Private Dublin

Chapter 58

They didn’t disperse outside of the pub, which surprised me. Instead, the large group turned right, into the mouth of a dark cobblestone alleyway. They didn’t talk much and for the most part moved in silence, which was disconcerting. It was rare to see this many people so purposeful and somber except at a funeral, yet they were not dressed for that. They wore casual clothes: jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts, boots, trainers. Most walked with a pronounced swagger.

I followed about thirty paces back, checking my phone nonchalantly, as though messaging a friend, while I was in fact studying the map as we turned right onto Bath Street, a residential neighborhood of small terrace houses. There were no front yards and the houses pressed in on the narrow street, making it seem even more claustrophobic. Cars had to slow to avoid the group of men, the left flank of whom had spilled off the sidewalk, but there were no protests either from the drivers or from the men, which made me wonder whether these guys were known locally.

We continued walking until we reached an intersection. Beyond the lights stood a vacant former car showroom that was showing signs of disrepair, but light spilled from an open door at one side and two large men flanked it. The group crossed the street, hopped a low wall into the empty parking lot, and picked up speed as they approached the open door.

I continued along Beach Road, watching the group as they were nodded inside by the bouncers. Was this a speakeasy or some sort of private club? It didn’t feel like somewhere people went to have fun.

I went south until I was beyond the vacant retail unit. When I couldn’t be seen by the men on the door, I jumped the low wall and ran back across the parking lot and down the blind side of the unit where I would not be observed, into an alleyway separating it from the neighboring abandoned office block. I came to a rear yard that was full of rusting and rotting office furniture, shelving units, metal containers and trash. I picked my way through this, past all the detritus, and went to a single-story extension unit. Here I hauled myself onto the flat roof, taking great care to test each step before trusting it with my full weight. I made slow progress to the main building and a run of small reinforced windows, most of which had been broken long ago. I could hear the hubbub of conversation coming from inside and reached beyond the remaining shards of glass to unlock a catch and open one of the windows.

I carefully clambered into a damp corridor that led to offices along the other side of the building. I followed it until the voices grew louder and went through a fire exit that was missing a door. I was on a gantry that linked the offices with some fire stairs running down to the main showroom that would once have been full of cars. This was where the group of men from the pub had gathered.

The windows had been covered with blackout material, which explained why it had looked dark from the main road. The showroom had been converted into an auditorium and the men I’d followed were seated in rows in front of a small makeshift stage. There were six men in suits on the stage, all of them hard-faced, with the haircuts, toned bodies and ramrod posture of military men. One of them, who had a face like a forty-fight pugilist, was addressing the group from the center of the stage.

“We’ve struck a blow before, and it made the national news. We need these invaders to know they’re not welcome and that they should stay in their own countries or choose somewhere other than here.,” he said. “Leave Ireland for the Irish!”

The group yelled as one, “Ireland for the Irish!”

“Let’s strike another blow for the motherland,” the speaker said, and the other men in suits lifted holdalls from behind the stage and started distributing their contents to the audience.

They filed up to receive ski masks and weapons like machetes, clubs, batons, and a few handguns.

I heard vehicles pull up out front and started to make my way out of the building, returning the way I’d come.

I knew the Dark Fates were the street arm of Propaganda Tre, the muscle that did the dirty work. But this looked like a political far-right paramilitary group rather than organized crime, which meant Propaganda Tre’s mission to seek power through the chaos of hatred and division was very much a part of its street operations too. We’d underestimated the Dark Fates by classifying them as a purely criminal gang of thugs and hoodlums.

As I picked my way through the yard full of trash, I used my phone to call the Garda.

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked.

“I think there’s going to be trouble,” I replied.