The Devil

Citation preview

I should be in A m e r i c a . Tried. Jaysus wept. D i d I ever? Went to the airport. Bought my duty-free. D o i n g g o o d , right? H a d my one suit o n , the black job that h a d seen too m a n y funerals. W h i t e shirt, muted tie. I like that . . . muted. Seems almost like a Brit. D a r k one I bought in the charity shop. I was X a n a x e d to the hilt, so m e l l o w I certainly was. H e a d e d for H o m e l a n d Security. A m e r i c a n Immigration. Seemed to be d o i n g O K , d i d the eyeballing job, stared into that security camera, then d i d the index-finger job. ' N o w sir, y o u r left h a n d . ' A n d you're trying not to sweat like a bastard.

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KEN BRUEN

T h a t icy poHteness puts me on alert. N o t even 10 mg of X a n a x can stop that. T h e n the hesitation. A n d the dreaded w o r d s , ' C o u l d y o u step to the side, sir?' Y o u ' r e fucked. Seems my past was up there, a brief stay in jail w h e n I put a child-beating boUix t h r o u g h a glass w i n d o w . I don't regret that, didn't then, don't now. I was sorry it was on record. T h e n I was t o l d I c o u l d re-apply for entry to the U S A , but for now, sayonara. The looks f r o m the other passengers, looks of ' T h a n k fuck it's not me.' R e c l a i m i n g my luggage, returning the duty-free, need I say h o w that felt? Shame. N o worse feeling i n the w h o l e d a m n universe. I finally got back to the general p o p u l a t i o n . Y e a h , just like p r i s o n . I d i d what y o u do w h e n y o u are humiliated. W h a t I d o , anyway. I went to the bar. H a d n ' t been d r i n k i n g for nigh on six months. The bar guy w o u l d just have to be an asshole. T h a t k i n d of day. Ignored me for ten minutes. A n d I seethed. Watched h i m p o l i s h glasses, wipe d o w n the counter, and finally,

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THE DEVIL

Golly

gosh.

H e noticed me. Opened w i t h , ' W h a t w o u l d sir's pleasure be?' H i s balls for openers. I went w i t h , ' D o u b l e Jameson, no ice, p i n t of the black.' I figure something in my tone backed h i m off a n d he said, ' O f course.' I drained the Jay, fast and furious. G o o d title for a movie, I thought. Sat back and waited for the hit. It came. The w a r m t h in your belly, the creeping i l l u s i o n that everything might b e O K . W h y y o u d r i n k the shite, I suppose. The best bit then. As it snuggles up in y o u r gut, y o u take the head off the Guinness. The bar guy might be a prick but he sure could pour a pint. N o w a d a y s , we h a d so m a n y non-nationals in the service industry, they poured a pint of G like a pint of f r i g g i n ' lager. T h i s guy k n e w his stuff, h a d let it sit for nigh on four m i n utes before he creamed the head. I let out my breath. H a d n ' t even k n o w n I'd been h o l d i n g it for six months. Y o u ' r e a dry alcoholic, that's h o w y o u live. A n d this is wrestling w i t h the X a n a x , you're going to get some moments of reprieve.

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KEN BRUEN

Take it where y o u park it. I hadn't even k n o w n a guy h a d slid on to the stool beside me, t i l l he spoke. Going, 'Sure is hell here today.' I was m e l l o w enough n o w to turn and l o o k at h i m . T a l l slender m a n , in a beautiful suit. Y o u been shopping in charity shops as long as I have, y o u k n o w the real deal. T h i s was it. A r m a n i or some other way-out-of-my-reach number. The k i n d of suit, y o u k i c k the be-jaysus out of it, it's still there in the m o r n i n g , like a faded butler, l o o k i n g p r i m and proper. He h a d long hair, b l o n d w i t h highlights, a n d , I'd have to admit, a handsome face, but something . . . off. M a y b e the mean, d o w n - t u r n e d m o u t h . I'd seen enough of them to k n o w they are very bad news. A n d obviously he w o r k e d out, y o u c o u l d see the toned muscle behind the shining white shirt. He h a d a devastating smile, marred a little by t w o c r o o k e d teeth. A n d his cologne, top of the range I'm sure, but underneath, something else, like garlic left too long in the sun. I nodded. A n d h e asked, 'Travelling today?' I wanted to say, 'The fuck is it to y o u ? '

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THE DEVIL

but the X a n a x , m i x i n g w i t h the booze, said, ' N o , change o f plans.' He gave that killer smile again, said, ' A h , that's a s i n . ' H i s emphasis on sin was, I swear, deliberate. He had the bar guy h o p p i n g , no mean feat, ordered a gin and tonic a n d then, to me, 'Get y o u something. Jack?' I said I was g o o d . Fuck, I was close to lights out but not quite out of it, asked, ' H o w ' d y o u k n o w m y name?' R a v i s h i n g smile and he indicated my dead ticket on the bar, said, 'Says so on y o u r ticket.' T h e n he gave a tiny smile, said, 'I met a guy on the plane, y o u k n o w h o w it goes, y o u have a d r i n k or t w o and get to shoot the shit?' He paused to see if I was f o l l o w i n g this. H o w difficult was it? I nodded a n d he continued, 'This guy was a shrink, and y o u ' l l laugh w h e n y o u hear this, he studied e v i l . ' I didn't laugh. H e went o n , 'So I asked h i m , y o u think there is a motive for evil?' He gauged my response a n d , seeing nothing special, said, 'The guy tells me evil hones in on those closest to redemption.'

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KEN BRUEN

T i m e for my t w o cents. I said, 'Lets me off the h o o k then.' He gave me the most eerie l o o k , asked, ' Y o u ' r e beyond redemption. Jack?' Jesus, we were having a d r i n k and he was getting not only theological but d o w n r i g h t f u c k i n g personal. I said, letting my bitterness leak all over my w o r d s , 'Let me just say, experience has taught me there's no such thing as a free l u n c h . Or d r i n k , either.' He made a sound -1 blame the booze, the disappointment of non-entry to A m e r i c a , but it seemed like f u c k i n g . . . glee. H e said, 'I w o u l d imagine if evil were zoning in on a person, y o u ' d be the ideal candidate. Y o u have all the requirements for where evil w o u l d nest and multiply. Bitterness, disbelief, and a cynical disregard for h o w such things w o r k . ' I've been a r o u n d bad guys for a lot of years, some serious w h a c k o jobs, the sociopaths, the psychos, the totally insane. A n d yet this guy gave me a sense of ' Y o u ain't seen n o t h i n g yet!' But like I said, the blend of stuff in my stomach was keeping me loose. I went w i t h , 'Fascinating as this might appear, I'm not really in the m o o d for The Garden of Good and Evil... I never got your name.' He laughed, a sound like a hyena w i t h meat in its m o u t h , said, extending his l o n g slender h a n d , 'I'm Curt.' I thought he meant his manner - and he was certainly that

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- till he added, 'With a K.' A l m o s t mesmerized by the intensity of his eyes, I echoed, 'Kurt?' He tossed his long b l o n d tresses, and I mean tossed, said, 'Absolument.' L i k e I gave a fuck. I was t h i n k i n g Conrad's Heart of Darkness, but being too obvious is never smart so I went with, 'We met before?' He t o o k a l o n g swig of his g i n , savoured it, then said, 'If we h a d , surely y o u ' d remember?' I had no reply to this, signalled the barman to hit me again. K u r t said, ' M y treat, please.' I let h i m . . . treat. My drinks came and I raised the Jay, said, 'Slainte: He seemed amused by that, asked, 'That's Irish?' T h e tone was as the Brits might say, sardonic. A n d the feeling he was f u c k i n g w i t h me I put d o w n to the booze, so I countered w i t h , ' Y o u ' r e . . . ?' Meaning, 'Irish y o u ain't.' A n d w o r d s failed me. If I had to guess, he sounded French, sort of, but w i t h a complete mastery of English that was amazing.

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He let that hover, that d a m n smile in place, then, ' I ' m of m i x e d ancestry, far too boring for a m a n like y o u to have to bear, but I carry a G e r m a n passport.' I decided to stay on the vague interrogatory track, asked, ' Y o u on holiday, business? L e a v i n g or arriving?' H e loved that. I c o u l d literally see his eyes dance w i t h merriment, or as my late mother might have said, ' W i t h devilment.' H e said, 'Business, always w o r k i n g , so many tasks a w a i t i n g my attention. I'm currently headed for a city called G a l w a y . A r e y o u f a m i l i a r w i t h this place?' He wanted to head fuck, I'd oblige, said, 'No.' N o t h i n g else. A l m o s t a Z e n response, as my sidekick Stewart w o u l d appreciate. He gave me a long l o o k , impossible to decipher, halfway bemusement, the rest, I t h i n k , was anger. T h e n he said in that so polished accent, 'A shame, I've rented a rather lovely vehicle a n d if y o u ' d been going to G a l w a y . . .' A n d all of a sudden I was tired of h i m . C h e c k e d my w a t c h , the bus . . . yeah, the bus was about ready to leave. I drained my shot glass, the Guinness f o l l o w i n g fast. I stood up and he asked, ' L e a v i n g already?' I gave h i m my best l o o k , f u l l of empty promise, said.

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'It's been a blast.' Gave it an A m e r i c a n twang to shove it home. He extended that languid hand again and his grip was fierce. He said, 'I feel w e ' l l meet again.' N o t if I could f u c k i n g help it. I left h i m w i t h , ' T h e n the jar is on me.' As I w a l k e d away, I c o u l d feel his eyes boring into me. Jesus, one creepy guy. I got outside the terminal and noticed an A e r Lingus lady watching me. Since our national airline, like the rest of the country, was to hell and gone, it was rare to actually see the green u n i f o r m , not to mention an Irish person. She said, ' I ' m sorry to bother y o u , but are y o u a friend of the m a n y o u were having a drink w i t h ? ' The fuck was this? She read my face, understanding exactly what I was t h i n k i n g , and continued, 'Since the difficulties w i t h our company, some of us are assigned to just being on site and helping where we c a n . ' Unless she c o u l d get me to A m e r i c a , she was shite out of luck. I asked, 'Is there a point to this?' She l o o k e d mortified in the w a y only an Irish w o m a n can, that is, shamed yet defiant. She said.

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KEN BRUEN

'I've been m o n i t o r i n g the departures h a l l for over a year and I can pretty w e l l read faces now, it passes the time, and earlier I noticed that m a n due to his striking appearance, and then, I hope this doesn't seem too far fetched, he seemed to zone in on y o u . ' The bitch was m a d , time to get another line of w o r k . I said, sarcasm all over me w o r d s , 'Stalking me?' She stared at her feet in pure agony for a moment, then the head came up, jaw strong. ' A n d w h e n y o u passed through C u s t o m s , he actually smiled. As if he k n e w y o u ' d be . . . re-emerging.' I gave a bitter laugh, said, ' H e was right.' She was into it now, a w h o l e conspiracy Hving in front of her, said, ' A n d he tracked y o u t i l l y o u went to the bar, then he's sitting w i t h y o u . ' I saw the bus approach, tried to keep the irritation to a low, asked, 'Spit it out, what is it y o u think is going on?' She ignored my shot, said, 'I'd be very careful of people like that, sir. I grew up in West C o r k , the o l d people believed -' She was seriously mortified now, but soldiered o n , '- that malevolence is a l i v i n g , breathing thing and it hovers, w a i t i n g for a target, then it latches o n , w o n ' t let go t i l l it owns y o u , and usually it targets people w h o are sad

or

disappointed.

I

k n o w this sounds crazy,

1 8

but

THE DEVIL

that m a n seemed dehghted to see y o u so . . . despondent.' C h r i s t , no w o n d e r the national airline had gone d o w n the toilet. I asked, a m o c k i n g tone evident, 'So, the D e v i l is hanging out in airports, l o o k i n g for p o o r bastards w h o get refused entry to America? A n d he's w h a t , going to scoop them up? Jesus, lady, y o u need to get a grip or some serious medication.' I hurt her badly, w o u n d e d her in fact, but for fuck's sake, I was d o i n g her a favour. Wasn't I? Jesus wept. I began to move away and she shouted, 'I just thought I should make y o u aware of the situation. I'm sorry if I sounded o d d . ' I gave her a slight smile, n o t h i n g too fancy - y o u can never encourage lunatics - and said, ' O d d ? Least you're in the best country for it.' A n d oh sweet Jesus, added, ' Y o u need to get out more, take a w a l k r o u n d the car park. Y o u k n o w , get a different perspective.' I got on the bus, leaving her l o o k i n g f o r l o r n and lost. Beyond redemption? Oddest thing, as the bus swung r o u n d to take the t u r n for G a l w a y , maybe it was a trick of the light, but I thought I saw K u r t pressed up against the glass entry door, not w a t c h i n g me. W a t c h i n g her.

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1 'May you be in heaven a full half-hour before the Divil knows you're dead.' O l d Irish blessing

I

Lucifer. The L i g h t Bringer. He was the A n g e l of light. He believed that m a n had seriously fucked u p . So, hke a good cop, he collected his evidence, brought it to His L o r d . The L o r d , being G o d , like all governments, was highly sceptical a n d laughed at his bearer of hght. T r u l y pissed off, like all g o o d cops, Lucifer began to falsify the evidence. A n early fan of The Wire, if y o u w i l l . N o t so m u c h Serpico as Satan. A n d yeah, got fucked over. So he d i d w h a t y o u do w h e n y o u get caught, y o u rally the guys. Set up his o w n shit. N o t quite M u g a b e , but he was getting there. H i s c o u p failed. No w o n d e r the Irish have such belief in h i m .

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Failed rebellions. W h a t we do best. He was, as they put it, t h r o w n into hell. A n d like all former zealots, he swore, 'The fuck F m going d o w n alone.' A n d y o u k i n d a have to admire the cojones of the guy. N o t only was he taking his motley crew of failed cohorts to hell a n d beyond, he'd go after God's supposedly mega love. The H u m a n Race. H e ' d enlist: Idi, Adolph, M a g g i e Thatcher, A n d for a pure T r i v i a l Pursuit (even arch demons need recreation) somewhere on the list of crazed cronies he added the name of Taylor, Jack. Just for a spot of diversion. The guy went a r o u n d w i t h guilt, fear, anger, spite, arrogance. A n d best of a l l , he was a half-assed recovering C a t h o l i c . N o t only w o u l d it give L u c some R and R, he'd get to d r i n k some Jameson, sink a few pints of Guinness a n d , p r i m a r i l y , watch the stupid b o l l i x try to figure it out. W h e r e was the downside?

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M o s t d i a b o l i c a l o f a l l , Taylor w o u l d look for m o t i v a t i o n . T h a t made the D e v i l laugh out l o u d . He loved the game most w h e n humans sought explanations and m o t i v a t i o n . R e m i n d e d h i m of w o n d r o u s times, like that idiot Aleister Crowley. A n d if he k n e w Taylor, and he sure k n e w a sitting target, sooner or later, Taylor w o u l d do t w o really stupid acts. A p a r t , of course, f r o m trying to understand it. Taylor w o u l d do t w o incredibly d u m b acts. O n e : he'd go to a priest. A n d by all that is unholy, the priest w o u l d feel the w r a t h of meddling w i t h the A n t i - C h r i s t . A n d then the tinkers. L u c had a special hatred for them as the w e i r d clan c o u l d see things. He didn't like that. N o t to be seen. If there was to be a show time, he'd call the time a n d place. M o s t l y , he w o r r i e d (if such an entity c o u l d worry) about them because, unlike Taylor, or priests, or the other m i n i o n s , they weren't afraid. He thrived on fear. H i s raison d'etre, perhaps. A n d if Taylor d i d f o l l o w t h r o u g h , w i t h the tinkers, he'd lay such a w r a t h on them that they'd huddle in the fear he had tried so l o n g to instil in them.

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2 'Evil is only a concept to those who've never experienced it. To those who've met it, the term "concept" dropped from

their vocabulary.' KB

Everybody w i t h an beal bocht (the p o o r mouth). The economy hadn't so m u c h mehed as crashed, burned and died. D e l l had just announced they were p u l l i n g out of the country a n d , of course, a shite l o a d of jobs had gone. But every single day it was the same dirge, another company was m o v i n g operations elsewhere. The banks were n o w beginning to understand h o w the clergy had felt for the past few years, that the next k n o c k on the d o o r was the lynching party. The government were screaming that in t w o years w e ' d be maybe, just maybe, a little bit on the road to recovery. The beast was no longer slouching towards Bethlehem, he was in f u l l possession and even the w o n d r o u s bright flicker of Barack's victory had faded. I was in C o n l o n ' s Fish Restaurant, best fish in the country.

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KEN BRUEN

A n d h o w they achieved that w i t h us entering the second year of the water being contaminated was a wonder. The council was p r o c l a i m i n g that it wasn't really the water but the lead pipes, and oddly, 'twas little comfort. Y o u either boiled all water or bought it bottled. I was w a i t i n g on me cod with mushy peas and d r i n k i n g a coffee that tasted like coffee! I'd almost given up on reading the papers, but R a y C o n l o n had passed me the Irish Times. A photo of a w o m a n k i l l e d in a freak accident leaped out at me. A brief paragraph noted h o w she'd been hit by an u n k n o w n car at the car park in Shannon airport. The photo. M y A e r Lingus w o m a n . H o l y fuck. I lost me appetite but w o u l d n ' t hurt Ray's feelings by bolting. I wanted a large Jameson. Fast, wet and lethal. W i t h the X a n a x , I was keeping a sort of l i d on me drinking. A w o m a n was standing over me, asked, 'Jack T a y l o r ? ' Jesus, if I had a E u r o for the amount of times this h a d happened. A n d yes, always, always ended in disaster.

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THE DEVIL

My getaway was meant to put all the past horrors of my time as a half-arsed PI behind me. She was that indeterminate age between forty and fifty, nice face, though l o o k i n g heavily burdened. Blonde hair pulled tight in a ferocious bun and m i l d blue eyes that h a d seen too m u c h of the w o r l d . She fidgeted nervously w i t h

her w e d d i n g r i n g ,

the

C l a d d a g h b a n d , and that more than anything else h a d me say, 'Yes.' She l o o k e d like she was going to fall d o w n , so I offered her the seat opposite. She t o o k it a n d I signalled to Ray, w h o was over in jig time, and I asked, ' M a y I get y o u something?' 'Some water w o u l d be nice, thank y o u very m u c h . ' R a y gave me the l o o k and I shrugged. The fuck d i d I k n o w ? He brought a bottle of sparkling G a l w a y water, neatly took the top off the bottle and p o u r e d half a glass. She said, ' I hate t o bother y o u , M r Taylor.' 'Jack.' She n o d d e d and said, ' I ' m Teresa J o r d a n , a G a l w e g i a n t o o . ' A rare and rarer breed. I waited. Spent all my bedraggled life d o i n g that, though for w h a t , I don't k n o w .

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She took a dehcate sip of the water, then said, ' N o e l , my eldest l a d , is at N U I - one year left of Science and he's disappeared. I t o l d the Guards and they said not to w o r r y , students were always up to shenanigans and he'd show up in his own sweet time.' F o r perhaps the first time in my w h o l e screwed-up relationship w i t h the G u a r d s , I agreed w i t h them. Easy as I c o u l d , I said, 'They are probably right. Students, they get up to mischief.' I couldn't believe I'd used the w o r d mischief. E v e l y n W a u g h w o u l d love me. H e r eyes fired, and believe me, I've seen it often enough, Irish w o m e n do w r a t h like no other w o m e n on the planet. 'He's been missing t w o weeks, and missed my birthday. N o e l w o u l d never miss my birthday.' She d i d scream that last w o r d . I took out my notebook, it was for the horses and the latest runners and riders at L i n g f i e l d and the C u r r a g h . A d o p t e d my biz tone, like I k n e w what the fuck I was d o i n g . ' D e s c r i p t i o n , friends, w h a t clothes he might have been w e a r i n g , his address, and if possible, a p h o t o . ' A real p r o . Right? I dutifully took d o w n the data and then she reached in her handbag, took out, like a piece of valued jewellery, a snapshot. He l o o k e d like . . . A thousand other y o u n g k i d s .

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THE DEVIL

D a r k hair, long, lean face w i t h lots of acne, nothing else to say. He was any face y o u ' d see on the street, just an ordinary y o u n g student. She said, 'I don't k n o w what you charge, Mr Taylor, but I have this.' H a n d e d me a slim envelope. I h a d the decency or shame not to l o o k inside, said, ' I ' l l get right on it.' T o o k her telephone number and was so relieved w h e n she stood up and said, ' T h a n k y o u s o m u c h , M r Taylor.' I gave her the h o l l o w bullshite about not to worry, I'd get right on it, a n d finally she was gone. A new case. I was w o r k i n g . W h e n the w h o l e country was losing their jobs, I'd just been hired. Was I delighted? Was I fuck. R a y brought my dinner and I'm sure it was up to their usual excellence, but my m i n d . . . Jesus, that photo, that w o m a n . Shannon airport and my, dare I say, curt response. I shrugged it off, shouted, 'Ray, got any more tartar sauce?' This seems too crazy to be true, but w i t h i n t w o days of my arrival back in G a l w a y , I'd f o u n d a place to live. A guy I k n e w was emigrating, like so many, and wanted to rent his apartment. In N u n ' s Island!

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KEN BRUEN

My previous case h a d i n v o l v e d nuns and was a bitter and twisted series of events. I t o o k the apartment. It overlooked the Salmon Weir Bridge, not that I'd see any of those gorgeous creatures j u m p i n g , the poisoned water had k i l l e d them off. It had w o o d floors, t w o bedrooms, a tiny kitchen and a large sitting r o o m , c r a m m e d w i t h books. Books. A l w a y s and ever my desperate salvation. A

coffee-maker,

washing

machine

and

an

internet

connection. W h a t more c o u l d y o u want? Apart from love, care, purpose, family, belonging. I was so long f r o m any of the above, y o u t h i n k I'd be used to it. Nope. Few things as lonely as shopping for one, and eating alone in y o u r o w n home, aw fuck, that is the pits. Y o u keep the TV o n , the radio in the mornings, just to blank out that a w f u l silence. As usual, I had me favourite music: Gretchen Peters, Johnny Duhan,

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THE DEVIL

T o m Russell. I had t w o friends. Sort of. Ridge, Ni l o m a i r e , a gay G u a r d , w h o had recently, in a desperate effort for p r o m o t i o n a n d to belong, married an A n g l o - I r i s h landowner, w h o ' d lost his wife and was merely seeking

companionship

and

a

mother

for

his

teenage

daughter. H o w was that w o r k i n g out for her? H o w d o y o u think? Every case I'd w o r k e d , she'd been involved and we had a love/hate relationship of the Irish k i n d . That is, we tore strips off each other, verbally, every chance we got, and yet had saved each other's arses more times than w e ' d believed possible. A n d then there was Stewart. Y o u w a n t to talk enigmatic? H e ' d been a highly successful dope dealer, l o o k e d and dressed like an accountant, t i l l his sister was murdered and he engaged me. By pure fluke, I solved the case. Stewart went to prison on dope charges, back w h e n it seemed like the government gave a shite, and emerged a Z e n , deadly, totally unreadable ally. He and Ridge had p a i d for my ticket to A m e r i c a . I'd phoned them and Ridge had said, ' Y o u stupid b o l l i x . ' Stewart went, ' Y o u can travel w i t h o u t m o v i n g . ' I preferred Ridge's response.

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3 'The Divil loves those who deny his existence.' O l d Irish proverb

I'd barely got started on the case of the student, had asked r o u n d and mostly heard he'd been a nose-to-the-grindstone k i n d of guy. Sure, he partied at weekends, but seemed to take the idea of getting his degree very seriously. O n e g i r l , a very pretty wee thing, t o l d me, 'Lately, he got involved in ouija boards and all that occult crap, began reading books about Aleister C r o w l e y and shit.' I was about to say, thank y o u very m u c h w h e n she added, 'Then he met L o r d of the frigging Dance.' I nearly said, ' M i c h a e l Flatley?' Bit d o w n and waited. She said, ' M r K himself, turned up recently and has like . . .' I'd have s w o r n she was Irish, but she had that half-arsed A m e r i c a n i d i o m gig going, and sure, used the w o r d like. L i k e a lot. I asked,

39

KEN BRUEN

' A n d he is? Mr K, I mean, w h o is he?' She gave a w o r l d - w e a r y sigh that proved she was indeed Irish, then said, ' H e preaches some w e i r d bullshite about e m p o w e r i n g and the energy of the the One.' I asked, ' A n y idea o f where I might find the charismatic M r K ? ' She gave a small laugh, no relation to m i r t h or joy, said, 'That's part of his schtik, he just shows u p , begins his tired rap and w a l l o p , a w h o l e bunch of eejits f o l l o w . ' I l i k e d her a lot. W o m e n of spirit always appealed to me. I had to k n o w , asked, ' Y o u were never d r a w n in?' She gave me the rolling-eye bit, said, 'I w o r k in a fast-food joint to keep me afloat and I hear enough horseshite w i t h o u t having to go l o o k i n g for i t . ' She was Irish, no doubt. I asked, 'What's he look like?' She gave it her f u l l concentration, then said, ' T a l l , great smile and a shaved head. H a r d to place where he's f r o m . He sounds like a G e r m a n , or maybe French?' I put out my h a n d , thanked her profusely and volunteered that she was one bright y o u n g lady. She gave a lovely smile, said, ' M y name is E m m a , I enjoyed talking w i t h y o u . ' I spent the best part of a week w i t h students a n d frequenting student hangouts.

40

THE DEVIL

Was even offered some Ecstasy. T h e song remained the same. N o e l had been l i k e d , had friends, and then out of the blue - or black - he became a total devotee of this Mr K. I f o u n d no sign of the enigmatic Mr K. I'd always just missed h i m . Or he was due at the Quays and I'd show up. H e didn't. They f o u n d N o e l d o w n near the r o w i n g club, hanging by his feet f r o m the flagpole, an inverted cross not so m u c h carved as literally gouged into the s k i n . W h e n I called his mother, I left out the above details but had to say it l o o k e d like somebody had harmed h i m . F u c k , talk about understatement. H e r wails of grief, the sheer torment of her agony made me just w a n t to hang up. Like I could. I said the trite shite y o u do a n d offered to refund her money. A silence. Then, ' M r Taylor, y o u use that money to f i n d the scum w h o robbed me of my precious golden boy.' I swore I w o u l d . I even sounded like I meant it. In the local pubs, the murder was on the menu and I heard faint whisperings of the head of a dog being enmeshed in the p o o r boy's entrails. I didn't inquire.

41

KEN BRUEN

W o u l d you? F u c k , it was sick enough. W h i l e the country went nuts, I went to the cemetery. Phew-oh. I sure h a d a long line of people to pay my respects to. C o d y , my surrogate son, and the others, it grieves me to name them. So many of them in their graves because of my stupidity. I left my dad t i l l last. H e wasn't buried w i t h m y mother. She'd t o r n h i m asunder in life, so at least in eternity, he t r u l y w o u l d have some peace. I d i d lay a red rose on my mother's grave and tried to t h i n k of something nice to say to her. Nothing. N o t a blessed t h i n g . T h e n I w a l k e d along the n a r r o w path to my father, and at first, I couldn't register w h a t my eyes were seeing. Faeces, rubbish, c o n d o m s , were scattered over his plot. T o o late to blame my mother. I was in shock for about five minutes, then began to clear away the debris, and it was then I saw it above my dad's name. A n inverted cross. Y o u come out of the cemetery and it's but a spit to the nearest p u b . Naturally. We take our burials almost as seriously as our d r i n k i n g . I took a place at the counter and realized I was actually shaking.

42

THE DEVIL

The

barman,

my

age,

probably

used

to

shook-up

mourners, asked quietly, ' W h a t w o u l d y o u like?' 'Jameson, large, pint of Guinness.' H e w i t h d r e w discreetly. A f r a i d he'd w a k e the dead? Once I got on the other side of the d r i n k s , I began to, as the y o u n g people say, chill. My anger was at its usual simmering slot and G o d , I wished I still smoked. So someone k n e w I'd been investigating the student's death. N o t h a r d as I'd been all over the campus for a week. A n d h a d sent me a message. To frighten me off. By Jaysus. M a d e m e more determined than ever t o f i n d M r K . W h o e v e r this b o l l i x was, he was a key factor. There was a blazing log fire in the bar and the temptation to c u r l up there, get a line of hot toddies going was powerful. But I turned up the collar of me G a r d a all-weather coat and headed out. The b a r m a n said, ' G o d m i n d h o w y o u go.' My l i m p was acting u p , a legacy of a beating w i t h a hurley. My heart was going like the hammers and I debated if taking a X a n a x w o u l d be the wisest course of action. I took t w o .

43

KEN BRUEN

Back in N u n ' s Island, I thanked Christ that the heating was w o r k i n g and had settled into an armchair w h e n the phone rang. Ridge. She made chitchat for a w h i l e . She was even worse at that than me and that's really saying something. I said, 'What's on your m i n d ? ' She didn't bite my face off, so I guessed she wanted something. She d i d . H e r beloved husband was having a soiree on F r i d a y evening, nothing too f o r m a l , just sports jacket, tie, slacks! I was just b o r n for soirees. I snapped, 'Why?' She t o l d the truth, I think. Said, 'There are a lot of well-to-do people c o m i n g and it w o u l d be nice to have an ally.' I nearly laughed. W e ' d been d o w n many roads together, most of them dark, but she'd never used the w o r d ' a l l y ' before. I c o u l d have said, ' Y o u ' r e gay, f r o m a shite p o o r background and y o u marry the nearest thing to a f u c k i n g l o r d there is. W h a t d i d y o u expect, bliss?' Instead, I said, 'OK.'

44

THE DEVIL

L i k e I said, Two Xanax. I h a d nearly dozed off w h e n my doorbell rang. I went, 'For fuck's sake.' Pulled open the door to Stewart. He had some bags in his hands, said, 'I come bearing gifts for y o u r new home.' Beware of geeks bearing gifts. He looked wonderful. The guy Td once visited in p r i s o n was l o n g gone. At least on the surface. W i t h his Z e n philosophy, designer clothes, laid-back m e l l o w style, he had all the trappings of a hip y o u n g entrepreneur. But he was lethal. My last case, I'd seen exactly h o w lethal. He m o v e d into the l i v i n g r o o m , said, 'Hey, this is a nice place.' I said, ' A l a s , I'm all out of that decaffeinated tea or herbal shite y o u d r i n k , so it's either a shot of the Jay or bottled water.' He volunteered that water w o u l d be great. Jesus, the day a glass of water is that is the day I w a l k into Loch Corrib. He settled himself on the couch in the frigging lotus position and I went to get the water. If he was chanting some fucking mantra w h e n I got back, I'd t h r o w h i m out the window. He took the glass, then,"

1

45

KEN BRUEN

' H e r e are your presents.' A dressing g o w n , w i t h the letter J on the pocket, a dictionary of Z e n , and green tea capsules. M y fucking cup overfloweth. I said, ' I ' m lost for w o r d s . ' I was. A n y o n e bearing links to manners, that is. He was so totally at ease, I wondered h o w many X a n a x he'd ingested. He gave me that all-searching gaze I was used to and said, 'So, they w o u l d n ' t let y o u into the States.'' I shrugged as if it didn't matter. It d i d . H e asked, ' W h a t now, big guy?' My chance to surprise. I said, ' I ' m on a case.' He came out of the lotus position, his face truly concerned, said, 'I thought y o u were a l l done w i t h that.' I m o v e d to the w i n d o w , said, 'I thought I was going to A m e r i c a . Surely Z e n covers that k i n d o f fuck-up?' He sipped at the water, b i d i n g his time, then said, ' A r e y o u going to tell me about it?' I did.

46

THE DEVIL

The whole shebang. He never interrupted, a n d w h e n I was done he was shaking his head. I asked, 'What?' 'Jack, this is real bad k a r m a . Get the hell away f r o m it a n d finish y o u r investigation.' I was amused. Just to b l o w that c o o l finally I asked, 'What's the big deal? Some shitehead comes after me, I'm l o o k i n g f o r w a r d to it.' He m o v e d f r o m the chair, came a n d touched my shoulder, said, 'Jack, trust me, this is evil in its truest f o r m . Y o u are not equipped to deal w i t h it.' I pushed his a r m away, turned, said, ' A n d w h a t about N o e l J o r d a n , and m y dad's grave? Y o u think I can let that go?' H i s face pleading, he said, 'Jack, I beg y o u , w a l k away. Y o u can't do this alone.' I gave h i m my best smile, the hundred-watt vibe - pity the teeth aren't my o w n - said, 'But I've got y o u . ' M o v e d to the table, p i c k e d up the green tea capsules, added, ' A n d these.'

47

4 Tf you are going to sup with the Divil, bring a long spoon.' O l d Irish proverb

C o m e Friday, the gig at Ridge's. She's said to dress casual, mentioning a sports jacket, tie. L i k e l o o k in my w a r d r o b e , see the black suit, the G a r d a coat and . . . some jeans and T-shirts. Time was, I bought all my clobber in charity shops. I'd have thought w i t h the economic m e l t d o w n people w o u l d be f l o c k i n g back to those stores. Nope. People were no longer giving stuff to the charity shops! I headed d o w n to my favourite one, St Vincent de P a u l , and the w o m e n w h o w o r k e d there h a d the welcome of the w o r l d for me. I got grey slacks, a snazzy c o r d u r o y jacket w i t h leather patches on the sleeves, a V a n Fleusen shirt and a dark knitted tie. Cost? Ten E u r o .

51

KEN BRUEN

I swear to G o d . On the bookshelves, I f o u n d : B r i a n Evanston, w i t h an intro by Peter Straub, D a n i e l Woodrell's first t w o novels and J o h n Straley's volume of poetry. A d d four E u r o t o m y total b i l l . A n d they thanked me. I had been really trying to cut d o w n on the booze and even the X a n a x , and outside the shop, I got a dizzy spell. I thought, ' U h - o h , drop in b l o o d sugar.' H o p i n g to fuck that's w h a t it was. I w a l k e d s l o w l y along Merchant's R o a d . N o t many merchants there any more, only the usual l u x u r y apartments. Turned left at the tourist office, w h i c h was empty, and into Eyre Square. W a l k e d up past the Skeffington A r m s , w h i c h had been renovated and looked quite posh now. Past A b r a c a d a b r a , w h o ' d given C o l i n Farrell a free card for life for their fare. A f t e r the p u b , he'd always fancied a kebab. I crossed at H o l l a n d ' s newsagents and m o v e d on up to Supermacs. G a l w a y owner, and fat chips. W h a t more c o u l d y o u ask? I went to the counter a n d reckoned a burger, the big fucker, w o u l d bring me levels u p , not to m e n t i o n the fun it w o u l d have w i t h m y cholesterol. A pretty girl in the Supermacs T-shirt said, ' H o w are y o u ? '

52

THE DEVIL

O K , I k n o w they're told to be polite, but this? She added, ' Y o u don't remember me, and me t h i n k i n g I made such an impression o n y o u . ' The college student I'd talked to, w h o l u c k i l y was wearing a name tag. E m m a . I gave my best laugh, tried, ' E m m a , h o w are you? D i d n ' t recognize y o u i n u n i f o r m . ' D i d she buy it? D i d she fuck. Said, ' Y a h d i v i l y a h , y o u read my name tag.' I ordered the burger and she t o l d me to take a seat and she'd be right over. W o r k e d for me. It was busy, always is, and I h a d to share a table w i t h a guy in a bad-fitting suit, m u n c h i n g d o w n on the P h i l l y Steak Sandwich,

w h i c h was new to

the menu,

like

his

life

depended on it. He had the l o o k of somebody w h o ' d got all the bad news there is and recently. W i t h o u t preamble, as grease dribbled f r o m his m o u t h , he launched, ' K n o w w h y the country is gone to the dogs?' I had a feeling he was about to tell me. He did. Said, 'The

fucking

non-nationals,

you

k n o w they

get

free

medical cards? I've w o r k e d all me f u c k i n g life, do I have a medical card?'

53

KEN BRUEN

I was guessing no. But thank C h r i s t , his mobile rang, w i t h one of those a w f u l tunes y o u can d o w n l o a d , hke a baby crying. H e muttered, ' R i g h t away.' T h e n , grabbing the remains of his Philly, he stood up, said, 'Fuckers w o n ' t give y o u t w o minutes for l u n c h , and yeah, a non-national.' The careless bigotry, n o w more prevalent, was like a slap in the face. E m m a arrived w i t h the burger and chips, said, 'I added French fries cos y o u need fattening u p . ' I barely stopped meself f r o m correcting her. French fries? Chips. Jesus. But as the Brits say, that would have been a tad churlish. No doubt about it, I was channelling E v e l y n W a u g h . I thanked her and then her face fell, literally, as she said, ' P o o r N o e l , what an a w f u l w a y to die, the p o o r creature.' I c o u l d hardly bite d o w n on the burger. I asked, ' W h a t are the students saying, anything t o d o w i t h M r K ? ' She shook her head, said, ' N o one's saying anything, and not a light or a sight of Mr K since.' She motioned to me to eat my f o o d , saying, 'It w i l l be stone c o l d . ' I gave it a shot and asked her, ' Y o u ' r e a bright g i r l , E m m a . W h a t do y o u t h i n k ? '

54

THE DEVIL

She l o o k e d at her w a t c h . The place was really j a m m i n g up and she stood, said, ' M i n d the darkness. E v i l rarely appears that on the surface.' I'd have to h o o k her up w i t h Stewart. I'd never seen h i m w i t h anybody. But then he's never seen me w i t h anybody either. I liked her, she was that new bright shining face of Ireland, w o r k i n g to pay her w a y through college, smart, confident and no one's inferior. M y generation, w e ' d been raised Church-beholden and afraid, and w o u l d n ' t have recognized self-esteem if it bit us on the arse. If w e ' d had a mantra, it w o u l d have been, 'Expect nothing, and by C h r i s t , you're entitled to even less.' I got outside. The part of the burger I'd eaten had lodged in me stomach like a bad prayer. I took out my mobile, ruefully t h i n k i n g , 'If I'd gotten to A m e r i c a , I'd be calling it my cell phone.' Stewart answered on the second r i n g . I asked, ' A r e y o u going to Ridge's . . .' I had to s w a l l o w h a r d a n d then spit it out. 'Soiree?' I c o u l d hear h i m laughing and I w a i t e d . He t o o k the hint, said, 'Yes, I'm invited, and w o u l d y o u be needing a lift?' 'If y o u don't m i n d . ' I let my resentment pour ail over that a n d he said.

55

KEN BRUEN

' I ' l l pick y o u up at seven, and try to be a bit sober.' H e hung u p . A n t h o n y B r a d f o r d - H e m p l e , n o w isn't that one hell of a name? No w a y you're going to be w o r k i n g in a fast-food joint w i t h a name like that. Ridge's husband. I was afraid to join up their names. H e r s in Irish, Ni lomaire. Jesus, y o u ' d need a p r o m p t card to spit it out. A n d worse, I'd been the one w h o h o o k e d them u p . H i s daughter, Jennifer, was being threatened and her pony was stolen. I'd got Ridge to check it out, t h i n k i n g I was helping her away f r o m a dire place she'd reached. And so, dear reader, she fucking married him. I c o u l d understand her reasoning. As a gay B a n G a r d a , she was already heavily compromised, and then having a radical mastectomy, she was indeed all out of options. Sure enough, she got her p r o m o t i o n , was n o w among the r u l i n g classes. A n d mostly, I'd kept my m o u t h shut. Comes a horseman, came the dreaded Friday. I put on my new gear, leaving the jacket t i l l last. Studied me o w n self in the mirror, tried to persuade myself that I l o o k e d like a slightly befuddled English professor. D i d n ' t fly. T h e doorbell went a n d there was Stewart, in a fucking L o u i s C o p e l a n d suit. The k i n d of suit, y o u r o l l in the gutter

56

THE DEVIL

w i t h it, y o u come to, that suit is brushing y o u off, saying, 'You're a player.' He l o o k e d at my gear, said, 'Wow.' My temper wasn't at its best. I'd only dropped one X a n a x and one shot of Jameson and it wasn't m e l l o w i n g me out at all. I said, 'That is one flash suit, three grand or so, I'd guess.' He gave his enigmatic smile, said, 'You're close.' I deliberately moved across the r o o m , glancing briefly at the nuns' convent - they'd be starting evening rosary poured a large Jameson and asked, 'Get y o u something.' I'm fresh out of that decaffeinated tea, alas.' He settled himself on the sofa, like a cat, total relaxation, and I pushed, ' W h a t is it y o u do again, since y o u stopped pushing dope, that affords y o u the suit?' He didn't rise to the bait, rarely d i d , said, 'Jack, I have all sorts of interests and if y o u ever w a n t to get your act together, I'd be delighted to have y o u a l o n g . ' I l o o k e d at my w a t c h , said, ' W e ' d better get this over w i t h . ' He got to his feet, his suit w i t h o u t a crease or crinkle, a n d added, ' Y o u might have f u n . ' As we headed out I said.

57

KEN BRUEN

'Yeah, and I might get to A m e r i c a someday.' H i s car was the new sleek D a t s u n , grey. Accessorized his suit. He turned the key and pulled effortlessly into the traffic. He hit the tape deck or i P o d or whatever a n d we were blasted by music. I listened in silence for five w h o l e minutes - I k n o w , I counted out the time - and finally asked, ' W h a t on earth is that?' He turned it up a notch, said, 'Searching for the W r o n g - E y e d Jesus.' There are some lines there is just no reply to. Ridge's

new home

was

one

of those

huge

sprawling

monsters, so beloved by the A n g l o - I r i s h w h e n they ruled the land. Once impressive, no doubt, but badly in need of repair. A n d a bastard to heat. We drove up a tree-lined path to the m a i n entrance. I asked, ' H o w many acres y o u figure he's got?' W i t h o u t a beat he said, ' O n e hundred and fifty-eight.' ' Y o u checked?' He gave that familiar half-smile, said, 'I check everything.' Didn't add, 'Reason I have the suit a n d the car.' The whole place was lit u p , and a bevy of cars were already parked. Stewart reached into the back seat, grabbed flowers and bottles of w i n e . He l o o k e d at me, asked,

58

THE DEVIL

' Y o u didn't bring anything?' I waited t i l l I was out of the car, said, 'Brought y o u . ' A g i r l in a maid's u n i f o r m w e l c o m e d us and offered to take our jackets. No. L e d us into a large r o o m , w i t h maybe fifty people already lashing into champagne, a huge chandelier overhead and the walls hned w i t h paintings. We were offered canapes and champagne. I took a glass and Stewart asked for some water. Ridge emerged f r o m a throng of people, l o o k i n g radiant. I've seen her l o o k like shite, lost, angry, hurt, but radiant, never. A blue silk g o w n made her seem like a beauty. She hugged Stewart, thanked h i m for the lovely flowers, then turned to me, said, ' W e l l , y o u tried.' I was a bit taken aback, asked, ' Y o u don't like the jacket?' She hugged me, a rare and rarer event, and said, 'It's so . . . y o u . ' The fuck was w i t h that? There was A n t h o n y B r a d f o r d - H e m p l e and a tall b a l d headed m a n .

She t o l d us that her husband was deep

59

KEN BRUEN

in conversation w i t h a very important prospective cHent. Something about h i m . The m a n feh my stare, turned, and I felt a c h i l l . B a l d or not, it was the guy f r o m the airport, K u r t .

60

5 'The Divil knows his own.' O l d Irish proverb

Jesus wept. I was rooted to the floor. The b l o n d locks had been shorn, but it was h i m . The fuck was going on? Champagne on top of X a n a x a n d the shots of Jay w o u l d screw w i t h anybody's head. Right? Ridge was p u l l i n g at my sleeve, going, 'Jack, are y o u O K ? ' I focused, shook my head and asked her, 'The guy w i t h your, er . . . husband, w h o is he?' She

threw

a

fast

glance

at

Stewart.

The

one

that

asks, ' D o we need to get h i m out of here?' Stewart was no help and she finally said, 'That's C a r l Franz. He's arranging for A n t h o n y to t u r n our home into a tourist resort. He is so a m a z i n g . ' K u r t . . . o r maybe Carl? C a r l w i t h a K, Fd bet. M r K?

63

KEN BRUEN

F u c k , champagne really does meddle w i t h the brain sockets. Before I c o u l d arrange any of those fevered thoughts into cohesion, they were approaching. I braced meself, resolved to go with the flow. A n t h o n y was all A n g l o - I r i s h cordiality, w a r m t h w i t h o u t c o n v i c t i o n , went, 'Jack, so delighted y o u c o u l d make it. M a y I introduce y o u to an esteemed prospective business partner, Mr F r a n z . ' K u r t put out his h a n d , manners counting most. He said, 'Jack, I've heard so m u c h about y o u . A w i c k e d pleasure to meet y o u in the flesh.' I took his h a n d , and felt nothing. Everybody's h a n d conveys something. Sweat, tremors, warmth, cold. H i s . . . z i p , nada, like white space. A n d oh my sweet L o r d , I remembered the o l d people saying, 'Shake hands w i t h the D i v i l , y o u feel n o t h i n g . ' I asked, 'We met before?' He gave me the eye-fucking l o o k , smiled, said, ' A l a s , I don't think so. I'm sure I w o u l d remember.' T h e tension was palpable and I c o u l d see even A n t h o n y l o o k i n g - what is it the Brits call it? - nonplussed. But as the story of me bedraggled life, I went w i t h it.

64

THE DEVIL

reckoning if tiiey are w i l l i n g to m i n d fuck, bring it on, yah bollix. I asked, ' Y o u ever heard o f a M r K ? ' He gave a tolerant smile to the others, like he c o u l d go along w i t h nonsense, said, ' N o . Is this a lacking on my part.'' The o d d twisted teeth had been f i x e d , or maybe I was just w a y off me f u c k i n g head. He let go of my hand a n d , as luck w o u l d have it, the bell sounded for dinner. Ridge grabbed my arm and said, in no uncertain terms, ' T i m e to eat. Jack.' A n d pulled me away. I didn't l o o k back. I c o u l d feel his eyes boring into my head. Ridge whispered, ' W h a t on earth are y o u doing? C a r l is our bail-out money.' I shrugged her a r m away, said, 'I met the b o l l i x before and trust me, he is the worst news y o u ever encountered.' She was

livid.

Nothing's

quite

like the

fury of an

I r i s h w o m a n crossed. She hissed, ' D o n ' t y o u dare make a scene! Y o u taint everything, but y o u w o n ' t do it here.' I gave her my most honest appraisal, said. T i l behave, but mark my w o r d s , this guy is the worst news to come d o w n the pike in all our varied history.' She sighed.

65

KEN BRUEN

' Y o u ' d test the patience of a saint.' I let that slide. D i n n e r was pretty m u c h a blur. A w o m a n to my left w h o was shrouded in some perfume that made me gag gave me a f u l l inspection, her eyes telling I was f o u n d lacking. She said, ' I ' m M r s Beverley M a h o n . ' T h i s was obviously supposed to make y o u sit up and gasp. I didn't. She was, dare I say, a trifle miffed, and persisted, ' O f the A t h e n r y H u n t . ' I f u c k i n g love fox hunters. I drained my glass - some amazing vintage that I'd been t o l d y o u sip and savour. Yeah. I asked, 'Tell me, w h e n y o u hunt the p o o r bastard of a f o x and the hounds tear it to pieces, do y o u feel - lemme get the right bon mot - righteous.'' She turned to her other d i n i n g c o m p a n i o n and I heard her whisper, 'The country is overrun by riff-raff.' A n t h o n y was table h o p p i n g or social n e t w o r k i n g or whatever they call it. I needed some air, headed out to the front where the smokers were huddled like the social lepers they'd become. D a r k mutterings of a pack of twenty soon costing ten E u r o . The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, not at the

66

THE DEVIL

impending rise in cigarette prices but at w h o I sensed behind me. 'Jack - if I may be so b o l d as to address you i n f o r m a l l y sneaking off for a smoke, are we?' I turned slowly, needing to get me temper in check, for Ridge's sake if nothing else, and said, 'I q u i t . ' He was opening a gold cigarette case, drew out, I think y o u call

them cheroots?

Silly-looking

bastards that are

pretending to be cigars. A s k e d , 'Sure I can't tempt y o u ? ' H i s tone conveying that m o c k i n g , jeering lilt. I said, my voice level, 'Temptation is a young man's gig. I'm w a y past that shite.' He lit the cheroot w i t h a g o l d Z i p p o , blew a perfect smoke r i n g , then indicated the dinner progressing behind us. ' R i c h f o o d not to your l i k i n g . Jack?' A n d before I c o u l d answer, he said, 'Fast f o o d more your speed, peut-etreV H o w little I knew then. But f u l l of so m u c h booze, anger, pills, I didn't pay it the attention I should have and went with, ' Y o u ' r e the spitting image of a guy I met recently, except for the hair, or rather lack of.' He loved that. I c o u l d see his eyes dance in delight a n d he countered, 'The D e v i l y o u say.' A n d we locked eyes.

67

KEN BRUEN

Before we c o u l d get to the real dance, Ridge appeared. She said, 'There ye are. I'm so glad y o u t w o got a chance to have a moment.' He turned and, I shit y o u not, took her h a n d , kissed her fingers, said, 'I t h i n k Jack and I w i l l have many moments, but y o u , my dear, y o u are ravishing. C'est vrai.' I've had beatings, some very bad ones, and meted out some of me o w n too, but in me whole bedraggled existence I never wanted to k i c k the l i v i n g shite out of anyone as m u c h as that b o l l i x . T h e n he offered his a r m , said, 'But we mustn't keep your guests deprived of y o u r presence. Shall we?' I swear by all that's holy, she blushed. Ridge? A n d they were m o v i n g . H e shouted back, 'Mon ami, till we meet again. Bonne chance' G o o d luck? G o o d fucking riddance. I think I had some port and brandy later w i t h A n t h o n y , w h o t o l d me h o w delighted he was that C a r l a n d I h a d got o n so . . . W h a t was the w o r d he used? I ' m afraid to say I t h i n k it was swimmingly. A n d h e continued, 'Let me be c a n d i d here, Jack.'

68

THE DEVIL

W h e n they say that, y o u k n o w they are going to tell y o u what a cunt they think y o u are, but nicely. 'I had thought y o u to be a bit uncouth, to be honest, I mean no offence here, but a tad c o m m o n . ' I smiled nicely. N o t a touch c o m m o n . A n d he clapped my shoulder, said, 'But y o u came up trumps. C a r l is very taken w i t h y o u and I appreciate that, not o n l y on my o w n account but my dear wife's t o o . ' Jesus. For once, I said n o t h i n g . Someone called h i m and he t o o k his leave, a d d i n g , 'I'm someone w h o doesn't forget his friends. Jack. Y o u bear that in m i n d . ' I nearly said, 'Mon

ami.'

We finally got out of there. I didn't see C a r l again, but Ridge gave me a hug and thanked me for behaving me o w n self. Stewart and I got in the car, a silence between us t i l l we got some distance f r o m the estate a n d he accused, ' W h y d i d y o u tell that guy about m y Z e n ? ' I k n e w w h o he meant, but I said, 'What?' ' C a r l . He t o l d me I was wasting my energies on the w r o n g power, that there was a far more p o w e r f u l force he c o u l d introduce me t o . '

69

KEN BRUEN

'I t o l d the fucker nothing about y o u . ' He l o o k e d at me, and for maybe the first time in our varied history he seemed w o r r i e d . He asked, ' W h y is he always using G e r m a n expressions w i t h me?' I laughed and then t o l d h i m about the w h o l e encounter and his continuous use of French w i t h me. F o r all his Z e n mellowness and o u t w a r d c o o l , Stewart didn't like not to be in c o n t r o l . H e ' d once t o l d me that c o n t r o l was all that saved h i m in prison. I t o l d h i m about the fast-food remark, but we were for once on the same page, in that we laughed it off. I t o l d h i m o f m y suspicions about M r K , the airport guy, a n d added, 'It sounds like a Dennis Wheatley n o v e l . ' W h e n he asked. W h o ? I realized yet again I was getting old. Stewart was back a n d , I don't k n o w , I felt like we were back i n c i v i l i z a t i o n . H e said, ' G o d , I'm glad to be back in t o w n . ' A m e n , I thought. As he dropped me off, he said, ' T h a t guy, he offered to teach me some other paths to power.' To my endless regret, I said, ' G o for it, string the b o l l i x along, let's see where he's at.' I was about to shut the car d o o r w h e n Stewart said, 'Jack, I nearly forgot,' reached in the glove compartment, handed me a small parcel, said, 'Because of where y o u live, I couldn't resist.'

70

THE DEVIL

A n d was gone, burning rubber like the D e v i l was on his tail. I got into the apartment, yet again glad of the heat, a n d realized w h a t it was I'd been feeling all that evening. Cold. N o t just yer average ' I ' m f r i g g i n ' freezing' type hype. But a deep insidious ice in my psyche. I put on Sky N e w s . Y o u live alone, y o u need sound, by Jaysus, some h u m a n contact, even of the v i r t u a l sort. I p o p p e d a X a n a x to ease me on d o w n and, what the hell, poured a small Jameson and then decided to have a hot toddy. B o i l i n g water, b r o w n sugar, cloves, hint . . . tiny d o l l o p of the black. T h e n of course the Jameson. G o d , i t was g o o d . G o t me t h r o u g h the horrendous news: lay-offs, despair, people losing their homes, an unspeakable incest case not twenty miles f r o m where I was, bank rip-offs, drive-by shootings in D u b l i n in front of y o u n g children, suicides, and the i m p e n d i n g Oscar ceremonies. Drink? F u c k , y o u ' d need to mainline heroin to tolerate the news these days. I saw Stewart's package on the table and slowly opened it.

71

KEN BRUEN

I k i d thee not, ten tiny nuns and a b o w h n g b a l l . I turned off the T V , lined up the tiny nuns a n d , w i t h an apologetic nod to the convent right outside me w i n d o w , b o w l e d nuns till I passed out. Perhaps an ecclesiastical homage to A g a t h a Christie's Ten Little

Indians.

O r maybe just God's o w n noir humour.

72

6 'The Devil rides out.' Dennis Wheatley

[

D i d I dream? D i d I fuck. C o u n t the a w f u l ways. M y dad, nuns, ten devils lined up to be b o w l e d , and, get this, one d r i p p i n g ketchup burger. I w o k e in drenched sheets, me heart hammering in me chest and that horrendous sense of impending d o o m . I got to the shower, d r o p p i n g a fast X a n a x en route and muttering, 'Tis the holy all of it.' My m o u t h felt like many cats had shat in there. The events of the previous evening were flitting in and out of me m i n d , like prayers y o u almost said but forgot the crucial line.

75

KEN BRUEN

T h e hne that pleaded, ' G o d help me.' Shaved w i t h o u t too many cuts and got into a clean white shirt, black 501s, an A r a n sweater and moccasins that p r o claimed ' M a d e i n D e l a w a r e . ' Joe Biden w o u l d be delighted. Turned on the radio to k i l l the loneliness of an empty home and heard the ex-Taoiseach had been barred f r o m giving a talk at N U I by dissenting students. Bruce Springsteen was publically apologizing for allowing a collection of his hits to be sold at the non-unionized Walmart. I h a d to smile at this. O u r o w n major retail stores were r u m o u r e d to have been bought by said W a l m a r t . T h e n the death notices. I usually turned these d o w n as I nearly always k n e w somebody on the list and it never ceased to depress the l i v i n g shite out of me. The local news had an item about a g i r l , an employee at a fast-food outlet, w h o h a d been f o u n d dead in a local p a r k . I stood, shocked to my core. C o u l d n ' t be. Emma? No. W h a t was it the demonic C a r l had said to me? Something about fast food? My heart was p o u n d i n g a n d I convinced myself it couldn't be. He w o u l d n ' t wage w a r on me that soon and so up close and personal.

76

THE DEVIL

I got the other side of t w o strong coffees, no m i l k as I'd forgotten to buy any, and was w a i t i n g for the X a n a x to weave its magic. It d i d . Calmer, I called Stewart and asked h i m to check that out. H e said, ' I ' m right on it.' I had a laptop - yeah, me, right up to speed. It belonged to the guy w h o sublet the apartment to me. T r i e d a Google search on the various aliases I'd gotten from M r K , Carl. Zip. Nada. N o t a flogging bite. Google was d o w n . Y a h believe it? D u e to the appalling weather conditions in L o n d o n , s n o w up to their arse, and the freezing conditions had affected Ireland too. I muttered, ' N o biggie, I can live w i t h that.' Put on me G a r d a all-weather coat and heavy scarf, gloves, Gore-Tex boots and ventured out. Jesus, it was c o l d , and the s n o w seemed like it might actually stay. My hangover was hovering, l o o k i n g for a w a y in past the Xanax. I headed for the G B C . W h a t they call a culchie restaurant. M e a n i n g people up

77

J

KEN BRUEN

for the day, f r o m the few farms still in business, frequented it. Translate as no pretensions, no decaff, anything. Cholesterol heaven. A n d it was roasting. T h a n k fuck. The waitress, Cecily, I k n e w her all me life, said, 'Jack, y o u l o o k great.' An outright lie, but y o u ' l l take it. A n d she asked in that w a y that only an I r i s h w o m a n can, ' A r e y o u perished.'' Y o u live a life like mine, mostly devoid of w a r m t h , y o u truly recognize it when it greets y o u . As long as her type still w a l k e d and served the streets of G a l w a y , I'd be able to get out of bed in the m o r n i n g . She didn't ask w h a t I'd like. Just brought me a scalding tea, h o p p i n g toast, t w o fried eggs, t w o fat sausages, fried mushrooms, one crisp rasher, a n d black p u d d i n g . C o m f o r t food? Y o u fecking betcha. It blows the be-jaysus out of a hangover. W h a t it does to y o u r arteries, ask the vegans.

78

THE DEVIL

I h a d me mobile w i t h me, p r i m e d for w h a t I hoped w o u l d not be terrible news f r o m Stewart. I was halfway into this veritable feast of n o n - P C f o o d w h e n a w o m a n approached. I thought, ' O h , for fuck's sake.' Y e a h , she led w i t h the n o w predictable ' M r Taylor, I hate to interrupt,' etc. But the f o o d had done its stuff and I was a little more affable, asked, ' H o w can I help?' T r y i n g not to think of the previous w o m a n and her dead son. She sat, nervous, and began, 'This is probably not y o u r area of expertise.' I w o u l d dearly love to k n o w what was, but n o d d e d . She continued, ' M y daughter, she's ten and has D o w n syndrome.' I b l a n k e d for a moment. Serena M a y going out that w i n d o w and all the horror that ensued. But I focused and said, 'Yes?' 'She attends ordinary school and is doing great.' 'That's terrific, g o o d for y o u and your daughter.' She bit her l i p . A h fuck. I'm a hard arse. I w o r k at it. But that kills me. I asked, ' H e r name, your daughter?' She brightened, went, ' K e l l i . She's a wonder, loves school, studies like a n u n a n d is such a contented c h i l d . '

79

KEN BRUEN

Like a nun. I kept me expression neutral and asked, 'So, what's the p r o b l e m ? ' N o w the sadness, in Irish the a w f u l bronach. 'A group of girls - all f r o m the same family - torment her, take her lunch money, call her names, tear up her h o m e w o r k and call her a . . .' She had to pause but I h a d a horrible idea of what was coming. 'Retard.' I took a deep breath, my chest congested, fury racing in me b l o o d and said, 'But the teachers, her d a d , surely they can do something?' She began to weep. Fuck. A n d fuck all over again. D i d I need this? Come on. I'd been d o w n this ferocious road before and had screwed it up so badly. She said, 'These girls, their f a m i l y is very important, n o b o d y wants to be on their w r o n g side. They can . . . er . . . make trouble for people. My husband, Sean, he's a g o o d m a n but says he c o u l d lose his job, and that K e l l i just needs to . . . toughen up.' I didn't k n o w what to say. Said, 'I don't k n o w what to say.' She l o o k e d into my eyes, pleading, said,

80

THE DEVIL

'People say y o u can do things that others can't.' O h sweet Jesus. She q u i c k l y added, 'They live in Salthill.' T h e n , ' N a t u r a l l y ! T h e i r name is Sawyer and they think they are the bee's knees.' I wanted to tell her. Sorry, I can't help you, life is shite, this is how the world goes, yada yada. I couldn't. L i e d , said, ' I ' l l get right on it.' A n d she grasped my h a n d , tears r o l l i n g d o w n her face, said, ' O h M r Taylor, thank y o u , thank y o u . ' A n d then she was gone. The fuck was I doing.' L o r d k n o w s , and cares less, I'd warrant. I l o o k e d out the w i n d o w , t h i n k i n g of F l o r i d a and other places I could/should have been. The snow was pelting d o w n and I wanted to stay there, have another cup of scalding tea, finish me rasher, not think of Serena M a y a n d D o w n syndrome. Cecily approached, asked, ' M o r e tea. Jack?' I said no, this was fine, a n d then on impulse asked her - she was an out and out G a l w e g i a n and thus a rare species ' Y o u ever heard of Sawyers in Salthill?' She gave me an o d d l o o k so I pushed, 'What?'

81

KEN BRUEN

She l o o k e d r o u n d her, like someone might hear, then leant i n , smelling of a really subtle perfume, said, 'Jack,

blow-ins

-

from

Dublin,

I

think,

but very

dangerous. Stay w e l l a w a y f r o m them.' A n d she was gone, w i t h that expression like she'd already said too m u c h . T i p p i n g is not the practice in Ireland. L i k e z i p codes, we haven't quite got that far. But y o u k n o w , fuck it, I left twenty E u r o , then paid the b i l l . As I headed out Cecily shouted, ' G o d m i n d y o u w e l l . Jack.' Somebody needed to.

82

7 'My soul was mortgaged so long ago.' KB

N o t sure w h a t exactly to d o , I headed for the park where the girl had been f o u n d . The L o r d and I don't do a w h o l e lot of biz these days. As Patrick H a m i l t o n wrote, 'Those w h o m G o d has deserted are given a bedsit and electric fire in Earl's C o u r t . ' N u n ' s Island was a l o n g spit f r o m Earl's C o u r t , but the deal was m u c h the same. Solitary. I'd tried, even went to M a s s for a bit, but it didn't pan out. The collection dish had been passed r o u n d and it had an edict on it: ' N o coins! Notes only.' I'd been tempted to write a note to put in there. A n d I'd been on my knees in the C l a d d a g h c h u r c h , begging G o d to spare the life of my beloved surrogate son. H e didn't. So I figured I'd muddle through and not bother G o d a whole

lot.

He

seemed

to

have

important

tsunamis, starvation, etc. to be attending to.

85

issues,

like

KEN BRUEN

Do I sound bitter? L i k e the Americans so nicely put it, 'Fucking A . ' A n d as if G o d had indeed heard these ruminations, w h o should come shambling along but my o w n clerical nemesis. Father M a l a c h y . My mother was a bad bitch. A n d pious w i t h it. Gave my dad a dog's life. T h a t I was, in her w o r d s , 'a public disgrace' just added to her m a r t y r d o m . On my dad's death, she leaped into w i d o w h o o d w i t h glee. The black clothes, the Masses said for h i m , the whole sanctimonious shite w e ' d been tolerating for generations. Some of these w i d o w s get dogs or, better yet, a tame priest. She got the priest. Father M a l a c h y , a c h a i n - s m o k i n g nasty bastard w h o delighted in every fuck-up I had. A n d fuck, there were plenty of those. But y o u

k n o w , the w o r m turns.

He got himself in

some serious trouble a while back and came to me for help. I helped. Was he grateful? Was he bollocks. Seemed to resent me more than ever, p r o v i n g the o l d adage, they w i l l never forgive those w h o help them. He l o o k e d m u c h the same. N i c o t i n e emanating f r o m every pore, his black suit ringed w i t h dandruff, his eyes as

86

THE DEVIL

unforgiving as any guard in G u a n t a n a m o Bay. He stopped, exclaimed, 'I thought w e ' d seen the back of y o u . ' I asked, ' Y o u missed me?' H e snorted. I thought that was some novelistic flourish that literary writers used w h e n they were a i m i n g for the Booker. But no, that's the sound he made. He said, 'Weren't y o u all set for A m e r i c a ? ' I gave h i m my best smile. 'I couldn't leave w i t h o u t saying goodbye to y o u . . . Father: Let sarcasm scald the last w o r d . He lit an unfiltered cig f r o m the butt of the previous one, inhaled deeply, coughed like his lungs were about to come up, said, ' Y o u broke your sainted mother's heart and y o u haven't an ounce of repentance in y o u . ' W e ' d reached the park, close to the fire station a n d bordered on the other side by Flaherty's funeral parlour. A l l the eventualities covered, y o u might say. The Guards had cordoned off the park and that foreboding white tent for a murder scene was in place, w i t h masked and white-suited personnel m i l l i n g a r o u n d . For a moment, M a l a c h y seemed almost h u m a n , said, 'The poor girleen, they asked me to administer the Last Rites but tis w a y too late for that.' I asked h i m if he knew w h o the g i r l was.

87

KEN BRUEN

He was still l o o k i n g at that white tent as if he'd give anything not to have to go in there. Still distracted, he said, ' A l l I k n o w is the p o o r creature's first name. She was a student, and w o r k i n g in some fast-food place to pay for her books.' My heart sank. I was afraid to ask. H e added, 'I w i s h I had a naggin of Paddy. They say her heart was removed.' I thought for a moment I was going to pass out. He flicked the cig away, said, 'I better go and do w h a t I c a n . ' I caught his a r m , and if it bothered h i m he didn't react. I asked, ' H e r first name, w h a t was it?' W i t h o u t even l o o k i n g at me, he said, 'Emma.' A n d he was m o v i n g away. I grabbed at h i m , near shouted, ' W h o ' d do such a thing?' He didn't even stop, just added, 'Tis the w o r k of the D e v i l . ' I was rooting in my G a r d a coat, praying - n o , pleading that r d brought some pills. A n d f o u n d the X a n a x . S w a l l o w e d one, tried to get my m i n d in gear. I began to move away, my emotions in t u r m o i l , a voice in m y head screaming. Oh Jesus no, not that lovely bright girl, the one I've spoken to, had a burger from, please, not her.

88

THE DEVIL

H e a r d my name called and turned to see an older G u a r d approaching. N a t u r a l l y , I figured I was in for a b o l l o c k i n g . Superintendent Clancy, once my partner, n o w the top dog in the Force, loathed and despised me. My last case, I'd helped save his y o u n g son and I don't think he c o u l d forgive himself for being indebted to the person he most detested. H i s dearest w i s h was that I d r i n k meself to death, go to A m e r i c a , or both, but get the sweet Jaysus out of his t o w n . I had tried. To leave. The d r i n k i n g was still under consideration. Up close, I recognized Sergeant C u l l e n . O l d school. I mean by that he lamented the days when y o u c o u l d take a hurley to the thugs w h o polluted and terrorized the city. W h e n I h a d dispensed a certain justice in back alleys, he'd actually bought me a d r i n k . Course, he had to keep his friendship w i t h me a secret and rarely acknowledged me. We understood each other. We h a d once pulled border duty in the days w h e n peace agreements were far in the future, and, under fire in A r m a g h , w e ' d been cowering in a ditch, the rain lashing d o w n , and he'd asked me, ' W h o the Jaysus is shooting at us?' A g o o d question in those days. W e ' d been armed w i t h batons. Just what y o u need against Armalites, K a l a s h n i k o v s , grenade launchers.

89

KEN BRUEN

I remember his face even now, a riot of confusion, and he'd added, Ts it the U V F , our o w n c r o w d , or w h o the fuci-c is trying to k i l l us on our o w n land?' I said, 'Whoever it is, just thank Christ they can't shoot for shite.' A n d he started laughing, hysteria, sure, but he pulled out a flask, said, 'Uisce

beatha:

H o l y water. Poteen. I'd taken a long s w i g - and that stuff kicks like a n u n whose polished floor has been w a l k e d on - managed to say, ' D o n ' t w o r r y , this stuff w i l l k i l l us long before any of the bastards manages to get lucky.' They kept shooting. Us? We kept d r i n k i n g . To each his o w n , I guess. W e ' d been friends since. He looked o l d now, long lines creasing his face, furrows on his forehead y o u c o u l d plant potatoes i n . I'd heard his daughter had been k i l l e d by a d r u n k driver and

the

accused

had

walked

free,

due

to

emotional

problems. I c o u l d see that lingering p a i n in his eyes even now. I said, 'Sergeant, h o w are y o u ? ' He glanced back at the scene in the p a r k , said.

90

THE DEVIL

'Tis a h o l y a w f u l business.' 'I hear it's a young student.' He n o d d e d , still vigilant, lest he be seen talking to me. T h a t truly saddened me. T h e n he composed himself, said, 'Jack, y o u shouldn't be here. If C l a n c y knew, w e l l . . .' I knew. T h e n he said, 'I've t w o years to go to retirement, and to tell y o u the truth. Jack, I'm just f i l l i n g in the time. This new violence, the a w f u l savagery, I don't understand it.' W h o did? I don't k n o w if it's a particular Irish trait or what, but we can only d w e l l in the darkness for so long w i t h o u t trying to p u l l something w a r m out of the inferno. I said, ' L i a m S a m m o n is d o i n g a mighty job w i t h the team.' A n d he smiled. F o o t b a l l , h u r l i n g , our last barricades against the tide that is about to engulf us. But it only lasted a brief moment. He gave me a serious l o o k , asked, 'Jack, you're not involved in any of this? I mean, I heard y o u gave up all that PI stuff. T h i s is w a y out of y o u r league.' T h e n , almost to himself, ' W a y out of ours, t o o . ' I gave h i m the o l d p u n c h on the shoulder we used to use after a fine goal against the likes of D u b l i n , lied, ' A r e yah c o d d i n g me? I'm getting ready to go to A m e r i c a . ' He stared at my coat, and w i t h a tiny smile said, ' T h e y ' l l be w a n t i n g that back.'

91

KEN BRUEN

I said w i t h fake levity, ' G o o d luck w i t h that.' He adjusted his cap, turned to head back to the carnage, said, 'A cara, bhi curamach: ( M y f r i e n d , be careful.) I replied, 'Agus leat fein: ( Y o u too.) A n d more's the Irish pity, neither of us heeded that benign blessing. A year after that encounter, he was f o u n d hanging in his garage, one year short of his retirement. But a lot of other malevolence was c o m i n g d o w n the G a l w a y pike before then. Somewhere I'd read: Good which is unused is prone to turn to evil. I'd gone back to my apartment; the snow had started f a l l i n g heavily again. We don't do s n o w here. It's so rare, we're almost enchanted at the novelty. T i l l it starts f u c k i n g up transport, heating, our d a i l y lives. T h e n we react. Badly. A n d as is our way, we blame somebody. I turned on the news, almost my penance at this stage. Banks f a i l i n g . The E u r o fucked.

92

THE DEVIL

A n d I nearly laughed. In the midst of all this they went l o c a l , s h o w i n g h o w a new hotel was to be built on the site of the C o n n a c h t laundry. A n d h o w w o n d e r f u l . It w o u l d have saunas, hot tubs, tanning booths. Oh M o t h e r . Mo croi. I went to see h o w m u c h was left of the Jameson. I had a real bad feeling it wasn't going to be enough.

93

8 'Being unwanted is the worst disease.' M o t h e r Teresa

N e x t m o r n i n g , I was all over the frigging place. Me nerves were shot to ribbons. I wanted to get right on the Sawyer case, the girls bullying the D o w n syndrome c h i l d . But I k n e w I was too frazzled to do that w i t h any refinement. Beating the

be-jaysus

out

of three children w o u l d n ' t

exactly l o o k good on me next A m e r i c a n application. I had some coffee, real smart I k n o w w h e n yer nerves are dancing jigs along the ceiling. D i d a X a n a x , muttered, ' D o some k i n d of fecking magic, w i l l ye?' It d i d . T o o k a time, but it got me there. The snow had eased and there even seemed to be a ray of bright sunshine on the h o r i z o n . As I got me all-weather gear o n , I was even able to listen to some music. Counting Crows. J o h n n y D u h a n , of course, me beacon always.

97

KEN BRUEN

A n d the truly angelic Gretchen Peters. Song on her a l b u m , 'Breakfast At O u r H o u s e ' , about the agony of divorce and it was too acute, too accurate, I had to stop it. The bells for the Angelus tolled. I stopped, blessed myself. I was probably one of the last people on the w h o l e d a m n island w h o still took the time to say it. 'The Angel of the Lord . . .' A n d like the song goes, took some comfort there. N o t f r o m c h i l d h o o d , fuck no.

But maybe f r o m that

vanished Ireland where people stopped in the streets, blessed themselves and said the prayer. W e ' d come a long way. A n d gained? Sweet fuck a l l . I tried not to think of that gorgeous girl E m m a and her heart t o r n f r o m her body. The anger and rage literally steamed off me. I said a l o u d , 'Get a bloody grip, s o n . ' T h e n w i t h o u t another thought, headed out to the p u b . Answers there? Course not. But at least I c o u l d be n u m b enough not to ask questions. M y mobile rang. Ridge. A l l warmth. T h a n k i n g me for my fine behaviour at the d r i n k s party.

98

THE DEVIL

T h r o u g h gritted teeth, I asked, ' H o w is Carl?' L i k e I gave a fuck. She gushed. G o d forgive us both, but she d i d . Went, ' H e is very taken w i t h y o u . W h o ' d have guessed y o u had such c h a r m ? ' W h o indeed? She prattled o n . Ridge! I reined in me animosity, not easy but got there, and she said, 'I hope y o u don't m i n d . Jack, but he asked for your mobile number. Was that OK to give it to him? I think he has plans for y o u . ' I nearly laughed, said, ' Y o u ' r e right, I do believe he has plans for me.' T h e n she changed her tune, asked, ' A r e y o u all right. Jack? Y o u sound a bit strained.' Surely not. I said, ' M u s t be a bad connection. But I wonder if I might ask y o u a wee favour, y o u being a newly appointed sergeant and all?' She was still high on the party's success and agreed to do whatever I needed. D u m b bitch. I told her about the Sawyers, the little g i r l K e l l i a n d the bullying. N o problem.

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KEN BRUEN

She'd be deHghted to straighten them out, and in fact was in t o w n the next day and w o u l d appear in f u l l u n i f o r m to have a chat w i t h the b u l l y i n g girls. She said, ' W h o k n o w s better than y o u . Jack, the effect of a uniform?' I felt a pang. True, me days in u n i f o r m , y o u had a certain presence. Said, ' T h a n k y o u so m u c h , I owe y o u . ' She laughed, said, 'Tis n o t h i n g . ' She was so w r o n g . A n d ended the call w i t h , 'Jack, I think you've really turned your life a r o u n d . I'm so proud of you.' I hung up before she got more ridiculous. Caravan's, on Shop Street, one of the last remaining o l d G a l w a y pubs, w i t h an Irish barman. W o u l d n ' t last. But I'd appreciate it w h i l e it d i d . A busker outside was singing 'It's R a i n i n g In Baltimore'. I dropped a ten in his wet tweed cap and he said, in a G e r m a n accent, 'Zank you.' The barman thankfully hadn't k n o w n of me travel plans, so no need for all the fandango of bullshite. He said, 'Usual?' I nodded and headed for the snug, a p o r t i o n e d little corner where y o u can see but not be seen. The Brits w o u l d love it.

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THE DEVIL

The Irish Independent was on the table. I scanned the headlines: 1,177 workers lost their jobs every day d u r i n g January. 327,861 are n o w out of w o r k . 132,263 posts have been axed since the new Taoiseach came to power. A n d the editorial screamed, 'It's g o i n g to get worse.' The barman came over, put d o w n the Jameson first, then the pint of Guinness, nodded at the paper and said, 'I've applied to go to A u s t r a l i a . ' The y o u n g people were all heading out again. L i k e the awful

eighties, w h e n o u r

best and

our

brightest left

the d y i n g economy, and never came back. But tough times bring out the street entrepreneurs. I'd hardly sank half the Jay before I'd been offered a batch of shirts. N e a r l y bought a light blue as it was so like my o l d Guard's one, but passed w h e n the guy said, ' Y o u can't just buy one.' The b o l l i x w o u l d p r o b a b l y have his o w n franchise w i t h i n the year. I was s i n k i n g the black w h e n a w o m a n - R o m a n i a n , I'd guess - offered me some D V D s . Said, ' A l l the blockbusters, s i n ' I flicked through them and smiled. Hellboy? H e l l , yes. And

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KEN BRUEN

The Reader, The

Wrestler,

London Abba:

Boulevard, the Movie,

Alien vs Predator 2, Appaloosa. Said I'd take them all save A b b a . She was surprised, asked, ' Y o u n o like A b b a ? ' Sacrilege? I asked, 'It's a happy, feel-good one, right?' She nodded. A n d I stared into her gypsy eyes, asked, 'I l o o k to you like a guy w h o does happy?' We settled on a price a n d she was pleased. T h e n she leant over, said, 'The boy - don't l o o k now, but to your right - he no like y o u , is true?' I waited t i l l she'd gone, then casually l o o k e d to my right and sure enough, there was a young guy - eighteen, maybe? - sipping a pint bottle of cider, the loony juice, giving me w h a t I can only describe as the E v i l Eye. A n d his body movements, that jerky m o t i o n that spoke of speed jag. I k n e w it. H a d , alas, been there. I checked the sports page. Robbie

Keane,

captain

of our

102

national

team,

had

THE DEVIL

been sold f r o m L i v e r p o o l , his big chance b l o w n . Before I c o u l d see why, the jittery k i d was sitting opposite me, said, 'Taylor.' N o t a question. I reached for me pint, not k n o w i n g what was on this lunatic's agenda, but at least I'd have something in me h a n d . I said, ' H e l p y o u ? ' Flexing for the violence that was c o m i n g in waves off h i m . He smiled. H i s teeth had been filed d o w n , and he had one of those rings through his nose a n d really serious sniffles. C o k e rag. H e asked, 'Ever hear of a band named the Devil's M i n i o n s ? ' I tried to keep it light, said, ' N o p e , missed that one.' He h a d a battered Tesco bag clutched to his side, and he said, ' H a v e a l o o k at this.' Reached into the bag and t o o k out a clear jar of w h a t looked like water. H e l d it in his right hand. Said, ' Y o u don't k n o w h o w to m i n d yer o w n fucking business, do yah?' Before I c o u l d react, he said, 'But y o u have an acid tongue, the O n e says.' In a moment, he had the top off the jar, said, 'Here's some acid. D o n ' t mess w i t h O u r D a r k O n e . ' T h r e w it in my face. •

103

9 Dia de los muertos.

1

I clawed at my face in total panic and it took me, I d u n n o , a lifetime?, to realize it was water. The shock was almost as bad as if it had been a c i d . If. In my days as a G u a r d , I'd once seen the result of such an attack on a w o m a n . I was one of the first to arrive and her face was like it had melted.

O n e eye had completely

dissolved and bones stuck out at horrendous angles in her screaming face. W h a t had been her face. H e r m o u t h was gone and the screams were a high-pitched c r o o n of absolute terror. A jealous boyfriend. The courts let h i m off w i t h a stern caution. My sergeant at the time, true o l d school, had t o l d me to meet h i m after w o r k . Said, ' B r i n g a hurley.' I did. He taught me the lesson of the ash.

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KEN BRUEN

A n d that was h o w I began to appreciate that true justice is dispensed in alleys. The boyfriend learned sharp and fast, and w h a t I most remember is that neither the sergeant nor I said one single word. Just used those hurleys t i l l sweat near blinded us. He took me for a pint after. Wasn't t i l l we were on the other g o o d side of a few that he finally said, ' Y o u ' r e one hard bastard, Taylor. Where d ' y o u learn to shut yer gob and do the job?' I t o l d the truth. ' C h r i s t i a n Brothers.' He laughed, enjoyed that and said, ' T h e i r day is c o m i n g . N o t even that c r o w d are above the law.' Twenty years ago, that seemed unthinkable. But then, so d i d X Factor. N o w I wiped my face w i t h my sleeve, my w h o l e body threatening to go into shock. I got out of there. G o d k n o w s I even brought the D V D s w i t h me. H e a d e d for the docks. W h a t used to be the docks before the luxury-apartments bastards ruined them. Even

Padraigeen's,

one of the great pubs, was n o w

Sheridan's. W i t h a f u c k i n g restaurant. But no city ever fully goes under. Drayton's.

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THE DEVIL

Y o u w o n ' t f i n d it on the tourist m a p . It's not for tourists. Or bacicpackers, N e w Agers, sherry drinkers. It's for serious business. Drink, dope, and whatever else you're w i l l i n g to pay the freight o n . It's like the shebeens y o u used to find up N o r t h . Same feel. There's not so m u c h a bouncer on the door as a killer w a i t i n g to unleash. I went to school w i t h h i m . H e said, 'Jack.' I nodded. Inside it was smoky. The n o - s m o k i n g edict wasn't m u c h in effect here. There was one simple rule, apart f r o m d o w n and-dirty d r i n k i n g . ' M i n d yer o w n fucking business.' I got a corner stool at the counter and waited. M r s D r a y t o n - yes, there was an actual D r a y t o n - saw me, and after a few minutes put a pint of the black and a large Jay before me. I l a i d some notes on the counter. A s k e d , ' H o w ' s himself?' H e r husband. She ignored the money. No one was going to grab it lest

1 09

KEN BRUEN

they wanted to lose their a r m . She stubbed a hand-rolled on the floor, said, ' D e a d , thank C h r i s t . ' I can't say she ever l i k e d anybody. She'd been briefly in the M a g d a l e n

laundries,

so what d i d y o u expect.'

Oprah? But she had a k i n d of o d d regard for me. D u e mainly to some w o r k I'd done on behalf of the tinkers. So she lingered. Then, 'Was there anything else y o u ' d be w a n t i n g . Jack?' I said, 'Some personal protection.' She never l o o k e d a r o u n d . Y o u didn't eavesdrop on her conversation, at least not twice. She asked, ' Y o u want people or merchandise?' 'Something easy to carry.' She gave what might be interpreted as a smile. H e a d e d back to serving some sailors w h o ' d been stranded in G a l w a y for weeks and were w a i t i n g payment for t w o m o n t h s ' service. If their wages ever came, M r s D r a y t o n already o w n e d it all. M a y b e thirty minutes later, she placed a Supermacs bag before me. Said, ' P r o b a b l y smells of chips and vinegar, but I'd say y o u ' d live w i t h that.' I didn't touch it.

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THE DEVIL

Flashes of E m m a , her heart t o r n out, jagging across my mind. I heard her say, 'Pay Sean on your w a y out.' The bouncer. I let five minutes lapse then headed for the toilet. G o t a stall and pulled out the bag, a Sig Sauer, f u l l c l i p . I shoved it in me jacket then pulled it out, pushed the magazine home and felt, if not better, at least ready. The price had been written in pencil on the outside of the bag. N o t cheap, but c o u l d have been worse. I w o u l d n ' t be paying by credit c a r d . Back

at the counter, I

finished

my d r i n k s a n d she

approached, held out a bottle cap, said, ' Y o u believe this?' A bottle cap? I k n e w better than to be a smart A l e c , waited and she said, ' T u r n it over.' I did. A gleaming miraculous medal on the inside. I said, 'Mhuire an

Gras:

( M a r y of Grace).

H a n d e d it back to her, or tried to, and she w r a p p e d her huge w o r k - w o r n calloused hands r o u n d my hand, said, ' Y o u keep it, gasun.' Gasun.

Jesus,

the

Irish

for

affectionate way.

111

'boy'

but

in

the

most

KEN BRUEN

I was on my w a y back to the apartment and was trying to figure out what all the traffic was d o i n g , all headed for the cathedral. As I was but a prayer f r o m there, it had me puzzled. T h e n the bells started ringing and I realized. The annual N o v e n a . N i n e days of deep devotion, masses at all hours a n d hordes of people. It was k i n d of reassuring that people still believed. Such a country of contradictions. M a s s i v e unemployment, like we hadn't seen for twenty years. A n d the people came to church, donated money like we were still prosperous. T h e number-one a l b u m in the country was by -1 swear to G o d - the Priests. N o , not some p u n k band trying for notoriety, but three actual priests, like a celestial Three Tenors. I got into the apartment just as yet another fall of snow began. I t o o k my jacket off, put the Sig on the coffee table and l o o k e d again at my D V D s . M a y b e I'd w a t c h something as I finally grabbed some f o o d . I sat on the couch, the sudden feel of the acid manque on my face, and shuddered. M e r c i f u l l y , sleep or exhaustion t o o k me out of the game. T h e phone jerked me out of a fitful dream a n d I lunged for the Sig.

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THE DEVIL

Shook myself and then picked up the phone. Stewart. N o intro. 'Jack, d i d y o u send Ridge on some job?' T r y i n g to sit up and ease the crick in my neck, I said, ' E r . . . oh yeah, to visit a family in Salthill, to read the riot act to some b u l l y i n g k i d s . ' Silence. I shouted, 'What?' H e sighed, said, 'She's in the hospital, got badly beaten up by some guy.' O h holy fuck. I asked, 'Where is she?' 'In N U I hospital.' I hung u p . Made

some

strong coffee,

downed

two

Xanax

and

splashed water on me bedraggled face. Pulled on my jacket and grabbed the Sig, t h i n k i n g . Gotta get some food in sometime. The bells for the evening N o v e n a were peeling l o u d . I muttered, ' A s k not for w h o m . . .' It's but a jig and a reel to the hospital f r o m N u n ' s Island, but the church crowds and the heavy snow made progress slow and by the time I got there, I was sweating like a C o r k full back. I hate hospitals.

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KEN BRUEN

A l w a y s , always the worst news for me there. I got to reception a n d f o u n d out that Ridge was on the t h i r d floor. O u t of intensive care, thank G o d . I t o o k the stairs and ran smack into A n t h o n y . H e r husband. W h o grabbed me by my lapels, shouted in my face, 'Taylor, what were y o u t h i n k i n g , sending my darling to those thugs?' H i s spittle was spattering over my face a n d I had a flashback of the acid. I brought up both my arms and in one movement not only broke his grip but sent h i m careening backwards. I'd had all the shite I c o u l d manage for one day. A n d worse, as he struggled to keep his balance, I went after h i m . B l i n d rage. Stewart grabbed me f r o m behind, m o v e d me to one side, whispered, 'Take it easy, Jack.' Yeah, what I do best. Easy. He manoeuvred me into one of those uncomfortable chairs they o u t b i d M c D o n a l d ' s for. A s k e d , 'Heaven's sake, Jack, what's w i t h y o u ? ' H e was kidding? Nope. So I near spat, ' H e put his f u c k i n g hands on me, and I k n o w he's A n g l o ,

114

THE DEVIL

beating peasants is their h e i r l o o m , but gee, guess w h a t , we don't take that shite any m o r e . ' Aggression was p o u r i n g off me in waves. Stewart said, 'The seat of your stamina is the dan tien, centred just below y o u r navel. N o w feel the heat rise to y o u r extremities, and—' I shut h i m up. Fast. 'Keep y o u r dan f u c k i n g whatever and tell me w h a t happened to R i d g e . ' He cast a glance at A n t h o n y , w h o , I swear to C h r i s t , l o o k e d like he was going to come back for more. I sure hoped he was. Stewart focused me back, said, 'She went to the home of those children y o u t o l d her about, in u n i f o r m , and was seemingly in m i d . . . er . . . admonishment, w h e n the father arrived home. He has, it appears, a somewhat volatile nature and attacked R i d g e . ' He h a d to pause, take a deep breath, then, 'The m a n was arrested and charged. N o r m a l l y , y o u attack a G u a r d , they t h r o w away the key. Y o u k n o w that. Jack, right?' There was a but. I already k n e w w h a t was c o m i n g ,

but w a i t e d .

He

continued, ' M r Sawyer is already out on b a i l , his daughters c l a i m i n g that Ridge slapped them, and y o u k n o w , the Guards are not exactly in the high esteem they once were, what w i t h that

115

KEN BRUEN

shooting of the boy in Baliyclara, and any suggestion of over-zealous p o l i c i n g is frowned u p o n . He has the best lawyers, of course, and in fact plays golf w i t h your erstwhile colleague. Chief Clancy, so he w i l l w a l k , and Ridge may not only lose her stripes, but her job is in jeopardy. Y o u put a y o u n g girl on any stand, crying that a G u a r d slapped her, how's that going to play? So he's laughing at the actual charge, said he may w e l l sue.' I had a thousand things to reply, all i n v o l v i n g heavy profanity, but he added, ' A n d of course, the fact that she is k n o w n to be a) a friend of yours, b) gay, c) suffering post-mastectomy stress . . . W e l l , Jack, y o u do the m a t h . ' I c o u l d see her, delighted to be back in u n i f o r m , wearing her sergeant's stripes, a n d G o d k n o w s , she'd earned them. I said, 'Being in u n i f o r m , being a G u a r d , it has a sense of .. . Jesus, I don't k n o w , purpose. But as a convict, you're p r o b a b l y not that f o n d of u n i f o r m s . ' I wanted to hurt h i m . I wanted to hurt somebody. He was nearest. He took it. Said, 'We had our o w n u n i f o r m there, the d e n i m . But unlike y o u , we might have taken it off, but it never quite left us.' Deep. Very.

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THE DEVIL

I snapped, 'Fascinating as your prison experiences no doubt are, c o u l d we get to Ridge?' He faltered, only for a second. I'd w o u n d e d h i m . He stood back, said, ' M r Sawyer broke her nose a n d some ribs, and k i c k e d her in places where a w o m a n is not really built to be kicked.' He paused, then, 'Does that bring y o u up to speed, G a r d a T a y l o r ? ' H i s voice was ice. But d i d I reel it i n , ease up? Alas. I asked, ' W h e n can I see her?' He began to turn away, said, ' A s k the doctor.' I d i d finally get to see a doctor, w h o said she was stable and maybe t o m o r r o w she might be receiving visitors. I k n e w I should go a n d , if not make things right w i t h Stewart, at least make the effort, and A n t h o n y , he was best left alone, I thought. I d i d give the bottle cap to Stewart, w h o was horrified. He asked, ' A r e y o u out of your m i n d completely?' I said, 'It's for Ridge - turn it over. W h a t is that shite y o u guys chant?

Live

in expectation

of a

miracle.

Or

as y o u r

Z e n masters might put it, things are not always w h a t they seem.'

11 7

KEN BRUEN

T h e n I d i d w h a t I seem to do best, I left. N o b o d y shouted, ' M i n d h o w you go.'

1 18

10 'The pathetic remnants of a joke called a smile.' KB

Kelehan's is just across the r o a d f r o m the hospital but is n o w called the R i v e r Inn. No sign of the river. It was karaoke night. Some

poor

misguided

bastard

was

mangling

'The

Impossible D r e a m ' . I got a double Jay, pint and a corner table. H o p i n g t o dear G o d I w o u l d n ' t g o calling o n M r Sawyer, especially as I had the Sig tucked in me jacket. I'd tapped into a decent blast of me booze w h e n I felt a m a n stand over me. L o o k e d up and by all the serendipity, it was Sergeant C u l l e n , just about the only friend I had still w i t h the G u a r d s . But to meet h i m again so soon? He asked if he might sit d o w n . I nodded. He had a pint of Smithwick's, barely touched, said, ' I ' m sorry about Ban N i l o m a i r e . ' Ridge - her Irish name. N e a r l y made me smile.

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KEN BRUEN

Nearly. H e said, ' O n e of the Force gets hit, we gather. But y o u k n o w that.' Yeah. A silence t i l l I said the f u c k i n g cliche, ' B a d business.' A n d then f r o m nowhere, it all hit me and I felt a panic attack. I excused meself, went to the toilet and threw up in the hand basin, taking the Sig out of my jacket and setting it d o w n on the porcelain. It made a d u l l metallic thud as it hit. L o o k e d in the m i r r o r and saw the sergeant behind me. He said, 'Jack, put that away.' I did. I washed my face and he handed me a paper t o w e l , said, 'Sawyer is a bad u n . M a j o r dope dealer but he has juice, a n d w h e n he saw B a n Ni l o m a i r e , he reverted to o l d ways.' I sighed, asked, 'And?' ' W e l l , he's already out on b a i l , citing police harassment.' Same o l d shite. I asked, ' W h a t , he'll get a wee slap on the wrist and yada fucking y a d a , right?' He l o o k e d away, couldn't meet my eyes, said, ' H e ' l l r u n out of l u c k , but Jack, stay out of this.' I smiled, said, 'We're missing the best bit of "Impossible D r e a m " . '

122

THE DEVIL

I went home. If home is where the heart is, then I simply went back to my latest a c c o m m o d a t i o n . I kept my m i n d in neutral, dropped two X a n a x , put on one of the D V D s , not even l o o k i n g at the title. It was Doubt. W a y back w h e n , a young priest, upped on the N e w Vatican council and all that gung-ho good vibe, was friendly to his students. T i l l M e r y l Streep, as convincing a merciless nun as ever Ireland produced, went after h i m . C a l l e d h i m a paedophile. S h o u l d have just titled it Priest. L i k e that w o u l d w o r k . I finally decided it was time I ate and about the one thing I can c o o k w i t h intent is c h i l l i . H a d all the ingredients and made that baby sing. R e d peppers, h o p p i n g beans, onions, garlic, and what the fuck, a decent shot of Jay. If it tasted anything like it was smelling, I was good to go. A n d it felt good to be d o i n g , if not n o r m a l , at least o r d i n a r y stuff. The X a n a x kicked and I was c h i l l i n g , as the y o u n g Irish say. E n o u g h w i t h the heavy shite though.

123

1

r KEN BRUEN

I ejected Doubt, put on Alien vs Predator to get some reality into me life. F o u n d a book of poetry in the closet w h e n I was l o o k i n g for chives and opened it at r a n d o m , f o u n d these lines: . . . that came With days Being spent Too long alone A faint yet fainter whisper That asked To be With you Those moments Before The close. No w o n d e r it was in the closet. I stopped. I was in the kitchen, but had I heard something come through my letterbox at this hour of the night.' N o w we have the best postal guys in the w o r l d . But surely not at this time. I put it d o w n to the mellowness I was experiencing. On the screen, it sure l o o k e d like the predator was k i c k ing the l i v i n g be-jaysus out of the alien. I buttered a French r o l l I didn't even remember b u y i n g , but it was vaguely in date, like me life, so w h a t the hell? G o t everything in situ - always wanted to use one of those L a t i n terms - and moved the feast to the coffee table.

124

THE DEVIL

Sat finally, hungry, and out of the corner of my eye, saw an envelope on the mat. A p l a i n white envelope. The quandary? Eat first and sustain the m e l l o w m o o d , or bollix. I got u p , grabbed the envelope, tore it open and a scratch card fell out. The success and popularity of these items never ceased to astonish me. The latest one I'd heard about, big cash prize, and in times of dire poverty these f r i g g i n ' things were selling better than ever. I'd never bought one in me w h o l e life. Plus a note. Read: Jack, Sorry about the over-zealous minion. But I have a devilish feeling this scratch is the O N E . See you soon. Stay away from fast-food joints. They clog the arteries. K. I did what you do. I scratched the card. The numbers matched. I'd w o n 25,000 E u r o .

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KEN BRUEN

The c h i l l i went c o l d . I w o k e next m o r n i n g , seriously regretting the c h i l l i . I was sick as forty dogs and then some. But the o l d X a n a x . Sure, it w o u l d k i c k like a frigging mule one of these days. I

remembered

the

pictures

of W h i t n e y

in

the

National

Enquirer a few years back. I popped t w o after I threw up what l o o k e d like most of the red peppers. Least I hoped it was them and not some vital organ. C h i l l i , unlike revenge, is not a dish best eaten c o l d . Pieces of the previous evening started to come back. In neon. Jesus. There's a lot to be said for total blackouts. As I waited for the X to weave its spell, I got into the shower, turned the bastard to roasting and . . . roasted. T h e n tried a very shaky shave. Let's say it was a wee bit haphazard, but hey, the X was kicking in. I got dressed: battered denim shirt to accessorize me battered soul, a pair of white cords that were one w a s h a w a y f r o m shredding, w a r m sweatshirt that celebrated the Phillies' 2008 w i n , me Gore-Tex boots. T h e snow hadn't fucked off yet. N e i t h e r had the government.

126

THE DEVIL

A n d then I saw the scratch c a r d . H a d I dreamt that? A p p r o a c h e d it real careful. O h m y sweet L o r d . Scanned it a dozen times, it didn't change. I had w o n twenty-five large, plus the zeros. I d i d a little jig, right there on me w o o d e n floor. T h e n remembered where it had come f r o m . The Devil's coin? Was I literally going to be bought? By that fuck? Y o u betcha. I asked meself, ' W h a t does that make y o u ? ' M a y b e the X replied, but I said a l o u d , ' F u c k i n g loaded is w h a t . ' H e m i n g w a y had a handy d i c t u m . Y o u want to k n o w if something is morally right? Listen to your stomach. If it sits like broken glass, then it's morally w r o n g . M y stomach felt w a r m and delighted. I checked the weather - more s n o w en route - so got me G a r d a coat and watch cap. H e a d e d out. C l a i m i n g me winnings took a bit of time, but I h a d time, and w a i t e d . Finally, bingo. I phoned Stewart. N o t to share the glad tidings of me w i n .

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I was delighted, but not stupid. He was c o l d in tone. But what the hell. I tried, 'I was out of line, I'm sorry.' Silence. OK. T h e n he said, ' A p o l o g y accepted, I guess everyone was a little bent out of shape.' I let that shde. T o u c h i n g the Sig in me jacket, I asked, ' H o w i s Ridge?' Pause. Then, 'She's d o i n g g o o d , m u c h better than they anticipated. But Jack . . .' I k n e w what was c o m i n g . ' M i g h t be better if y o u , er, stayed away.' I promised I w o u l d and then, bloody pushing it, he cautioned, ' A n d best if y o u stay away f r o m the Sawyers.' I bit d o w n , like the Iris D e M e n t song, and s w a l l o w e d h a r d , said, ' O f course.' He was suspicious, I guess he'd seen me in action too often, said, 'Jack, I w o r r y w h e n you're too agreeable.' I thought. Too fucking right mate. Said, 'Staying away is the best k i n d of action.' He took a sharp intake of breath, asked.

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THE DEVIL

' Y o u ' v e been studying Z e n ? ' I said, ' N o , it's f r o m a country song.' A n d clicked off. Sing that, y o u sanctimonious boUi

129

11 'The heart hurts from evil anticipated.' KB

'So Jack, I don't get this A m e r i c a n gig. I mean, come o n , what the fuck's w i t h that?' T h a t hne was f r o m C a z , a R o m a n i a n in G a l w a y for over ten years. The

Immigration

midnight

raids,

the

sudden

weekly

deportations of non-nationals, he always escaped the net. Even wangled a job as an interpreter for the G u a r d s and so had all kinds of info. For a price. He was as trustworthy as a bent tuppence. We weren't friends, he was too slippery for that and I was too wary. But we had history and a give-and-take dance. I gave. A n d he took, as m u c h as was on the table. I'd r u n into h i m outside the Augustine church, not a breath away f r o m the newest head shop selling Ecstasy due to a loophole in the Irish law. Seemed k i n d of apt, both sold m o o d change, depending on w h a t y o u believed and especially w h a t y o u h a d to spend.

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KEN BRUEN

If y o u managed to skip the church and the head shop, and continued on what used to be a lovely little lane, y o u hit the sex shop, and not t w o p o r n o mags f r o m there was, y u p , St Vincent de P a u l . There is a w o n d e r f u l ironic set of inferences in all of that, but I'm fucked if I c o u l d be bothered m a k i n g them. I was in the c h u r c h , lighting candles for the recent dead, my o l d dead a n d , by the l o o k of things, some yet to come. I was frustrated by the new automatic candle routine. Vegas w i t h o u t the showgirls. I'm a dinosaur, I k n o w , w a y past my sell-by date, but is it too m u c h to ask for the o l d gig of tapers, actually lighting the candle and being connected.' It was my version of comfort f o o d . Candle soup for the soul, if you w i l l . The w h o l e ritual h a d a richness to it, a sense of t r a d i t i o n . A n d yeah, m y candles didn't light. L i k e me bedraggled life. As I came out, I d i p p e d my fingers in the H o l y Water font. Surely that wasn't poisoned. Yet. Standing on the steps to the church was C a z . He glanced up at the c h u r c h , asked, ' F i n d any grace in there. Jack.'' H i s accent was more G a l w a y than m y o w n . H e had almost classical R o m a n y features, a head of fine black hair, shining in the weak sun, the lively eyes, the chiselled nose, a n d was dressed in

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THE DEVIL

an A r a n sweater, last seen on the C l a n c y Brothers, the Irish version of the A m e r i c a n vest, all tweed a n d pockets, and best of a l l , the r i p - o f f B a r b o u r w a x jacket we were selling to tourists as made in C o n n e m a r a . Put h i m on the G a l w a y h o o k e r - and I do mean the ship we make here, a beautiful craft - and he c o u l d be a poster boy for the new Ireland. Cheap, fake, and smug. I said, ' L i v e in expectation of a miracle.' H e l i k e d that. Gave his best smile, the one that warns, w a t c h y o u r Euros. T w o of his teeth were solid g o l d . In an Irish person, there w o u l d be simple gaps. He asked, ' A n d d i d y o u find one, a miracle?' H a r d to dishke h i m and I'd tried. I said, 'I sure d i d . Today's the day y o u get to actually buy me a drmk.' He feigned hurt, but then said, 'Sure, I just got me dole money and the allowance for the three dogs.' ' Y o u have dogs?' ' D o n ' t be an eejit. Jack.' We p a i d out for non-nationals to feed imaginary canines

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KEN BRUEN

a n d w o u l d n ' t pay our nurses. As Stewart h a d so delicately put it, ' Y o u do the m a t h . ' No doubt he had the sought-after medical c a r d . We went to the Front D o o r , a pub I still have some affection for. Being contrary, we went in the back. D o n ' t ask. I like it, despite the bouncers, those wannabe FBI eejits. Sign of the times, there was an actual school for bouncers in Salthill. A weekend course. Guess it only took three days to figure out h o w to k i c k the l i v i n g shite outa some p o o r bastard and appear justified. It still managed to vaguely resemble the o l d pubs and I suppose that's as m u c h as y o u can expect any more. We grabbed stools at the counter and a gorgeous girl approached, asked, ' C a z , what can I get y o u ? ' T w o pints of Guinness. She built them slow a n d easy, a real professional. W h e n she was done, the creamy head on those pints was a w o r k of art. A l m o s t a shame to touch them. We d i d . C a z , toasting 'Slainte amach: H e ' d garnered enough Irish to w i n g the important stuff, like toasts, begging and false flattery. I went w i t h 'Leat fein: ( A n d yer o w n self.)

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THE DEVIL

We put a serious dent in the pints, then he asked, 'How^'ve y o u been?' Usually I went w i t h the G a l w a y reply. ' G r a n d . ' But the truth got in first, said, 'Depressed.' He signalled the girl and she put t w o new ones under construction, said, 'Depression is sadness gone r i o t . ' I was floored. O u t of the mouths of babes. H e continued, ' A n y o n e w h o can describe depression exactly has never been there.' Paused, then, 'Because it's beyond w o r d s . ' Whatever the fuck was in those pints, he'd nailed it. H i s eyes went out of focus and he was somewhere else, said, ' M y mother, back in R o m a n i a , she was so sad. We didn't k n o w about depression so my father just beat her. She w a l k e d into the w o o d s one day and we never saw her again.' The pints arrived. No money had yet changed hands. I clinked his glass, wanted to say. Sin an sceal is bronach. (That is the saddest story.) But I figured he already k n e w that. He snapped back, the artful dodger in play anew. But I went for it, asked, ' W o u l d a d e m o n come after a person - personally?' Y o u can ask Romaniatis such things and not feel like a

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KEN BRUEN

horse's arse. Y o u ask an Irish person, they'd t h i n k y o u were t a l k i n g about the Inland Revenue. He nodded, the cream f r o m the fresh pint on his upper l i p , said, ' O h yeah, first they attach themselves to y o u r family, friends, then through them they claim y o u . ' I asked the obvious. 'Why?' 'A demon w i l l believe y o u spoilt some scheme they'd planned and the payback is your s o u l . ' He gave a bitter laugh, said, 'They seem especially f o n d of Catholics. The more lapsed the better.' Jesus Christ, I was afraid to admit the awesome truth of his w o r d s . As if sensing my distress, he abruptly changed tack, said, ' Y o u r friend Ridge took a bad beating, I hear.' I h a d to remind myself he had the ear of the G u a r d s . He continued, 'The assailant. . .' L o o k e d at me. I took a long s w a l l o w of the excellent pint, w a i t e d , then said, 'Was of course charged, and is out on b a i l . ' I already k n e w the answer but what the sweet fuck, I asked, ' W h a t w i l l happen?' He finished his pint in jig time, belched, said, 'Slap on the wrist, claims of provocation a n d all the good legal argument, a n d m a i n l y friends in high places.'

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THE DEVIL

T h e n he asked the question w e ' d come in o n . 'What's this mania for A m e r i c a y o u have?' I t o l d h i m of the time before w h e n Ridge and Stewart got me a ticket, she got sick and I had to defer, then this time was refused entry. But to answer his question I said, 'I loved my d a d , he always t o l d me A m e r i c a was the promised l a n d , that y o u c o u l d be w h o y o u really were, free of the baggage of the past, and of their deep love of the Irish, their help all through our bedraggled history, and h o w they took y o u as y o u were, not w h a t some gobshite said y o u were - I thought if I c o u l d go there I c o u l d be free of all the terrible stuff I've been caught up i n , and their books, their attitude, seemed like real freedom to me.' I was drained. H a d n ' t spoken such a f u l l sentence since I took my pledge as

a

young

Guard

at

the

passing-out

ceremony

at

Templemore. H e asked, ' Y o u ever read A n t o n L a V e y ? ' I'd never even heard of h i m and said so. He smiled, impossible to decipher, said, ' C h e c k h i m out, he's relevant to our earlier talk. A n y w a y , he always referred to his h o m e l a n d as " T h e United Satanic States of A m e r i c a " . ' I was about to mention the d e m o n again w h e n he held up his h a n d , made the European sign of w a r d i n g off the E v i l Eye, said, 'Jack, don't tell me. I don't w a n t h i m to take an interest in me.'

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KEN BRUEN

As if on cue, his mobile rang. He had that a w f u l ring tone T k i l l y o u ' . Spoke r a p i d l y in w h a t I presume was R o m a n i a n , slid off his stool, closed his mobile, said, ' G o t t a go. Jack.' A n d was gone. I p a i d for the pints. I gave the gorgeous g i r l a tip and she gave me an icy glare. C a z leaving abruptly was my fault, she seemed to imply, a n d I thought she might have a point. N a t u r a l l y , I G o o g l e d A n t o n LaVey. Went ' O h fuck' as I read. The night before the first of M a y is the Satanic festival of Walpurgisnacht. In 1969, an ex-carnival roustabout and part-time

crime-scene

photographer,

LaVey,

set

up

the

C h u r c h of Satan. N o t a guy for half measures, he plunged right i n . In short order, he got himself a house, painted it black, got a whole new w a r d r o b e in yeah, black, and even purchased a black panther. The a n i m a l , not the movement. H i s star seemed to be rising as he gained some brief passi n g fame w i t h a cameo i n Rosemary's Baby. A n d the guy k n e w h o w to play the press, leaking them all sorts of l u r i d stories that led to them d u b b i n g h i m the Black Pope. E u p h o r i c on his brief fifteen minutes of infamy, he set up his o w n church. W o r k e d for H u b b a r d . H i s gimmick

14 0

THE DEVIL

N a k e d altar girls. An ecclesiastical lap dance before his time. A n d it worked. F o r a time. G o t Sammy Davis Jr and the then hot-to-trot, Jayne Mansfield. It blew fast, l u r i d l y and tragically. He h a d a hard on for Mansfield's lawyer, w h o k n e w h i m for w h a t he was. A n d L a V e y l a i d a public curse on the lawyer. Went badly w r o n g . The lawyer died in a car crash, but M a n s f i e l d was in the car w i t h h i m and was horrendously decapitated. I paused for a moment, lit a cig w i t h the n o w w e l l - o i l e d Z i p p o a n d couldn't help but t h i n k , Headless canines? I stood for a moment, took a X a n a x , trying to make some sense of h o w all this tied in w i t h my situation, then poured a wee Jay,

and thus

fortified,

sat d o w n to

read

the

conclusion. L a V e y died in 1997 in a C a t h o l i c hospital. An enterprising reporter named C a t h i U n s w o r t h w h o went on to become a fine novelist discovered L a V e y was . . . Jewish.

141

12 ' "Devil" and "diabolical" come from the Greek tvord d i a b a l l e i n , meaning "to slander".'

11

I went to a p u b in lower Salthill. N o t m y usual stomping g r o u n d . It's not quite upmarket. Yet. But getting there. The b a r m a n had a dicky bow, but alas, had neglected to i r o n the almost-white shirt. I c o u l d tell by his eyes, he was probably the best customer. I ordered a pint. U n l i k e in the U K , here y o u don't t i p , or ever offer the bar crew a d r i n k . I asked, 'Something for yourself, maybe?' Large brandy. I had me guy. H e muttered, ' N o r m a l l y I don't, y o u k n o w , b u t . . .' I gave h i m my best smile, said, 'If a m a n can't have a wee snort n o w and again.' He c l i n k e d my glass, said, 'Slainte amach:

145

KEN BRUEN

A n d threw it back hke a m a n in dire straits. Straits I k n e w better than I cared to admit. I put a fifty note on the counter and his red eyes, the brandy giving them that artificial respite, fell on it eagerly. He put out a hand, said, ' I ' m B o b , pleasure to meet y o u . ' I'd most of me pint gone and he volunteered, 'Another? On the house this time.' By tea time, he'd be gone. O n c e the owner showed u p , he'd be so out of the game, it was done but to shoot the p o o r bastard. I said, 'Terrific' A n d excused meself to go to the toilet. Let h i m wreak havoc on the optics. Gave h i m five minutes. Sitting back on the counter, he was by n o w my new best mate. I said, ' Y o u l o o k like a guy who's clued i n . ' He rubbed his nose in that w a y of the d o o m e d coke addict, figuring I wanted to be h o o k e d u p , smiled - G o d , it h a d been a time since he saw the dentist - said, 'I've been a r o u n d , c o u l d tell some stories.' I tried to suppress, 'Gotcha.' Sipped at the fresh pint, let h i m stew a little, eye the fifty, a n d then I asked, ' A guy named Sawyer, y o u k n o w h i m ? '

146

1

THE DEVIL

I w o n ' t be daft and say it sobered h i m , but it definitely got his attention. He leaned f o r w a r d , the brandy fumes like a blast of bad news in my face, said, ' W h o a , y o u don't want to, like, y o u k n o w , be messing w i t h that dude.' I w a i t e d , touching the fifty lightly w i t h my index finger. He t o o k a deep breath, then, 'The guy is a major player, got connections, y ' k n o w ? ' I smiled, us dudes just shooting the b u l l , and asked, 'I was just w o n d e r i n g , as I have a little biz I might put his w a y and hopefully put a little something your way, in the light of a finder's fee, no one to be the wiser, of course.' He took the fifty, pushed it in his pocket, said, 'Every day, like c l o c k w o r k , he plays nine holes, then has a brew or t w o in the bar, members only.' Bitterness came off h i m like rabies as he said that. He k n e w 'members' was a term he'd never have dealings w i t h . H a l f my pint was going sour as the atmosphere went south and I stood, said, 'Be seeing y o u . ' He was as close to stunned as it gets. He was at that stage where he was about to lay out his w h o l e shitty life. He near pleaded, ' Y o u ' r e leaving? I never got y o u r name.' As I opened the door, I said, 'Dude, that's like, cos I didn't give it.'

147

KEN BRUEN

M y dad always t o l d me, 'The golf club is not for the likes of us.' Seeing my crushed face, he'd q u i c k l y added, 'But they always need caddies!' D o n ' t they f u c k i n g just? James E l l r o y used to be a caddy. N e e d I add more? But for once, I didn't go blasting i n , decided to do this right. I watched. F o r one whole week. L o i t e r i n g , y o u might say. W i t h serious intent. Sure enough, my brandy buddy was right. Every day, like jig time. Sawyer played nine holes. A n d he cheated. O . J . Simpson d i d too a n d there's a m o r a l there. N o t of any uplift. M o s t l y I clocked the t w o heavies w h o f o l l o w e d h i m around. B i g fuckers. B u i l t to hurt. He h a d a drink in the clubhouse after, a n d then the gorillas drove h i m home. O n e usually sat outside in the B M W . He w o u l d have had a H u m v e e if the market w o u l d take it. The second heavy usually

stayed at the c l u b h o u s e .

M i n d i n g the clubs,

perhaps? C o m e three thirty, h a v i n g safely delivered Sawyer home to

1 48

THE DEVIL

his m a n s i o n , the car guy m o v e d off to collect the three daughters, w h o were no doubt exhausted f r o m a day bullying the wee D o w n syndrome girleen. M o n i t o r i n g a case, f o l l o w i n g a guy, is just about as tedious as it sounds. But I stayed w i t h it. At one point, I even read a discarded cig packet. The government w a r n i n g went: SMOKING MAY REDUCE T H E BLOOD FLOW A N D CAUSE IMPOTENCE.

At close to nine E u r o a pack of twenty, y o u ' d think n o b o d y w o u l d smoke. But the country was still s m o k i n g like Bette D a v i s in her prime. B r o k e but f u m i n g . I kept tabs on Ridge's progress. She was due to leave the hospital in a day or t w o . Figured I w o u l d n ' t be on the welcome committee. R a n g Kelli's mother and right off the bat she began, ' M r Taylor, I'm so sorry y o u r friend got hurt by the father of those girls.' H e r tone. Something off. I said, 'She's O K , and as a G u a r d , she k n o w s to expect trouble in the line of duty.' She hesitated, then said,

1 49

KEN BRUEN

' W e l l , I SO appreciate y o u r time a n d efforts, a n d if y o u send me your b i l l . . .' I said, 'The fuck is this?' B l o w i n g me off? I c o u l d hear her compose herself and then the shite s a n d w i c h . She said, ' M y husband and I have decided to let the matter go. We may change Kelli's school, but truly, we are so t h a n k f u l for y o u r time and help.' I'd take the money, out of pure rage. Gave her my address in very clipped tone, then said, 'Sawyer got to y o u , didn't he?' She was nailed. T r i e d , ' M r Taylor, really, you've been terrific, but we w i s h the matter to rest n o w . ' I asked, ' A t the next school, if K e l l i has any b u l l y i n g , w h a t w i l l y o u do? Let some scumbag scare y o u off protecting y o u r child?' She was silent, then said, 'I have to go, but truly, thank y o u . '

1 50

13 'The Devil's mambo.' Jerry R o d r i g u e z

I got a call f r o m Stewart. He was a little warmer, not a whole lot, but easing up a wee bit. Said, 'I've been trying t o get a fix o n our M r C a r l , M r K , o r whoever he is.' I waited and he said, 'He's like some k i n d of mystery m a n . I can't find h i m on any business listing, my usual sources have dried up and not even Google had h i m . ' I asked, ' W h a t about the students?' He was rustling paper. A list-maker, was Stewart. I always figured there was something seriously fucking w r o n g w i t h cunts w h o made Hsts. H e said, nothing, nada, zip. He asked me, ' Y o u hear f r o m h i m ? '

153

KEN BRUEN

A p a r t f r o m the money bonanza, not so y o u ' d notice, discounting the acid in me face. I said ' N o ' and asked about the b a n d , the Devil's M i n i o n s . These he knew.

They were a motley crew,

no p u n

intended, and were appearing in the R o i s i n D u b h the f o l l o w i n g Wednesday. Ireland were playing a W o r l d C u p qualifier, so the R o i s i n w o u l d be dead. I said, ' M i g h t wander r o u n d there, have a chat w i t h the little bastard w h o threw the shit in me face.' He asked if I wanted h i m to come along and I said, ' N a w , I'm just going to observe. M a y b e their Esteemed One w i l l appear.' He hesitated, k n e w me too w e l l , then 'fessed u p , 'I have a date on Wednesday.' Just w h e n I'd been reassuring meself he was as solitary as I was, I tried to be happy for h i m , asked, ' W h o ' s the lucky colleen?' He didn't want to tell me, I c o u l d sense that, then said, 'She's a lawyer . . . er . . . her name is A i n e and she . . . w e l l , she likes the things I d o . ' Jesus. Decaff tea, vegan, Zen, clean l i v i n g . I said, 'Terrific, have a great time.'

154

THE DEVIL

' T h a n k s , Jack. I think y o u ' d Uke her.' Right. I f u c k i n g hated her already. H e r u n g off, saying he'd continue t o dig o n our M r K . Was I jealous? Big time. I was edgy, still watching Sawyer, w a i t i n g for the right opportunity. T o o k t w o X a n a x and headed out. Bright crisp sunny day. G o figure. The snow had just evaporated and people l o o k e d , if not happy - too many jobs were being lost for that - definitely reheved that at least the fecking weather had i m p r o v e d . My mobile rang. I answered and heard, 'Jack - it's OK to use y o u r first name, I hope - it's C a r l . ' D a r e I say, Speak of the Devil! I said, ' H i , Carl.' Breezy. H i s accent still foreign tinged, he asked, ' Y o u fancy a bite to eat?' 'Sure.' 'Excellent. The brasserie in K i r w a n ' s Lane does a rather splendid coq au vin. Shall we say one o'clock if that suits, aujourd'hui} I mean - excusez-moi - today?' I kept w i t h the light banter. ' W o r k s for me, mon ami: He chuckled nastily, said, 'Touche. See y o u . A bieritot:

155

KEN BRUEN

I rang off. M a y b e I c o u l d n a i l the fucker d o w n this time. I checked me w a t c h . Some time to k i l l so headed for C h a r l y Byrne's. Jesus, h o w long since I'd seen V i n n y ? Too long. A n d there he was, m i d banter w i t h some o l d dear a n d m a k i n g her day. He hadn't cut his hair a n d still h a d the l o o k of J o h n T r a v o l t a in Pulp Fiction. He certainly had the m o u t h . W h e n he finally turned he said, I swear by a l l that's holy, ' L o o k w h a t the devil dragged i n . ' A n d w i t h o u t further ado added, 'Come in.' I did. We h a d a coffee in Java's. He h a d his Irish Times, his M a r l b o r o L i g h t , putting it out as we entered the cafe, and for one brief moment, everything was O K . We got the coffees ordered and a croissant for V i n n y , then he sat back, said, 'I thought y o u ' d abandoned us.' I gave the Irish response: ' W o u l d I ever?' I t o l d h i m I was l i v i n g in N u n ' s Island and he recommended I read Sanctuary. It was just g o o d to see h i m . No flak, no bullshit, just a real long-time friend. I said, ' I ' l l be needing some b o o k s . ' He got out his pen, said.

1 56

THE DEVIL

'Fire away.' I ordered: Seamus S m y t h , Quinn a n d his n e w one, Red Dock, Straley, G a r y PhiUips, J i m Nesbitt, Brian M c G i l l o w a y , Adrian McKinty, Tony Black. V i n n y said, ' N i c e list.' V i n n y h a d m u c h the same u p b r i n g i n g as me save his m u m was lovely, but C a t h o l i c in all the ways that screwed w i t h y o u . I asked, ' W h a t do y o u think of the D e v i l ? ' He laughed - and he is one of the great laughers I k n o w asked, ' W h i c h D e v i l had y o u i n m i n d ? ' He was buttering his croissant, laying the butter on w i t h just the right delicacy, and Jesus, it l o o k e d tempting. I said, ' N o , the real M c C o y .

Satan, the fire-and-brimstone,

cloven hooves and eternal d a m n a t i o n fellah.' He t o o k a sweet bite of the pastry, relished it, then said, 'I w a t c h Reaper, does that c o u n t ? ' I waited and he added, ' O K , Jack, I can see this is a serious question, so my answer is serious. L o o k at the state of the country a n d w h o ever is stalking the l a n d - it ain't G o d . '

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KEN BRUEN

I had time to k i l l before l u n c h , so I headed for the m a i n street a n d heard a guy mutter to his wife, ' H e a r about R y a n a i r ? ' She gave h i m the l o o k of generations of Irish w o m e n , sighed, asked, 'What?' L i k e she had the sHghtest interest. Ryanair, r u n by M i c h a e l O ' L e a r y , was our no-frills, cutprice airline. I admired O ' L e a r y - day after 9/11, he offered free flights to any destination for one cent. I'm not saying he saved the industry, but by Jaysus, he got planes back in the air. I thought he should be r u n n i n g the country. T h e m a n said, ' R y a n a i r is going to charge to use the toilets.' The w o m a n gave the universal, 'Hmmmph.' A sound that men never have and never w i l l understand. C a r l was due to arrive at the restaurant in about half an h o u r a n d I had one of me rare bright moments. W h a t the Bible terms the still, small voice. I bought one of those disposable cameras, complete w i t h flash, r o l l of 24. The r a d i o was on and K e i t h Finnegan's s h o w was taking a music break. The Killers w i t h ' H u m a n ' . Seemed k i n d of like an o m e n . I went to K i r w a n ' s Lane, passing M c D o n a g h ' s fish ' n ' chip shop, w i t h a line of Americans already w a i t i n g . I stationed myself under a canopy that h i d me f r o m view. Saw C a r l arrive, strutting along, w o m e n t u r n i n g to watch him.

1 58

THE DEVIL

H e knew. Small smile perched on his handsome face. He was wearing a light suede jacket that whispered, serious bucks, black shirt w i t h a muted red tie, dark slacks and those L o k e shoes, handmade jobs I c o u l d never a f f o r d . A little sun had emerged a n d bounced off his bald head like bad k a r m a . I began to shoot off a whole range of shots, catching h i m , if not in his f u l l glory, at least in his smug esteem. He strolled into the brasserie as if he o w n e d it. F o r some o d d reason, the beautiful words of Francis de Sales' Cross crept into my head. I muttered them like some f o r m of incantation. I knew it by heart. One of the Patrician Brothers had taught me - and I use taught w i t h more than a little bitterness. He beat it into me w i t h the canes they favoured. Those suckers hurt like a bastard. I can still hear the swish as it came d o w n again, again, again, palms of my hands, my bare legs, t i l l the sweat r o l l e d d o w n , staining his cassock. D i d I cry? N o t then. Some might suggest Fve been crying ever since. I used the rest of the r o l l to shoot the swans in the C l a d d a g h Basin a n d h a d a batch of French bread to feed them.

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Pocketing the camera a n d brushing the breadcrumbs off, I headed for the restaurant. I was t h i n k i n g about coq au vin, and call it a h u n c h , but I k n e w it wasn't ever going to be on the menu. A n d as it turned out, it wasn't. D u r i n g the lunch we h a d , he never once mentioned it, so d i d I? D i d I fuck. I'm not all that sure w h a t it is, except it sounds . . . l e w d . But then I was raised on spuds and cabbage. M e a t was what the priests h a d . Later, we discovered, very y o u n g meat. He had the best table. Quelle

surprise.

Rose to greet me. Was he g o i n g to embrace me? Changed to a handshake. M y imagination? But his h a n d felt like a dead person's. W a v i n g me to the chair opposite, he said, 'Jack, bienvenu. I took the liberty of ordering for us. Champers to start, n'est-ce pasV H o l y fuck. He clicked his fingers, said, 'Gargon.' T h e waiter was there in jig time, u n c o r k e d the bottle w i t h a f l o u r i s h , filled our glasses a n d backed off. C a r l said.

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THE DEVIL

'Moet.' Is there a reply? He suddenly produced a fountain pen - M o n t Blanc, of course, to accessorize his slim R o l e x , no doubt - and held up a finger, m o t i o n i n g me to be quiet. Jotted d o w n something on a n a p k i n , folded it, put it beside his glass, then said, 'Sorry, Jack, just a business i n s p i r a t i o n . ' He raised his glass, toasted, 'Here's to y o u , fellah.' H a d he n o w an Irish lilt?

161

14 'Fear of the inferno drives me to hell.' KB

I

A n o t h e r 'gargon' arrived, w i t h a tray of oysters. C a r l said, ' N o t h i n g like a petit a p h r o d i s i a c ' I drained my glass, asked, ' Y o u h o p i n g to get laid?' A n d before he c o u l d respond, I asked the waiter, w i t h exaggerated politeness, ' C o u l d I get a pint of Guinness, please}' Show at least one of us wasn't a wanker. C a r l , not s k i p p i n g a beat, never l o o k i n g at the waiter, snapped, ' M a k e it t w o and before Tuesday.' T h e n grinned at me, said, 'Mea culpa, mon ami, oysters w i t h o u t the black w o u l d be a s i n , ' his eyes m o c k i n g me. I was delighted. In the proper m o o d for d o w n and dirty w i t h this cock-sucker. A level p l a y i n g field, so to speak. I waited t i l l the G arrived, then sank half w i t h o u t preamble, belched, said, ' A h , that's the b i z . ' •

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KEN BRUEN

He didn't touch his, waved his fingers at the p o o r bastard hovering, indicating his champagne needed to be refilled. T i m e to turkey shoot. I w i p e d the froth off my upper l i p , said, 'Let's stop fucking a r o u n d , p a l . I k n o w w h o y o u are . . .' Paused. ' A n d y o u k n o w I k n o w . So quit the bullshite, w h a t do y o u want?' T o o k a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed out l o u d , startling the waiters and me. It was l o u d . I imagine they c o u l d hear h i m in Purgatory or T u a m , w h i c h amounts to the same thing. It sounded like a hyena w i t h meat in its m o u t h . The hairs on my arms stood u p , hterally. Whatever I'd expected s h o w d o w n at n o o n , denial, outrage, this wasn't it. He eased d o w n , w i p e d his eyes, gasped, 'You

are,

a s M r s A n t h o n y B r a d f o r d - H e m p l e says,

priceless. D i d he mean Ridge? He did. C o n t i n u e d , the accent changing tone like staccato French, G e r m a n , whatever the fuck, ' L o o k at this body of mine. Jack, and y o u - y o u brokend o w n specimen, y o u p o o r deluded creature, y o u seem to

166

THE DEVIL

believe I'm the D e v i l incarnate? Y o u are Jack, a one-off, a true o r i g i n a l , no wonder she has a certain fondness for y o u . ' Ridge, I figured. An almost grey sheen had entered his eyes, like coal that w o u l d never light unless . . . He leant back, his body language insinuating languor. The Devil incarnate seemed to amuse h i m highly. I was about to speak but he held up a finger, said, 'Shush. I have, as your esteemed trade unionists say, the floor.' He took a delicate sip of the champagne, then said, 'Let's have some fun. Indulge y o u r fanciful delusion for a moment, act as if the Devil wears Armani: He leant over, right in my face, whispered, 'I'm

the

Devil,

Lucifer,

the

Light-Bringer,

Lord

of

Darkness.' I said, ' Y o u forgot the apt one, L o r d of Lies.' No smile, he hissed, ' D o not provoke me or a l l o w my superficial courtesy to mislead y o u . I've endured a lot of your babble due to y o u r . . . affliction.' He w a v e d a beautifully manicured hand at my pint, continued, 'Be assured of this, my dense disciple. I too have a limited w e l l of patience, a n d d o tell, pray tell, why, if I were the D e v i l , w h y in the name of all that's . . .' H e cackled, completed, '. . . unholy, w o u l d I bother trifling w i t h a wreck such as

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KEN BRUEN

you? Surely even a m o r o n like y o u can appreciate that the D e v i l must have a busy schedule? Swine flu - so sorry, so n o n P C , M e x i c a n influenza, recession, Iraq, somewhat pressing engagements, don't y o u t h i n k ? ' I said, 'Very eloquent. Here's a thought for y o u , mate. W h a t if y o u felt that one jaded, over-the-hill, b r o k e n - d o w n wretch had somehow managed to fuck up your malevolent plans? W h a t if, whatever schemes y o u had for our still C a t h o l i c t o w n , what if this wretch somehow managed to keep the one element alive that is contrary to all the Light-Bringer hates?' He emptied his glass, asked in a tone of pure ice, ' W h a t element might that be, T a y l o r ? ' Taylor? No more Jack? I smiled, drew out the w o r d , said, 'Hope.' He stared at me for a l o n g moment then switched gear, muttered something in G e r m a n , I think, but I'm guessing, said, 'Wasn't that fun? Let me ask y o u a question, Mr Purveyor of H o p e . H a v e y o u ever read the Catechism of the C a t h o l i c C h u r c h , second edition?' H e smiled, added, ' N o t to be confused w i t h the Second C o m i n g . ' I said, ' M i s s e d that one. Is it on D V D ? ' He was done w i t h me for now, said, ' A n d y o u such a vociferous reader? I highly recommend it.'

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THE DEVIL

He paused, licked his lips, said, 'Specifically, l o o k at Section T w o ! But enough of all this gravitas. If I'm the D e v i l a n d you're mankind's hope, the w o r l d is even more fucked than one c o u l d have dreamed.' H i s use of the curse seemed to shake the table. It certainly shook me. M u c h later, I d i d track d o w n the piece on the internet, titled The Fall of the Angels. D e a l i n g w i t h the real enemy of C a t h o l i c i s m , it read: Behind the disobedient choice of our first parents lurks a seductive voice, opposed to God, which makes them fall into death out of envy. Scripture and the Church's tradition see in this the fallen angel called Satan or Lucifer. A l l of a sudden I k n e w I was outgunned, out of my league, and I just gave u p . I'd thought I c o u l d play, beat this sucker hands d o w n and not even have to exert meself. The waiter brought entrees. P r a w n cocktails. After oysters? He dug into his w i t h gusto, snapping his fingers for more bubbly. He seemed to have a thirst brought on by the fires of hell. I stayed w i t h the G. The D e v i l y o u k n o w , right? I wasn't going to beat h i m verbally, he h a d too m u c h sleight of h a n d for my slower repartee. The m a i n course arrived.-

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KEN BRUEN

Steaks. So rare, the b l o o d was leaking over the edge of the plate. I said to the waiter, 'Sorry, but I need it w e l l done, please.' C a r l smiled, went, 'I'd have pegged y o u as the raw-meat type.' I let it simmer, then said, ' Y o u ' d have been w r o n g , mon ami: He didn't so m u c h eat the steak as devour it. L i k e some jackal w h o realizes another predator might show. W h e n mine arrived, c o o k e d to a crisp, I barely touched it. Pushing his plate aside, pieces of meat lodged in his teeth, he asked, 'Dessert?' ' N o , thanks.' He signalled for the b i l l and I made to reach for my w a l let but he was already l a y i n g a p l a t i n u m card on the table. I don't do cards. A n d I do k n o w w h e n I've had me arse w e l l and truly kicked. As the A m e r i c a n s say. He handed me my ass. H e knew. I knew. So I d i d what y o u do w h e n you've been w a l l o p e d , especially w i t h champagne as an outrider to y o u r defeat. I shut the fuck u p . We stood to leave and he put his a r m r o u n d me. I shit thee not. I loved that.

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THE DEVIL

There was a time, when I h a d some mettle, I'd have taken that a r m and broken it over me knee and not a moment's sleep w o u l d it have cost me. N o w , I adjusted me hearing a i d . Felt my l i m p k i c k i n . M a d e a note to meself. Give up, root out your K. C . Constantine novels and become a hermit. C a r l , figuring I was done but to bury me, said, ' I ' m going to help y o u , Jackie.' N e x t he'd be calling me Jackie-o. I asked, quietly, ' H o w ' s that.'' He beamed, the cat w i t h all the freaking cream, said, 'I have some, shall we say, juice?' OJ? Continued, ' I ' m aware of your fervent lust to get to the U S A . ' Yeah, he leaned on the L w o r d . H u m b l e as B o n o , I near whispered, 'Really?' We were on Q u a y Street now, h i m literally leading me. He said in a Brit accent, ' N a m e y o u r departure date, matey.' I said, 'ASAR' He let me go, threw out his arms, bellowed, ' W h a t are y o u w a i t i n g for? Get p a c k i n g . ' I would. N e x t time, I'd be packing the Sig.

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KEN BRUEN

We were at the crossroads where Q u a y Street leads off to three different streets. C a r l paused, said, ' A h , a crossroads. No doubt you're familiar w i t h the story of the blues musician w h o sold his soul at such a junction?' I asked, ' W h y w o u l d I want to sell my soul?' He slapped my shoulder h a r d , laughed, said, ' Y o u already have.' He turned at Naughton's p u b , near Judy Green's pottery shop, said, 'Quel dommage, but I must b i d y o u a d i e u . ' A Japanese photo-cluster-fuck was t a k i n g snaps of everything and he suddenly bared his teeth, bile in his eyes, said, 'Jack, I hate photographs.' I stood there, w a t c h i n g h i m strut off, the Stones song 'Sympathy F o r The D e v i l ' u n c o i l i n g i n m y head. Fm paraphrasing here, but it goes something l i k e : happy to meet you, did you guess me name? I k n o w those aren't the lyrics, but y o u get the drift. I h a d the f i l m developed at a one-hour photo joint. The swans came out lovely. T h e C l a d d a g h church appeared splendid. Of C a r l , Fd taken, I t h i n k , thirteen shots. A l l blank.

1 72

15 Tfthe Devil is at my left hand, then who is at my right?' KB

J

I got back to me apartment. Down, depressed, defeated. Nietzsche wrote that 'to shame a m a n is to k i l l h i m ' . N o argument f r o m m e there. I opened the door, it was close to nine in the evening. So O K , I stopped in a few places en route. 1. To erase the very c h i l l he'd sunk in me bones. 2. The shock of the developed f i l m had w a l l o p e d me h a r d . The smell hit me first. Rank, foul, dead. It literally k n o c k e d me back into the corridor. T o o k a deep breath, gathered me shredded nerves, went in. The w h o l e apartment was lit u p . B l a z i n g w i t h candles.

175

KEN BRUEN

Black candles. A l m o s t fifty at a rough estimate. On every surface. On the coffee table was a dead dog. Headless. G u t t e d f r o m end to end. The entrails spilling on to the w o o d e n floor. T o o k me a moment to realize there was a note pinned to the p o o r animal's h i n d quarters. A very bloodied note. R e a d : 'Dog-gone.' A n d on the bookcase, a red card - and I mean c r i m s o n . W i t h more than a little trepidation, I opened it. It seemed to

be

some

kind

of i n v i t a t i o n .

The words

in

black

read: Missa niger. Invito te venire ad dandestinum ritum. A n d i t was signed, 'The Devil's M i n i o n ' . The

acid-thrower,

not

hiding

the

fact

that

he'd

re-

decorated my apartment. T h e bastard had balls, I'd give h i m that, a n d I swore, ' Y o u ' l l f u c k i n g need them, p a l . ' I stood, frozen, as I surveyed my home. T h e n rage k i c k e d i n . N e v e r underestimate the dark power, the energy of that. It galvanizes y o u , has y o u muttering, ' B y Jaysus.'

176

THE DEVIL

If there is a better antidote to terror, a sawn-off not being to h a n d , b r i n g it o n . I grabbed the help that was on site. Xanax, Jameson, and a p r i m e d and loaded g u n . W h o e v e r had black candled my place hadn't f o u n d the gun. It was w r a p p e d in o i l s k i n , under a pile of dirty laundry. Burglars k n o w that o l d ploy, but this intruder hadn't come to steal. Once the w e a p o n was in me h a n d , I began to feel, if not better, at least less powerless. I gripped it like me first H o l y C o m m u n i o n money. T h e n : double Jameson (neat), double X a n a x (neater), and mused on the p o o r dog's head. Where w o u l d the sick fucker have put it, going for m a x effect as he was? Godfather like, in me bed? I'd check that once the meds hit. The fridge, of course. On ice, so to speak. I added another d o l l o p of the Jay, me gut w a r m i n g already and a ferocious anger b u i l d i n g . The magic of prescription drugs, a frigging song began to r o l l in me head. Now? I'm standing in the centre of my apartment, w i t h a headless dog, its entrails d r i p p i n g still on to me floor, my system ablaze w i t h whiskey and 'dope, my temper close to D e l c o n

1 77

KEN BRUEN

three, a loaded, primed w e a p o n in my right h a n d , and I'm h u m m i n g 'The Boys A r e Back In Town'? L i k e on auto, this is f o l l o w e d by ' N o t A D r y Eye In The House'. M a y b e twenty minutes i n , I ease my grip on the w e a p o n . The butt is slick f r o m sweat, my fingers aching f r o m the pressure. I f i n d my mobile, call Stewart. Takes a time, but eventually, 'Lo?' Jesus, n o w even ' H e l l o ' is abbreviated? 'Stewart, I need y o u r help.' Pause. 'Er, Jack, this is not like . . . er . . . the best m o m e n t . ' Discretion never being me strongest suit and me not being in the best of tempers, I snapped, 'What? It's not like you're getting l a i d or something.' Whoops. H e said, ' A c t u a l l y . . .' C h r i s t , his date w i t h the freaking vegan lawyer. He was scoring} I c o u l d hear muttered w h i s p e r i n g . P i l l o w talk? L i k e I'd k n o w . H e asked, 'Where are you?' I nearly said, Iraq, why else would I call} Went w i t h ,

1 78

THE DEVIL

' M e apartment.' ' O K , I'll be there i n , say, twenty.' C l i c k e d off. W h a t ? N o pithy Z e n aphorism? I slunk d o w n against the w a l l , the bookcase to my right, my eyes locked on the still-open door. The black candles threw macabre shadows dancing a l o n g the ceiling. The gun was resting on the floor, a H a i l M a r y f r o m my hand. If anyone other than Stewart came calling, he'd better have made peace w i t h his maker. It w o u l d be a real bad time for the M o r m o n s to be house c a l l i n g . I'd never noticed before, but pinned to the side of the bookcase was: God is in the most secret corner of your life. Where no one reaches, Where a voice which comes and goes mysteriously tells you What you do not want to hear. Recall what you would prefer to forget And What you do not want to know. He is that profound abyss of Your unbelief. He is in that Which you feel you have lost, That you fear

1 79

KEN BRUEN

You will not find again, A n d which you wish to possess. Although You would be ashamed To admit it To other people. F u c k , maybe the M o r m o n s had been after a l l . I n i p p e d at the Jay to keep me focus sharp, me rage on fire, thought of Serena M a y and the golden c h i l d she'd been. A n d almost as outrider to her, Lee A n n W o m a c k ' s 'I H o p e Y o u Dance'. My m i n d like a c o b r a , lashing all over the place. T i m e moved o n . M y c o c k t a i l o f booze a n d p h a r m a ceuticals had zoned me out. Languidly, I reached to the bookcase. A l w a y s wanted to be languid as opposed to langers. U s i n g the Dice M a n method of r a n d o m selection, Fd see what spoke to me. Seamus Smyth, his second great novel. Red Dock. W h a t the nuns d i d to the p o o r M a g d a l e n girls, the C h r i s t i a n Brothers d i d to the boys, in the so termed 'Industrial Schools'. Translate as ' C o n c e n t r a t i o n C a m p s ' . W i t h total C h u r c h a p p r o v a l . The opening lines h a d me spitting i r o n . Stewart appeared in the d o o r w a y and I came as close to shooting h i m as I don't w a n t to d w e l l u p o n . He was wearing a T-shirt w i t h the logo ' A b o v e the saddle, no rider. B e l o w the saddle, no rider.' Was he fucking k i d d i n g me?

180 3

THE DEVIL

H e Stared i n , disbelief w r i t neon, muttered i n very u n Stewart fashion, ' H o l y shite.' I said languidly, ' D o n ' t be shy, come i n . It gets, if not better, a w h o l e lot more interesting.' He advanced cautiously, as if something was going to bite him. W e l l , he was safe enough f r o m the d o g , I reckoned. H i s eyes remained on my g u n t i l l he saw the coffee table, and it l o o k e d like he was going to t h r o w up. Guess Z e n didn't cover that. I asked, ' A n y thoughts on where a sick bollix w o u l d stash the head?' He managed to compose himself, asked, ' W h a t the fuck happened?' In nigh most of the years I'd k n o w n h i m , through dope-dealer, convict, businessman, Z e n p a i n in the arse, that's if anyone ever knew h i m , he never swore. Perhaps he felt no need, but n o w he was effing and b l i n d i n g like the rest of the country. L i k e a priest counting the takings after Sunday M a s s . I l a i d out the whole gig, even the pictures that hadn't developed. He seemed mesmerized by the array of black candles.

181

KEN BRUEN

W h e n I'd finished, I asked, 'Is there a Z e n message to e x p l a i n this?' H e said, 'Shit happens.'

182

16 7 smoked too much and had a sore chest. I had a host of companion symptoms as well, niggly physical things that showed up

occasionally,

weird aches,

rashes, symptoms of a condition maybe,

possible lumps, or a network

of conditions. What if they all held hands one day and lit up?' A l a n G l y n n , The Dark Fields

We didn't f i n d the head. I h a d a horrible feeling it w o u l d turn up in the most a p p a l l i n g manner.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo

Garcia.

Where was W a r r e n Oates w h e n y o u needed him? I d i d f i n d the crumpled n a p k i n that C a r l had written o n . Smoothed it out and read: 1. Sarah Goode. 2. Sarah Osborn. 3. Tibuta. H a n d e d it to Stewart, said, ' Z e n this.' He went to my laptop, began to Google furiously. My eyes strayed to the bookcase, to E d w a r d Wright's superb n o v e l . Damnation Falls. I thought, ' E d , buddy, y o u got that bang to rights.' Stewart was making odd noises, maybe his mantra. Finally he sat back and said.

185

KEN BRUEN

'Jack, y o u ' d better take a look at this.' It showed that on M a r c h 1st 1692, those three people were arrested for witchcraft in Salem. Stewart said, 'The night we went to Ridge's, C a r l was s m o k i n g some k i n d of cheroots, but later, I saw h i m outside, s m o k i n g cigarettes.' I said, 'Fascinating as that is, w h a t the fuck does it have to do w i t h this?' Fie gave me that patient l o o k , said, 'Fie smoked maybe five cigarettes, one after another, and then c r u m p l e d the packet and threw it on the g r o u n d . Y o u k n o w I hate litter and I went to pick it u p . ' Jesus, w o u l d he ever get to the frigging point? I said, 'Flooray, y o u get the G o o d C i t i z e n of the M o n t h a w a r d . ' Fie ignored that, said, ' G r e e n packet, A m e r i c a n . . . Salem's.' 'I've no idea what this means.' Fie shrugged, said, 'Except that something seriously w e i r d is happening here.' 'Yah think?' W h i l e he was G o o g l i n g so w e l l , I handed h i m the red c a r d , said, 'Track this, genius.' D i d n ' t take l o n g . He let out a breath, said, 'It's an invitation to a black M a s s . ' I asked, 'Any RSVP?'

186

THE DEVIL

He closed the laptop, sweat visible on his forehead. I figured to cut h i m some slack. T o l d h i m he should be getting back to his lady and said, ' M a r y . . . h o w was it?' 'It's A i n e , and it was great till y o u called.' I apologized and thanked h i m for c o m i n g over. H e n o d d e d , asked, 'What will you do now?' ' B l o w out the candles.' At the door, he cautioned, 'This is very bad k a r m a , Jack. Y o u should w a l k - no, r u n away, right n o w . ' R u n n i n g has never been me strong point. The l i m p didn't help. I bundled the carcass in a b i n liner, dropped another X a n a x , washed it d o w n w i t h a shot of Jay, put my gun in my G a r d a coat. I h a d a concert to attend. The Devil's M i n i o n s were ending their set w h e n I got to the Roisin Dubh. The guy w h o ' d acided me was the lead singer, and fucking bad he was. I k n e w the barman, pushed a fifty note across to h i m , said, 'Seamus, tell the lead singer there's some hot babe in the alley panting for h i m . ' H e asked, 'This going to come back on me?'

187

KEN BRUEN

I let go of the fifty and he took it. T h e back of Roisin's borders the canal. D a r k a n d ominous at that hour. I hadn't long to wait. T h e side door opened and he emerged, the sweat on his face gleaming in the d i m streetlight, his gig or the promise of a b l o w job lighting h i m u p . I shot h i m in both knees, f r o m behind, then caught h i m as he fell, picked h i m up and threw h i m in the canal. I hefted the bin liner, threw it in too. L i k e the very last lines of

Under the

Volcano. T h e y ' d

t h r o w n a dead dog into a hole after the consul's body. It gave, I felt, a nice literary touch to the proceedings. On my w a y home, I f o u n d a phone box that hadn't been vandalized. R a n g the G u a r d s , said a m a n was d r o w n i n g in the canal. I didn't mention the d o g . H e ' d had his day. N e x t day, I went to see the tinkers. O n c e treated as the dregs of our caring society, they'd moved up a notch since we started to resent the n o n nationals. N o t a huge leap for them, but they were getting less abuse than before. I'd w o r k e d a case w i t h and for them, a n d thus was regarded as close to clan as an outsider is ever going to get. As a c h i l d , I remember, every M o n d a y the skin w o m a n w o u l d come, collecting discarded potato skins to feed her pigs. Little d i d she k n o w , the f u c k i n g skins were our dinner

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most days. She d i d this for years. After her death, it was disclosed that she never h a d any pigs. I went to see her sister. Peg, w h o it was claimed had the gift of the sight. Yeah, I k n o w , H B O already have the series. Before Ghost Whisperer, Crossing Over, Sixth Sense, before all that, she was quietly dispensing such things as she intuited. H e r caravan was perched on the football field in the Claddagh. Recently, asbestos had been discovered there and house prices had plummeted. Guess she didn't see that c o m i n g . But I was clutching at straws. She lived alone a n d , unusual for a traveller, not a d o g in sight, or even a p i g . I came prepared. Bottle of Jameson, dozen cans of Guinness, carton of cigs, and at nigh ten E u r o a pack, I was h u r t i n g . Plus a fresh salmon I'd bought f r o m one of the local 'snatchers'. H o w fresh was it going to be f r o m our n o w perennially poisoned water? I k n o c k e d on her door, on the E v i l Eye symbol where most people w o u l d have their spy hole. She opened the door slowly. If you're a tinker, y o u always answer slowly. Stared at me, said, 'Jack Taylor.'

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I handed over the booty/bribe, said, 'I need a reading. Peg a gra: She w a v e d me i n . A tall w o m a n , had to be near eighty now, her hair neatly styled, and those piercing blue eyes, cataracts forming but not dulling the sheer intensity. She had that regal bearing some w o m e n achieve no matter what shite comes d o w n the road. W e a r i n g a C o n n e m a r a s h a w l , the real deal, h a n d sewn and passed f r o m one generation to another. L o n g skirt that swished as she m o v e d . H e r sole jewellery was a miraculous medal, gold of course. The caravan was spotless, and devoid of furniture save for t w o hard-backed chairs, one w o o d e n table and a n a r r o w bed, neatly made. Z e n , i n fact. L i k e most of her generation, she switched f r o m Irish to E n g l i s h at w i l l . L i k e the song goes, and speak a language that the foreigner does not know. We sat, she opened the Jay, poured liberal amounts in heavy G a l w a y crystal tumblers, toasted, 'Dia agus a Mhathair leat: ( G o d a n d H i s H o l y M o t h e r w i t h you.) I said, 'Leat fein: ( Y o u too.) T h e neat Jay burned like false hope.

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She cracked t w o cans of the Guinness, pushed one across. 'Ta an doireachdeas leat: (The darkness is u p o n you.) N o f u c k i n g a r o u n d , then. I t o l d her the whole story. She never interrupted, just sipped f r o m the Guinness, her eyes glued to my face. Finished, I sat back, knackered, and took a l o n g s w i g f r o m the Jay. She asked, ' D i d y o u take money f r o m h i m ? ' Fuck. Tricky ground. I scratched the card he sent me, w o n the big one, but I c o u l d easily have lost . . . right? D i d n ' t fly. If I lied to her once, I was history. I told her. She n o d d e d , said, ' H e owns yer arse.' I asked, ' W h a t w i l l I do?' She reached behind her for a pack of Sweet A f t o n . They still made those suckers? M y dad used t o smoke them. L o r d rest h i m . I remembered the lines of the Scottish poet Burns on the front. Reading me expression, she said, 'Deanamh

caitheamh

to'bac dubthal thremous leat:

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Sounds freaking o m i n o u s , right? It's the current government w a r n i n g on packs and tells y o u that terrible things w i l l happen to y o u if y o u smoke. N e x t , she produced an o l d b o x of Swan matches, offered both to me. Rough. I hadn't smoked for three years. F u c k i n g quitting was just one of the m a n y afflictions I've endured. But to refuse? Couldn't. Bolhx. I t o o k t w o out, handed her one, fired us up. The smell of sulphur was like a bad joke. Coarse, no filters on these babies. The real deal. She t o o k a deep drag. M e too. C h r i s t A l m i g h t y , they k i c k e d like a demented G u a r d on late-Saturday-night d r u n k tank. H e r face, impossibly lined, seemed to suck into itself. M y first inhalation had m e dizzy. Delicious lethal delight. In answer, finally, as to w h a t I should d o , she said, 'Rith:

(Run.)

T o o k me a moment to catch the t w i n k l e in her eye. She asked, ' D o y o u believe in the D e v i l ? ' 'I believe.'

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She extended her p a l m and it t o o k me a moment to catch up. Cross her hand w i t h silver. L i k e all the shite I'd p a i d a fortune for wasn't enough? I f o u n d a t w o E u r o c o i n , not silver but jeez, w h o was keeping count? I placed it dead centre in her p a l m a n d she closed her h a n d , intoned, 'Uber, ubris, iosa: A lot of other stuff I didn't grasp, seemed a blend of Irish and L a t i n . She c o m m a n d e d , ' O n your knees.' I d i d as she t o l d me. She rose, stood over me, then pulled a small p h i a l f r o m her pocket and began to sprinkle it over me. Said, ' H o l y water.' Or poison. W h o knew? She said another long prayer and my leg was acting u p . Eventually, she took a leather thong, a miraculous medal attached, h u n g it r o u n d my neck and said, 'Mhathair an losa leat: (God's M o t h e r be w i t h you.) Unless the M a d o n n a was p a c k i n g serious heat, I felt I was fucked. She m o t i o n e d me to rise. We were done. I had an envelope ready, l a i d it on the table. She said.

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J

KEN BRUEN

' T h a n k s , son.' She poured us both a farewell Jay, asked, ' C a n y o u k i l l a man?' She k n e w my history, w h a t I had done in the past for the clans, but this was a different dance. I said I c o u l d . She muttered, 'Ta tu an bronach nach bhfuail feidire leat a rith: Literally, it means y o u are the k i n d of person w h o is not able to r u n , but it has bronach in there w h i c h gives a whole other dimension, meaning what a sadness, y o u aren't the type to quit. I w a n t e d to shout, / would if I could, but I can't. But she already k n e w that. We were done, and to my astonishment she hugged me. Blame the damn cigarettes, but I felt me eyes w e l l up. As I headed for the door, her parting line was, Ts anois an t'amall an fear seo a marbh.' There are various translations for this, but in a nutshell it means, ' K i l l h i m now.'

194

17 'The Devil plays with a loaded deck.' O l d Irish proverb

1

After T a y l o r left, Peg said a small N o v e n a for h i m . L i k e all the tinkers, she had a deep love for the m a n . A l l those years ago, w h e n y o u n g tinkers were being slaughtered, their bodies t h r o w n in the fair green, d i d the Guards help? She gave a bitter laugh. D i d they shite. The G a r d a Suichona . . . G u a r d i a n s of the Peace. H e r arse they were. M o r e like G a r d a C h i c k a n a . T h a t Superintendent . . . Clancy? O h , a bad bastard. Was overheard on the golf course saying, ' G o o d riddance to bad r u b b i s h . ' This was, of course, off the record, a private remark if y o u will. In Ireland, a 'private remark' is like putting it on a billboard. T h e n along came the bedraggled, befuddled Taylor, a broken m a n to hear it said. A n d ' f o n d of it'.

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J

KEN BRUEN

Meaning, a drunk. T a y l o r was w o u n d e d in all the ways that last. He took up their cause. A n d took some serious beatings along the way. O n e horrendous one, they literally k i c k e d the teeth out of his head. Beat h i m w i t h the ash, the hurleys g i v i n g h i m that limp. D i d he run? She smiled. He kept on c o m i n g . L i k e a dog w h o w i l l not quit, no matter h o w m a n y times y o u w a l l o p it.

She

blessed herself for h i m and her o w n self. He h a d solved the case. A b o v e a l l , he had true respect and affection for the clans. T h e y never forget and he was a m o n g the few outsiders to be considered almost one of their o w n . She poured a large Jay, raised it and said a l o u d , 'Bhi curamach: (Be careful.) She felt the Jameson light her stomach, like the c h i l d she'd never have. A wave of weariness began to w a s h over her. M a y b e she'd just rest her eyes for a wee w h i l e . H e r dreams were v i v i d . She saw Taylor so clearly, going w i l l i n g l y towards a m a n . She wanted to cry, ' N o , not the L o r d of Lies, he believes he o w n s y o u . ' The rest of the dream i n v o l v e d fire and a cemetery of y o u n g people. She w o k e w i t h a small sigh. H e r body was covered in sweat and yet she was frozen, ice cold. But she'd left the heaters o n , she c o u l d have s w o r n . T h e n she saw the m a n sitting at the table. L o n g golden

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THE DEVIL

hair, hke her L o r d , Jesus. The same golden tresses as in the huge portrait of the Sacred H e a r t she prized. T i l l he turned. L o o k e d at her. Eyes . . . o f yellow.' A n d a beautiful suit. She had seen such clothes in the shops on the m a i n street that w o u l d never let the likes of her inside. He gave a smile of such radiance, her hopes rose briefly, till he spoke. 'Peg,

I

thought y o u were

sleeping the

sleep

of the

damned.' A n d he laughed. A sound that sent slivers of ice along her spine. He lifted the miraculously f u l l Jameson bottle, poured t w o generous glasses, said, ' C o m e , d r i n k w i t h me.' As if mesmerized, she rose, m o v e d slowly to the table and took the h a r d chair. H i s eyes were locked on hers. She prayed she was still dreaming and somehow she'd wake. Safe. Warm. He pushed the glass towards her, raised his o w n , asked, 'Peg, oh Peg, my heart, what shall we drink to?' She grabbed the glass, like some futile lifeline, drained half, seeking heat and o b l i v i o n . H e said.

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'I k n o w , let's drink to Jack Taylor.' A beat. T h e n , 'That w o r k for y o u . Peg? A toast to the b o l d Jack?' E a c h time he uttered her name, it was like a laceration on her soul. He indicated the ashtray. T w o cigarettes, newly lit, were waiting. She k n e w she was done for, but damned, by G o d , never that. As she t o o k the cigarette, he said, ' A H y o u r needs are catered for. Peg.' H e r hand trembled and he watched it, said, 'Woe is me, if only this whole episode were just the jigs, as y o u Irish call them. H o w amusing that your favourite dance is also what you call the horrors, D e l i r i a Tremens. Y o u c o u l d deal w i t h that Peg, right? C'est vraif She stared at h i m , defiance w r i t large. H e laughed, said, 'Excusez-moi, what w o u l d a peasant like y o u k n o w of such a language as French?' She finally f o u n d her voice, fingering the g o l d miraculous medal r o u n d her neck, said, 'What do you want?' He lunged across the table, tore the medal f r o m her neck and flung it across the caravan. ' Y o u think such trifles can help y o u ? ' She was shocked. The touch of his hand was like a knife w o u n d , and c o l d , like a dead heart. H e r heart pounded but she managed,

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THE DEVIL

' Y o u have no business w i t h me.' He laughed anew, but in a new tenor, pure unadulterated malevolence, said, ' Y o u t o l d Mr Taylor that he was tainted, that he had taken the Devil's coin?' Peg was of pure tinker stock, she'd k n o w n every h u m i l i ation the w o r l d c o u l d cast. She had fronted up to bailiffs, sheriffs. G u a r d s , tormentors of every sort, and had never given one i n c h . But n o w ? N o w she was terrified. He indicated the booze, the cigarettes, said, 'Purchased with . . . how should I put it? The same currency.' She had to k n o w , asked, ' W h y are y o u so focused on one wreck of a m a n , a p o o r creature w h o is only of danger to his o w n self?' H i s lips drew back and she'd have s w o r n he snarled, but he reined it i n . He lifted the b o x of matches slowly, methodically. L i g h t i n g them, f l i c k i n g them across the table, on the floor, he said, 'Very eloquently spoken, for a . . .' The curtains caught fire, a bundle of Galway Advertisers, a flier for takeaway p i z z a . '. . . A barren sow.' He filled her glass as the smoke began to envelop them, said, ' I ' m a very busy m a n - swine f l u , genocide, the usual manifestations of my power, m i l d diversions if y o u w i l l . But I do have certain fetishes, some idle projects I like to see

201

KEN BRUEN

come to f r u i t i o n . A mere d r o p in the ocean, but of amusement to me.' T h e n he was on his feet, towering over her. H i s voice Hke the awesome storm of '82, he boomed, ' A n d I w i l l not be thwarted. These diversions have their place and are of some value to me.' The smoke was hurting her eyes, invading her lungs, but she was transfixed. He continued, 'Some years ago, I had w o n d e r f u l aspirations for a young m a n , a true believer, and he was doing so w e l l , laying waste to the y o u n g of your tribe, w h o even your o w n nation despises.' Despite the fire raging, the congestion in her lungs, she managed to smile, said, ' A n d Jack Taylor stepped i n . ' His

b l o w k n o c k e d her

f r o m the chair and

sent her

s p r a w l i n g close to the burning curtains. He strode over, said, ' C u n t , listen w e l l , he has meddled many times. I even had a n u n turned. H a v e y o u any idea, in your tinker's soul, what it means to o w n a n u n , what a spit in the face of the Nazarene that w o u l d have been, a Bride of C h r i s t doing my unholy w o r k ? ' She w o u l d never k n o w h o w she managed it, but she laughed, laughed at h i m , said, ' A n d Jack stopped her, didn't he? Despite all your fireworks and scare tricks, this small, insignificant man yet again kicked you in the balls, w h i c h I doubt you have. Y o u might be the L o r d of H e l l , but it takes no balls to hit a w o m a n . It

202

THE DEVIL

takes a long yellow streak, as yellow as your piss-tinted eyes.' He grabbed her hair, pushed her face into the f l a m i n g newspapers, said, ' Y o u w i l l kneel before me, or by the Christ y o u w o r s h i p , y o u w i l l die a death y o u never i m a g i n e d . ' She somehow dredged up a mere dribble of spit, spat it on his beautiful trousers, cried, 'You're a p o o r excuse for a devil, G o d help us, and m a r k my w o r d s , y o u c o w a r d l y piece of shite. Jack Taylor w i l l show y o u hell before you're t h r o u g h . ' True to his w o r d , he made her die h a r d . Very. But kneel? Never. The caravan burned quickly. By the time the fire brigade arrived, it was but a smouldering shell. O n e of the firemen, m o v i n g towards the debris, spotted a glint, reached d o w n and picked out a medal. He held it up to the light. F o r years after, he'd swear 'It shone like the purest g o l d . ' A passer-by said to his mate, ' A n o t h e r dead tinker, what a f u c k i n g surprise.' On L o n g W a l k , across the water f r o m the caravan, the man w i t h the golden tresses f u m e d , said, 'Taylor, she goes on your list. The sow never knelt, but you w i l l . ' The sun lit up the ruined caravan a n d the burnt remains of Peg.

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KEN BRUEN

The m a n k n e w that w h a t her charred remains might yield was a smile of pure victory. As he stomped along L o n g W a l k , even the swans w i t h drew f r o m his passing, h u d d l e d on the other shore. Despite the sun's brief respite, he threw no shadow.

204

18 'Lie with your eyes, your mouth will follow their lead.' KB

I heard about the fire on the r a d i o . J i m m y N o r m a n ' s show. H e ' d been playing one of me all-time favourites, Nilsson's 'If L i v i n g Is W i t h o u t Y o u ' . T h a t he died of booze endeared h i m to me anyway, but this song reminded me of w h e n I'd met the love of me life and she left me for a G u a r d , because, she said, ' Y o u ' r e a hopeless d r u n k . ' Yeah, I k n o w , it's a classic whine-into-your-glass dirge, but no less effective for that. Time eases all p a i n . W h a t a f u c k i n g crock. Sometimes I thought I saw her on the street and me heart died all over again. I nearly missed the news item. As it sunk i n , I wanted to weep. The fire department believed the w o m a n had fallen asleep w i t h a b u r n i n g cigarette in her h a n d . The inference being 'a d^unk'.

207

KEN BRUEN

An empty whiskey bottle f o u n d a m i d the charred remains seemed to endorse their premiss. L i k e the Peter G a b r i e l song, I grieved, in ribbons over her terrible death, song titles mutating like w r a p p e d cobras in me fevered brain. I muttered L e o n a r d Cohen's ' W h o By Fire?'. W h y the fuck d i d I bring booze and cigarettes to her? I didn't k n o w if I c o u l d go to the funeral. Tinkers grieve like M u s l i m w o m e n , the a w f u l keening and w a i l i n g . I wasn't sure my shredded nerves c o u l d withstand it. But Jesus, I c o u l d do flowers, had to. R a n g Interflora. The w o m a n was sympathetic w i t h o u t being c l o y i n g . I ordered a dozen red roses and she asked if Fd like to add a note. I said, 'Just "Deepest condolences. Jack T a y l o r " . ' A pause and I figured she was w r i t i n g it d o w n , then she asked, ' Y o u live at N u n ' s Island?' 'Yes.' 'So y o u w i s h to send a second wreath?' 'What?' 'Bear w i t h me a moment, Mr Taylor. I haven't been in the office for the past few days, touch of f l u , and the g i r l I have, not a fecking clue, just boys, boys, boys.' I needed to hear about her personal f u c k i n g problems? I gave a snort of impatience. She caught it, said as she shuffled t h r o u g h papers, 'This is very o d d . ' 'What?'

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THE DEVIL

She sounded almost p a n i c k e d . ' M u s t be that nitwit of a g i r l . A c c o r d i n g to the dates, the wreath was ordered . . . the day before the poor unfortunate woman died.' I felt a wave of dizziness, but asked, ' W h a t does the card say?' 'I beg y o u r p a r d o n ? ' N o w she was getting attitude? 'The card for the first wreath?' 'But M r Taylor, y o u wrote it, didn't y o u ? ' C h r i s t on a bike. I said, 'Please forgive me, but grief, it has me all over the place.' She eased a notch, said, ' O f course, M r Taylor, I empathize.' I prompted, 'The card?' ' O h , of course, it reads . . . w e l l , it seems a touch o d d . ' I waited. 'It reads . . . " D i d n ' t see this c o m i n g . ' " I hung up. See. It wasn't possible, couldn't be. I tried to get my m i n d into focus. The note c o u l d only be f r o m one source. I asked myself for the hundredth time, ' W h a t does the D e v i l want w i t h me?' The o l d people used to say, 'The D e v i l can only enter y o u r life if y o u invite h i m . ' H a d I? In my darkest h o u r s , " I'd ranted a n d s w o r n at G o d .

209

KEN BRUEN

H u n c h e d over a toilet b o w l , p u k i n g me guts out, I remember I'd cried, ' A n y o n e else out there?' Never, never t h i n k i n g there was a darkness w a i t i n g to be bidden. I'd lived in the dark so l o n g . H a d the darkness come to live in me? I muttered, 'Jesus, M a r y and Joseph.' I h a d to get out, w a l k the t o w n , dispel the shadows. The pelting r a i n had eased but I grabbed my all-weather coat. The Sig fitted neatly in the right pocket. P o p p e d the X a n a x and headed out. Something about the date was itching at me subconscious. A newspaper c o n f i r m e d my unease. The tenth anniversary of C o l u m b i n e . Whatever y o u believed, the D e v i l h a d stalked the halls of the high school that a w f u l day. Coincidence? T h e y say coincidence is w h e n G o d wishes to appear anonymous. He was sure keeping one blitz of a l o w profile these days. A n d the other gem, 'If G o d seems far away, w h o moved?' Bollix. I w a l k e d d o w n Shop Street. A mime artist dressed as the Joker was performing outside Caravan's. I d r o p p e d some coins in his box and he said, 'Joke's on y o u , b o y o . '

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THE DEVIL

My temper was not at its best, the X a n a x was faihng to c h i l l me. I snapped, asked, ' A r e n ' t y o u fuckers supposed to be silent or d i d I miss something?' He smiled, and I hoped those y e l l o w fangs were part of the make-up. He said, ' Y o u missed the bigger picture.' It w o u l d n ' t l o o k too great if I was to be seen beating the l i v i n g be-jaysus out of a street performer. I moved on. At A n t h o n y Ryan's, the clothes shop, a figure emerged, bustling w i t h bags of stuff. Stopped and lit a cigarette. W h o else? The nicotine czar, his o w n self. Father M a l a c h y . I said, 'Business must be g o o d if y o u can shop in Ryan's.' H e l o o k e d terrible. C h r i s t , he always l o o k e d woebegone but n o w he h a d an added air of desperation. The ubiquitous dandruff lined the black shoulders of his suit. He hadn't shaved and the grey stubble gave h i m the aura of a dank w i n o . H i s hair was like a bedraggled crow. He neither heard nor saw me. I m o v e d closer a n d a shower had been least of his priorities, it seemed. I asked, 'They give you a clerical discount there?' H i s eyes finally registered and he stared at me . . . in relief? He took me completely out of left f i e l d , grabbed my a r m , said.

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KEN BRUEN

'Let's get a jar.' A l l the years he'd t o r n me l i m b f r o m fragile l i m b over my d r i n k i n g , and n o w this? I was about to say, ' N e v e r l o o k a gift priest in the m o u t h . ' But he l o o k e d too close to the b r i n k , so I said, 'Sure, you're paying, so yeah.' We went to Feeney's, close to where Kenny's w o n d r o u s b o o k s h o p used to be located. It was that rarity, unchanged. N o t too far f r o m the o l d p a w n shop, where my late mother used to hock my dad's suit and his beloved pocket watch. She h a d hocked his life a l o n g time before that. Years ago, w h e n I drank in Grogan's, and had my loved friends, Jeff and Cathy, a n d their golden c h i l d , Serena May . . . But I can't d w e l l on them or the c h i l d . T w o sentries held up either end of the bar there. T w o o l d men in c l o t h caps, always n o u r i s h i n g a half-full/empty pint, and as far as I knew they never spoke to each other. But they were as reliable as a sincere prayer. A l l the bad shite that h a d ensued over the years, I'd lost track of them. I'd presumed, h o p e d , they still kept their vigil there. A n d even though Grogan's had been sold after the death of the c h i l d , I clung to the hope that they h a d f o u n d stools in some other o l d G a l w a y bar. As we entered Feeney's, right by the door was one of them. I realized I never k n e w their names. So I d i d the Irish dance, asked.

212

THE DEVIL

'How^'ve y o u been?' He l o o k e d at me and the same disinterest he'd always s h o w n was still alive. He said, 'Middling.' That's as close to ' F u c k o f f as it gets. But I persisted, asked, ' A n d , er . . . your friend?' ' H e wasn't m y friend.' I began to move off, wasn't going to do a w h o l e lot of spreading the joy there, and he said, 'He died.' I n o d d e d , kept going. I'd read my Russell F r i e d m a n on grief and h o w not to express remorse/sorrow for someone y o u never knew. Some books do actually help. M y sympathy w o u l d only have elicited more bitterness and Fd enough of my o w n to be going on w i t h . M a l a c h y had gone right d o w n to the end of the pub and f o u n d a table, and I joined h i m . I figured he'd already put in an order. Sure enough, the drinks came. T w o large Jamesons. N o ice. The b a r m a n said, ' O n the house. Father.' If M a l a c h y was grateful, he was h i d i n g it. He said, 'I don't see y o u at M a s s . ' The b a r m a n gave h i m a l o o k - not of respect or awe, those days were w e l l over - said.

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'I t o o k my business elsewhere.' A n d m o v e d off. M a l a c h y , already raising his glass, muttered, ' A p u p , that fellah.' N o t a comphment. I raised my glass, toasted, ' G o o d health.' He made a sound halfway between hmmph a n d Is it on meself? T h e n drained most of the double Jay. I d i d the same. Waited. T h e whiskey hit h i m fast, a crimson g l o w m o u n t i n g like sunburn up his cheeks, m a k i n g his battered face almost glow. H e said, 'I don't have many friends in the priesthood.' I was surprised he had any friends anywhere, but kept my m o u t h shut. H e continued, ' O v e r in the C l a d d a g h , Father R a l p h was my friend. We were in M a y n o o t h together and took our final v o w s on the same day. We always stayed in t o u c h , a card or letter, even after he went on the M i s s i o n s . ' I h a d no idea where this was going. Something between a sigh and groan escaped h i m as he said, 'I can't believe he's dead.' T o o k me a moment, then I blurted, 'Ralph's dead?' He was startled, turned to l o o k at me. ' Y o u knew him?' I was trying to focus, muttered,

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'I met h i m once. I Hked h i m a lot.' M a l a c h y shook his head, amazed and, I think, angry. I'd k n o w n his friend. T h e n he made that condescending gesture that serious drinkers all over the fucking w o r l d hate. He raised his hand in a d r i n k i n g gesture to his m o u t h , the w o r d s conveying, in bright shame, alkie. Said, as if I didn't get it already, ' F o n d of it, y o u k n o w , no denying that. But to do what he d i d , I never realized he was so far gone.' H a d I missed something.' I was trying so hard not to lash h i m across his smug non-alkie face that rage t e m p o r a r i l y blinded me. I asked, ' W h a t d i d he d o ? ' Jesus wept. N o t another c h i l d molester. T h a t I couldn't stomach, not now. M a l a c h y said, ' Y o u r turn for a r o u n d , I believe.' The b o l l i x . I jumped u p , went to the counter, tried to rein in the ferocious wave b u i l d i n g , said to the barman, 'Same again, please,' and put a twenty E u r o note on the counter lest he think I was freeloading. If he thought neat larges that early in the day were o d d , he said n o t h i n g . He got the d r i n k s , gave me the pittance change, said, n o d d i n g to M a l a c h y , ' C o n t r a r y bastard.' I took the d r i n k s , l o o k e d at the paltry change, said, 'Put it in the M i s s i o n s b o x . ' H e laughed, said.

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'Where have y o u been? We are the M i s s i o n s . ' I got back to the table - no sign of M a l a c h y . I l o o k e d r o u n d and the barman indicated the shed beside the bar. T h e smokers' r o o m . Beside the toilets, of course. I sat, sipping my fresh d r i n k , trying to keep my m i n d blank and a l i d on my temper. M a l a c h y returned, reeking of cigarettes, sat, grabbed the new d r i n k and d o w n e d a fair p o r t i o n . T h e n took a breath and said, 'They've covered it u p , of course, said he died of a heart attack. If the truth came out, they'd be more banjaxed than before.' He emitted a long sad sigh, said, ' H e hanged himself.' I was appalled, said, ' I ' m so sorry.' He rounded on me, spittle d r i b b l i n g f r o m the corners of his m o u t h , accused, 'You? Y o u ' r e sorry? I thought the likes of y o u w o u l d dance a jig at the clergy being destroyed.' I understood the b l i n d lashing out of grief, had done it often enough, and w h e n y o u add Jameson to a simmering fire . . . I said, ' Y o u make me sound like the D e v i l . ' He sat back, drained instantly, said, 'I met a m a n last week, he frightened me. Jack.' Jack! ' G o o d - l o o k i n g fellah, lovely suit, said he wanted to make

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a d o n a t i o n to the C h u r c h fund a n d asked me to excuse his poor

Enghsh.

I think

he was

French,

said

he'd

been

recommended by y o u ! At first I was glad - we're always happy w i t h donations and supporters of the C h u r c h - t i l l he began to l o o k at me. He scared me. Jack. It was like he was - Jesus, G o d forgive me for t a k i n g the H o l y N a m e in v a i n , but he l o o k e d like pure badness, a n d as he was leaving, he handed me a large w a d of notes - hundred notes they were. Jack - a n d said w i t h this a w f u l smile . . .' He had to stop. Sweat was p o u r i n g d o w n his face and he grabbed at his glass, then continued, ' H e said, "Priests shouldn't be hanging r o u n d . " Jack, he stressed hanging, and as he left, he stopped and said, "If y o u really are a friend of our Jack, I might have to return, make

another

donation:''

I didn't like M a l a c h y , never h a d , but I didn't like to see h i m afraid. I asked, ' W h o do y o u think he was?' He jumped u p , his eyes m a d in his head, shouted, ' Y o u ' r e the Devil's s p a w n ! Even y o u r blessed mother, G o d rest her, she always said some day he'd come to c l a i m y o u . ' A n d he stormed out. I finished my drink and thought, if I was going to hell, the worst thing w o u l d be that the bitch she'd been all her miserable life was sure to be the first to welcome me. Ian D u t y and the Blockheads - the cheerful face of p u n k , if there was such a thing - had a big hit w i t h 'Reasons To Be Cheerful'. F o r the life of me, I couldn't t h i n k of one.

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Ian D u r y , badly crippled by p o l i o as a c h i l d , never gave anything but his best in concert. He h a d passed on too. E v e r y b o d y of fucking note h a d . I finished my d r i n k , headed out and said to the lone sentry, ' G o d mind you well.' He never l o o k e d up f r o m his pint, said, ' G o d , like the rest of the slick bastards, m o v e d to a tax haven.' W h a t to say? Save think of what R o n n i e Scott said to V a n M o r r i s o n , ' Y o u ' v e made a happy m a n very o l d . '

218

19 'And then he assigns you his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.' K h a l i l G i b r a n , The Prophet

My l i m p had been acting up and I figured a decent w a l k might ease the ache. I took the route that leads to G r a t t a n R o a d . But first I went to the D o m i n i c a n church, to see O u r L a d y of G a l w a y . W h e n I'd sheltered f r o m the rain and met Father R a l p h I'd never given her a second thought, so if I made

up

for

the

lapse

now,

who

knew,

maybe

she'd

Madonna.

There

is

appreciate it. A

seventeenth-century

Italian

a

mother-of-pearl bead in her h a n d , given by a fisherman. H e r c r o w n was presented by the first ever C a t h o l i c m a y o r of G a l w a y in 1683. She was literally buried w h e n the waves of persecution began. I love the altar surrounding her, it shows a C l a d d a g h boat, St N i c h o l a s , patron saint of G a l w a y , St E n d a , venerated on the A r a n Islands. It is said that if a real G a l w e g i a n asks her help, she w i l l grant it.

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So I asked, ' W h a t am I supposed to d o ? ' Waited, then decided that w a l k i n g was the only thing I was able to do just now. I blessed myself, then headed o n , moved along Grattan R o a d , glancing to the right at the abandoned lighthouse. M a y b e I could rent that and put the isolation in its proper place. I reached the aquarium. I'd never been inside. Perhaps they had displays of the poisoned water. Beside it was Seapoint b a l l r o o m . My m i n d attempted to recapture those glory days of the showbands: The Regal, The C a p i t o l , The C l i p p e r C a r l t o n , The Indians, The R o y a l , The M i a m i . Dressed in blazers a n d pants w i t h actual creases, those guys played three-hour sessions, and the c r o w d loved them. I'm not going into some rap about a more innocent time, but the fact we k n e w less seemed to suit us better. N o w w e k n o w everything and talk t o nobody. A priest w o u l d p a t r o l outside to ensure l e w d behaviour didn't occur.

If only we knew, we should have

been

p a t r o l l i n g the priests. As I hit the promenade proper, I gazed out at the ocean. It never failed to make me yearn. F o r what? America, love, peace?

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I don't k n o w , but it was like b a l m to my tired s o u l . It didn't quiet the voices in my head that had the same refrain of reminding, re-telling, reprimanding the trash I was. Once a cop . . . Those instincts never fully leave y o u . I'd been aware for the past ten minutes of a sleek black B M W t r a c k i n g me. Sawyer's men? Payback? The Sig was to h a n d . I was ready and be-jaysus, I was willing. I kept w a l k i n g , replaying my most recent conversation w i t h Stewart, his anger at my insistence that we were dealing w i t h the D e v i l . He even asked if I'd checked for the number 666. I'd laughed out l o u d , said, 'He's b a l d , h o w hard w o u l d it be to l o o k ? ' T h e n I added, venom spilling all over my w o r d s , ' Y o u saw The Omen and bought the glitz version.' He didn't k n o w what I meant so I t o l d h i m . H o l l y w o o d versus Revelation. A n d read out the actual passage f r o m Revelation, 13, 16-18: 'And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a hiark in their right hand, or in their

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foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred three score and six.' He was confused and I said, ' T h e number 666 is the m a r k of the beast, not of Satan!' The B M W stopped, the back door opened a n d a voice said, 'Get i n . ' C a u t i o u s l y I bent d o w n and there was Superintendent Clancy. Once my best friend, but my lethal adversary for a long time. In my last case, I had saved the life of his c h i l d and he owed me. I k n e w he hated that, the debt. I got i n , closed the door. Sitting in the front were t w o G u a r d s , plain clothes. O n e I didn't k n o w , but the other, he had beaten me to a p u l p the year before. He was k n o w n as T o m the T h u g . It fitted. I said, ' H o w ' s the hurting biz. T o m m y ? ' He didn't reply, but I c o u l d see his neck redden f r o m temper. C l a n c y said, ' A l w a y s w i t h the m o u t h . Jack?' Jack. F o r years, it had always been Taylor. I l o o k e d at h i m . He was in f u l l regalia, the deep-navy Commander's r i g , w i t h medals pinned on the right collar. H e ' d been carrying a lot of weight the last time we met, but

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seemed to have g r o w n even larger, his stomach pressed against the tight tunic. H i s jowls testified to rich dinners w i t h the lads and layers of fat had n a r r o w e d his eyes into slits. I asked, 'Life treating y o u good?' He sighed and I k n e w he was w a i t i n g for me to ask about the boy, to r e m i n d h i m . I didn't. H e said, 'I was reliably informed y o u were going to A m e r i c a . ' I smiled, said, ' N o t that reliable, it seems.' Usually, at this stage in the proceedings, one of his men w o u l d have w a l l o p e d me, h a r d . H e said, 'Jack, we have the V o l v o racing competition c o m i n g to G a l w a y . O u t of all the cities in the w o r l d , we get to be the base. This means a huge influx of money, prestige, tourists, puts us on the w o r l d stage.' He paused, shot his hand out, adjusted the cufflink on his snow-white shirt. W h o the fuck wears cufflinks any more and more to the point, w h y ? I swear, they had the G a r d a crest on them. I had a real hard time not to burst into R o d Stewart's 'Sailing',

but that w o u l d have definitely gotten me a

hammering. H e continued, ' N o w Jack, h o w w o u l d it sound to the w o r l d media if some eejit were running r o u n d m a k i n g w i l d accusations about Satanic murders and'such crazy talk as that?'

225

i

KEN BRUEN

I said, ' I ' m guessing the Tourist B o a r d w o u l d n ' t be happy w i t h such an i n d i v i d u a l . ' He turned his beady eyes on me, said, ' Y o u ' v e got it arseways as usual. Jack. Y o u ' r e forever bleating about not l i k i n g o u r new G a l w a y but it's the other w a y r o u n d , G a l w a y doesn't like y o u , I don't like y o u and the f u c k i n g T o u r i s t B o a r d is p r e p a r e d to ship y o u out themselves.' T o m laughed out l o u d , nudged his mate and they snickered in unison. C l a n c y said, 'Get the fuck out of t o w n , and this w a r n i n g as opposed to other . . . measures . . . means our slate is clean, am I clear?' 'Yes, sir.' He made a bone-breaking noise w i t h his fingers, said, 'Get the hell out of my car and remember, next time I'll send T o m alone.' I was not fully out of the car when the driver put it in gear and roared off. I fell on to the pavement, shouted like the s h o w bands always d i d , ' G o o d n i g h t and G o d bless.' I suppose in the interests of truth I'd have to a d m i t that I'd been to see Sawyer but h a d been h o l d i n g off on recounting it. I'm not ashamed of it, it needed to be done, but the stuff about his daughters, spoilt or otherwise, made me hesitate to relate the event, the reason w h y I'd expected Sawyer and not C l a n c y i n that sleek B M W . In t r u t h , it comes to the same deal.

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THE DEVIL

Thugs and bulhes. Save one wore a u n i f o r m . It was almost too easy to get to h i m . Arrogance breeds stupidity and he had both. In buckets. H e ' d played his usual r o u n d of golf, seemed mightily pleased w i t h his o w n self. H a d the customary d r i n k w i t h his buddies after, picked up the tab. Just one of the guys, and generous w i t h it. Except he k i c k e d the l i v i n g shite out of a Ban G a r d a . M y Ban Garda. Dressed in a cashmere sweater a n d , I swear to G o d , a cravat and pleated golfing pants, he was w h i s t l i n g as he headed for his car. A l l was h u n k y fucking dory in this cat's w o r l d . L o o k e d momentarily puzzled as his driver didn't bounce to open the car door. The driver was out c o l d in the back seat. I came up behind Sawyer, smashed his face into the door, broke the fingers of his right h a n d , the gun nuzzled against the base of his neck, and said in a whisper, 'Once, only once am I going to give y o u this message.' Paused. ' Y o u r three spoilt brats of daughters bully a c h i l d again,' I pushed the barrel of the gun harder into his neck, 'I w i l l k i l l y o u , your wife, and then I'll take a decent l o o k at your three precious darlings.' Then I cold-cocked the sucker and got the fuck out of there.

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W h o says golf chills y o u out? The papers reported the Sawyer shooting, the consensus being ' d r u g related'. Ireland today had so m a n y drug shootings, even the o l d reliable drive-by gig didn't w a r r a n t the front page any more. The Cheltenham Race Festival had begun and fears of the recession affecting the number of Irish w h o usually travelled over to it seemed u n f o u n d e d . To the great relief of the Brits. The Paddy pound, as they termed it, meant a huge source of income to the tiny E n g l i s h t o w n . T h e y didn't like us any better, but they sure as hell were glad of the Irish insane gambling spirit. It wasn't just the betting, the Irish l i k e d to party and their parties were the stuff of m y t h . L i k e the Oscars on meth and Jameson. Publicity wise. Sawyer got shot the w r o n g week. The lead singer of the Devil's M i n i o n s , n o b o d y gave - forgive the p u n - a toss. Trash was tossed in the canal every night. Sawyer h a d , to stay w i t h the racing terminology, f o r m . Or as the Americans say, ' H e was a person of interest.' D i d I feel any remorse? D i d I fuck. Ridge phoned me a few days after, asked if we c o u l d meet for a coffee. I asked if I had to gear u p .

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THE DEVIL

She thought I meant clothes. We met in Cafe du J o u r n a l on Q u a y Street. Does it get more Irish.' The place was packed and we had to wait for ten minutes to get a table. Recession? N o t for the designer-coffee crew, or maybe the news hadn't filtered d o w n yet. Or perhaps, f o l l o w i n g the government's lead, they just didn't give a fuck. St Patrick's D a y was l o o m i n g and the government, in the midst of the worst crisis we had faced in twenty years, awarded themselves a twelve-day holiday. St Patrick h a d obviously seriously screwed up the r i d d i n g of-snakes gig. Ridge l o o k e d w e l l . Despite her recent beating, she had an almost healthy glow. M a k e - u p had disguised most of the fading bruises. She was dressed in a tweed suit, as befits the wife of a L o r d . I c o u l d see black shadows under her eyes though. No make-up is that effective. I k n o w shadows, and not just beneath my eyes. I lied, said, ' Y o u l o o k great.' She lied right back. 'You too.' Getting a table finally near the door, we ordered lattes f r o m the extremely affable Polish waitress. Ridge declined a D a n i s h and me, of course, I don't do sweet.

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N e v e r one to preamble, she launched in w i t h , 'I see Mr Sawyer had some bother.' O n e way of putting it, I suppose. I nodded. She knew, let a silence b u i l d , then, 'Thanks.' I gave her my fake smile, admitting nothing. She was still a Guard. The coffee came, lots of froth. I asked the waitress, ' T h i n k you c o u l d hit that w i t h a double espresso?' Gave me the radiant smile of another caffeine fiend, said, 'I think we c o u l d manage that.' Ridge sipped at hers, I just k n e w she couldn't let it slide, said, ' A l w a y s the rush: I c o u l d play, went, ' D o n ' t tell me, the movie w i t h Jason Patric and Jennifer Jason L e i g h . N o t a lot of people k n o w this, but Pete Dexter d i d the screenplay.' M o v i e buffs like that k i n d of small print. Ridge didn't. I think the last movie she saw was The Quiet Man. But Jesus, she'd had the crap beaten out of her by a thug, so I said, 'The rush, the edginess, it's what I'm used t o . ' Surprise, surprise, she let it go, asked, ' H o w was your dinner w i t h C a r l ? ' I had a lot of answers that didn't contain civility, so I said.

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THE DEVIL

' D i d n ' t develop along the lines I'd anticipated. He speaks very highly of y o u , t h o u g h . ' H e r face darkened, like a c l o u d crept behind her eyes and lodged there. She asked, ' C a n I be honest?' It w o u l d have been cheap to take a cheap shot. I took it, said, 'Isn't that part of your job description?' W o u n d e d her and she l o o k e d away. I said, 'Tell me.' She was t o r n between w a l l o p i n g me and fear. N e v e r an easy choice. She began, ' A n t h o n y has money problems. He had to sell the horses and those thoroughbreds w i l l go to the knacker's y a r d . He had to sell some land too. The upkeep on the estate is ferocious, we even had to let three of the staff go.' M y heart bled. Sell the horses? Let the staff go? M o s t of the frigging country couldn't put fuel in their lighters, never m i n d their cars. She faltered for a moment then reached in her purse, took out a small gold b o x . F l i p p e d it like a p r o , took out a p i l l and s w a l l o w e d it, washing it d o w n w i t h the latte. I had but a fleeting glimpse of the p i l l but I k n o w me pharmaceuticals. V a h u m 10. N o t yer 5, yer 10. M o t h e r ' s little helper. "

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I didn't comment, waited while she let the V a l do its w o r k , weave its artificial magic. My serious coffee arrived and I took a serious slug of it. Bhss. H a d instant heart palpitations. L o c k and l o a d . I thought of me Sig, nestled in the waistband of me jeans. N e v e r leave home w i t h o u t one. M i n e was the g r o w n - u p m o d e l , 226. Recently revised to carry fifteen rounds of 9 m m Parabellum a m m o . Y o u get what y o u pay for. L i k e the militants' new promise, maybe? She finally continued and I had to put aside childish things. H e r eyes had that V - g l o w w h i c h delights Roche, Bayer, a n d all the other legal dope moguls. She continued, ' C a r l showed up, he has such magnificent plans for the estate and he is, as y o u k n o w , so c h a r m i n g . ' I stayed quiet, t h i n k i n g , Charming? ' H e seemed the answer to our prayers.' M a d e y o u wonder w h o they prayed to. 'We were so relieved. Jennifer, Anthony's daughter, w o u l d be able to keep her p o n y and so naturally we invited h i m to stay w i t h us.'

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THE DEVIL

She took a hit of the latte, maybe the V a l gave it a blast, went o n , ' C a r l l i k e d y o u so m u c h . Jack, said he c o u l d get y o u into A m e r i c a , and I was so delighted.' Being the renowned PI I a m , I asked, 'And?' She l o o k e d truly scared now, then said, 'It was a few days after the dinner party. I was t i d y i n g u p . That makes A n t h o n y cross, he says that is the duty of the help, but I suppose y o u can't escape y o u r u p b r i n g i n g . ' I was w o n d e r i n g h o w she'd feel about sharing some of the V a l . She said, 'I had some fresh towels for C a r l . I thought he'd gone shooting w i t h A n t h o n y . They like to get an early start w h i l e the pheasants are resting.' No doubt a peasant w o u l d suffice if the birds had f l o w n the c o o p . She went o n , 'I entered his r o o m and he was there. Stark n a k e d . ' N o t an image I wanted to cling to. She asked, ' Y o u k n o w h o w bald he is?' I thought it depended where and w h e n y o u met h i m . T h e n , she seemed to physically shrink, said, ' H e was c o m b i n g long b l o n d golden hair. I thought it was a w i g . I was so shocked, I d r o p p e d the towels.' She squeezed her eyes tight shut for a moment, then said, ' H e turned, smiled at me, asked, " W o u l d y o u like to touch it?'" H e r voice n o w a little stronger, she said,

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'I thought he meant his hair, t i l l I saw . . . M o t h e r of my heart, his . . . phallus. Erect and monstrous.' She buried her face in her hands, weeping softly. I reached over, took her hands, said, 'It's O K . I k n o w w h o he is.' T h a t seemed to help her, a n d worse, she was grateful. She said, 'Jack, oh Jesus, Jack, w h e n he appeared that evening for dinner - A n t h o n y likes a f o r m a l sit d o w n w h e n we have guests, produces his finest vintage wine - C a r l was dressed in a f o r m a l suit and was completely bald. T h e n he looked right at me and . . . w i n k e d . ' The waitress, concerned, appeared, asked, 'Is everything all right.'' I gave her my best smile - it's a blend of thank y o u and fuck off - said, 'Absolutely, my friend here just got p r o m o t e d to Sergeant in the G u a r d s . ' Cops.' She took off. T h i s was a people w h o ' d believed in L e c h Walesa. We got out of there a n d Ridge produced a pack of Silk C u t , lit one w i t h a trembling h a n d , apologized w i t h 'I k n o w , I shouldn't be s m o k i n g . ' I took one, lit up, said, ' N i c o t i n e is the least of our problems.' As we w a l k e d towards the Spanish A r c h , she l i n k e d my arm. It felt g o o d .

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THE DEVIL

She asked, 'So w h o is he, J a c k ? ' I said, ' W r o n g question. N o t w h o . . . whatV We reached the memorial there near the bridge to the lost seamen, a n d I said that some people just liked to see everything b u r n . She asked if that was one of Stewart's Z e n lines. ' N o , it's M i c h a e l Caine in The Dark Knight: We watched the swans for a while and her face was like a little girl's, her delight in those creatures as basic as g o o d nature. She l o o k e d at her watch, nice s l i m g o l d Patek P h i l i p p e . A n t h o n y obviously still had some funds. She said, 'I'm on duty soon.' I nodded, feeling the o l d pang for the career I'd lost. ' W h a t are we going to d o . Jack?' I stayed w i t h the same movie, said, ' K i l l the batman.'

235

J

20 'God's humour tends to the dark side of life. KB

^

I've also been h o l d i n g off about Father R a l p h . Why? Because I l i k e d h i m . W h e n M a l a c h y t o l d me of his demise, I was utterly lost. Fd never expected to meet a priest I not only l i k e d but respected, and I'd truly thought I c o u l d relate this earlier. I couldn't. Does it seem out of synch? That's h o w it felt and that's h o w it w i l l always feel. I can o n l y tell it after time has put some distance there. If I hadn't met h i m , I'm in no doubt he'd be still alive. That's a given. So perhaps y o u can understand w h y I'm teUing this in flashback - or in truth, in cowardice. Plus it gives a feel of h o w X a n a x and booze and the D e v i l distort everything. W o r k s for P a u l Auster, so w h o am I to argue?

239 J

KEN BRUEN

The m o r n i n g started w i t h all that l u r i n g promise of an Irish fine day. Y o u k n o w i t w o n ' t last. Dress lightly and y u p , y o u ' l l be drenched in jig time. But y o u buy into this crap. Why? Otherwise y o u ' d believe it rains all the time. It does. I was h a v i n g me m o r n i n g coffee - none of that latte shite, a double espresso and no sugar. Was it bitter? L i k e me heart. I was going through the bookcases, trying to f i n d an answer to C a r l , to K u r t , to the D e v i l . Settled on this f r o m that bastion of depressed priests, St Augustine: Everyone who knows that he is doubting, knows something that is true, and about the thing he knows, he is certain. Everyone therefore, who doubts whether there is truth, has something true in himself, which he may not doubt. I sat back, mused on this, sipped at the coffee and w o n d e r e d if a X a n a x w o u l d clarify it. D i d the X anyway and brewed more caffeine. The sun was still c o n n i n g us, of that I c o u l d be certain, so I headed out after the X k i c k e d i n . H o w l o n g since I'd been in a church? Let's say they still used the L a t i n version of the M a s s , was when.

240

THE DEVIL

W h a t drove me in? N o , not Augustine, I'm certain. R a i n and desperation. I'd been feeding the swans. As a G a l w e g i a n , there are certain things y o u d o : 1. Talk shite. 2. N e v e r answer a question. 3. Stay the fuck away f r o m notions. 4. Feed the swans. The heavens opened and d o w n came teeming torrents. A n d yeah, I'd bought into the c o n of the early sun. Was w e a r i n g a light wind-breaker, T-shirt featuring Barack, my perennial 501s, Converse trainers and no hat. No w a r n i n g , of course, so y o u c o u l d dive for shelter. Just

lashed

down

like

the

last

refrain

church

has

always

of the

song

'Expectation'. The

Claddagh

been

one

of me

favourites. T h e D o m i n i c a n s had done one w o n d r o u s job on the restoration. The church was nigh on empty. O n e bent-over o l d lady d o i n g the Stations of the Cross. She seemed transfixed on the seventh. I lit candles for my dead. T h a t t o o k a time, not to mention a fair w h a c k of E u r o s . I was drenched, r a i n leaking f r o m my hair d o w n into the collar of my T. As I knelt before the array of candles, I tried to s u m m o n up the right prayer. I had n o t h i n g , save ' G o d m i n d ye w e l l . ' Least I meant it.

241

KEN BRUEN

I t o o k a p e w near the altar, and like the government, decided to sit out the deluge. I never heard the priest a p p r o a c h . T h e y ' d become the stealth bombers of our n a t i o n . T h a t or be crucified. He gave me a start. R e a l i z i n g , he said, ' G o d forgive me, I didn't mean to give y o u a fright.' W a y too easy to utter, Ye've been doing it for centuries. I nodded. Wetly. H e was t a l l , m i d fifties, f u l l head o f white hair, t h i n , i n need of spuds and bacon. I said, ' I ' m used to frights.' He gave a lovely smile. T h e n asked if he might sit for a m o m e n t w i t h me. If he w a n t e d money, he'd have to raid the candle gig. I said, 'Your church.' Sounded more bitter than I intended, but I was wet and c o l d and not in need of a h o m i l y . The Waltons were on D V D if I needed that shite. The smile again - c o u l d get on your nerves a bit. He said, ' G o d ' s , actually.' W r o n g p r o g r a m m e . I s h o u l d have said Little House on the

Prairie.

He indicated the barrage of candles. ' Y o u must have a long list.' I c o u l d have said, And you have a long fucking nose.

242

THE DEVIL

But it was a church. To rattle h i m , or just the bad d r o p in me, I said, T m trying t o neutralize fifty black ones someone lit i n m y home.' Worked. H e was rattled. 'Mother of G o d . ' I don't in fairness think he c o u l d lay it on her. I didn't reply, so he asked, ' W h y on God's blessed earth w o u l d somebody do such a..: He couldn't f i n d an adequate description so I supplied, 'Diabolical?' N i c e to help a priest and gets y o u all kinds of good shit in the hereafter. I even added, ' A fiend.' He was n o d d i n g , Hke he c o u l d see it, said, 'Exactly. That's precisely the t e r m . ' A priest tells you that you're so correct, watch yer wallet. As I was on a clerical r o H , so to speak, I said, 'Left a headless dog too.' That d i d h i m in entirely. H o r r i f i e d , he made the sign of the cross. 'In Ainm an Athair, An

Mhic,

Agus, An

Sirioaid

Naoimh:

Said it a l o u d in Irish, In the N a m e of the Father . . . I was impressed w i t h his Irish. He spoke like a native speaker.

243

KEN BRUEN

They were as rare as decency. I c o u l d see he was w o n d e r i n g if perhaps joining me had been such a smart move. There was just us t w o in the church now. The o l d w o m a n had packed it in on the eleventh Station, and w h o c o u l d blame her? H e ventured, ' M i g h t I pry into what in God's heaven w o u l d possess a person to do such an act?' Possess? H o w apt. I t o l d h i m most of the story, omitting my . . . retaliation. I k n o w the clergy is big on retribution, but retaliation? I painted a fairly comprehensive picture of Carl/Kurt and his m i n i o n s . H e muttered, 'The Devil's m i n i o n s . ' I almost slipped. Good name for a rock band, yah think? Instead, I concluded w i t h , 'There is a Ban G a r d a - actually a Sergeant n o w - and she can verify everything I've t o l d y o u , lest y o u think I'm a raving l u n a t i c ' It wasn't that he didn't hear me, he clearly d i d , but in his face, something had changed. He was remembering something he had hidden and wished it had stayed thus. My d r i p p i n g clothes had formed a p o o l of water at our feet. He stood and said, ' Y o u p o o r m a n , you're drenched and perished. C o m e o n , I'll get y o u a towel in the Sacristy.'

244

THE DEVIL

The inner sanctum. D a n B r o w n , eat yer heart out. C o u l d be, he intended calling the G u a r d s . I f o l l o w e d h i m along the altar, genuflected w h e n he d i d before the H o l y Sacrament and remembered a lovely line, ' W a l k gently as y o u w a l k on H o l y g r o u n d . ' He opened a heavy oak door, ushered me i n . Took a set of keys f r o m his cassock, bent d o w n , fiddled w i t h a lock and then produced not only a fine thick towel but, get this, a bottle of Bushmills and not just any o l d Bush, Black Bushmills, the holy grail of Irish whiskey t w o heavy glass tumblers, made of G a l w a y crystal a n d , I shit thee not, w i t h angels on the sides. I dried me hair as he poured healthy measures into the glasses, handed me one, said, Ts feidir Horn: M a d e me smile. W h a t Barack said to our prime minister on St Paddy's Day. 'I am able.' W o u l d that we were. M y k i n d o f priest. I said, 'Bheannacht leat fein: (Blessing o n yerself.) A d d e d , ' N o offence, but you're not the usual . . . h o w should I term it . . . clergy I'm used t o . ' I put out my hand, said, 'Jack Taylor.' He h a d a f i r m grip in more ways than one, said,

245

J

KEN BRUEN

'Father Raphael - after the Archangel of H e a l i n g - but most people call me R a l p h . ' Pity it wasn't M i c h a e l , w h o smote the d e m o n , but y o u take w h a t y o u get, like Bushmills. T h e n a light went off in his eyes and he asked, 'Jack Taylor, w h o saved the swans?' Saved is overstating it. T h r o u g h luck really, and a lot of sitting under N e m o ' s pier on miserable nights, I caught a psycho w h o was k i l l i n g those beautiful creatures. I, shall we say, smote h i m . Last I heard, the said nutter was a doctor. G o figure. R a l p h and I drank in w h a t might have passed as comfortable silence. G i v e me Black Bushmills, I'm comfortable. He was taking my measure. G o o d luck w i t h that. L o n g as he wasn't measuring out the Bushmills in the same way. I could wait. Then, 'I spent a lot of time in A f r i c a , Jack, back in the days w h e n priests were welcome. I saw a lot of things that don't have w h a t y o u ' d call a rational explanation.' The recollection was h u r t i n g h i m , but he had a glass of the best, so he continued, 'I was d o w n in the townships, in J o ' b u r g , and . . .' He stopped. Poured us d a m n nigh lethal measures, then went o n .

246

THE DEVIL

'There was a rash of kilHngs there. N o w bear in m i n d that kilhngs and violence were, G o d forgive me, commonplace, but these were different. Y o u n g men and w o m e n were being k i l l e d , gutted and . . .' He took a large sip, very large. M e too. 'Headless dogs were sometimes f o u n d in the bellies of the deceased.' N o w it was like every breath of air had been sucked f r o m the r o o m . A n d that t o happen o n H o l y ground.' He t o o k a deep breath, said, 'Jack, the natives - decent, lovely people - t o l d me that the y o u n g people, the ones w h o . . . the ones w h o were butchered h a d been spending time w i t h a m a n they referred to as M o n s i e u r K . ' I had . . . nothing. As Mr K might have put it, 'Rien: Save a w a r m g l o w f r o m the fine booze. But I asked, ' W h a t happened.'' He gave a resigned sigh, said, ' M o n s i e u r K disappeared. T h e killings stopped and I prayed to G o d I'd never hear of h i m again.' He was a priest - f r o m w h a t I c o u l d tell, an intelligent, level-headed, compassionate m a n . In my experience, such a person got fucked, one way or another. Y o u w a n t to prosper? Treat the w o r l d like the shite it is, then maybe, one day, if

247

KEN BRUEN

y o u meet a decent person, fuck h i m first. But here was a m a n grounded in faith, taught Theology for what, seven years? A n d what do I k n o w , maybe even Metaphysics. He k n e w stuff, had been freaking educated in it, so I asked, ' W h a t d o y o u think now. Father . . . I mean, R a l p h . This

is

way

beyond

coincidence,

not

to

mention

serendipity.' H e nodded, said, 'Tis sad, tis true, that's the H o l y all of i t . ' H e was fucking k i d d i n g . T h a t air of resignation. W h e r e was the fight? I mean, if the clergy hadn't an answer to e v i l , w h a t the hell was a poor bastard like me meant to do? Pray? D o the Lotto? I wanted to shake h i m , demand a solution. He was a priest, our m o r a l guardian, and if he gave i n , w h a t hope d i d the rest of us p o o r schmucks have? But he was so visibly shaken, I eased on me ferocity, took the bottle, gave h i m a blast. He didn't even seem to notice. The Sacristy had a beautiful stained-glass w i n d o w and n o w a beam of light shone through. Y o u read a significance there? Just Irish weather. I said, 'The r a i n has stopped, I s h o u l d go.'

248

THE DEVIL

I put the towel on the back of the chair, put out my h a n d , said, ' T h a n k s , R a l p h , you've restored a lot of me faith in the Church.' He w a l k e d me out, not saying a w o r d . Outside, the sun having reappeared, the C l a d d a g h Basin never l o o k e d so lovely. For form's sake more than anything else, I asked, ' A n y suggestions?' I k n o w defeat and despair, a n d it was m i r r o r e d here, and w h a t had he got but cliche? H e took it. I don't blame h i m . H e said, ' A s k G o d to r i d us of this pestilence.' I l i k e d h i m , you've gathered that, but Jesus, I couldn't let it go. I couldn't. A s k e d , ' A n d if G o d lets more y o u n g people get k i l l e d ? ' He reached in his cassock, p u l l e d out his rosary beads like a coke head in need of the connection, muttered, 'Jack, we have to believe. Faith is what sustains us.' Sounded just like the government. I said, 'I have other options.'

249

21 'Always trust what your heart knows.' Hafiz

Father R a l p h was seriously disturbed by the encounter w i t h Jack Taylor. A n d he felt that he h a d failed h i m . Fie went back into the church to say a decade of the rosary for the poor m a n . He was startled to see a man in the front row. A m a n w i t h long golden tresses. F o r a brief moment, he thought he'd imbibed too m u c h of the Bushmills. It almost l o o k e d like Jesus! M u c h as he'd always wished for divine intervention, he hadn't necessarily wanted it so directly. W i t h o u t turning, the man said in some k i n d of foreignaccented E n g l i s h , 'Rest easy, priest, I'm not the pale Nazarene.' The urge to flee was paramount, but he drew on his w i l l and the Bushmills. By G o d , he w o u l d not be intimidated in his o w n church. The m a n h a d his feet up on the connecting pew, totally at his ease. He said, 'Take a l o a d off, RalpKy, come j o i n me.'

253

KEN BRUEN

R a l p h approached s l o w l y a n d the m a n turned to l o o k at him. Y e l l o w eyes. It wasn't possible. T h e m a n patted the seat, said, ' I ' m not going to bite y o u . . . yet.' R a l p h stood in front of h i m , and had to admire the sheer quality of the suit. The m a n said, ' A l l o w me to introduce myself.' and laughed, said, ' L i k e the Stones song.' R a l p h felt a c o l d breeze rush d o w n the aisle and nearly k n o c k h i m over. He steadied himself, asked, 'Is there something I can help y o u w i t h ? ' The m a n ran his fingers through his hair, almost a sensuous gesture, said, ' Y o u thought I couldn't enter a c h u r c h . ' T h e n reached in his immaculate suit, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one w i t h a slim gold lighter, f r o w n e d and asked, 'Is it OK to smoke in the house of the dead Jew?' Before R a l p h c o u l d answer, the m a n blew a perfect r i n g towards h i m and said, 'I feel y o u were of little solace to our mutual f r i e n d . ' R a l p h was more terrified than he'd ever been in his w h o l e life. N o t even the bad days of the t o w n s h i p had affected h i m like this. The m a n said,

254

THE DEVIL

' A h , the t o w n s h i p , n o w wasn't that a happening burg?' T h e n asked, ' C a t got y o u r tongue, priest?' R a l p h finally managed to say, ' I ' m going to call the G u a r d s . ' The m a n stood up, flicked his cigarette at Ralph's cassock, said, 'I think it's about five yards to the Sacristy, sure y o u want to risk it?' H e didn't. R a l p h , despite himself, sank d o w n into the seat. The m a n smiled and said, 'Let me tell y o u a story. A parable, I think y o u guys call them?' R a l p h n o d d e d , muttered, 'Parables, yes, that's right.' The m a n reached over, touched R a l p h on the face, the touch hke the hand of the cemetery, said, 'See, we're b o n d i n g , already we've got us a dialogue going.' He gave a smile, like the worst k i n d of madness, said, ' T h i n g is, priest, I have a special thing for our Mr Taylor. He has, mainly through bumbling, upset some playtime I h a d . ' R a l p h wanted to move, to r u n , but he felt paralysed. The man said, ' A n d y o u , priest, filling his head w i t h nonsense, w i t h halfheard stories, n o w he is going to be even more of an irritant than I'd anticipated.' He moved closer to R a l p h , said,

255

KEN BRUEN

'But all this seems very heavy, am I right?' R a l p h tried to smile and hoped maybe the lunatic was going to leave, but the m a n said, 'I get a very bad press, and really, I'm a fun guy. Y o u like tricks, R a l p h y ? ' R a l p h managed to utter a yes. He knew if y o u c o u l d keep a psycho on your side, y o u had a shot. The m a n said, ' W o n d e r f u l , I do love a player. W a t c h this.' A n d clicked his fingers. A noose appeared above the statue of Saint Jude. Last resort of hopeless cases. 'Just for the hell of it, you're going to hop on up there, put that a r o u n d your ecclesiastical neck and swing as if y o u meant i t . ' R a l p h felt his limbs move and he was w a l k i n g towards St Jude. The m a n said, ' S w i n g for the sinner, d a d d y - o . ' Outside, the man stood for a moment, re-living h o w Taylor had fucked up his little diversion of the boy w h o ' d been beheading swans. An

elderly

woman

approached,

looked

towards

the

church and asked, ' W o u l d y o u k n o w if Father R a l p h is in residence?' He gave her his most c h a r m i n g smile, said, 'He's a little tied up right n o w . ' She

looked

crestfallen

and

deliberately more foreign.

256

he

asked,

his

accent

THE DEVIL

' Y o u are C a t h o l i c , no?' She was indignant, said, ' B o r n and bred, and p r o u d of it.' O o z i n g c h a r m , he asked, 'I'm a stranger to your country a n d , forgive me, to your religion.' She was t h i n k i n g , Protestant, they can't even speak right.

But

she

was

prepared

to

be

Christian.

She

said, 'Tis not your fault.' He had to force himself not to laugh, said, ' Y o u might be able to help w i t h me w i t h a question about your faith.' She was delighted. Jesus and H i s H o l y M o t h e r , she might make a convert. She said, ' A s k away.' 'They say - please forgive my E n g l i s h , but suicide is the one unforgivable sin in your belief?' She nodded furiously, said, ' O h that's the big one, no c o m i n g back f r o m that one, damned for all eternity.' He m o v e d right up to her, and she thought his breath smelled funny, like wilted flowers. He said, ' T h e n if y o u w i l l pardon my French, your Father R a l p h is fucked.' On St Patrick's Day, a young student named, yes, Sarah, was found murdered in Eyre Square. D i d n ' t stop the parade, biit O K , d i d delay it a little.

257

J

KEN BRUEN

The head of a dog was f o u n d resting - gently, they tell me - on her gutted stomach. That's w h e n I finally decided to k i l l Carl/Kurt. I was in my apartment w h e n I heard the news. G o t the call f r o m Stewart. Brief. But then what was there to say? I c o u l d already hear the brass bands, inevitable police sirens, ceilidh music, all intermingled as the madness of St Paddy's D a y got into f u l l w h o o p . We never needed an excuse, but if it was legit to get pissed, it got my vote. 1 began to clean the Sig. A clean gun is like prayer - it might not do the job, but you're en route. I had me one sharp knife, a throwback to my glory days of the swans, and it's sharp as a nun on her second sherry. I carved crosses on to the head of the bullets. M a k e s them Hke h o l l o w points and it seemed appropriate. I was all out of silver bullets and gee, guess what, they're a w h o r e to f i n d . M o s t l y I needed a bloody miracle. I lit another cig, and my mobile shrilled. Answered. 'Jacques, comment qa vaV I said, as I jammed the cartridge into the Sig, 'La

Feile Padraig:

'Excusez

moir

'It's Irish for H a p p y St Patrick's D a y . ' A pause, then,

258

THE DEVIL

' H o w lovely, and h o w fitting w i t h my rather excellent news.' I put the cig in the ashtray, asked, ' W h a t news is that, good buddy.-*' He gave that viper laugh, I c o u l d feel the iciness over the line, said, ' Y o u are going to the U S of A . Felicitations, mon frere: I c o u l d laugh or puke. Went, 'When.'' He caught the curtness, said, ' M a y the thirteenth. Y o u are happy, n'est-ce pas}' ' D e l i r i o u s , but I owe y o u , bro. Where are you staying? I'd like to show my real appreciation.' A g a i n the laugh, but w i t h a somewhat dulled vigour. 'I've been w i t h A n t h o n y and his delightful wife, but as y o u k n o w , guests are like fish, they stink after three days.' The emphasis on stink was not lost. I looked out at the nuns' convent, held the gun up against the faint light, asked, 'So, y o u are staying?' He gave a theatrical sigh, said, 'I have the penthouse at the M e y r i c k . A r e y o u familiar w i t h it?' I said, 'So sorry that poor girl was murdered almost on your doorstep.' Formerly the

Great Southern,

the

M e y r i c k overlooked

Eyre Square. H i s tone n o w in a different arena, he said, 'Quel

dommage:

259

KEN BRUEN

I pushed, said, ' A n d a dog's head, d a m n gruesome, don't y o u t h i n k ? ' R e a l granite c o m i n g d o w n the phone now. 'I never cared for les chiens: I upped my bright tone, asked, 'So C a r l , my benefactor, w o u l d t o m o r r o w at seven be suitable for a farewell dinner? My treat, of course. I'll wait for y o u in the lobby.' H i s blitz was back. 'Bien sur. W e ' l l have us a g o o d time.' I nearly added, ' I ' l l leave the d o g at h o m e . ' N o need t o tip m y h a n d . I hung up. Those t w o d a m n cigs I'd smoked w i t h Peg, the tinker lady, y o u got it, I was h o o k e d again. A d d to the m i x : Xanax, Jay, Guinness, and n o w fucking nicotine. Even had me a new Z i p p o . H o w ' d that happen? I'd had a few over me l i m i t and lit up, so to speak, I'd gone into H o l l a n d ' s . O n e of the few remaining o l d shops a n d still h o l d i n g , despite the recession. M a r y , a dote, had been there as long as I c o u l d remember. N o t once, ever, d i d I see the slightest dent in her natural g o o d humour. Jesus, she had to have her share of troubles, but d i d she once take it out on the customers?

260

THE DEVIL

Nope. A saint. She'd be mortified if you told her. I didn't. I bought a brass Z i p p o w i t h the C l a d d a g h emblem. M a r y offered to gift-wrap it. I said no, it w o u l d be fine. She said, 'I fuelled it for y o u . Jack.' If only they d i d M a r y in a patch, y o u c o u l d erase depression overnight. N o w I was c l i c k i n g it, l o v i n g that clunk that only a Z i p p o has. R a n g Stewart, asked, 'How's Aine?' He laughed, asked, ' Y o u write her name d o w n . J a c k ? ' E r . . . yes. ' C ' m o n Stewart, she's important to y o u , I k n o w her name.' A cynical laugh, then, 'What's u p ? ' Sounding Hke that o l d B u d advert. I said, 'I'm meeting C a r l , he's staying at the M e y r i c k , I'm b u y i n g h i m dinner.' 'The where?' 'Used to be the Great Southern, G e r r y Barrett owns it. He also owns the Eye cinema and the Benetton outlet, a n d E d w a r d Square is named after his d a d . ' H e said.

261

KEN BRUEN

'I k n o w Gerry, g o o d guy.' I asked as I used the Z i p to fire up, ' A n y o n e y o u don't k n o w ? ' Pause, then, 'Times are. Jack, I don't t h i n k I k n o w y o u at a l l . Hey, w h a t was that sound? A r e y o u s m o k i n g again?' W h a t was he going to d o , tell A i n e on me? I l i e d , ' Y o u f u c k i n g k i d d i n g me? Y o u k n o w h o w h a r d I f o u n d i t to q u i t . ' He let it slide, then, ' Y o u ' r e meeting w i t h h i m again? W h y ? ' I was a bit pissed about the cig remark so I hit back w i t h the t r u t h . ' I ' m going to k i l l h i m . ' Silence. Then, 'Jack, this is a joke, right? Please tell me you're not serious.' I t o l d h i m about Peg, the priest. Father R a p h a e l , South A f r i c a a n d , lest h e forget, his o w n responses t o M r K . I flicked the Z i p p o back a n d forth. Stewart h a d been a dope dealer, he k n e w the sound of addiction. I don't think I ever heard Stewart plead, not a trait y o u use w h e n you've done h a r d time in M o u n t j o y and y o u were a pretty boy going i n . H e pleaded now. 'Jack, listen to me, this is all conjecture. I'll admit there's some w e i r d stuff going o n , a n d sure, y o u can see a pattern

262

THE DEVIL

of some very bad k a r m a , but you've been doing a lot of dope, and I k n o w it's been a very b a d time w i t h not getting into A m e r i c a a n d a l l , b u t . . .' Pause. 'To cap a guy on speculation?' Cap? W h a t were we? Boyz in the f u c k i n ' hood? I reined in a w h o l e range of anger, assumed a patient tone, not easy for me, said, 'It has to end, Stewart.' He t o o k a deep breath, Z e n n i n g no doubt, and said, ' W h a t if you're w a y off base? Y o u ' r e going to k i l l a m a n on . . . on w h a t is probably a terrible set of coincidences, and I hate to say this. Jack, y o u r o w n peculiar p a r a n o i a . ' L o n g silence as we both measured w h a t we should say. I went w i t h , ' I ' m guessing y o u w o n ' t be available as back-up?' Deep distress in his voice, he said, ' A i n e is a very fine lawyer. Y o u ' r e going to need one.' I asked, ' W h a t makes y o u think I'll be caught?' Total resignation as he said, ' C o s , Jack, y o u fuck up everything.' H u n g up. He was the closest to a real male friend I h a d , so I figured I'd at least consider his point. I remembered a time, after I'd been t h r o w n out of the G u a r d s , I was d r i n k i n g like Behan in his last days and not giving a fuck. I met an A m e r i c a n in a p u b on Forster Street.

263

J

KEN BRUEN

In publishing, if I remember, and we got to chatting about the nature of evil. It was a pub, so w h a t ' d y o u expect.' He was editing a book on the supernatural and told me: 'It's k n o w n as horror. O c c u l t fiction. I call it the FurtherO u t genre, like in D a v i d L y n c h movies. You're in the middle of a crime story. But then the camera finds, say, a painting. Pushes into it. Turns a corner into the realm of the metaphysical. W h i c h , in the sense of the real origins of suspense, might actually take us closer than men w i t h guns ever c o u l d . Consider. Everyone

sees

things

out of the corner

of their eye.

Everyone has feelings that can't be explained. Everyone, to a certain extent, is afraid of the dark. The Further-Out genre speaks to this c o n d i t i o n . Reminds us that maybe, at essence, if a gun is pointed at y o u , it's not the bullet you're afraid of. You're afraid for y o u r s o u l . ' H i s name was J o h n something or other. I remember his w o r d s so clearly, as I was stunned a young guy c o u l d k n o w so m u c h . O v e r the years, I kept a vague track of his career and wasn't surprised he'd become an editor w i t h some major A m e r i c a n pubhsher. I w i s h I'd kept in t o u c h .

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I

22 'What ivarehouse of the soul awaits me now?' KB

H o w to dress for murder? Neatly. I put on me finest suit. T h a t it is me o n l y suit is a m i n o r quibble. N i c e clean shirt (charity shop) a n d a M a s o n i c tie I'd . . . er . . . acquired. C l o u d the issue. Some gel in me hair. Slicked. The Sig in me w a i s t b a n d . D r o p p e d t w o X , muttered, 'Time to k i l l . ' J o h n G r i s h a m needed the p r o m o . Bought a bottle of M o e t . See, y o u can teach an o l d dog new tricks, albeit expensive ones. I entered the hotel, asked for C a r l and was t o l d , 'Penthouse, top floor, y o u are expected.' The M a s o n i c tie? I wasn't sure if he'd meet me as the elevator opened.

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KEN BRUEN

Me experience of penthouses is a Httle Hmited. H e didn't. L o n g as I Hve, and that's always up for grabs, I was surprised the penthouse had a number. 101. M o s t hotels - forget the

stuff about not having a

thirteenth floor - never have a r o o m w i t h that number because of O r w e l l ' s 1984. T h a t r o o m is where y o u f i n d the t h i n g y o u are most afraid of. There is even a TV s h o w based on it, where celebrities get to d u m p their pet hates. T h e d o o r to the penthouse was open, so I went i n . I had no fixed plan as to h o w this was going to go d o w n . Basically, shoot the b o l l i x and r u n . Company. N o t i n m e plan. T w o gorgeous girls. Snorting coke, lines of it on a beautiful glass table. Washing it d o w n w i t h bubbly. C a r l appeared, in a silk dressing g o w n that the H e f w o u l d have been p r o u d of. Beaming, he said, 'Jack, meet the girls.' Ingrida and . . . yes, T r i c i a . Hookers. East Europe's best. I handed over the M o e t , he slapped my shoulder, said, ' Y o u k i l l me.' The guy had style - repellent, but fuck it, he had the moves. H e said, ' R o o m service is about to provide us w i t h a veritable feast.'

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THE DEVIL

D i d I do the decent thing? As in leave? No. I d i d the coke, had the amazing f o o d , the more a m a z i n g hooker, and come t w o in the m o r n i n g , sated, drunk, doped, the girls left. C a r l / K u r t , sprawled on the white leather sofa, his legs spread, eyes afire, said, ' Une nuit excellente: I took out the Sig, levelled it. H e smiled, said, ' A h Jacques, y o u disappoint. Is this the gratitude y o u express to y o u r bon ami, votre frereV I said, 'I was going to ask y o u to do the trick w i t h the b l o n d locks, but y o u k n o w ? W h o the fuck cares.' He gave that w i l d laugh, was m i d sentence, ' A h , the hair that i s — ' I shot h i m in the balls. First. T h e n , m o v i n g over, I shot h i m in the guts, said, 'Sorry, all out of dogs' heads.' I swear to C h r i s t , he was smiling, so I ended that by opening his m o u t h , shot h i m right in those terrific teeth. I checked his pulse, none. T h e n moved to his bedroom, took

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KEN BRUEN

the R o l e x , the M o n t Blanc, a d a m n nigh m o u n t a i n of coke, a wadge of cash such as I'd never seen, then got the fuck outa there. T o o k the emergency stairs, met nobody, and once I was out on the street, I exhaled. Jesus. I've k i l l e d before. I still have dreams about it, about them. Back in my apartment, sure, I d i d some fine coke, tried on the R o l e x . Does that sound cold? H e l l o , it's f u c k i n g unreal, is w h a t it felt. M u r d e r and sex. Pure noir. The last time I got sex, the Titanic was a viable o p t i o n . Instead of being w i r e d , I was out of it, like this happened in a b a d B-movie. I d i d some X to c h i l l . Put on the T V , L i v i n g channel, and no, the title wasn't wasted on me. They were showing series t w o of Supernatural. The t w o brothers, they k i l l e d the d e m o n in the three episodes I watched. M a y b e in series three, they'd get it right. I hoped to fuck I got it right in the only series I'd get.

270

THE DEVIL

I waited the next m o r n i n g to be arrested. Even dressed for it. N o watch. Just jeans a n d a T-shirt. W h e n the G u a r d s came crashing through my door, macho shite at the fore, I'd be ready. The Sig, u n l o a d e d , sitting on the table. Me on the other side of the r o o m , so they w o u l d n ' t have to shoot me. I w o u l d n ' t even plead, just go, take the shite. Whatever sentence they imposed, I'd been serving it for years anyway. I c o u l d at least read in relative peace. B o t t o m line, as love was out of the question, it was all I ever really w a n t e d . They didn't come. A n d I waited. They didn't come. D r a n k some strong black coffee, smoked more cigs than I intended, but then y o u always d o , a n d finally grabbed the phone, rang the M e y r i c k . A n Irish receptionist. The recession was truly biting. A year ago, an Irish person w o r k i n g in a hotel? N o p e . I asked for C a r l and was t o l d , ' H e checked out.' I wanted to scream, 'I k n o w , I f u c k i n g checked h i m out permanently.' K e p t it together, asked, ' Y o u checked h i m out personally?'

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KEN BRUEN

K e e p i n g it light. She said patiently, ' N o , automatic checkout, the b i l l is put under the d o o r and all the client needs to do is drop off the key.' I clicked off. W h a t the fuck was going on? D i d his minions sneak h i m away? I d i d a few lines of his coke, the R o l e x sliding nicely along m y wrist. T h e coke was p r i m o . C h r i s t , that ice drizzle d o w n the back of y o u r throat, the w o r l d literally crystallizes and y o u can do what-the-fuckever y o u ever dreamed. L i k e the G o d - a w f u l song, 'I C a n See C l e a r l y N o w ' . I rang Stewart, didn't bother w i t h the ' H o w yah d o i n g ' shite, launched, ' C a r l checked out this m o r n i n g . ' H i s relief was evident. He said, 'Jack, I'm so glad y o u saw sense, didn't do . . . y o u know.' H o l y fuck. I said, 'Listen u p , y o u Zen-besotted eejit, he checked out this m o r n i n g but I checked him out at two a . m . ' L o n g silence, then, 'Jack, y o u need help, y o u have seriously lost the plot. I k n o w some people . . .' I cut i n ,

272

THE DEVIL

'I shot h i m three times, and right n o w I'm samphng his coke, w e a r i n g his R o l e x . . .' H e hung u p . I paced. A lot. C o k e z i g , fear, exhilaration, disbelief, X a n a x , touch of the Jay. D i d n ' t help. I switched on the T V . M o v e d quickly past the Jerry Springer show, stopped for a brief moment at the sitcom Rules of Engagement as the guys outlined the specifics for a real guy weekend. T h e one I liked, or the coke loved, was 'Never, never admit to h a v i n g seen Brokeback

Mountain:

If ever a sentence nailed the Irish male psyche, there it was. M o v e d on to the news. L i a m Neeson's wife had been tragically k i l l e d . I couldn't handle that. M o v e d on. M o r e a w f u l tidings. 'The R e a l I R A claimed responsibility for m u r d e r i n g t w o y o u n g British soldiers.' A n d I thought I'd k i l l e d the D e v i l . T w o y o u n g engineers were heading for Iraq. I dreaded the retaliation this w o u l d bring. A n d l o c a l news: more jobs being lost, redundancies daily. I muttered, 'The eighties are back.'

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KEN BRUEN

D u r a n D u r a n were highly successful all over again. O h fuck. U2 were pissed as they'd hit N u m b e r O n e in every country save F i n l a n d . Those Finns, eh? I sat at the kitchen table, the Z i p p o c l i c k i n g in my hand, the Sig, I swear still w a r m to the touch, close by. There was a tree right outside the w i n d o w , almost overl o o k i n g the nuns' convent, and I watched a tiny b i r d flit f r o m branch to branch. Saint M a r t i n ' s little b i r d , they called h i m . I was, I k n o w , deferring. Great w o r d , means you're trying like the be-jaysus not to d w e l l on the topic that is d o m i n a t i n g your every thought. I got out an A4 p a d , tried to list all the stuff that had gone d o w n since my first meeting w i t h K u r t / C a r l . T o o k me close to an hour. I timed it on the flash R o l e x . T h a t was real. Right? H a d me some pit stops, as opposed to pitfalls. O n e double espresso, a Xanax, three cigs, and what had I got? N o t a w h o l e lot. Was he the Devil? D i d I k i l l the Devil? I k n o w , it's as crazy as it sounds a n d l o o k s .

274

THE DEVIL

So . . . what to do? The sun came blasting through the w i n d o w . L i t up the whole apartment, a n d right then I knew. Let it go.

275

23

Here is w h a t y o u might term the aftermath. Stewart got engaged to his lawyer. Bought her a rock the size of Gibraltar. The killings stopped. Ridge stayed married and the business deal evaporated. Guess they'll have to sell another horse. A n t h o n y is A n g l o - I r i s h , they don't do poverty, not in my sense. A n d me, on a w h i m I just went to L o n d o n , on an internet all-inclusive package. I sold the R o l e x in C a m d e n L o c k , the guy screwed me and I said, ' D e v i l of a price.' I met a w o m a n . An A m e r i c a n , in her forties, she l i k e d the sound of me voice and she l i k e d to d r i n k Jay. She hked nothing better than to breeze about b o o k s , movies and music. She is c o m i n g over to stay w i t h me at Easter. We had us a real fine time.

279

KEN BRUEN

P r o w l e d the second-hand bookstores a n d music shops. I bought Sexy Beast, Home for the Holidays (directed by Jodie Foster), Mad Men, series one. In the bookstores, I f o u n d a rare Aleister C r o w l e y tome. First edition, too. I'd h a d enough of the beast. Sunday, at H e a t h r o w , I was g l o w i n g f r o m the night before w i t h m y new lady. T h i n k i n g , ' H o w the fuck d i d that happen?' But grateful. W a i t i n g for my flight to be called, I found a t a b l o i d on the table as I finished my black coffee. F l i c k i n g t h r o u g h to see if Chelsea h a d w o n , I spotted - almost missed - on page six: A student at LSE has been found murdered. The details of his death have been withheld. The Metropolitan Police are anxious to interview a Mr K, who was the last person seen with the deceased. M y flight was called. I put the paper aside, w o n d e r e d h o w the UK w o u l d deal w i t h the D e v i l . P r o b a b l y figure he was Irish. A week later, I'd just settled into my sleep w h e n the phone rang. It was the lady in my life and I was delighted to hear her.

280

THE DEVIL

O u t l i n e d the things w e ' d be d o i n g in G a l w a y till she said, 'Jack, strange thing, can I share?' G o d bless A m e r i c a , they sure do k n o w h o w to share. I said, ' H o n , course y o u c a n . ' She said, 'This is going to sound Hke I ' m a w h a c k job, but I w o k e late last night and there was a black candle b u r n i n g on my bedside table. W h a t s h o u l d I d o ? ' I took a deep breath, checked where the Sig was, said, 'Sweetheart, b l o w it out.'

281

K e n Bruen was born in Galway, Ireland. After turning d o w n a place at R A D A, and completing a doctorate in Metaphysics, he spent twenty-five years as an English teacher in A f r i c a , Japan, South-East A s i a and South A m e r i c a . A n unscheduled stint in a B r a z i l i a n prison where he suffered physical and mental abuse spurred h i m to write and, after a brief spell teaching in L o n d o n , he returned to Galway, where he n o w lives w i t h his daughter. K e n Bruen is the a w a r d - w i n n i n g author of eight Jack Taylor novels, as w e l l as London Boulevard - soon to be released as a f i l m , starring K e i r a Knightley and C o l i n Farrell - and Blitz, also a forthcoming f i l m , starring Jason Statham.