The Emigrant's Return

By Robert Shandon

The gripping tale of a less than innocent – yet far from guilty – man unfolds as fifty-year old Pat Donaldson returns to Ireland, the land of his birth. Framed and imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, he finds himself the unwitting victim of Dublin’s most ruthless drug baron, a man who acts with impunity from behind a shield of propriety, all the while aided from a cabal of corruption.
All seems lost for Pat until one sole glimmering light of hope, in the form of a young and honest guardian of the law, breaks through the seemingly impenetrable mantle of fate to secretly champion his cause. Good deeds and intentions must combine perfectly with the finesse of legal machinations to triumph over what, on the face of it, seems to be the perfect stooge caught in the perfect set-up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398476196

Robert Shandon

Robert Shandon is an Irish writer based in Dublin. Born in Belfast in 1963, he grew up amidst the chaos and carnage of Northern Ireland’s troubles. In recent years, after pursuing a forty-year career as a mechanical engineer, he began to devote his time to creative writing. Robert has travelled extensively and has lived in the UK, Germany and Canada for extended periods during the course of his career. His travel experiences over the years contribute heavily to his writing.

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About the Author

Robert Shandon is an Irish writer based in Dublin. Born in Belfast in 1963, he grew up amidst the chaos and carnage of Northern Ireland’s troubles. In recent years, after pursuing a forty-year career as a mechanical engineer, he began to devote his time to creative writing. Robert has travelled extensively and has lived in the UK, Germany and Canada for extended periods during the course of his career. His travel experiences over the years contribute heavily to his writing.

Dedication

To Raquel and Edward, my true and good friends. Thank you for believing in me.

Copyright Information ©

Robert Shandon 2024

The right of Robert Shandon to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398469341 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398476196 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781398476189 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Chapter One

Seventy-two hours had passed since his sudden arrival back onto the soil of his birth and what a memorable three days and nights they had proven to be. Now, as an electronically bastardised version of a piano concerto screeched its way out from the filthy public telephone receiver, Pat prayed that even at this late hour, he would be given some measure of relief by Dublin’s homeless helpline.

At ten minutes to the eleven o’clock deadline, he was finally granted respite from the ear-piercing recording. The operator who answered was no more welcoming than any of the previous ones he had encountered on the helpline and it was easy to discern that the woman who spoke had probably, like himself, also endured a long and arduous day.

Name and date of birth? she asked tersely.

Patrick Sean Donaldson. September the second, nineteen sixty-five. His response was sharp, egged on by an overwhelming tiredness. He too could be terse, but he knew that it was easier to attract bees using honey, not vinegar. It was time to play nice.

In contrast to the woman’s deep Dublin brogue, his own strong Boston accent stood out by a country mile and he was certain that her curiosity had been aroused from finding a Yank on the line. He listened as her fingers tapped frantically across her keyboard in search of his details and with luck, an available bed. His day had been an exhausting one and all he now yearned for was a clean safe place to rest his weary bones. However, being homeless and friendless in the city of his birth would most likely see Patrick Sean Donaldson receive short shrift from those detailed to help him.

Conway Hostel! announced the operator, after what seemed like an age.

Her mention of Conway Hostel made him wince and he knew that she was making him a final and non-negotiable offer of accommodation for the night.

He had spent the previous night attempting to sleep on a wafer-thin yoga mat at Conway Hostel: a dump, if ever there was one. Now, threatened with another dose of the same, he was determined to at least try to negotiate his way out of it.

Thanks for your help, ma’am, he began; his honey pot of deference at the ready. I was there last night and it was a very unpleasant and dangerous place. I had to sleep in a room with twelve other men and there was blatant drug use and theft. He paused to gird himself. Is there any chance for something else? I stayed at Saint Michael’s Hostel two nights ago and it was a much safer and better run place. Could I maybe go there again?

Before he could continue, she snapped back. Her tone was suddenly officious and he knew instantly that his measure of honey had missed its mark.

Now look here Mister Donaldson. My job is to find you accommodation on a nightly basis until you are assessed by the Council’s homeless services at their Parkgate Hall offices. Until you are accepted onto their books, you will have to just use the helpline and take whatever is offered. So, all I can tell you is that it’s Conway Hostel or you can collect a sleeping bag from the Simon Community on Capel Street. What’s it going to be?

It was starting to rain and his choice was simple. The filthy streets of Dublin in a sleeping bag, or one more night in a room surrounded by a dozen pairs of stinking feet and sleeping with one eye open for fear of the junkies; who would happily rob their own mothers.

Okay, Conway Hostel it is. I’m very sorry for troubling you ma’am. His voice was contrite.

There was a stretch of silence on the line. However, when the operator did finally speak again, her tone had softened.

Mister Donaldson, it’s Sunday night and the best thing you can do is get down to Parkgate Hall as soon as possible to register with the homeless section. They can get you into a proper Council controlled hostel and you won’t have to keep taking pot luck with the helpline. Listen, I have to go now, we’re closing our lines soon. Remember, get registered at Parkgate Hall as soon as you can. Good luck now and mind yourself at the Conway.

The line went dead and Pat hung up the receiver in a daze. He was exhausted, but it was now two minutes to eleven and he would need to get moving if he was to make it to Conway Hostel before their eleven thirty cut-off time.

As he trudged along O’Connell Street; Dublin’s iconic and filthy main boulevard, towards the bridge over the river Liffey, he began to reflect on how he, Patrick Donaldson, fifty-year old former Landscape Gardener to the great and the good of the State of Massachusetts, had ended up traipsing through the sodden streets of Dublin: homeless, broke and to a large extent, clueless.

Barefooted, he stood to a height of six feet two inches and despite a near twenty-pound weight loss during his decade and a half of incarceration, was still able to account for himself physically. He feared no man, yet the uncertainties he now faced filled him with feelings of weakness and dread. At least back in the State Penitentiary there had been order and routine to life. Of course, you had always needed to keep your wits sharp and your eyes wide open in the Joint, but as long as you kept your head down and your mouth shut, you could survive. Now, three days after his lifetime expulsion from the United States and his enforced return to his ancestral homeland, the balding greying middle-aged ex-con with failing eyesight, was struggling to find any hope of a way forward.

He had been three years old when his mother had taken him away from the slums of Dublin to a new life in what had actually ended up amounting to, the slums of Boston. He was now paying a hefty price for never having taken up full American citizenship. As soon as his second-degree murder sentence had been completed to the satisfaction of the Massachusetts State Parole Board, he had been shackled, handcuffed and whisked onto a flight: destination Dublin. The screen of his new and frankly baffling mobile phone displayed the date: August 2nd 2015 and it was sobering to think that he had just spent the last fifteen years behind bars.

He had so often tried to rationalise it all, but he knew that it was not good to dwell on the whys and wherefores of the events which had propelled him towards this point in life. He now needed to focus on his newly imposed freedom and to expunge the ghosts of the past. However, as he trudged along the breezy banks of the Liffey through an ever-strengthening rain, Pat Donaldson could find only the spectres of regret and resentment for companionship.

It was twenty past eleven when he finally reached the dreaded haven of Conway Hostel. Peering through its curtainless windows, he could see that he had been preceded by a crowd of dozens. The throng inside consisted mainly of men, although a scattering of females could also be seen. At the main doors, a pair of security guards were eagerly ushering the last of the stragglers through. As he approached, one of the men nodded and in the same terse manner as the earlier helpline operator, demanded his name and date of birth. His details confirmed, he was directed through to the brightly lit main lounge.

Entering the large room, Pat found it packed with the sounds and smells of Dublin’s destitute: a mixed bag indeed. Some stood in groups while others sat in huddled conversation and the hum from it all irritated him instantly. He was ill-tempered and tired after having received a steady soaking from the rain during his walk along the river. However, he did soon notice a saving grace from his entrance into this modern-day Doss House and it was being provided from a huge cauldron at the food counter. Nudging and jostling his way forward, he was rewarded with a steaming bowl of chicken broth and two slices of heavily buttered bread.

Nearby stood a recently cleaned table: a welcome sight. Claiming it as his own, he began to slurp his way through the steaming meal. His need for sustenance was overwhelming and he was completely unaware of the loud noises made by his mouth and lips as he soaked up the hot nourishment. His late mother would have been appalled at his blatant disregard of table manners, but fifteen years behind bars and three days roughing it on the streets of Dublin had left her son bereft of such concerns.

Engrossed with his meal, Pat failed to notice the lessening of the din around him. People were beginning to ‘bed down’ for the night, with volunteers eagerly showing them to the rest areas. To describe it as, ‘bedding down’, was perhaps a bit of a stretch; considering that the bedding referred to consisted of a yoga mat on a hard floor. The previous evening, one of his fellow unfortunates, an elderly alcoholic, had advised him to try to bed down in the main lounge. Apparently, it was safer to sleep in the open area.

The lounge was also a favoured spot for those who had arrest warrants pending. The wanted men and women were always eager to keep their eyes on the main doors; just in case, ‘the boys in blue’ might drop by. Ireland’s Police force: ‘An Garda Siochana’, a title translating into English as, Guardians of the Peace, rarely missed an opportunity for some easy arrests.

The Guards, as they were universally known, would often show up to Conway Hostel in the early morning hours, ever eager to tug on the collars of some old acquaintances.

Despite Pat’s best efforts to remain hidden in plain sight, one of the female volunteers spied him and asked him to kindly make his way upstairs to what she called, ‘the upper dorm’.

He decided to chance his arm. Would it be possible ma’am for me to sleep down here this evening? I’d feel much safer down here in the main lounge.

The volunteer was a woman whom he estimated to be in her mid-fifties and he could sense that she understood where he was coming from. Slim and quite tall, she had greenish coloured eyes and an oddly pinched nose. She still had the look of youth about her and was plainly a woman who took pride in her appearance: the perfectly manicured nails, said as much. Her cropped reddish hair did intervene somewhat to convey a slightly harsher impression; yet, when she spoke, her tone was soft and compassionate.

Are you American? she asked, smiling.

Well, I thought I was ma’am, but the United States Immigration Department just recently informed me otherwise. You see I was born here in Dublin and was taken to America when I was three years old. Now I find myself back here through deportation. So, despite spending forty-seven years in the States and never having visited Ireland even once during that time, I now find myself as an Irish citizen sitting here in Conway Hostel.

He could tell that his brief explanation had piqued her interest.

Wow, that’s a horrible situation for you to find yourself in. Can I ask your name?

Certainly. Pat’s the name ma’am: Pat Donaldson.

Pulling up one of the greasy plastic chairs, she sat down and introduced herself. I’m Bernadette Tobin, although everyone just calls me Bernie. I volunteer here every weekend and I must say that you seem to be quite different to our usual clientele. We don’t see many Americans here at the Conway. In fact, you are probably the first one ever. Most Americans in Dublin are tourists and they stay in the best hotels.

Yeah, just like me, he replied, smiling weakly. Except that despite my accent, I’m not an American and as you can see, my choice of hotel is somewhat limited at present.

She shared his smile and Pat took an instant liking to Bernie Tobin. His time inside, had, he felt, allowed him to develop a keen sense for the genuine side of people. He had spent many years dwelling amongst complete Sociopaths and more often than not, complete Psychopaths.

That experience had given him the blessing of good insight: a blessing which had rarely failed him. Fifteen years of careful navigation through the deadly dangers of the Massachusetts State Penitentiary had ensured that what he himself termed as, his Bullshit Detectors, were constantly set on high alert.

Still smiling, Bernie spoke again. I’m going to ask the hostel’s night manager to allow you to stay down here tonight. His name is Anto and he’s a decent enough lad, but I can’t promise you anything. He doesn’t like to show favouritism.

She stood up to leave, but her next move floored him. She took his hand in hers, stroking it gently. The feeling was electrifying and Pat suddenly sensed a warmth consuming him. He had long forgotten what it was to feel a woman’s touch and as Bernie walked away, he noticed a lingering draw from her perfume. Long dormant senses began to awaken deep within him and he was comforted by the fact that they were still able to grapple their way to the surface. His years of seclusion behind high walls and razor wire fences had left him devoid of meaningful friendship or genuine care; yet somehow, this woman seemed to be helping him to slowly, ever so slowly, begin to trust again.

As he awaited Bernie’s return, his mind began to drift and he found himself recalling the events which had initiated his previous decade and a half of Hell.

One seriously drunken argument and a complete loss of reason on his part, had left his wife of ten years dead in a pool of blood on a cold kitchen floor. He had managed to wrestle the revolver from her hand on that dreadful night and the memory of what had transpired thereafter, chilled him still. The loud sharp cracks from the handgun as he had pumped four bullets into the woman he had once loved and adored, were as raw now in memory, as they had been on that tragic evening.

He had panicked and fled, yet had known only too well, that both time and tide were against him from the start. The FBI had only needed two days to track him down to the grubby Motel in Vermont, from where he had been planning to cross the border into Canada. He had been easy meat indeed for the agents involved in the case. Panicked fleeing suspects, devoid of criminal background; or for that matter, criminal mindset, rarely presented the forces of law and order with much of a challenge.

Two days of Tequila-filled remorse and the unfettered use of his Mastercard had ensured his capture and if he was to be truly honest with himself, he had been almost thankful when the searing spotlight from the Swat Team had invaded through his Motel room window. His wife was dead by his hand and so his journey through the justice and penal systems had begun.

Pat’s deepest thoughts, fuelled by his weariness and that ever present feeling of hopelessness, were interrupted by a drunk kicking his table as he made his way to the upper dorm. He looked over to see his newfound friend Bernie still talking with Anto, who did not give the outward appearance of a man who liked to compromise. Anto’s face was deeply pockmarked and he looked emaciated. Pat knew the look well. He had encountered many such men in the Pen and he could tell immediately that Anto was for sure, a former drug addict.

If his assessment of the hostel manager proved correct, there would probably be little chance of him agreeing to Bernie’s request. Men such as Anto had finally cleaned themselves up; but they were a miniscule minority amongst the addicts. Now that he had attained a position of authority, he would most likely prefer to refuse Bernie. If he was indeed a Poacher turned Gamekeeper, then Anto was probably also now a man who relished the power to say no.

Just as he was drifting back into his twilight zone, he felt something touch his shoulder. Bernie had returned and to his surprise she had persuaded Anto to allow him to sleep in the main lounge. Mind you, she cautioned, it was only for the night. If he was to end up back at Conway Hostel in the future, he would just have to take whatever was on offer.

Thanks Bernie, I’m very grateful to you. She smiled, then patted his shoulder again.

Pat, try to get a shower tomorrow morning before you leave and you can also collect some free clothing. She paused for a few seconds before continuing. Look, we’ve only just met and I normally don’t get too involved with hostel clients, but you strike me as a pretty decent sort of fella, so I’m going to try to help you as best I can.

There was a further dragged out pause before she passed him a small piece of paper. A number was scribbled on it.

This is my mobile number. Give me a ring tomorrow afternoon and we’ll arrange to meet up. I know someone who works at the Council’s homeless section and I’m also very familiar with the social welfare system. Get a good night’s rest and contact me tomorrow. Bye now.

Before Pat had a chance to reply, Bernie was halfway out of the lounge, making her way past the still dour-faced Anto to the main doors. He studied the small piece of paper with her phone number and he sensed that it could mean the chance to inch forward ever so slightly from the mire he now found himself in. After so many years of being unable to trust a single soul, he was confident that he had now stumbled onto a special and good woman. Of course, he would follow up and call her, but before that, he would need to work out how to use his new mobile phone; for as yet, he did not even know how to put credit on it, let alone, make a call. The years inside had certainly provided a hiatus from technology.

As he finally slumped onto his yoga mat, dog tired from the day, Pat Donaldson heard the soft voice of Bernie Tobin echoing through his mind. As he rolled over, attempting to find a position of lesser discomfort, he suddenly realised just how much in need of a shower and a change of clothes he actually was. At least, he pondered, she had been diplomatic about the stench emanating from his unwashed frame. Then, without warning, sleep placed its firm grip onto him.

Chapter Two

When the lights were turned on at seven the next morning, Pat wasted no time in getting himself over to the shower area of Conway Hostel. On the way, he passed a table where packs of new underwear, socks and white T-shirts were being laid out by one of the morning volunteers.

Is it okay to take something? he muttered.

The young man on duty smiled broadly at the enquiry. Certainly mate, help yourself. That’s what they’re there for.

Meddling through the neat rows of clothing, he retrieved socks and underpants in his size, along with a couple of fresh T-shirts. As he did so, he was again reminded of just how much weight he had lost since the start of his prison term. Prior to being locked up, he had been a man in possession of a naturally solid and reasonably muscular stature. However, he now struggled to fill Large sized clothing. Upon his release from the Penitentiary, a mere five days earlier, the Doctor who had conducted his final medical examination had commended him on achieving what he had termed as, ‘a healthy weight’.

Pat had not taken well to the comment. The State appointed Quack had failed to see his weight loss for what it actually was: the result of the meagre portions of tasteless slop doled out by the Penitentiary’s kitchens. The constant companionship of hunger was the one sure thing that any inmate could rely upon during his time within the Massachusetts State Correctional System. A system that cared not one jot about good diet, or nutrition.

As he entered the shower room he was greeted by the pungent smell of bleach: yet another abiding prison memory. The rest of the hostel’s sleeping beauties would hardly be rising from their yoga mats anytime soon, so with luck, he would have the place to himself. The room’s fluorescent ceiling lights reflected off its white tiled walls to dazzle him at first and his shoes struggled to find grip on the soap scummed floor, but his attention was soon drawn towards the pair of curtained shower cubicles. Soaps, deodorants and neatly folded white towels sat on a table nearby. Grabbing a bar of Dove soap, former inmate Donaldson prepared himself for his first private shower in a very long time.

First though, he truly needed to shave. Opening his small, ‘State Inmate Release Pack’, he retrieved one of its nasty little disposable razors. Over the years his skin had become used to the dullness of the prison issued blades and he had perfected his own technique for shaving with them. Filling one of the wall