Tiger

The car swoops in, cruising along the winding gravel drive-way. He turns off the ignition, loosens his tie, and takes his file-case from the passenger seat and exits. He listens and loves the crunch of each step on the gravel; it always reminds him of snowfalls from his youth. He fumbles with his extensive bunch of keys, eventually finding one for the front door. ‘Hun is that you?’ His wife calls from the kitchen.
‘Sure is love,’ he said while closing the door behind him.
‘Daddy!’ His two little daughters scream as they sprint from the living-room toward him.
‘Hi girls!’ He said, dropping his file-case to embrace them. ‘Did ye have a good day at school?’ He asks after kissing each on the temple.
‘There’s no such thing as a good day at school, daddy!’ She squirms.
‘Yeah, daddy, don’t be silly. That’s like asking did you have a good day at work!’ The other daughter replies with wicked sarcasm.
‘Point taken love,’ he said, offering a proud wink, ‘have ye the homework done?’
‘No, not yet,’ they sigh in unison.
‘Well ye better get to it so,’ he said while watching them scuttle back to the living-room, no doubt in his mind for a few more cheeky minutes of television.

He walks into the kitchen and sees his wife standing at the sink, her back to him. He walks up behind, wrapping his arms around her slim waist. ‘How are you love?’ He whispers, kissing the back of her neck. ‘I’m shattered,’ she admits before turning to kiss him. ‘Good day at work?’
‘Ah the usual, both wonderfully inefficient and ineffective, thank God it’s the Irish way or we’d all be out of the job,’ he quips, eliciting a chuckle from her. They are both alarmed by the loud and obnoxious ring of the door-bell. ‘Expecting anyone?’ He asks.
‘Now why would it be for me? You know Irish women have terrible track records at maintaining friendships once they’ve settled down,’ she said with a mischievous and accusing smile.
‘Don’t I know it, you dropped yours so I had to drop mine, and my golf game has suffered terrible since we’ve been married,’ he said over his shoulder with a sly grin as he walks away. He peers through the peep-hole; a man is standing in the porch, holding a large brown paper bag, saturated with grease. ‘Love did you order take-away?’ He shouts.
‘No, a moment on the lips a life-time on the hips!’
He opens the door, ‘Sorry pal you’ve the wrong address, we’re not allowed take-away in this house.’
‘Excuse me, it’s easier workin’ in deliveries back home in Dublin, out here in the country people prefer titles instead of numbers to distinguish their homes,’ said the delivery man as he tips his cap.
‘Ah I know, it can be awkward for outsiders alright, goodnight,’ he said closing the door.
'I heard what you said…about ye not being allowed, tyrannical of me to care for my family's health isn’t it,’ she said with mock scorn as she dries her delicate hands with a tea-towel
‘Well love the truth can be painful sometimes,’ he answers with a wink as he retrieves a cool bottle of Heineken from the fridge. He snaps the cap off, and takes a large gulp. The door-bell rings again, ‘Fuck-sake, fucking jackeen probably needs directions,’ he said, leaving the kitchen once again. The lock and handle have only been turned when the door comes flying back, hitting him square on the face and sending him onto his back. Despite his shock and confusion, he can make out a vague figure and the outline of the sole of a boot. It hovers above his face, oddly, he hears the dull thud, but does not feel the impact.

An inner alarm rings, his eyes spring open. He sees his two little girls on each side of his wife, kneeling, almost embedded into her sides. Their mouths are gagged with tape; their hands are bound behind their backs by cable ties, as are his own. A wave of panic and grief washes over him, followed by a tide of violent anger that spreads across him like a tsunami. His agonized cry of hateful vengeance is barely muffled by the tape around his mouth. He frantically thrashes his body around the floor, violent wriggling like that of a worm which has been cut in half by a malevolent child. A boot slams down onto his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. He stares into dark ominous eyes shrouded by a black balaclava, attached to a muscular body clothed in navy overalls. ‘Alri boys he’s awake, pick him up onto his arse,’ said the Dark-man with a thick Dublin brogue. Two other men also wearing balaclavas but clad in sportswear position on either side of him, hoisting him into a sitting pose. The Dark-man picks up a sports-bag and sits, resting the bag on his lap. ‘Now me man, me an’ you are gonna hav’ an aul chat, but, before we do, I need to know I’ve not jus’ yer full attention, but full co-operation as-well,’ said the Dark-man while digging into the bag. On the coffee table he lays; bow-crops, pliers, ball-hammer, carpenter's chisel and a Stanley blade. ‘Now, you cause any grief, an’ I’ll have to go to work. For a minor infraction I’ll use the pliers to pull teeth. For a moderate offense I’ll use the bow-crops to chop fingers, and, for a major offense I’ll use the hammer and chisel to sever toes…all from the children of course, your girls will never walk properly again let alone wank boys off ‘round the back of the school, they’ll give good blow-jobs though,’ said the Dark-man, his eyes cold and betraying only his authenticity.
He fights to quell the urge to die protecting his family, his struggle to restrain his feelings is aided by his confidence his family will suffer long and gruesome before he shall, should he make any such attempt. His eyes scan the table of implements before fixing on the Stanley blade.
‘Ah you reckon I’ve forgotten one? No, all the rest are solely for your children, the blade is for your lush wife. I’ll carve her fuckin’ face up like Christmas dinner, then work me way down to her tits and give her a fuckin’ mastectomy, and finish by cuttin’ out her bleedin’ womb!’ The Dark-man sneers in anger, his eyes glisten with horrific eagerness. His wife sobs as her children nestle into her further. Their agonized whimpers break his heart, tears stream from his eyes.
‘Now, before I remove your tape, do we have an understanding?’ The Dark-man asks.
He bows his head, nodding his submission.The Dark-man looks at one of his cohorts, who then rips the tape from his face. ‘Okay before we go any further, you must know, I’m a professional, and this isn’t fuckin’ amateur hour, not my first rodeo, yeh malahide?’
He nods his understanding.
‘This is a very simple operation for me, this may be your worst nightmare come true, but believe you me, I’m like Freddie Kruger and have been in plenty worse. Now I’m sure you read the newspapers and are familiar with tiger kidnappings?’ He remembers the delivery man who got the wrong address, who no doubt was a decoy performing reconnaissance, they must think he is a banker and really have gotten the wrong address. His laugh begins life as a gust of dis-belief at his bad luck, before evolving into a chuckle.
‘Did I say somethin’ funny?’ Queries the Dark-man so chillingly, even his henchmen feel the drop in room temperature.
‘I’m sorry but I think…I think you’ve got the wrong house,’ he said reigning himself in again. ‘Oh really, and what makes you say that?’ The Dark-man asks, his tone indicating a mood shift away from treacherous.
‘Because I don’t work for a bank, or any kind of financial institution for that matter, and, I’m sorry but my job doesn’t pay enough for us to have anything substantial in our current or savings accounts, materially speaking most of our valuables are here in our home,’ he offers apologetically.
The Dark-man smiles at the response. His grin has the unusual effect of somehow revealing even more of his dangerous nature than his candid threats.

‘Like I said before, this isn’t fuckin’ amateur hour. We know you don’t work for any financial institution, that said, you will need to go to work tomorrow and perform a withdrawal of sorts,’ said the Dark-man. The penny drops and realization befalls him. He now knows what they want, but, he lives in hope that his worst fear is not being born into his reality. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t follow,’ he said shy in his deceit. The Dark-man’s smile broadens, staring and holding his gaze. So mesmerizing and potent is the glare of the Dark-man, he does not see his hand reach across the table, gripping the pliers. The Dark-man leaps to his feet, grabs the smallest child, rips the tape from her cheek and plunges the pliers into her mouth. ‘No, you fucking animal!’ He bellows at the Dark-man while attempting to stand, only to be shot in the face with an elbow from an accomplice, sending him crashing back to the floor. The other accomplice kicks him in the stomach, knocking all air from his lungs.
The Dark-man gouges around her mouth with clumsiness and violence. She howls with pain as blood gushes from her jaw. His anger gives way to grief and he howls in mournful solidarity with his baby. The Dark-man replaces the tape around her mouth to dampen the child’s banshee screams, placing the pliers back down on the table, her bloody tooth still clasped within its grip. ‘Don’t play dumb and don’t play games,’ said the Dark-man.
‘What do you want me to do?’ He splutters, chocking on salty tears.
‘You are to be even more punctual at work tomorrow. Once there, you are to make arrangements for a friend of ours to be transferred to a low security institution.’
He ponders the task, ‘Why not just have me release him out-right?’
‘Now that would be amateurish. No him being sent to low-security will raise enough eyebrows.’
‘I see, so have him moved to an open-prison where escape is as easy as walking away.’ ‘Precisely.’
‘Which open-prison?’
‘Laughan house.’
He ponders, realizing the obvious answer and is intrigued by another question, ‘Laughan house, right on the border, literally walk right outside of our jurisdiction. How can you be so sure I can even arrange such a thing?’
‘Your job title alone assures us, you’re operations manager of the I.P.S, but allow me to regale you with a tale. One morning, in one of your fine punitive institutions, a young-man’s cell is opened. He is dutifully informed to pack his stuff, he is being released. Now our young protagonist knows this is some kind of cock-up of the highest order, as he still has a bit of a lump left to serve, but he plays along, the chancer that he is. He packs his belongings and is brought to a holding cell in reception. He is nearly through processing when an accompanying e-mail arrives to one sent only an hour earlier, “Halt prisoner release, right name, wrong prison,” it said. Needless to say our young protagonist is acrimoniously returned to the wing much to the embarrassment of staff. Over the years, prisoners have escaped by various means, from the elaborate of landing helicopters in yards, to the simple, using brute force to escape from escorts to court or hospital appointments, but, never yet has a prisoner escaped via e-mail sent over the I.P.S’s own network,’ said the Dark-man with an even smile that betrays his pride in the plot.
Any remaining doubt that this may be some motley crew of garden variety thugs evaporates from his mind.

‘Obviously I will do what is required, but, as some small token of good faith, please allow my family to rest upstairs in some comfort in my wife and I’s bedroom.’
The Dark-man considers the request, looks at a cohort and nods his consent. The family is brought up-stairs to the master bed-room. They huddle together on the bed while their sentry sits on a chair in the corner. ‘So who am I to have released?’ He asks the Dark-man.
‘Martin Hogan.’
The name hits him with blunt trauma; most in the country would have some familiarity with the name thanks to the media. So well organized and such was his perceived threat to national security, Martin Hogan had been tried behind closed doors by the special criminal court.
‘Jesus you weren’t messing when you said the transfer alone would raise enough eye-brows. He’s one of the largest wholesale dispensers of murder and narcotics in the country. Portlaoise will never believe the transfer order could be genuine.’
‘That’s why you’ll have to stay at headquarters long enough to put to bed the concerns of any nosey Chiefs or Governors.’
‘And how exactly am I supposed to do that?’
‘Entirely up to you, but you have the best motivation in the world behind you, you’ll think of something.’
‘How can I be sure no harm will come to my family?’
‘We’ve an objective, that’s all we care about. You and your family are merely the means of achieving that objective. Once we are successful you and your family are of no significance to us.’ He believes the Dark-man; they are too well organized, either working directly or indirectly for an elite arch criminal, renowned for his organizational and criminal prowess. The fall-out from the escape alone will be astronomical; a house full of unnecessary bodies is too much of a headache for professionals.

He sits in silence, meditating while flanked on either side by the Dark-man and his accomplice. Every so often he hears the patter of small feet above, followed by the flush of a toilet. He is thankful for small mercies, grateful to have them away from the psychopath Dark-man, who every now and then he performs sly glances at. The Dark-man is meditating also, he has the aura of heavy machinery, clanking and grinding within, the Dark-man is calculating, always calculating. His own release is assured, but the faith of his family rests in the hands of a criminal lunatic. In past times, whenever he read the papers’ stories of tiger kidnappings, he always found himself flabbergasted by the statistic that seven out of ten fully comply and do not go to the Gardai before robbing their own financial institution. Now he understood why, now he knew the pain and fear that purchased their cooperation, but, what the Dark-man did to his baby filled him with a righteous anger that frightened even him.

‘It’s nearly time for you to leave for work. Perhaps you should change into fresh attire,’ said the Dark-man.
‘Can I see my family first?’ He asks.
‘You may, but the visit will cost you a tooth. I’ll let you decide from whom it is extracted.’
‘Forget it,’ he cringes.
‘Go upstairs and pick out a fresh tin-of-fruit for our man here,’ the Dark-man instructs. His accomplice returns with a pitch black suit, more appropriate attire for grieving at a funeral than professional work. ‘Now good sir, your bonds are to be undone and remain so from here on in,’ the Dark-man said to him before turning once again to his accomplice, ‘Go and tell our man upstairs that if he hears so much as a fart from down here, he’s to start slashing throats, beginning smallest to biggest.’ The Dark-man’s order causes a severe shudder to course through his being. ‘Any grief from you and as above, so below. Yeh get me?’
He nods. Once the henchman returns from the briefing, his bonds are cut. He rubs his sore, cut wrists while wrestling with the urge to strike that envelops him. He thinks better of it, deciding to mournfully dress. He is sure that he has worn the suit to at least one funeral before; he decides he does not want to be buried alongside his family in it.

‘Now that you look somewhat more fresh, should anyone ask about your grim appearance, last night you didn’t know the drink that was one too many. You’re to drive to work as normal; a man will be following while keeping in contact with us throughout. All you have to do is arrange the transfer to Caven and return here. Once we’ve received word our man has made it, you’re all free,’ said the Dark-man.
‘Simple as that?’
‘Simple as that.’
‘Except for one thing, I’m not known for ducking into work, arranging transfers of high security prisoners then pissing off home. It’ll arouse too much suspicion; I’ll have to hang around the guts of the whole day to deal with the fall-out,’ he said, witnessing the frantic turning of cogs behind the Dark-man’s bleak eyes.
‘Fair enough, so long as our man is at his destination by six this evening.’
He starts to leave when he feels the blunt force of the Dark-man’s arm crash into his chest. He can see a switch has being flicked within the Dark-man, the accomplice tenses also after bearing witness. ‘What?’ He asks sheepish.
‘Somethin’s wrong, I can feel it, you’ve being underestimated.’ The Dark-man said to him before turning to the cohort, ‘Bring down the youngest!’ The Dark-man screams.
‘Why are you involving my baby? I’m doing everything you’re asking,’ he queries with noxious nerves electrocuting, burning him from inside out.
The Dark-man ignores him. The young-girl is brought before him, her pajamas stained with her own dry brown blood. The Dark-man grabs a clump of her hair; he holds the Stanley blade to her throat. She hangs limp in his grip, her fragile mind coping the only way it can, shutting down.
‘Oh god! Please God almighty don’t let him hurt my baby!’ He pleads in tears to a deity he long ago forfeited any belief in.
‘You’re more Malahide than we gave you credit for mister, and I don’t trust you. Yeh need more convincing of precisely what hinges on your full co-operation,’ sneers the Dark-man. He falls to his knees, hands in front of his chest, clasped together as an elderly woman’s during Sunday morning mass. ‘I do, I swear to God I do know, please, please don’t hurt her anymore, if you do then by-God you’ll have to kill me and the rest of us now, because I swear…’ he can’t finish his threat, his throat croaks and seals with grief.
The Dark-man hesitates, but releases her from his grip. Her small body collapses onto the floor. ‘Carry her back upstairs,’ he instructs the underling.
He wipes away the tears, picks himself from the ground, brushes down his suit, shares what he hopes is the last ever look at the Dark-man, and leaves for work.

As he embarks on the journey to I.P.S headquarters in county Longford, his attention is consistently drawn to the black B.M.W that shadows him in his rear-view mirror. His panicked mind races, his hand trembles as it crawls to his mobile phone. Each time he is about to commit to making the call, the fear and panic that haunts him like an invisible specter prevails. He pulls into headquarters, before getting out he watches to see where his shadow parks. He exits, trying his best to walk with calm purpose into the large four-story rectangular office block. ‘Margaret, I need you to arrange a prisoner transfer, it’s urgent,’ he said to his transport manager.
‘Sure, prisoner name and from where to where?’ She asks nonchalant.
‘Paul Hogan, from Portlaoise to Laughan house.’
She is logging onto the I.P.S network when the name begins to register.
‘Seriously?’ She asks blindsided and dumbfounded.
‘Seriously!’ He barks over his shoulder while briskly walking away. He enters his office, slamming the door shut behind him. He paces the room, hands clasped firm around the back of his neck. He walks toward the phone on his desk. He stops. He walks away. He paces back and forth. He walks towards the phone and picks up the receiver. He is dialing when an aggressive knock burdens the hollow office door. He hesitates before placing the receiver back down. ‘Come in!’ He shouts.
Bob Tyrell, his operations supervisor enters. ‘Did I hear right, did you just order that Paul Hogan be transferred to a low security institution?’ Said Bob, a stark accusing tone, mixed with sheer disbelief in his voice. ‘I did Bob yes, but, there’s more at play here than you realize. I’m not sure if I should bring you into the loop this time, you’ll just have to trust me on this one.’
‘Trust you?’ Scoffs Bob, ‘You’re having one of western Europe’s most competent traffickers, a fucking international criminal, moved to an open prison while he still has well over a decade left to serve? If… no, when the rank-and-file leak this debacle to the media, they’re gonna fucking lash the minister out of it, who, ever the politician, will deny all fucking knowledge and hand us over for a public scourging,’ he shakes his head, ‘and you want me to trust you?’ Said Bob, his tone reduced to decibels just over a whisper, finally exhausting his exasperation. ‘The minister knows already,’ he sighs.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘The minister knows already, as do the Guards, it was their bloody idea in fact, well the national drugs and organized crime branch at least,’ he said while throwing his arms into the air in surrender. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m still not fucking following here.’
‘They have reliable, proven intel. They know he will get comfortable, eventually escape over the border, and travel by fishing trawler to Scotland, from where he will head south to Cornwall and travel again by fishing trawler to Spain, where they expect him to link-up and lead them to the rest of the cartel leadership…That’s the gist I got, not too sure of details, once Interpol got involved in the brief, things became sketchy to say the least.’ He said as he shook his head.
‘So this is all some kind of decoy or honey-trap or whatever lingo intelligence services are using these days?’
‘Yeah basically and I know, it’s all a bit heavy.’
‘Bit fucking James Bond alright, anything I can do to help?’
‘Yeah, make sure the transfer bypasses Castlerea prison and gets to Laughan house by six this evening.’
‘I’m all over it,’ Bob says jogging away.

Alone again he logs onto the I.P.S network. He pulls Paul Hogan’s file up onto the screen and picks up the office landline. ‘Hello, Ms. Hogan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Ms. Hogan, this is Padraig O’ Donovan, I’m ringing from I.P.S headquarters in Longford.’
‘Oh my God what’s happened to my Paul?’ She shrieks.
‘Oh no, Ms. Hogan, nothing has happened to Paul, on the contrary I bare good news.’
‘Really?’ She asks her voice erratic.
‘Yes indeed, Paul has been assessed and approved for transfer to a low security, open facility. He is being transferred to Laughan house today, and it is my pleasure as his integrated sentence manager to offer you and your children transport for a first visit.’
‘Oh my God, that’s brill!’ She screams ecstatic down the line, ‘thank-you so much, his imprisonment has been such an ordeal for me and the kids.’
‘I’m delighted you’re pleased, I can be there to pick you up in about two hours.’
‘Yeah that’s grand, again thank-you so much.’
‘Don’t thank me, Ms. Hogan, thank your husband and the constructive manner in which he has being addressing his offending behavior.’
‘I’m so excited, see you in a coupla hours, God-bless.’
‘God bless you, Ms. Hogan,’ he swallows back the vomit that has made its way to his mouth. He scrambles from the office, bolts down various flights of stairs to the vehicle depot. He signs out an I.P.S people carrier and slips out unnoticed by his shadow.

Despite the rain and gusty winds, he drives to Dublin with the window partially drawn down, his perspiration has become problematic. He cruises through the leafy suburb of Blackrock until he finds the Hogan’s plush residence. He switches of the ignition, breaths deep to gather himself before exiting and ringing the doorbell.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Ms. Hogan, I’m Padraig, you’re chariot awaits,’ he said with a Wall Street smile.
‘Grand, jus’ let me get the kids,’ she gushes, wide eyed and bushy tailed as she scurries off down the hallway. She emerges again accompanied by a charming looking young boy and a royal young girl. His heart breaks as he opens the doors, and ushers the troop onto the people carrier. On any normal day, the drive from Dublin to Caven is taxing enough, but his personal calamitous situation, coupled with the façade he is forced to maintain, tests his nerves and sanity to their limits. He swings the people carrier into the low security compound; he sees the large armor plated I.P.S truck parked outside the main house. He parks right behind it. ‘Now, Ms. Hogan, it’s been a long journey, why don’t you and the kids step outside to stretch the legs and get some air while I fetch your husband,’ he smiles the last insincere smile he hopes will be for an age.
‘Oh thank fuck, bit of a fuckin’ hike isn’t it?’ She admits, betraying her roots with a thick west Dublin accent.
‘It sure is,’ he concedes as he walks to the entrance of the three-story house. He is intercepted by a plain clothes officer,
‘What’s going on?’
‘Paul Hogan, where is he?’
‘He’s in the office, what the hell is going on, how’d that thug get this cushy number?’ ‘
Bring me to the office!’ He barks ignoring the officer’s inquest. He follows the officer inside and across a tiled hall to a room full of monitors. Three plain clothed officers stand around Hogan, who exudes the aura of cunning and invincibility he is renowned for. ‘Everyone outside, me and Mr. Hogan have business we need to discuss,’ he orders while displaying his I.P.S identity. The officers exchange tentative and confused glances with each other before filing out of the office.

He locks the door, turns slowly, stares at Hogan, remembering his daughters face when the Dark-man gouged inside her mouth with the pliers, then he lunges at him. He punches, head-butts, elbows, knees and punches some more. His energy is not lacking due to hate, but, Hogan’s recent inability to keep defending his blows gives him cause to stop. He stands panting for air, towering over the crumpled body beneath him. Once Hogan stirs, he pulls him to his feet and drags him across the office to the window. He pushes Hogan’s bloodied face against the pane of glass so he is looking out at his own family. ‘Now you fucking horrible cunt, you’ve my family, and I have yours…fancy a trade?’ He sneers as he shakes Hogan by the scruff of the neck. Hogan coughs, causing blood to splash onto the window. He nods agreement.
Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he gives it to Hogan, whose hands tremble so much it takes three attempts for him to successfully dial.
‘Yeah it’s me, it’s done, now clear off before yis get nicked an’ I’ve to do the same for youse,’ he said before handing back the phone. Before Hogan can open his mouth again he punches him with a right hook square to the jaw, knocking him unconscious.
He opens the door, ‘Stick that animal back in cuffs and don’t let him out of your sight,’ he said to the shocked officers while fixing his tie. He dials another number into his phone, ‘Hello Guards, I'm reporting a tiger kidnapping in progress.’

He drives through the town, lost in thought. He is grateful the media frenzy attached to his exploits has finally died down. For the sake of security and peace of mind, he had to sell the family home and relocate to another town, a small price to pay as he knows their beloved home would never have been theirs again. He stops outside an off-license and purchases two bottles of red wine. As he opens the car door with his free hand, a dark B.M.W pulls alongside his own. The man in the passenger seat is wearing a baseball cap and high collared brown leather jacket; it obscures most of his face, except those black eyes.