Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (23 page)

Something went flying by the window behind Needle's back. He distinctly saw it in the wardrobe mirror. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, then wheeled around and rushed over to the window, staring out. Holy - - - ! He still didn't believe it. Was this another of the Boss's defensive ploys to scare away unwanted visitors nobody had bothered to tell him about?

Then it disappeared into the trees and was lost from sight.

*

At precisely the same time as Needles was staring through his bedroom window, Myles Moran was reading the contents of an email he'd requested and just received from the bank he'd designated the ransom money to be transferred to. So far, his demands hadn't been met. He checked his wristwatch. It was precisely two o'clock, another ten hours till midnight, the deadline.

His private office was in an isolated part of the house. It was a small, compact room, accessible to by means of his thumbprint on an electronic pad fixed to the outside door, the pad sealed in a protective steel box which only opened upon hearing the distinctive voice of Myles himself ordering it to,
Open Sesame
. Once through the first door, it automatically locked behind him. Myles then repeated the process, intoned a different password before the second door allowed him entrance. Once inside his office fortress, again the locking procedure came into place.

Myles decided he'd give them another three hours maximum. He emailed the bank back instructing them to inform him if the transfer had reached them by five. After that, he might have to remind the Minister of Justice yet again of his obligation in the matter. He'd already ordered Mr. Tattoo to bring his special talent into play and wipe forever from the memories of the hostages the faces of himself and all of those in his employ. Myles sincerely hoped that would be all that would be necessary when this particular business endeavour had reached its conclusion. That was entirely up to the government. They could hardly complain should he be forced to carry out his threat if they didn't stick to their end of the bargain. After all, as he'd pointed out to Mr. Dawson, he
had
his reputation to consider. A pity if it came to that, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made to safeguard future enterprises.

Sending Mr. Tattoo to that Tibetan monastery had paid handsome dividends. His six years of tutelage at the hands of the ascetic monks had been one of the shrewdest investments he'd ever made. Mr. Tattoo was now an entirely altered individual.

*

Myles first encounter with him had been an unforgettable experience. And once again, Myles's astute knowledge of human nature had immediately spotted the raw potential awaiting to be groomed in the rough, raging diamond that was Teddy Tattoo. Myles had once been a member of a parole board, respectability being a wonderful façade for someone like himself, responsible for arriving at decisions as to whether or not a particular prisoner should be granted another chance to redeem themselves by being allowed back into society before they'd completed their sentences. Board members were supplied with files well in advance so that they could be conversant with the records of those brought before them.

Myles had been fascinated with his copy of Mr. Tattoo's file. He read it from cover to cover and then reread it once more, his admiration growing with each sentence he perused. A gentleman after his own heart, whose contempt for law and order was truly astounding. At first he had his doubts that one individual could possibly be responsible for so much carnage and upheaval without the assistance of several companions equally as rebellious as himself, but once he laid eyes on him as he was led in before the board in leg-irons and reinforced wrist-manacles, he changed his mind. The fact that two guards armed with Uzi machine guns accompanied him was an added factor in convincing Myles that here indeed was a truly magnificent challenge to mould to his needs.

Mr Tattoo's file documented in detail the trail of destruction he'd left in his wake from the time of his first arrest at the age of thirteen to the reason for his latest incarceration. He'd been a veritable one-man crime organisation all on his own. Except for the fact that his organisational qualities weren't exactly in keeping with the word itself. Impulsive would have been a closer comparison. It was evident from Mr. Tattoo's file that planning wasn't very high up on the list of his priorities. It was as though he just thought it a good idea at the time to walk into a bank, pass a note to the teller informing him that hand grenades nestled in his pockets, that he'd be obliged if the brown paper bag he'd brought for the purpose could be filled to overflowing, or he might be tempted to check the pin of a grenade to ensure it hadn't come loose.

There were several accounts of similar
incidents
to fascinate Myles further. Mr. Tattoo was fond of jewellery. Sometimes an item caught his fancy as he was passing a shop displaying sparkling trays of diamonds fashioned in one form or another. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, etc, etc. Mr. Tattoo's method of obtaining whatever he craved was admirably direct. He simply smashed the window with a massive elbow and made his selection. It mattered nothing to him that it was broad daylight and that the street was thronged with witnesses. Mr. Tattoo never seemed to care. Alarms screeching and people screaming didn't appear to deter him in his quest for something that had caught his eye. There were times when he strolled away with the contents of several trays, added temptation having been put in his way due to such easy accessibility.

And each time he was apprehended, quite a number of police officers were obliged to take time off from their duties to recover from their various injuries after the arrest had been completed. It seemed Mr. Tattoo revelled in these skirmishes, bellowing defiance as he blackened eyes and shattered limbs before eventually being subdued by sheer weight of numbers. And there were many, many skirmishes. For Myles had taken notes of them all. Each one to be treasured and dwelt upon and compared against what the future held for Mr. Tattoo once he'd been freed from his wrathful demons after Myles had taken him under his wing.

The other members of the parole board had all but taken to their heels the day Mr. Tattoo was brought before them. They'd also read his file. Upon seeing the colossus sitting not six feet away from where they perched nervously behind a long table, they found it difficult to conceal their concern. It seemed to them should he take it into his head, despite the armed guards, Mr. Tattoo could quite easily snap his bonds, overcome the guards, and murder them all before anyone could do anything about it. Myles smiled to himself now when he recalled the occasion. He was thinking pretty much the same thing himself at the time. And, after reading his file, he also wondered why on earth Mr. Tattoo had even bothered to apply for parole in the first place. He stood absolutely no chance of being released any time in the near future.

‘Request denied!' the chairman of the board exclaimed in a high-pitched voice as soon as they'd gone through the formalities, then rose apprehensively to a standing position, ready to head for the door should Mr. Tattoo seek to wreak vengeance for the denial.

The rest of the board members shuffled their feet in anticipation of the need for flight. But they needn't have worried. Mr. Tattoo didn't seem in the least bit concerned one way or the other. When the guards told him to get to his feet, he arose obediently. As he was about to be led away, and the rest of the board members were mentally wiping the perspiration from their collective brows, Myles requested that he be allowed to shake Mr. Tattoo's hand. One of the guards offered the opinion that he didn't think it would be a very good idea. Myles insisted. As a member of the parole board, it was his right to show respect towards the prisoner should he choose to do so. The second guard shrugged his shoulders. Neither guard noticed the folded slip of paper Myles placed in Mr. Tattoo's palm, nor Mr. Tattoo's concealment of it immediately Myles had shaken his hand.

*

Two weeks later, during an exercise period in the prison yard, Mr. Tattoo was accorded unofficial parole courtesy of Moran Enterprises. The note had informed him to be prepared at a specific time and date. Myles had, as usual, prepared the groundwork for Mr. Tattoo's release from detention with his usual efficiency. His research team had gathered the information as to prisoner exercise periods, etc. Piloting the helicopter himself had appealed to Myles's sense of the absurd. Before the startled guards knew what was happening, the helicopter appeared overhead and hung there like a giant spinning-top, its rotor blades a blur as they held the craft aloft. A rope-ladder unfurled downwards. It had been specially fashioned to bear the considerable weight of Mr. Tattoo. Otherwise, it was possible it might have snapped like a piece of tread as he mounted its rungs. Halfway up, clinging to his bird of freedom with one muscular arm, Mr. Tattoo used the other to wave farewell to his former captors as he was borne away over the prison walls to the cheers of his fellow prisoners.

*

The transformation in Mr. Tattoo after he'd absorbed the teachings of the monks was beyond even what Myles himself had hoped for. Where before, Mr. Tattoo had been a slave to the unpredictability of his seething emotions, he was now their master. It hadn't been an easy passage for him. Myles had had frequent reports relayed back to him as to the progress his protégé was making. Initially, Mr. Tattoo was not a willing pupil. In fact, there were times when he would have preferred had he been left languishing in a prison cell back in Ireland. Humiliation and obedience were not words he was too closely acquainted with, never having undergone their actualities in his life.

When he failed to obey yet another specific instruction the second week after he'd arrived, Mr. Tattoo found his world had suddenly been turned upside down. Literally. And he himself had been without any real knowledge of how exactly it had happened. Nor could he to this day explain how he'd come to be suspended by his ankles from the stout branches of two adjacent trees and left there overnight in subzero conditions.

He'd been requested to draw water from a well which was situated a short distance outside the monastery walls and return with the two large churns provided strapped across his shoulders. The monk who'd given him the order was a mere garden gnome in comparison to himself, a wizened little elf with a smiling face who wouldn't have been out of place standing beside a rockery. At least that was Mr. Tattoo's view of things. When he refused point-blank to do as he'd been told, he was once more politely informed that water-carrying was now part of his duties. He was on his last chance. His previous high spirits had been deliberately overlooked as a sign of immaturity. Mr. Tattoo took umbrage at this, going so far as to say he'd do exactly as he liked
when
he liked, and if anyone thought they could stop him, they were perfectly willing to try. He'd knock their blocks off three at a time.

To his surprise, the garden gnome told him he thought that was a very good idea. His English was excellent, and he suggested Mr. Tattoo should commence with his own small block. Mr. Tattoo laughed at the very idea. He looked around to invite others to join in the joke, but found that he was alone with the gnome. They were in the courtyard at the time, not too far from the monastery garden in which all manner of exotic trees and plants grew. The gnome insisted that his block was at Mr. Tattoo's disposal, that he'd be most interested in being shown the method Mr. Tattoo had in mind for knocking it off, though offered the opinion that he had his doubts Mr. Tattoo's abilities had yet reached the level to accomplish his threat.

Mr. Tattoo advanced to give a demonstration. To show this manikin once and for all he wasn't to be trifled with or sent on menial tasks as though he were some kind of messenger boy. He fully expected the gnome to take to his heels about two seconds after he'd made the first move towards him. But the suicidal fool remained where he was, his smile intact and, if Mr. Tattoo wasn't mistaken, showing distinct signs of amusement at the whole affair.

Mr. Tattoo himself was anything but amused. In fact, this show of serene unconcern was responsible for Mr. Tattoo becoming very angry indeed. The red mist descended and he hurled himself forward, his huge grappling-hook hands seeking to encircle the gnome's skinny neck. What occurred next had a dreamlike quality about it. Mr. Tattoo, as already stated, could never fully explain
how
it happened. He had a vague recollection of a small fleeting shadow being the cause of making him feel very, very dizzy as he tried to come to grips with it. A mercurial shadow which vanished and reappeared with lightening rapidity, which twirled like a dervish, confounding and confusing him until he collapsed from sheer exhaustion in his efforts to relieve it of its block as he had so confidently set out to do.

Mr. Tattoo suffered severe frostbite during the night. He was convinced he was going to die from hypothermia. His entire body became numb. The blood froze in his veins and he lapsed into unconsciousness, a state in which he remained throughout the following day. It was night again when he awoke to a warm, tingling sensation flooding his frame. When he opened his eyes, he tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't obey him. They were stiff and unyielding, rigid as steel. Mr. Tattoo was convinced he was dead. He was lying on his back, engulfed in an eerie weightlessness, as though he were somehow suspended from the star-filled sky by an invisible harness. He could hear chanting, a weird monotonous repetition which went further to make him think he had passed into another world. Which, indeed, he had. A world of mystery and intrigue, an unknown world far removed from anything he had ever experienced before.

The heat gradually infiltrated every sinew of Mr. Tattoo's enormous body, slowly easing his helplessness and restoring his ability to move his limbs once more. His back was glowing pleasantly from some form of heat which was radiating from beneath him. And the chanting monks continued with their droning as they moved in an unbroken circle around him. Mr. Tattoo eased his head from left to right to follow their movements. Each held a lighted candle in their upraised hand, the tiny flames wavering in the darkness, giving the illusion of being surrounded by shimmering haloes.