In the Galway Silence
Page 3
Marion attended the funeral Mass in the cathedral. It was officiated by the archbishop. Eamon Casey had stood up to gun-wielding thugs when Archbishop Romero was assassinated.
*
As a young priest in London he had performed Trojan work among the poor.
So
What did the arch say in his speech on Eamon?
You guessed it.
Focused only on the sin.
Yup, lambasted the poor man, and spoke about how he had humiliated the people closest to him.
No fragging mention of the Church’s own record on child abuse.
Marion was spitting iron. Very nearly stood up and shouted at the arch.
Not doing so was one of the great regrets of her life.
So she wrote to him.
Like this:
“Dear Reverence / Irreverence,
I have been a regular attendant at Mass all my life.
I raised my son Catholic.
I pay my tithes.
I do the Nine Friday novenas.
I went to the funeral Mass of our beloved Bishop Eamon Casey.
You may have disbarred him but he will always be Our Bishop.
I was not expecting you to actually praise the man.
God forbid the Church would ever demonstrate such grace.
But
to castigate him,
Literally denounce him
All over again,
To the exclusion of the other shining deeds of his life, before his assembled family.
How dare you.
In our cathedral?
Yes, our money, alms, built it.
Shame on you.
The young people of Ireland don’t even know who you are. But to us who do, you owed at the very least a tiny hint of balance.
I know you won’t have the grit to answer me unless some lackey sends me the standard corn.
… your comments have been noted etc.
I expect you will do what the Church has excelled in:
Nothing.
God mind you better than you minded your brave bishop.
Yours in disappointment,
Marion R. Coyle.”
The Church did as she predicted.
Nothing.
Hotel
on
the corner
of
Bitter
and
Sweet.
8
The first outing I took Joffrey on left a lot to be desired.
I tried not to stare at his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit.
I mean, fuck, really?
White pants, navy blue shirt, and, I kid thee not, a knitted wool tie, with a blazer, complete with crest.
I was wearing battered 501s, scuffed Doc Martens, my way beat-up leather jacket. I was determined to try and bond with this little gobshite, but seriously?
I said,
“We’re not planning on the opera, are we?”
He sneered, turned his mean little mouth down.
“I doubt you’d be too familiar with that scenario.”
Scenario.
I was determined to be upbeat, began,
“Thought we’d swing by Supermac’s, grab us some bad boy burgers.”
He stopped, literally in his tracks, asked,
“You are serious?”
Okay, now we were cruising.
I said with gusto,
“Oh, yeah, and you can add curried chips if the fancy takes you.”
He said with venom,
“I don’t do carbs.”
Oh.
I hung on to the fading gusto, asked,
“What would you like? Italian, Cajun?”
He seemed to actually focus. Then,
“They have any sushi bars in this burg?”
His accent was a horror blend of clipped Brit with sprinkled American. I echoed,
“Raw fish? You want raw fish?”
I’ll admit my energy was flagging but, fuck, I persisted.
Said,
“Kid like you, you need to get some spuds, bacon, and cabbage in you.”
He put two fingers to his mouth, made the gagging sound.
I sighed, said,
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He began to stare at his phone, as the whole nation currently does.
I’d have sold his miserable hide for one shot of Jameson.
I said,
“We can swing by my flat, I’ll rustle up something and, hey...”
My voice had risen in nigh panic.
“I have some games there.”
He lit up, asked,
“You’re a gamer?”
Modesty be damned, I said,
“It has been suggested in the not so recent past that I do indeed have game.”
He gave me a blank look, which did not add to his overall charm, shook his head as if it clear it of nonsense, asked,
“Whatcha got? Like Assassins Creed, Warcraft Three, Mafiosi Four?”
I was lost, tried,
“I’ve got Monopoly and, well, that’s it.”
He mimicked spitting, said,
“Board games.” (His voice rising on the end bit.) “You can’t be serious, I mean it’s so...”
Searched for a word to convey utter contempt, got
“Retro.”
Sharp as a whip, I snapped,
“Retro is the new cool. Get with, dare I say, the game?”
While this brisk exchange batted back and forth, an overweight guy in a T-shirt with the logo
SIN AN SCEAL (That’s the story)
actually drooled as he eyed Joffrey. His hands in his dirty sweatpants, he actually groaned, muttered,
“Soon my love.”
*
You’d know the very last thing to do with the child of the woman in your life is to bring him to a pub.
Right.
I know that.
Brought him to the pub.
Sat him at a table in the back, him going,
“Mother won’t be pleased.”
Gee, you think?
I didn’t ask him what he wanted. I was all through with that gig. The bar guy peered over at him, asked,
“Your boy?”
Like fuck.
I said,
“Whatever else, mine he isn’t.”
A wag along the bar said,
“The clergy got in trouble for that kind of thing.”
I gave him the look.
Asked the bar guy for
Double Jay,
Pint back,
Bag of whatever flavor crisps,
Large Coke.
Guy asked,
“He want ice in that?”
“Shovel it in.”
I sank the Jay there and then, tasted like vague hope. Over to the kid with my goodies, said,
“Here you go.”
He pushed the Coke aside, said,
“That is equal to nine full spoons of sugar.”
I wanted so badly to wallop him.
I asked,
“And your point is?”
He sighed as in... Lord grant me patience with fools.
Said,
“My mother didn’t pay top dollar for dental work for some nincompoop to force pure sugar down my throat.”
Force?
Nincompoop?
The kid was like an escapee from a poor-rate Evelyn Waugh. In desperation I reached in my pocket and found the chess piece that Tevis gave me.
Joffrey’s eyes lit up, asked,
“A chess piece?”
I put it on the table and he picked it up, examined the writing on the base, the
2
4
J
I said,
“I dunno what that means.”
He scoffed, said,
“It’s obvious.”
Fuck.
Okay. Asked,
“What?”
“Two for Justice.”
I mulled that over, figuring,
Some form of vigilante? Next time I saw Tevis, we’d have us a chat.
So I tried to cut some slack for the kid, asked,
“What would you like to drink?”
“Still water with a slice of lemon. Ballygowan or Evian at a pinch.”
I went to the counter, said to the bar guy,
“Glass of tap water, shove some lemon in it.”
He seemed puzzled, said,
“We have all the top brands.”
I stared at him, asked,
“You hard of hearing?”
Got what was not the cleanest glass and very wilted lemon, which, to no great surprise, the kid pushed aside, said,
“I called my mother.”
Oh, fuck.
I whined,
“Oh, no, c’mon.”
He smiled with devilish glee, said,
“You’re for the high jump.”
I leaned right into him, snarled,
“What is your fucking problem, son?”
He pulled back, said,
“I don’t like you.”
I smiled, threatened,
“Get used to it, punk. I’m here for the long haul.”
He stood up, said,
“I very much doubt that, mister.”
As I followed him out, I asked,
“Apart from the water, do you think it went pretty good otherwise?”
I followed him as he walked at a brisk pace toward the square. I wondered what he’d pull next.
A taxi.
I kid thee not. And he turned as he got in, gave me the finger.
I watched the cab head toward the docks.
Hate to admit it but I had a sort of sneaking admiration for the little bastard.
Removing the Defender
There are ways of removing your opponent’s defending pieces that leave others open to attack.
(Beginning Chess)
9
A second helicopter was lost.
Unbelievable.
Based in the UK, it contained a family flying to Ireland for a confirmation.
Unlike those from the first helicopter, the bodies were recovered quickly.
R 117, the search-and-rescue helicopter, still had two of the crew missing despite a massive search.
To see the families waiting reminded me of the widows in the Claddagh back in the harsh days as they awaited news of their husbands and sons.
Ochre ochon (woe is me indeed).
I was in my apartment, staring out at the bay and thinking how much the very ocean played such a part in our collective history.
The doorbell rang, a quiet ring as if the caller hoped I wasn’t home. I opened the door to Tevis, the man whose life I saved and who was now becoming a fucking nuisance. He offered a bottle, said,
“Old Kentucky sipping bourbon.”
And,
“Six genuine longnecks. If you read your crime fiction as much as you pretend to, you’ll know it’s the preferred tipple of Craig McDonald.”
I said,
“That is one long sentence.”
He laughed, moved past me, said,
“Like life.”
I followed him in, put the beers in the fridge, and turned to him. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels, said,
“Eddie Bunker’s favorite.”
I asked,
“You came to educate me on the tastes of crime writers?”
He stood before the bay window, asked,
“Like glasses?”
Marion had given me a set of Galway crystal to spruce up the apartment, said,
“Taylor, you need some style.”
She used my surname when she was being playful. Jack when I was in deep shit. Alas, she was using my Christian name a lot more frequently. I took out two of those heavy babes, poured the bourbon, admired the way the light caught the glass, like a tiny whispered prayer.
Truth is, though, I’d have drunk out of a wellington if my need was great.
He said,
“Nice glasses.”
“My mother’s,”
I lied.
He said,
“Ah, Irish lads and the mammie.”
As fucking if.
He knocked back the drink in jig time. I went,
“Whoa, like what happened to the sipping bit?”
He gave me what he probably figured was a roguish smile, said,
“Partner, we’re a long ways from Kentucky.”
I took a sip, asked,
“What do you want?”
He did the mock-offended gig, said,
“You don’t like me.”
True.
I said,
“True.”
He asked,
“Is it because I’m gay?”
I said,
“I didn’t know that. I don’t care if you like sheep.”
A silence.
Then he asked,
“Sheep?”
Enough with the sipping, I walloped back the drink, gasped, muttered,
“Phew-oh.”
Gathered my thoughts somewhat, tried,
“What’s the deal with the chess piece and the message on the base, the
Two for Justice?”
He applauded, literally, said,
“Well done, you figured it out, smarter than you act, methinks.”
His accent was now channeling Barry Fitzgerald via Dublin 4. Not an appealing tone. He put down his glass, said,
“Fill her up and I’ll fill you in.”
Managed to insert a certain mild menace into the sound.
I poured us both fresh ones, waited.
He launched.
“I had a decent living as an accountant. I work out, as is evident.”
Here, he flexed his upper body, did a small pirouette, continued,
“At the gym, as you do, I met my lover, a rather splendid fellow.”
Now he was aping Cumberbatch.
“We settled into a jolly old existence until...”
His face darkened.
“Until the twins, the Renaud twins, decided to engage in a little light gay bashing.”
He looked at me, asked,
“You know what the brain looks like after repeated kicks?”
How the fuck would I know that?
I stayed in low gear, shook my head.
He said,
“Like mushy peas.”
He shook a cig out of the Camel pack, so expertly that it had to have been rehearsed. Never no mind, it’s impressive.
He continued but now in a flat monotone.
“So, when a man contacted me, asked if I wanted justice, I said, You betcha.”
I poured us more sipping well-being, delaying any comment until I could get my head ’round this, then asked,
“You killed no twins?”
“No, of course not.”
“Who did?”
He drew out a tense silence, said,
“Pierre Renaud, their dad.”
“Are you frightened?” she asked.
“I haven’t peed my pants yet,” I said, “but then, it’s been a while between beers.”
“He might just do,” the fella said. “He’s got that ‘born to lose and lose violently’ about him.”
Pause.
“That’s good.”
(Daniel Woodrell, Tomato Red)
10
I tried to take in what Tevis had said, asked,
“You’re claiming the twins’ own father killed his sons?”
He let out a tolerant sigh, said,
“I’m not claiming anything, I’m telling you what happened.”
Fuck.
I said,
“God almighty, to murder his family.”
He corrected me,
“Just two of them.”
I poured a drink but it didn’t seem to be having much effect. Maybe the sipping wasn’t really my style. I asked,
“Did he say why?”
He shook his head, said,
“I didn’t ask.”
Fuck that.
I demanded,
“Come on, seriously?”
He lit another Camel, said,
“I was in a blizzard of grief, rage, madness. I would have paid for revenge.”
That I grasped, having recently visited such territory my own self. I said,
“I’m trying to picture him actually doing that.”
Tevis said,
“He didn’t.”
I wanted to fling him across the room, shouted,
“You’re changing the story?”
He stood up, tired of the narrative, said,
“He had help.”
“Someone else?”
He shrugged, said,
“You hardly think a father would drown his own sons? I mean, get with the program, buddy.”
Enough.
I was across the room, grabbed him by the shirt collar, pushed him fast and hard against the wall, snarled,
“Stop fucking with me and answer the question without any more mind-fucking, got it?”
I was so enraged I could have beaten him to a pulp. I wanted it so badly I could taste metal in my mouth.
He nodded and I let him go.
Pulled himself together, tried to light a cig but tremors in his hands betrayed him. Instead, he gulped his booze, then,
“There is a man, served three tours in Iraq and had the distinction of surviving three bomb attacks. He understandably developed a phobia about noise. He now specializes in what the Americans term wet work. More prosaically, he kills people. They call him the Silence.”
I asked,
“And you met him?”
“Only once, and it was enough. He is the most nondescript man you’d ever see or, as the case may be, not see. He looks like every bad photo fit. He doesn’t turn up at the time you’d arranged and, just as you give up, prepare to leave, he is standing behind you.”
I was intrigued, tried to keep my tone skeptical, asked,
“What did he say to you?”
Tevis looked around as if he expected the man to be behind him, then,
“He asked me if I knew the value of silence.”
My mind was alight with so much craziness. I asked,
“And this mystery man, how does one find him?”
Tevis smiled, a hint of smugness there, said,
“You place a chess quote in the Irish Times.”