by Ken Bruen
She finished it in jig time, wiped her mouth with a surprisingly gentle motion and gulped some coffee. She glanced briefly towards the corner of the café, as if she saw something there. Whatever it was, it seemed to embolden her.
Then she quickly looked back at me and asked in a harsh tone, 'So, fuckhead, what do you want?'
The change was instant. One moment Miss Dainty, and, in the blink of an eye, psycho city.
I examined her face. She might have been pretty once, but the heavy make-up, the set of her jaw, neutralized that. Her eyes were the interesting feature. Nobody has black eyes in the literal sense, but she came as close as dammit. An energy came off her, like a blast from a furnace, and all of it malevolent. I moved back a few inches. You sit in the proximity of pure evil, it infects you.
I asked, 'What's next on the agenda? The elder brother doesn't show up, how are you going to pass the time? You have a taste for it now – killing people, I mean. You're not going to be able to stop, and you know what? You're not going to want to.'
This seemed to amuse her. She watched me with those black eyes, then shrugged.
'You know nothing about me.'
I wished I had a cigarette, it was definitely one of those times.
'What's to know? You're a sadistic bitch, a coward who went after easy prey. You think your mother would be proud of you? She'd spit on you.'
And the flash in the eyes, I saw the beast for one moment, deadly and lethal.
She leaned over, hissed, 'You bastard, you leave my mother out of this.'
I took a sip of my coffee, said, 'Your mother has nothing to do with this any more, you're doing this because you get off on it.'
Then her whole body language changed and she adopted a pose of lazy sensuality, stared into her already empty cup, purred, 'I want more coffee.'
Fucking with me, a terrain I was better able to play on.
I said, 'Get it yourself.'
She didn't, considered something, said, 'This has been interesting, but so what? You have no proof. If you could do anything, I'd already be under arrest. You're full of shit.'
No argument there.
'Justice isn't always in a courtroom,' I said.
She loved that, asked, 'You think you can take me on, a beat-up old geezer like you? You've a hearing aid, you walk with a limp, you couldn't find your dick with a map.'
Maybe it was the arrogance, or how much I detested that guy who owned the warehouse, or just her virus rubbing off on me, but I suddenly decided to kill two birds with one stone. It seemed to strike me out of nowhere, and maybe that's how the worst things happen, spur-of-the-moment viciousness.
I said, 'It's not really me you have to worry about.'
Had her full attention and she asked what I meant.
I said in a slow measured tone, 'There's a man named King, owns a warehouse in Father Griffin Road, had a shine for Maria, and seemingly he has a way of proving you're the torch.'
I could see her literally mouthing his name, then, 'You tell him to stay the fuck out of my business.'
I was pleased to see I'd got to her, added some fuel.
'Nothing to do with me, but this guy has juice. Me, I'm nobody, like you said. But this fella, he has the means to see you get taken down.'
Her eyes closed for a moment and thank Christ I couldn't see whatever it was she was seeing.
She came back, said, 'I'm going now.'
I stared at her, she seemed almost ordinary.
Then, 'You stay the fuck away from me, Taylor, and, who knows, I may lose interest in you.'
I held her stare, said, 'There's the catch, me girl. I have no intention of losing interest in you. In fact, next up, I'm going to have a chat with your brother. And I know where you live, did you know that?'
Her hand came up and only with supreme control did she rein it in.
'Sleep lightly, Taylor. Sometime, I'll be over your bed, you'll wake up and you'll hear the sound of a match strike.'
I kept my face in neutral, said, 'I'll be expecting you. I might even get to show you the Irish version of a cross.'
She didn't get it, had to know, near spat, 'What the hell is that?'
'Oh, much like you did to the boy, with one difference.'
She raised her eyes in dismissive mode, asked, 'And that would be?'
'More nails.'
And she was gone, like some spectre that doesn't really belong to the daylight hours.
18
Cross that bridge when I come to it.
I went to the cemetery, feeling so guilty I hadn't attended Cody's funeral. And what to bring?
A little late for flowers and he wasn't really your flowers kind of kid. He'd been raving about the band Franz Ferdinand, so I bought one of their CDs, the assistant in the record shop telling me, 'They're past their best.'
Like I asked.
I wanted to add, 'Cody too.'
It was raining. Graveyards, I think they have a statute that rain is mandatory. As I walked among the crosses of the dead, I tried real hard not to read the inscriptions. I was carrying enough of the departed to keep a convent in perpetual prayer. Marvelled again that we're still the only burial ground with a Protestant and a Catholic side.
Up North, they wondered why the Peace Process was in shreds yet again and, here, even the dead were divided.
I found the grave within five minutes, a small temporary marker simply with Cody's name and the date of his death. You're not allowed to erect a headstone for a year. Why? Like you're going to change your mind and go, 'I've had some time to reflect on it and don't think I'll bother with the memorial'?
The plot was a riot of flowers, mini statues of every saint in the calendar, tiny fluffy animals, well sodden from the rain already, and a framed photo of Cody. It didn't look like him and I was kind of relieved. It was a posed picture and you'd never have seen him still long enough for such a formal study. I never know the etiquette of graves. Do you kneel, pray, look forlorn as part of the deal, what?
I knelt.
Fuck it.
My pants dredging up the grass and dirt – be a bitch to clean – I placed the CD on the end and said, 'You could have been a contender.'
Said it in an American accent, he was real fond of that. I think I meant it, though like the best prayers it sounded hollow at the centre. Not the words, they were as good as any, but just phony.
I got to me feet, my knee aching and heard, 'Mr Taylor.'
Turned to meet Cody's mother. I'd only seen her the one time, when her husband spat in my face. She was dressed in a heavy black coat as dark as the shadows beneath her eyes. I nodded, truly lost for words.
She looked at the package I'd left and I said, 'A CD.' Feeling not only cheap but ridiculous.
She nodded, said, 'He loved music.'
Can a voice be tired, worn out?
Hers was.
She reached out and I flinched, expecting a lash. She touched my arm gently, said, 'He so admired you.'
Oh God.
I had to say it, feeble as it was.
'I'm so dreadfully sorry.'
She was staring at his photo, her eyes containing all the sorrow you'd ever see.
She said, 'You lose your child, life loses all meaning.'
Before I could mouth some awful platitude she added, 'You are a man who loss flows around.'
And for a horrible moment, I thought I'd lose it.
She added, 'I don't hate you, Mr Taylor, you gave our Cody a real sense of purpose for a little time.'
I wanted to say thank you but my voice had deserted me.
She continued, 'If I said my prayers any more, I'd even try to pray for you. But like me, I think you are beyond divine help.'
I've been cursed many times by experts, but few utterances have damned me like that. It was the quiet tone of utter conviction.
'Please go now, I want to be alone with my boy.'
As I shuffled away, I said to my own self, 'Dead man walking.'
I met with
Ridge in Jury's Hotel, at the bottom of Quay Street. They'd a coffee bar that was priding itself on its class. That's the deal they were offering, and I don't know, don't think buying a coffee is going to endow you with class, no matter how much you pay for the damn stuff, but what the hell do I know. I ordered a double espresso but the machine was broken, so I had a Diet Coke.
Ridge arrived looking more together than of late. She was dressed in a leather jacket, one of those short bomber jobs, and a skirt!
I stared at her legs and she gave me the look.
I said, 'What? You wear jeans all the time, I just wondered what you were hiding.'
She was angry, but being a woman, also curious. Asked, 'And…?'
Being nice to her was always fraught, so I went with 'I've seen worse.'
She stared at my hearing aid and my bruised hands.
'This a whole new image? You're what, expecting them to do another remake of Rocky?'
I scowled at her, said, 'You're making jokes, drinking in the mornings – think you're having a mid-life crisis yer own self.'
I had given her the material Keegan had sent me from London and told her about my encounter with Gail. Now I asked, 'When will they arrest them?'
She looked away, didn't answer and I felt a surge of disbelief.
'You have everything you need, tell me they're going to act on it.'
She took a deep breath.
'It's all circumstantial, there's no hard proof and the feeling is that this English family suffered a bereavement in Ireland; to accuse them of these appalling crimes, without evidence, it would damage the tourist trade, affect relations between us and the UK and-'
I stopped her with 'Yeah, I know how it works, but for Christ's sake!'
I hadn't the words to vent my frustration. Sure, the system, as the Americans put it, sucked, but God Almighty, after me handing her the whole case on a plate, she must be able to do something.
I slammed my hand against my forehead in rage. I wanted to scream.
'I literally give this whole deal to you signed, solved and delivered, and what – nothing?'
Her face mirrored my consternation and I realized that blaming her was fruitless. I tried to let the rage burn off. All my life, God forgive me and with apologies to Eoin Heaton, I'd whipped the wrong dog.
I muttered, 'Aw, fuck it… fuck it all.'
'We'll be keeping a close eye. The official line is denial that any new leads have been found.'
Jesus, I was tired.
'You ever hear of Claud Cockburn?' I asked.
'Who?'
'He said, Never believe anything until it's officially denied.'
I had to ask.
'The tests, your, er… worry about your, er… health. Any word?'
She was amused at my hesitation to use the word breast, and it did me good to see her smile.
She said, 'I had a biopsy – not a pleasant ordeal – and they assure me they'll have the results soon.'
She was worried, added, 'But you, Jack, don't do anything reckless, OK?'
I looked round at Jury's, said, 'Me? No, I'll behave with class.'
Outside, I kicked a wall in frustration, and a guy passing quipped, 'Didn't win the Lotto, eh?'
City of fucking comedians.
Three days later, King's warehouse burned to the ground. The Guards came for me before noon, two of them, in uniform, with the new tunics, and of course the standard thick-soled shoes. Matched the expression in their eyes.
The first one, an older guy, said, 'The Super would like a word.'
The second one looked like he wanted to wallop me.
As I got in the squad car, I asked the older one, 'What's eating your partner?'
He shrugged. 'He doesn't like you.'
I looked at the guy, in his late twenties, full of spit and vinegar, the new breed, probably attended college at night.
'He doesn't even know me,' I said.
The guy laughed. 'Worse, he knows about you.'
I addressed the young gun. 'Don't suppose you want to tell me why you're bringing me in?'
He was a knot of suppressed anger, said, 'Shut your mouth.'
It's the Irish version of the Miranda deal.
They brought me straight to Clancy's office, the head honcho, the Super. My best mate once, we'd been on the beat together, learned the rudiments of policing. And then came my dismissal, my plummet down the toilet. And him, he rose through the ranks, slowly and surely. He was from Roscommon, they know how to play the game and few knew how to play it like he did. Over the years, our relationship had become outright war. He pulled me in from time to time, tried to, if not neutralize me, at least intimidate me.
He was sitting behind a massive desk, his full dress blues, decorations on his chest like a riot of bad taste. His face had caved in, and deep lines were etched on every available patch of skin. I guess the game has its own price. He didn't look up for a moment from the array of papers on his desk, then snapped a folder shut, glanced up and said, 'Timmins, you can go.'
That was the older Guard. And to the young gun he said, 'You'll be sitting in with Mr Taylor and I.'
Clancy indicated the hard chair in front and for me to sit.
I did.
The young gun stood behind me.
I waited.
Clancy leaned back in his swivel chair, said, 'You've been stirring it again.'
I said, 'I'll need a little more to go on.'
A look passed between him and the young guy, and I knew who was the new hatchet man – the young guy, who obviously didn't like me. There's always one, the guy who'll do the dirty work, the follow-orders robot.
Clancy said, 'Mr King, a prominent businessman, a pillar of the community, his warehouse burned to the ground and it was no accident.'
I acted like I was mulling this over, then asked, 'And let me hazard a guess, he's a member of the golf club, one of your buddies?'
I felt the young gun behind me stir, but resisted the impulse to turn round.
Clancy ignored that, continued.
'A few days ago, a Department of Health official visited him, a man who bears a striking likeness to you and makes thinly veiled threats. And prior to this, an alkie, a disgraced ex-Guard, also made similar threats. What the two had in common was a wild-arse theory that Mr King was stuffing his merchandise with dog parts.'
The guy behind me guffawed, there is no other description for it.
Clancy waited for my response, but I simply stared at him.
Then he asked, 'What are you now – pet detective? It's not enough you kill a child, cause the death of an innocent young man, now you hassle the solid citizens?'
I forced myself to let the comments slide and asked, 'Am I under arrest?'
He stood up.
'We've been in touch with the Department of Health, and if they want to press charges, we'll be happy to oblige. Meanwhile, a word to the wise – stay the hell away from Garda business. You want to investigate something, why don't you find out who shot the young man whose care you were responsible for?'
I had to grit my teeth. 'Oh I will.'
He came round the desk and leaned in real close. His aftershave was expensive, if overpowering.
'We already did, and you know what? Surprise, surprise, it was the mother of the little girl you killed.'
I tried not to show my amazement. 'So, did you arrest her?'
He straightened up, shook some lint off his shoulders. 'Soon as we locate her. Thing is, we're kind of hoping she might make another attempt and we can catch her in the act, after she's done the… dirty deed.'
And then he was gone.
Before I could stand up to leave, the young guy hit me on the ear with a powerhouse, the blow knocking me from the chair and dislodging my earpiece. He brought his heel down on it, ground it, then bent and shouted, 'Can you hear me, arsehole? Stay the fuck away from Guard affairs.'
I heard him.
19
'Not knowing how near the truth is,
we seek it far away.'
Hakuin
The Americans have an expression for verbally attacking someone. When you want to really lash into someone, they say, tear 'em a new asshole.
I tore one for Ridge.
Like this.
'The fuck when you were going to tell me about Cathy Bellingham?'
I'd asked – no, amend that, I fucking ordered her to meet me in the Great Southern Hotel and slammed down the phone.
I got there first, went to the end of the lounge, under the bust of James Joyce, stared at him, near shouted, 'The fuck are you looking at?'
Yeah, you're screaming at a bronze head of one of Ireland's most famous writers, you've either gone completely mad or just heard you lost the Booker Prize.
The porter approached. He and I had history, most of it bad, and he ventured, 'Long time no see, Jack.'
His voice was quiet, as if he wasn't yet sure if I was drinking. If I was, he was heading for the hills. As I said, history.
I sat down, levelled dead eyes at him. 'Help you with something?'
He gave a nervous laugh. 'Actually, those are my lines. I'm the one who works here.'
Keeping it light, as if we were just a couple of old mates having a touch of merry banter.
I said, 'So go work, you see me preventing you?'
He looked round – for help?
None was forthcoming so he asked, 'I, er, wondered if I could get you something – tea, coffee?'
'Get out of my face, you could get me that.'
He did.
Ridge arrived, dressed in smart new suede jacket, tight jeans and those pointy-toed boots that have to be murder. The porter had a word with her and I could see her nodding, so I figured he'd warned her I was not exactly mellow. I don't think this was a surprise to her. She walked over, a purpose in her stride, like she wasn't going to take any shite from me.
'Yeah?'
I launched in straight away. She reeled for a moment then asked, 'How did you find out about Cathy Bellingham?'
Cathy… Oh God, our long and tortuous history. We'd met originally when she washed up in Galway from London. She'd just kicked heroin, was a real punk, had lived the life. She sang like an angel and had a tongue like a fishwife. We hit it off immediately. She'd helped me on a number of cases, then I introduced her to my best friend, Jeff, and damn it all to hell, they jelled, got married and had the little girl with Down's Syndrome, Serena May. She sure had reason to want me dead.
