​London Bridge is Falling Down Excerpt 3

​The Hollow Man     |     The Hollow Man Series, International Espionage​

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I ate a quick lunch of stale baguettes and washed it down with Guinness while standing at the bar. I dunked the bread in the thick syrup of the draft to soften it and that immensely improved the flavor of both. The mixture melted in my mouth. I was thinking of a name for this delicious treat when the barman spoke.

 “Another, mate?”

“One of these is my limit,” I said.

“You can’t be blattered yet. I hear you’ve got something in America called a light beer now. You must be used to drinking that shite. That kinda beer’s like making love in a row boat, yeah? Fecking close to water.”

“I don’t touch the stuff. It’s too bitter.”

“Yeah, you and the Dutch,” he smiled. ”You both need a few lessons in making beer, yank.”

“Do you know where I can find Fitzsimons?” I changed the subject.

“Aye, it’s up the road a bit. But you can save yourself the walk. It’s a bloody hell hole. You’ll be getting somebody killed over there. And you haven’t paid your bill here yet.”

“I have to meet someone.”

“Tell him to come here. Fitzsimons has been making beer like you yanks for years. More piss than water.”

“I might bring him back.”

I turned left out of the pub onto Hatfield Street and found my way back to the river. I made a left on Balfour and followed that along the river until it abruptly ended at the commuter tracks. Cutting through an open field on my right, I navigated around trash, human waste and possibly a body or two. I didn’t look close.

On the far side I emerged onto Stewart. A block of crumbling brick buildings were clustered on one side and a long, high barrier lined the other. The wall’s thin cement covering was flaked off in patches along the ground, creating an unusual undulating design of mortar waving across exposed brick. Street poets long ago claimed this threadbare corridor as their own canyon of unanswered dreams.

 Painful promises and desperate pleas were scrawled along the canvas. Repeat a lie long enough, it becomes politics. Kings and queens steal your dreams. Head filled with elsewhere, heart filled with troubles. Is there any life before death? What the fuck have you done? Bombing is my only religion.

Dozens more epithets flashed by me as I walked along the wall. Cries from the silence. Madness from the depths. Prayers from the unbelievers. There was so much anger in the souls of our children, so much despair.

Stewart Avenue threw me out on the waterfront at the last bend in the river before the harbor. The breeze along the water stiffened my stride as I turned into the wind. A dark shadow washed heavily across the lane like spreading oil, clinging to whatever it touched. It settled half way up the buildings. Dull interior bulbs switched on and the feeble light tried to fight its way through the darkness.

Fitzsimons was ahead on the right, sitting between a vacant lot and the shell of a building that may have still been smoking from a recent fire. I crossed the street in front of the lot and glanced at the overgrown field of rubbish and junk. Something moved in there but the black shadows kept it hidden.

Fitzsimons looked no better than the broken building on the other side. The grime alone would have fed half the rats in Belfast for generations. The windows were boarded up and there were no exterior lights to prove the pub was even open for business.

I didn’t want to touch the thick door but I pushed it anyway. The heavy frame creaked but swung easily on its hinges. Heads turned in my direction. Eyes crawled over my skin. I pretended not to notice and made my way to the counter through the hanging smoke.

With my back to the room, I felt things slithering over me. My legs were stiff and my feet felt like they were stuck to the floor. I glanced at my shoes to make sure they were clear in case I needed to bolt. That was a real possibility right now. I was already running the scenarios in my head.

“What’ll it be, then?”

The voice came out of one of the biggest men in creation. His head was larger than a bearded basketball. The door I came through must have been cut from his backside and I didn’t want to know anything more.

“A pint of stout,” I said.

“Are ye old enough, lad?”

I laid my West German passport on the counter and slid it close to the man. He glared down his nose at the blue book but never touched it. He glanced up at me and held my gaze a long time before turning away. I watched as he pulled a Guinness glass from under the counter and filled it from the tap. The glass slid down the bar toward me. The stereotypical shamrock was missing in the foam. He caught me looking for it.

“What do ya think this is, bloody Dublin?” he asked.

“I’m waiting for Brian Twomey. Send him over when he gets here.”

I turned to find a table.

“I don’t let him un his crowd in here no more. I threw the little shite outa here a month ago when he brung the coppers with him. They come in ta nab him but he run out the back. Instead, they arrested a coupla limeys fur Jazus knows what. Business was off fur a week after that. We don’t need none of his kind here.”

He stared at me insinuating I might be one of Twomey’s friends. My eyes widened a bit too much but I was only surprised to see the pub had standards. Rule number one, if you have money you’re welcome. Rule number two, don’t screw with the till. Rule number three, well that’s probably it. There is no rule number three.

“Not seen him since, then?”

“He come back once talking ‘but his big connections in the IRA. Tried to get my customers to run off wit him, he did. So I shut his bloody big mouth for him.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Not unless he died of embarrassment when I tossed him in the road. I give him a jackboot ta the arse and sent the lot on their way. Last I seen, he was licking ‘is wounds and pissing about bringing them IRA thugs back. I look forward ta it.”​