had almost gone for the 'big wan' two years earlier. There had been a lot of hype in the papers about a famous painting being discovered in a Jesuit house in Dublin's Leeson Street. Tommy Malone had taken a keen interest immediately, relating the newspaper reports to a fellow hood one morning.
'It's real big stuff. There's some undiscovered treasure that's bin hangin' on the Jesuits' wall for years, and them not knowin' a thing about it all that time. Stupid bastards. Anyway, didn't they go and give it to the National Gallery in Dublin for the people of Ireland to enjoy' This made them even stupider bastards in Tommy Malone's eyes. 'I mean, it's worth a fuckin' fortune. They're talkin' millions, fuckin' millions. Some eejit on the telly said it was invaluable. Shows ye how much he fuckin' knows.' Tommy Malone didn't know much about painting, neither painting as in painting and decorating, nor painting as in art. But he knew when something was that valuable it would be worth a look at.
Which was how Tommy Malone came to be staring at 'The Taking of Christ' by Michelangelo Merisi, better known as Caravaggio, in Room Nine of the National Art Gallery one Wednesday morning in November 1994. He had come to plot a robbery, its robbery.
But he couldn't take his eyes off it, it disturbed him so much. There was Christ, all meek and humble like, about to be dragged away. And there was Judas planting a kiss on his cheek while two heavily armoured soldiers clutched Him, one with dirty hands and nails. The whole painting was dark, gloomy and foreboding. Malone had walked away twice, the second time right down to the front entrance, but each time he had come back to look and wonder. The second time he'd sat down on the bench directly opposite and examined every figure, every facial expression, every detail of clothing. The face of Judas looked repellent, his brow furrowed, eyes open, lips pressed against Christ's cheek. The fucker, Tommy Malone had thought, that Judas was a righ' fucker, righ' enough. Then he noticed another soldier in the background. Three of them! It took fuckin' three of them! And would ye look at yer man! He's not even puttin' up a fight! Malone couldn't take his eyes off the figure of Christ. He kept staring at it, looking at the face, a mixture of betrayal, resignation and sadness. He'd stood up and read the details of the painting: 'The Taking of Christ'. Caravaggio 1573-1610.
So they were takin' him off to be fuckin' crucified and he didn't even put up a fight? He had looked at the hands, clasped together, subdued. Then he'd stared at the eyes. They were closed, not scrunched up or wincing against pain or terror. Just closed. Accepting. Knowing what was coming and accepting it. No resistance.
Is it any wonder I don't believe in God? He had turned for the third time to leave when it suddenly hit him, like a thunderbolt. He suddenly knew why he knew he would never make a move on the painting, why it unsettled him so much.
The scene came back. He was aged about nine years and the family was living in one of the slum flats on the second floor of the Steevens Street complex. He heard again the hammering on the door, watched as his father tried desperately to hide. He remembered so vividly his mother weeping, wiping her eyes repeatedly with a filthy apron tied around her waist. The hammering grew louder and the other children started to cry and scream with fear, with terror. That was what he remembered most, the sheer sense of terror. Finally the door was broken down and in charged six Gardai, batons drawn. There was a fight in the small kitchen, his father cursing and screaming, the Gardai trying to pin him down, raining blows to his head and arms and shoulders. His father broke free, rushed to the door and out onto the landing, still shouting and screaming. 'Ye won't take me, ye shower of bastards.' He jumped over the small landing wall down the twenty feet to the courtyard below. And to his death. He died from
'It's real big stuff. There's some undiscovered treasure that's bin hangin' on the Jesuits' wall for years, and them not knowin' a thing about it all that time. Stupid bastards. Anyway, didn't they go and give it to the National Gallery in Dublin for the people of Ireland to enjoy' This made them even stupider bastards in Tommy Malone's eyes. 'I mean, it's worth a fuckin' fortune. They're talkin' millions, fuckin' millions. Some eejit on the telly said it was invaluable. Shows ye how much he fuckin' knows.' Tommy Malone didn't know much about painting, neither painting as in painting and decorating, nor painting as in art. But he knew when something was that valuable it would be worth a look at.
Which was how Tommy Malone came to be staring at 'The Taking of Christ' by Michelangelo Merisi, better known as Caravaggio, in Room Nine of the National Art Gallery one Wednesday morning in November 1994. He had come to plot a robbery, its robbery.
But he couldn't take his eyes off it, it disturbed him so much. There was Christ, all meek and humble like, about to be dragged away. And there was Judas planting a kiss on his cheek while two heavily armoured soldiers clutched Him, one with dirty hands and nails. The whole painting was dark, gloomy and foreboding. Malone had walked away twice, the second time right down to the front entrance, but each time he had come back to look and wonder. The second time he'd sat down on the bench directly opposite and examined every figure, every facial expression, every detail of clothing. The face of Judas looked repellent, his brow furrowed, eyes open, lips pressed against Christ's cheek. The fucker, Tommy Malone had thought, that Judas was a righ' fucker, righ' enough. Then he noticed another soldier in the background. Three of them! It took fuckin' three of them! And would ye look at yer man! He's not even puttin' up a fight! Malone couldn't take his eyes off the figure of Christ. He kept staring at it, looking at the face, a mixture of betrayal, resignation and sadness. He'd stood up and read the details of the painting: 'The Taking of Christ'. Caravaggio 1573-1610.
So they were takin' him off to be fuckin' crucified and he didn't even put up a fight? He had looked at the hands, clasped together, subdued. Then he'd stared at the eyes. They were closed, not scrunched up or wincing against pain or terror. Just closed. Accepting. Knowing what was coming and accepting it. No resistance.
Is it any wonder I don't believe in God? He had turned for the third time to leave when it suddenly hit him, like a thunderbolt. He suddenly knew why he knew he would never make a move on the painting, why it unsettled him so much.
The scene came back. He was aged about nine years and the family was living in one of the slum flats on the second floor of the Steevens Street complex. He heard again the hammering on the door, watched as his father tried desperately to hide. He remembered so vividly his mother weeping, wiping her eyes repeatedly with a filthy apron tied around her waist. The hammering grew louder and the other children started to cry and scream with fear, with terror. That was what he remembered most, the sheer sense of terror. Finally the door was broken down and in charged six Gardai, batons drawn. There was a fight in the small kitchen, his father cursing and screaming, the Gardai trying to pin him down, raining blows to his head and arms and shoulders. His father broke free, rushed to the door and out onto the landing, still shouting and screaming. 'Ye won't take me, ye shower of bastards.' He jumped over the small landing wall down the twenty feet to the courtyard below. And to his death. He died from
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