by Ken Bruen
Finally he was done. He put his hand on his chin and asked, 'Have you ever received a blow to the head?'
For a mad moment I thought he was threatening me, but then realized he was inquiring.
Me… a blow to the head. Count the ways, O Lord.
I said, 'I used to play hurling.'
He gave what might have been a smile but could have been wind. 'And no doubt, you being a macho type, you didn't wear a helmet?'
Fuck, we could barely afford to pay for the hurleys. Helmets? Yeah, sure.
He said, 'I may send you for an MRI, but I'm pretty sure my initial findings are correct.' He paused and I wondered if I would have to guess. Then he continued, 'Your left ear, due to an injury, or perhaps simply age, is showing signs of degeneration – very rapid degeneration – and within a short time you will be completely deaf in that organ.'
Degeneration.
What a fucking awful word.
He began to scribble on a pad.
'Here is the name of a very fine hearing-aid man. He'll fit you with one.'
I was trying to play catch-up. 'I have to wear a hearing aid?'
Now he smiled.
'Enormous advances have been made in this field. You'd barely notice the newest models.'
Easy for him to say.
And that was it.
He said, 'My secretary will provide billing.'
Naturally. That I heard without any trouble.
I was at the door when he added, 'If you feel compelled to continue hurling, do use a helmet.'
I couldn't resist, said, 'Bit late, wouldn't you say?'
* * *
I met with Eoin Heaton. He was if anything even more bedraggled than before, and the booze was leaking out of his very skin. A stale, desperate smell.
He opened with, 'I've been on this dog thing, like, day and night.'
Sure.
I stared at him. It was like looking in a mirror, all the days I'd racked up in a similar condition. We were in a coffee shop in a side street near the Abbey church. The owner of the place was a Russian who had bought it from a Basque. You have to wonder, where did all the Irish go? We may have got rich but we sure were outnumbered. The latest figures showed that by 2010 Ireland would have one million non-nationals.
Heaton had a black coffee and I opted for a latte, which is frothy milk disguised as caffeine.
Heaton tried to bring the cup to his lips, but his hands shook too much. He said, 'I should have had a straightener.'
Meaning a cure, the hair of the dog and all the other euphemisms that disguise the lethal jolt of alcoholism in full riot.
He reached in his pocket, asked, 'Would you mind, Jack?' and slipped a small bottle of Paddy across to me.
The small bottle, holding my own death warrant, looked so innocent. I unscrewed the top, glanced over at the owner, who was preoccupied, and then poured the booze into his cup. Paddy is one of the strongest whiskeys and the scent was overpowering. I held the cup to his lips and he managed to get half of it down, then did the dead man's dance of choke, gulp, gargle, grimace. He finally managed to utter, 'I think… think it might stay down.'
It did, barely.
Then the sea change, within minutes.
Like a demonic miracle, all darkness, it did not come from any place of light. His eyes stopped watering, a rosy colour spread across his face and his hands ceased their jig. He changed physically, his posture became erect and a note of defiance hit his mouth. But I knew – Jesus, did I ever – how short-lived it would be.
I heard him ask – no, demand – 'You deaf or something?'
Right.
I asked, 'What?'
He sighed. 'I've spoken to you twice and you didn't answer.'
If I turned my right ear towards him I could hear better, so I did and said, 'Run it by me one more time.'
With exaggerated slowness he said, 'The case you assigned me? Two more dogs were taken in Newcastle.'
Sarcasm dripped from his lips.
He wanted to fuck with me, he'd picked the right time.
I snapped, 'So what are you doing about it? Christ, you used to be a Guard, you can't find a dog-stealer?'
He reeled from the lash. Paddy has only so much power.
He stammered, 'It… it… takes time to get my shit together.'
I wasn't letting up, said, 'If it's too much for you, I can get someone else, someone who doesn't reek of stale booze.'
I'd hurt him and I wasn't sorry, not one bloody bit.
He tried, 'I'm on it, Jack. Honest to God, I can handle it, I won't let you down.'
I threw some notes on the table and as he eyed them I said, 'It's for the coffee.'
His eyes had the look of a broken child and he asked, 'Could you maybe advance me some cash?'
Without skipping a beat I replied, 'So you can piss it up against a wall? Get me some results and we'll see then.'
As I turned to leave he said, 'You're one hard bastard.'
I smiled. 'This is me on a good day, mate.'
And then the silence… Out of nowhere, I was enveloped in this eerie quiet, as if everything had stopped. I thought at first it might be as a result of my ear examination, some late kick-in, an aftershock, if you will. But no, it was an utter stillness, the kind that survivors describe when they attempt to articulate the moments before a disaster. I literally couldn't hear a thing. I was walking but couldn't hear my feet on the footpath. I was alarmed but not yet panicked. And then…
Then my phone shrilled.
I pulled the phone out of my pocket, realized my heart was pounding, pressed the little green key.
'Mr Taylor?'
'Yeah?'
'This is the hospital. You'd better get up here.'
'What, is it Cody? Is he all right?'
'Please get here as soon as you can, Mr Taylor.'
Hung up.
I don't much believe in anything no more, but attempted, 'Oh God, let him be OK. I'll be better.'
Whatever 'better' meant, I'd no idea.
11
… And burn in Hell.
Maria Willis just could not get past the death of her brother. That he had been crucified only added to the horror in her head. John had been a gentle soul. In a world of chaos, cruelty and sheer indifference, he'd been almost childlike. Her impulse had always been to mind him. She couldn't help wondering if he'd thought of her as they drove the nails into his hands.
The only comfort she could find was to drive out to Salthill, sit and watch the ocean. It calmed her, she didn't know why, it simply eased the agony she carried in her heart.
Thursday evening, she was sitting again, parked down from the old ballroom. Her parents had danced to the show bands there. Before the tragedies, her father would recite the names of the bands like a rosary, the names slipping from his mouth with obvious delight: the Clipper Carlton, the Regal, the Miami, Brendan Bowyer with his famous dance, the Hucklebuck. Once, he and her mother had demonstrated this particular oddity. It consisted of sliding both feet and moving like you had a greyhound on your arse. They had all fallen about laughing and her mother had said, with deep warmth, 'You might laugh, but that dance was the craze of the country.'
Maria would have given her soul to be back in the kitchen, watching her parents, sweat pouring off them, delight on their faces, and her brothers smiling, despite their efforts to appear unmoved.
A tap on the window of her car. She looked to see a wild-haired girl, her eyes heavy with mascara and dressed all in black, a young man behind her. The girl was one of those – what did they call them? – Goths?
She rolled down the window, wondering if they were going to ask for money. The girl said with an English accent, 'So sorry to bother you, but we have information about your brother.'
Maria was taken by surprise and when the girl moved to open the door, Maria let her. The girl sat in the shotgun seat, and the man – more boy, really – got in the back. Maria didn't like him behind her.
The girl smiled re
assuringly and said, 'It must have been very hard for you, the awful way that John died. He must have suffered so.'
Maria thought she detected a sneer in the words and the girl's eyes, they were definitely… malevolent. She began to regret her rashness in allowing them into the car.
The girl said, 'Grief, it just kills you, don't you think?'
Maria looked through the windscreen, but no one was about. The evening was cold and the usual walkers had stayed at home.
She asked, 'You said you had information about… John?' It hurt even to utter his name.
The girl was fumbling in her bag. She produced a lighter and asked, 'You smoke?'
And the boy grabbed her from behind, holding her tight in a vice-like grip.
The girl produced a small can of petrol and began to douse Maria, saying, 'Juice you right up, girl.' Then she flicked the lighter, opened the door of the car, said, a smile on her lips, 'You're cooking now,' and set the flame on Maria's jacket. A whoosh followed instantly and Maria could have sworn she heard the boy say, 'I'm so sorry.'
They were halfway down the prom when the flames hit the tank. The explosion sounded unbearably loud.
The girl did a little ballet step and let out a holler:
'Way to go, girl.'
12
How the flame ignites…
The girl's eyes opened. She'd been dozing and now snapped awake. She took in her surroundings, this awful room in such stark contrast to the home her mother had kept. And dampness, the whole house reeked of it. Blame the Irish weather? No, just a cheap landlord.
A slight smile curled on her lips as she thought, 'Can introduce him to the flame too.'
Even as she thought it she could smell smoke, a burning not too far away, and she allowed the scent to engulf her, to lift her up.
She was delighted, and emitted a series of giggles before wrapping her arms round her thin frame, hugging to herself the stark fact that she'd now killed twice. It gave her a rush of such adrenalin and power, it was like a whole new mode of intoxication. And yet she was still dissatisfied. More… she needed more.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a whoosh of flame. It started in the corner of the room and crept along the wall, but when she turned to look at it directly, it vanished. When this occurred, as it did more and more, she usually checked people around her to see their response. She couldn't believe they hadn't seen it – but no, they seemed oblivious. This just confirmed that the darkness had chosen her. Only she could hear and act out the dark scenario, the malignant blueprint of revenge.
Her heart accelerated with images of fire.
She recalled the flight to Ireland with Aer Lingus, the cabin crew asking if they were going on holiday. There had been flames in the corner of the cabin – couldn't they see them? She'd smiled and said, 'Oh yes, a family outing. We're going to have us a high old time.' She'd waited before adding, 'Our mother is already over there.'
The crew had thought it was refreshing to meet such a close-knit family and had promised, 'You'll love Ireland.'
She'd pulled her eyes away from the inferno she could glimpse along the wings of the plane and replied, 'And Ireland is going to love us.'
13
There is no pain like the loss of a child.
I could have caught a cab to the hospital, but I wanted to delay the news that I dreaded I was going to hear.
Cody had come to me asking to be my partner in investigation, and he was a mix of naivety, pseudo-American swagger, irritation and aggravation.
Then the amazing thing had happened. I hate to go New Era but we… fuck it, we bonded. I began to love the kid. He was annoying as hell, but would suddenly do something that tore at my heart, like buy me a very expensive leather jacket. I was wearing it when he was shot, his blood all over the front. I burned it.
We'd had one memorable day when we went to a hurling match, bought the team's scarf, shouted like banshees, had a huge slap-up meal after and near hugged at the end of a perfect day.
I was something then that I, oh, so rarely have ever been – I was happy.
But mo croi briste… me heart is broken.
Let me put it this way: those whom the Irish gods would destroy, first they give a shard of joy to. Least it's how they fuck with me and often.
A few people had asked then if he was my son. I was delighted and was beginning to see him as such. A chance of family, the dream I'd never even allowed me own self to entertain.
When the sniper shot those holes in him, the shots burned a wound in my soul that would never close.
I'd been round and round with speculation as to who had done the shooting. The stalker I'd dealt with for Ridge had a solid alibi; Cathy Bellingham, wife of my best friend Jeff, sure had cause – I'd been responsible for the death of her three-year-old daughter – but she'd disappeared and I was in no hurry to find her. The third possibility was Kate Clare, sister of Michael who might have beheaded a Father Joyce and whom I'd pursued to the gates of hell. Among the more awful aspects of this was that I actually liked Michael Clare, and, Christ, as a victim of clerical molestation he'd already suffered the torment of the damned before he killed himself. Kate, it transpired, had flown off to the Far East and her whereabouts were currently unknown.
Truth is, I didn't care who had done the shooting. All I wanted was for Cody to be returned to me and then I'd deal with the shooter, whoever the fuck it was. And deal biblically.
I got to the hospital, my heart in me mouth, went up to the ward and met a nurse. She knew me from my daily visits, even used my first name.
She went, 'Oh Jack, I'm so sorry.'
Dizziness hit me, but before I could even catch my breath, a couple approached and the nurse said, 'It's Cody's parents.'
They had the look. That horrendous expression of sheer disbelief.
The man, in his late sixties, wearing a good suit, his face a mask of rage, snarled, 'You're Taylor?'
I nodded, still reeling from the implication of the nurse's opening line.
He spat in my face.
'You got our son killed, you bastard.'
His wife pulled him away and as she dragged him down the corridor, he shouted, 'I hope you burn in hell.'
There was literally a beat of silence – one of those moments of pure quiet when a terrible curse has been laid on a human being. All present froze in a tableau of pure shock.
My legs began to tremble. I don't mean a slight shake, I mean the full-on tremor that signals a major collapse.
The next hour or so is hazy. I think I asked if I might see Cody, but I'm not sure. For some bizarre reason, I found myself in the café downstairs, a cup of coffee before me and devastation all around me.
'Are you all right?'
I looked up to see a woman in her late forties, with a good solid face, long dark hair, huge eyes and – odd how the mind can work on some level – a slight accent. English was not her first tongue.
I almost accused, 'You're not Irish?'
She gave a small smile. 'You need someone Irish?'
What the fuck was this?
I said, 'I don't need anyone.'
For a moment, it seemed like she might touch my hand and that would have been a huge mistake. Instead, she said, 'You are in pain. Did you lose someone?'
My oldest ally, rage, was waiting to strike. I let the dog loose and snapped, 'Who the fuck are you? Leave me alone.'
She stood up, said, 'My name is Gina. I sense you are a good man and I can help you,' and pushed a business card towards me.
I said, 'Sense this – I want you to fuck off.'
She did.
I dunno why – madness, perhaps – I put the card in my jacket.
Then I was outside and it was raining heavily. I muttered, 'Good, hope I catch me death.'
Just outside the main door of the hospital, a veritable cloud of smoke near obscured the entrance. Not from the weather, no… the smokers, huddled like frightened lepers. The smoking ban was a year old now and these grou
ps of social outcasts were a familiar sight, frozen in winter, laughing in summer – if you can ever call a summer in Ireland such.
A new term had been coined as nicotine romances had sprung up. People got talking; in their allied addiction, social barriers that might have taken much longer to overcome were now literally so much smoke. The flirting thus was termed Slirting… Flirting with the smoke.
I reached for me cigs and remembered I didn't smoke any more, didn't drink either. No, I was too busy killing all I cared for.
If one of the smokers had noticed my gesture and offered me one, I probably would have taken it. My eyes were locked on the River Inn, clearly visible from where I stood. I began to move.
I was at the hospital gate when I heard,
'Jack?'
And now fucking what?
A man in his early thirties, well dressed if casual, a good-looking guy but with a wary air about him. It was that that triggered my memory.
'Stewart?'
My former drug-dealer. He'd been busted, got six years and then hired me to investigate the supposed accidental death of his sister. That case had been among the worst I'd ever been involved with and led to the death of Serena May, the Down's Syndrome child of Jeff and Cathy.
He smiled, a smile of no warmth. I suppose if you do hard time in prison, warmth isn't going to be one of your characteristics. The time I'd gone to see him in jail, his front tooth had been knocked out and that was just what was visible. I noticed the tooth had been replaced. And his eyes – when I'd first met him, his eyes had been full of energy, and now they were pools of granite.
He asked, 'Are you OK? You look like someone died.'
How to answer that? Fall at his feet and bawl like a baby? Go hard ass and say, 'No biggie'?
I said, 'People are dying all the time.'
He considered that, then said, 'I have a new flat, just down the road. You want to come have a drink…?'
