The Devil's Duet: Chapter One

This novella contains scenes dealing with violence, profanity, sexual and drug abuse, which may cause some readers distress. Please be warned. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. It is a work of cautionary fiction.

The Bull of Blacklion | (It is mine to avenge; I will repay — Deuteronomy 32:35)

Chapt 8 | Contents | Chapt 2

inn Conor Darragh O'Malley was a bull.

He was known as Dara to his friends, but to his enemies he remained unknown. If you were Dara's enemy then you wouldn't know what hit you, and had no time to get acquainted. He had horns, they would whisper about him behind his very broad back, but he didn't show them, and if he did, you wouldn't live to talk about it.

Dara's most distinguishable feature wasn't his massive size, however, but a Y shaped tattoo that ran down the left side of his chiseled festures, across the eye, from his forehead to his cheek, looking like it had always been there. No one ever asked him about it, because no one ever dared to look him in the eyes to notice it. But had anyone asked him, he would have answered simply that it was to decorate a scar, and wouldn't have ventured any further. And had they dared to ask once, they wouldn't have dared a second time to push for an answer.

He was born in the village of Blacklion, or An Blaic as the Catholic elders in the village still called it. Small, but not so quaint, it sat uncomfortably on the border of the Emerald Eire and the partitioned part of Ulster that lay in Northern Ireland. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his old Da had taken on both roles. Dara's father had been a gentle man, in the truest sense of the word and when Dara had laid him to rest as a young teen, his new father became the streets and cities of Ulster.

Dara knew that if you were as soft as his dear old Da, then you died well before your time and was buried in a pauper's coffin. On the streets he was taught that you hit first, and hit hard, to make your money and to survive. It overrode his father's teachings. Dara now hit first, and hit hard.

He spat on the ground. "Fucking guards," he said. "They always like to watch."

"What's that you saying, Bull of Blacklion?" One of the Garda approached him.

"I was just saying to myself how you guys turn up just when the fun is over."

"Aye lad, but don't go thinking we enjoy cleaning up after the likes of you."

"Me? This ain't my doing." He pointed to the local church that had half its side blown away by a bomb blast. Huge black streaks like the claws of Lucifer himself clutched at the stone work that still remained standing. "I don't desecrate the house of God, whether it be our Patrick's or your own billies."

"The way they tell it, there ain't much round these parts that ain't your doing."

Dara's green eyes, as emerald as his beloved isle, looked down at the six foot policeman, and said without skipping a beat, "And they would have told you the same thing."

The Garda looked up at Dara, trying not to avert his gaze and betray how small he felt in front of him. The man was a giant. "Aye," was all he said.

"The way me old Da used to say it, these sorts of bombings were all yous lot doing. The old Billy brigade. So don't be no pot calling the kettle black."

During the eighties and nineties Blacklion and its county of Cavan had seen its fair share of the troubles. The village was in one of the three counties in Ulster that had remained to Ireland, and while Dara's family were strict Catholics, and steadfast in their faith, Ulster was in the large majority Protestant and many around him considered themselves English. While both communities had been riven with violence over the contested borderlands, Dara was of pure Irish Republican stock, and as he saw it, they were defending themselves from Loyalist traitors.

But there hadn't been a Loyalist bombing in Cavan since the seventies. This was unusual. And no one on God's green Ireland would ever bomb a church. It was new. And the Bull himself had come to see the destruction for himself.

"There'll be no more talk like that Finn O'Malley." A second Garda approached them, known to Dara. He had arrested him on many an occasion as a young man.

"There'll always be talk like that Guard Murphy. If we don't speak it, the blood of our missing and dead speak of it."

"On both sides, lad. It goes both ways."

"So which one of your hillbillies you gonna lock up for this? Or you gonna blame it on some poor taig like meself?"

"We're going to find out who did this, whoever it is will not escape justice. Mistakes have been made in the past, I'll be the first to grant you that, but those times are past us. All of us."

Dara snorted at the police officer's comment. His nostrils flared, and in that moment he looked like a bull in every sense of the word. To say his stature was imposing, was an understatement. His muscles packed muscles, with biceps as large as a young boy's head. There was no door frame that he fit through standing straight; six foot nine in his socks and just as broad, but Dara always stood tall. He bent for no man or frame.

"Nothing is past." He nodded towards the church, one blond eyebrow raised in derision. "Looks like."

"Over here! Quick." A voice shouted from amongst the rubble. It was one of the fire crew, carefully excavating the debris for the remnants of the detonator used for the blast. "Sweet saints preserve us! There's someone under here. It looks like a child."

At the sound of that, Dara's hot blood ran cold.

ara was polite at all times. Someone his size didn't need to scream or shout a command. One raised, large hand was usually enough to get the job done.

He raised his hand now.

And brought it down across the man's face. The recipient of Dara's slap flew across the basement and landed a good two feet away.

"Get up, please," Dara said quietly.

The man had started to scream, but this was Dara's basement. He had it sound proofed and no one could hear his special guests. Had painted the walls a bordello red. Tools for every purpose of his profession hung neatly on matching hooks screwed into the thick plaster. He liked to call this place his music room. He made music that was sweet to his ears. Of revenge. Of payback. Payment of debts owed that cost a man his soul.

This particular basement studio had cost him a pretty penny, too. But it had been worth it.

His guest began to get to his knees, pleading. "Please, I don't know nothing. It wasn't me."

"Asked you a question, did I?" Dara strode over to him, picked him up and stood him to his feet with one hand. Then promptly headbutted him. The force of the movement snapped the hair band that held Dara's long, dark blond hair in its man bun, and his locks flowed free as he stood over his guest, like some avenging god of thunder. But he had no need of a hammer.

Or clothes. They always hindered you, he had discovered, and were a pain to burn afterwards. So, Dara preferred to do this in his underwear.

The man lay against the far wall, quiet now, bleeding profusely from his ears and mouth.

Dara thought of the little frail body of the young girl the firemen had found in the burnt out church, and his looks turned thunderous. The tiny blond hairs that covered the massive expanse of his chest and arms rose with his rising anger. He kissed the black crucifix hanging on a dog collar around his neck.

He hoped he hadn't killed the fucker. Yet.

aleb, Downland's very own rent-a-boy was very busy these days. Derek had loaned him out to a few of the other neighbours in the street. It was easy on Derek's pocket, but it also meant they could listen to Dante through an adjoining bedroom or living room wall as well as from above.

It was a win-win for Caleb. Especially the geriatric in the adjacent flat, below his old man. He fed him very well. In more ways than one. One of the knights of Camelot, a young lad from Dublin they called Danny B, had been his introductory guest when they had moved him in, and he'd made the suggestion to Caleb to give this new host a work out.

Caleb hadn't been sure at first.

"The man walks about with a zimmer frame. Are you sure?"

"He fucks gentle, but long, and by the good grace of St Patrick, it's a big one. Not long enough for your liking, but--" Danny stretched out his hands to the size of a baby's arm. "Wide, lad. The girth of a gorilla."

Caleb's eyes widened. "Oh my days! Fuck off!"

"I kid you not. And he'll use that zimmer frame in ways to blow your-- mind," he finished, winking at Caleb.

Caleb didn't need to hear anymore, and the deal was done. From Derek's front door to the geriatric's flat was just down the steps and through the communal hallway the neighbour shared with Dante. It was risky creeping in and out without being seen by the local faggot, but it gave Caleb a thrill. He liked to get away with things.

The Devil of Downland had it in for him ever since they'd got him arrested by his mother-in-law's contacts in the police force, after Caleb had stolen the weirdo's plant pots. But he'd gotten away with that, hadn't he?

They were just planter's for fuck sake. What a lot of drama over nothing. Dante had changed after that, though.

He grinned to himself, his usual Cheshire cat grin. The stuff they were blowing down into the faggot's flat must be working.

               arry had been assigned to patrol Downland Street.

                       He was one half of a two man undercover unit.

                       Which was unusual, because Downland had been taken off the radar as far as the city's finest were concerned. Yet, here he was, with one officer renting a flat in the street, and Larry himself playing at being homeless.

"Why are the back of your pants grass stained?"

Mitch, the undercover officer playing at being a resident, asked Larry. Mitch had come out to walk his dog, and they had met in one of the intersecting alleyways that divided the maisonettes into blocks of three.

"I thought it would make a nice touch," he said. "Y'know, sleeping rough as I am."

"Yeah, going home to a newly made bed at the local hotel is really roughing it," Mitch scoffed, pulling at his dog's lead. The little bastard was turning into an almighty terror.

Larry looked hurt. "It gets me into the role. Clothes maketh the man."

Mitch forced himself not to roll his eyes. "We're in Downland, man, not Downtown Abbey. And if anyone is taking notice of your backside, then I wouldn't be worrying about being made anything, but someone's bitch out here."

Larry nodded. "I kept hearing that about this place, but it looks so peaceful."

Mitch said, "You're right 'bout that. It really has calmed down."

During daylight hours, the street looked like any other if a little empty, but come the night and Downland came alive with its usual overlooked criminal activity. Orders had come down from high up the police chain of command for the crack heads to dim their visibility for a while, and the shadows had returned to the dark hours.

Mitch pulled on the lead, again. "Come here, Charlie." Having a dog gave him the excuse to walk around the street, but he was wishing now he'd chosen a different breed. The corgi had started yapping at some cat patrolling his morning beat. The cat hissed at them, as it turned out of the alley, looking indignant that interlopers had invaded his usual route.

Larry said, "You know there's this one lad that creeps out of one top floor flat to go down the steps to a bottom one. Regular as clockwork, and it coincides with someone living in a top flat opposite in the neighbouring street opening and shutting their bathroom window. I thought I was imagining it at first. It's a proper pattern of behaviour that."

He looked proud of himself, for having used a legal phrase, but Mitch raised a hand. "Were you not briefed on that? They're working for us. We're only here for one person."

Larry frowned, his dreams of a commendation deflated. The fantasies he had forged, while sitting on a shitty grass verge and rubbing his backside, quickly disappeared. Only the grass stains remained. "Why was I not informed of this?"

"It was on a need to know basis. Well, I'm informing you now, Mr Larry Olivier, We're not here for that."

"Well, what are we here for, then?"

Just at that moment, Dante walked out of his flat.

Mitch pulled Larry back around the corner of the alleyway. "Him," he said. "They call him the Devil of Downland."

ante had changed after his police detention.

He thought about the past year as he came out to tend to his small garden, which he had planted over Luna's resting place.

Luna. He had been more than a cat, Dante realised, he had been a soulmate of sorts. He touched the soil with his fingertips, tenderly.

"Rest well, my little one," he said softly. "I miss you every day, Wait for me, as I always waited for you."

He remembered the day he had found Luna. He had buried him on the day of his Saviour's resurrection, with a crowd of Angelo's friends staring at him as though he were the very Devil himself.

The street was empty of the hooded shadows during the day, now. He heard them at night, but he ignored them. His door was closed to all of them. He didn't share his food, or his time, and they wouldn't accept either, anyway. It was best for all concerned.

Dante had changed but, so, too had the street.

He sighed as he pressed some more seeds into the soil. Rosemary for remebrance. Oregano. Basil. Mint. Sage. He hoped he would be able to make use of his herb garden in his cooking. He had slowly begun to enjoy being in the kitchen again.

That was, in no small part, to his previous neighbour opposite him. Their doors faced each other, but in his first six months in Downland, he hadn't even seen her open her door once. After his arrest, however, she had come to the door and finally introduced herself.

"My name is Martha and I'm sorry, I didn't come sooner," she said. "With all those people at your door, I thought they would do what has happened to so many of my neighbours. I hardly recognise any of them, any more."

Dante invited her in to his kitchen, offered her a chair at his table, and made her a coffee. He didn't speak. He just listened. The more he listened, the more of some of his experiences in Downland began to make sense.

"Those of us who refused them-- them people, well, we just keep ourselves to ourselves now. We don't open our doors or windows. It's for the best. The world has changed so much."

Dante remembered Lorenzo's words to him. We cannot change the world. We can only live in it.

But he had begun to realise that the world did change. Could change. But sometimes the change was for the worse, not better.

"I do not wish to hammer nails into your heart," Dante said, finally, "but surely this is your street, not theirs? It is because no one shines a light on this that the shadows do not merely remain, they grow."

"We tried at first. We called the police. Complained to the council."

"And?"

"Nothing was done. Somehow the-- the people outside knew who had put a complaint in, and we were intimidated into staying quiet."

"How?"

"Oh, little things at first. Crowding around our communal hallways and steps. Blowing their smoke at our front doors. Then our parcels began to go missing. I couldn't go out. I felt like I was being watched all the time."

Dante nodded. He understood.

Martha went on. "I had a garden I used to look after. They walked all over my bluebells. Rode over my roses. Urinated on the fencing, knocked some of it down." She shrugged her shoulders. "So, that was that."

"Do you not have any family that could assist you?"

Martha went quiet. She didn't speak.

"I see," Dante said. "Well, if you will allow me, I will tend to your garden, as I tend to mine."

"Oh, there's no need. Besides, they will only destroy your hard work."

"Then we shall build it again and again, until they get bored. Besides, maybe some will be superstitious enough not to touch the Devil's handiwork."

Martha blushed at that. She reached out and touched his hand. "People have to turn you into something they hate so they don't feel guilty about the harm they do to you. Believe me, I know."

Dante had sensed, then, that his neighbour was talking about her own family, but he didn't press her any further.

Through the following months, however, she had slowly opened up to Dante. Her visits had become a regular morning call for a coffee, and during their talks, she had confided in him about her family problems.

"My son never visits me, because of his wife. I've been turned into some sort of monster. Even my grandkids shun me."

"Then I want you to see me as a son. If you need assistance, please know my door is always open to you."

"You've been so good to me already. My garden is blooming with bluebells again. I can't thank you enough."

"It is nothing. I am just glad that our friends outside have left your garden to God's grace."

Martha had looked as though she were about to say something, then.

"Yes? Tell me, Martha. I hope you trust me well enough, by now."

"It's not that. I wanted to ask about your arrest-- Did they charge you?"

"What with, my dear? I do not use drugs, they found none on my person. They kept me in a cell for half a day and then released me. Yet, the boy that stole from me and destroyed my property is roaming free. I am as confused as you are."

"I put in a complaint for you, about the police," Martha said. "It was wrong what happened to you."

"Oh, there was no need to do that. It is over as far as I am concerned."

"But you're not a drug user. I know that. I wanted them to know what you're really like. How they got you so wrong."

Dante patted her hand. "I know. You know. But more importantly, God knows, my dear Martha. That is enough for me."

That had been their final morning chat. When Martha hadn't knocked at his door the next morning, he had knocked on hers out of concern. When she didn't answer, despite his Sicilian sensibilities and his brief experience with the police, he called them.

It took the police two days to come to Martha's door, who had not made an appearance in that time.

"Maybe she went to visit family," the police officer suggested, giving Dante a look of disdain he couldn't quite fathom.

"Martha has no family that visit her," Dante replied, ignoring the man's glare. "She comes to me every morning for coffee. That was a few days now, and she will not answer my knocking. It is not like her."

The officer reluctantly knocked on the door. Martha didn't answer.

"Let's leave it a few more days," the officer suggested.

"Let's not," Dante said, indicating the police officer to move out of the way. "Martha could be in trouble, and I have waited long enough."

With a swift kick, Dante smashed the door open, the lock flying out of its frame.

"I will pay for the door," he said, as he strode in. "Martha! Are you alright?"

The officer followed from behind, and made for Martha's bedroom. He opened the door and took a step inside.

"Well?" Dante asked.

"She's in there," he said quietly.

"I see," Dante said. He understood. "Thank you for getting here on time, officer," he added, and went back to his flat.

He transported himself back to the present. Yes, rosemary for remembrance. For Luna. For Martha. They had said it was a sudden heart attack. But Martha had been in her early sixties. She had not seemed unwell. Had never even mentioned a heart condition.

Dante looked across to Martha's garden. Only a day after a forensics team had taken her body, Dante had seen the handiwork of Angelo's friends during the night. The bluebells had been torn out, the fencing stolen, the roses ridden over.

As much as the street changed, it also remained the same.

But it was Dante's home that had changed the most. When he had first moved to England from Sicily, it had taken some time to get accustomed to living in the downstairs flat of a maisonette. The walls and ceilings were so thin, he could almost hear every activity of the neighbours he shared a wall or ceiling with, even Martha, before they had become friends. He could hear her daily activities, her soft footsteps as she moved from room to room.

Now, you could hear a pin drop. It was as though Dante lived on his own.

At least, it was quiet when he was awake. The banging noises from his neighbour above, Caleb's husband, had long ceased. He had not seen either of them since his arrest. Sometimes he woke to what he thought was a rhythmic thumping, from Martha's adjoining bedroom wall, but he couldn't be sure. A new neighbour had moved in, but the sound would stop so suddenly, he thought he must be dreaming it.

He barely heard footsteps, muffled voices or any activity, but he smelled plenty. His closest residents must have taken up cooking, Dante decided, and he was glad of that at least. A working kitchen breathed life into a home.

But for the rest, since Martha's death, Dante lived through a daily eerie silence, as though Downland had become a street of ghosts, with only the shadows at night talking to themselves.

Apart from, that is, the elderly gentleman who now lived opposite him, but whom he saw rarely. Sometimes he came out to buy a few groceries, aided by his zimmer frame.

His neighbour had begun to listen to his television set very loudly, and at certain times of the day, Dante could hear him cough as though he were having a seizure of some kind.

He thought it strange, but then nothing that happened in Downland surprised him anymore.

Dante had, indeed, changed.

Published 9 May, 2026

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