fenian Avenger scanned the storeroom for survivors. The first two men he attacked awoke during the scuffle and he saw them run out the back of the building. The dark man gasped for breath while he struggled to crawl into the front store with two broken arms.

The Avenger’s new ally, the blonde boy, arise from his feigned unconscious state as the fire worsened around him. A set of wooden shelves above him erupted in flame and collapsed, buried him in burning timbers.

The Avenger leapt to the fallen shelves and pulled burning timbers off the boy. His hands grasped the blazing wood, his hands protected through his gloves. The heat from the fire hit his exposed face and scalp. When he removed the last shelf, he saw the boy’s clothes on fire.

Removing his trench coat, the Avenger snuffed out the burning man. He picked up the boy and slung him across his shoulder. The Avenger ran across the room.

“The fire in the room is spreading fast,” the Avenger said. “It’s going to spread to the residences close by soon.”

“I’ve already called the Fire and Rescue,” the voice on the microphone said. “And for what it’s worth, someone has notified the Gardaí already, they may already be there. Better hurry it up.”

As he crossed the doorway into the fiery storefront, the Avenger knelt down and grabbed Errol by the ankle, and picked up the nightstick lying next to the unconscious boss. He dragged the body out the front glass doors.

On the street, a large crowd gathered. Smoke billowed out of windows on all floors. The crowd cheered at the sight of the Fenian Avenger. The Avenger set the blonde boy down, he softly set his head from his glove to the floor. Errol began to cough and the Avenger dragged him away from the blonde man and handcuffed him to the lamppost.

Fire engines arrived, the throngs of gawkers parted. Many onlookers surprised at the sirens, as the fire interested them, however sightings of the legendary Fenian Avenger presented a once in a lifetime opportunity. YouTube and status pages filled in a rapid pace with pictures and videos of the Avenger.

The Avenger hopped on the hood of the nearest car and raised his hands to the crowd to quiet them.

“This man,” he pointed to Errol handcuffed to the post, “is the leader of the South Balls. Make sure the Gardaí know this and make sure they actually arrest him and see to it they do it, as the South Balls are some of the most wanted fugitives in Dublin currently. He is also directly responsible for this fire.”

“You got it, sir,” a young boy in front of the crowd. He saluted the Avenger.

The Avenger smiled and saluted the boy back.

“There is a chance these men will be back on the streets before this fire is out,” the Avenger said. “We all know how things are, and I will make every effort to ensure it doesn’t happen. But, as you can guess, I don’t carry a lot of weight with the Gardaí.”

The Avenger jumped down from the automobile. He turned to face the blonde young man, still lying on the sidewalk.

“Why?” The blonde boy asked, his face a mask of confusion.

The Avenger smiled and knelt down. “Why would I save you and that scumbag?” He said softly.

The blonde man nodded. “But, I tried to hurt you.”

“You’re heart wasn’t in it. I’m offering a second chance,” the Avenger said. “What’s your name?”

“Boone.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Boone, after the paramedics give you a look, I want you to go home to your family.”

Boone’s face relaxed as the meaning of the words sunk in. “You’re not sending me to jail?”

“Screw up again and I’ll do more than that,” the Avenger said.

“Thank you,” Boone said. “I owe you, and I promise I will be of service to you.”

“Good, I’m glad,” the Avenger said. “It’s good to have friends. A man can never have too many friends. Someday I may ask you to help my cause.”

An ambulance pulled up in front of fire truck. The Avenger turned to the technicians. He pointed to Boone. “This young man’s name is Boone. He helped me in the fire against the criminals. Make sure he gets taken care so he can get home to his family before they worry about him.”

The Fenian Avenger walked to the burning building.

Boone meandered through the crowd away from the spectacle. When he cleared the crowd, he broke into a sprint and only slowed when he reached home.

 

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Dublin, Ireland

October Present

Dublin: a city of contrast.

For over twenty years, Dublin existed as such and not about to change any time soon.

The city was the heritage Mecca gateway for the many Americans, Canadians, and Australians who traced their ancestral roots to Ireland. The mystical tie lived in the hearts of the descendant Irish, a song called from abroad, and even drove them to hyphenate their nationality secondary to their Irish roots, such as in Irish-American.

This Dublin appealed and attracted millions of tourists, and reaped the benefit of this industry. The commercial pubs boasted authentic Irish drink and song, the trendy shopping districts around St. Stephen’s Green in which tourists paid top dollar for Irish depression-wear, and the festivals and shows with the happy dancing and singing Irish people everywhere. Certain citizens made money hand over fist in such ventures. A jumble of different architecture styles, Dublin lacked a distinct visual identity of its own. Due to the charm and personality of its people, Dublin remained a travel destination.

The west knew this Dublin. The western world loved this Dublin.

Another Dublin existed.

The other Dublin revolved around a country where no self-supporting industry other than being Irish existed. A full thirty percent of the people in this Dublin found themselves out of work. Add another forty percent of the population under-employed. These statistics revealed despair, hopelessness, shame, pain, and depression as the chief industry in Dublin. Irish media referred to the economic disaster as The Drop, meaning everything dropped including the stock market, the housing industry, job market, and the mood of the country. Depression led to drinking. Drinking led to anger. Anger led to fighting. Every night, the local precinct jails filled with alcoholic fighting Irish. A drunken tank full of unconscious Irish people did not present a prime tourism poster. The situation in the rural countryside even exceeded Dublin, where poverty affected nearly everyone without the urban diversity to sustain industry when the prime way of life dried up.

Even the long-standing hatred of the British and the struggle between the Green and the Orange motivated Ireland out of this misery. Cultural pride and aggression inspired few parades since the commencement of the depression. Neither malevolent nor benign causes mustered enough organizational emotion to boast or taunt on the streets.

The masses showed their despair in their carriage and demeanor. Any pedestrian street in Dublin consisted of people too desolate to look at another. The people resembled a shambled and ragged lot, who searched for work, and waited in line at the parish soup kitchens. They existed from one waking moment to another before the end of the day to drown their sorrows in ale.

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