The Killing of the Tinkers

by Ken Bruen

“What’s that scent? You smell like my Jeff.”

  Her effortless embrace of his name tore at my heart.

  I moved to my chair, let out a deep breath. I was well on the way to recovery. The door opened and a heavyset man entered. He had a full black beard, an expression of quiet energy. He approached, asked,

  “Might I have a word?”

  “Sure.”

  “A quiet word.”

  I looked round the pub, not a haven of privacy. I got my smile in gear, said,

  “Let’s step outside.”

  A tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, the only indication he appreciated the joke. One glance at his hands, you knew he’d travelled the route. The fresh air hit me like a hurley. I staggered, felt a steadying hand. He said,

  “Fresh air can be a whore.”

  I pulled out my smokes, shook one free, cranked the lighter. Nothing doing. I said,

  “Fuck.”

  He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, knotted tie. He reached inside his jacket, produced a Zippo, handed it over. It was solid silver. I fired up, offered it back. He said,

  “Hang on to it; I quit.”

  “It’s solid silver.”

  “Let’s call it a loan.”

  “OK.”

  I sat on the window ledge, asked,

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “You know me?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t forget faces.”

  “I’m Sweeper.”

  I checked his face. He wasn’t kidding.

  “No offence, pal, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  “The tinkers?”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I’m a man of little humour, Mr Taylor.”

  “Call me Jack. So…what do you want?”

  “Help.”

  “I don’t know how I could do that.”

  “You helped Ann Henderson.”

  Her name caught me blindside, like a screech across my soul. Must have shown in my face. He said,

  “I regret causing you sorrow, Mr Taylor.”

  “Jack, it’s Jack.”

  I flicked the cigarette, watched it arch high, then fall. I said,

  “Look, Sweep…Jesus…what a name. I don’t do that any more.”

  “She said you’d help.”

  “She was wrong.”

  I began to move. He put out his hands, said,

  “They’re killing our people.”

  It’s a show-stopper. No question. It stopped me. Turned to face him. He said,

  “You’ve been away. I know that. In the past six months, four travellers have been killed.”

  He paused, contempt in his eyes, continued,

  “The guards, they’ve done nothing. I went to the superintendent, a man named Clancy. Do you know of him?”

  I nodded and he said,

  “For them, it’s only tinkers…and everybody knows, they’re always killing each other.”

  “What do you think I can do?”

  “You can find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Who’s killing them and why.”

  Children of the Dead End

  Patrick McGill

  I ended up staying in Nestor’s for a few more days. Mainly because I couldn’t get it together to move. It was round noon, I was levelling out. Shouted Jeff for a pint. He asked,

  “Bit early for it?”

  “Jeez, I’m up since eight.”

  He glanced at my eyes, said,

  “You’re up all right.”

  I was sliding on a downer, snapped,

  “Forget it.”

  Jeff doesn’t do retaliation, began to pour a pint, said,

  “What’s your hurry?”

  I eased, said,

  “Time I checked into Bailey’s.”

  “Take a few more days. Cathy is glad of the company.”

  I watched him cream the pint before I ventured,

  “And you, Jeff, what’s your take?”

  “I’m your friend, I don’t have a take.”

  Is there a reply to this? I don’t know it. The door opened and Sweeper came in. A blue suit and a bluer shirt, wool tie. Except for a gold earring, he could have passed for a guard. The temptation to pun was ferocious.

  Like,

  “Look what the car swept in.”

  Instead I said,

  “Join me.”

  “A mineral, please.”

  Jeff checked.

  “Club Orange?”

  “Yes, please.”

  We studied each other for a moment, then Sweeper took a swallow of the drink. Crunched the ice, revealing strong white teeth. I said,

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “You are in need of digs?”

  “No…no, I’m not. I’m up to my eyes in accommodation.”

  He gave the brief smile, said,

  “You have the sharp tongue.”

  “I like to cut to the chase.”

  He produced a set of keys, placed them on the table, said,

  “You’ll know Hidden Valley.”

  “Of course…John Arden lives there.”

  “Who?”

  “Booker Prize nominee, highly respected dramatist…”

  He put up his hand,

  “I’m not a bookish man, Mr Taylor.”

  “Never too late.”

  “I didn’t say I’m unlearnt…I said something else entirely.”

  Saw the flash in his eyes. Cautioned myself not to fuck with him.

  Fucked with him anyway, said,

  “Hit a nerve, did I?”

  He ignored that, said,

  “Some of my people bought a house there. They…didn’t settle. I’d like to offer you the house. It’s small but adequate.”

  “And you’ll give me this if I help.”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I don’t find anything?”

  “The house is yours for six months.”

  My instincts said,

  “No.”

  I said,

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  Picked up the keys, said,

  “Tell me what happened.”

  He produced a scrap of paper, laid it down. I looked at it.

  Jan. 3rd…Christy Flynn (Óg)

  Feb. 19th…Cionn Flaherty

  April 2nd…Seaneen Brown

  June 9th…Blackie Ryan

  I asked,

  “All dead?”

  “Aye, found in the Fair Green, near the Simon House.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “Did they die?”

  “Their heads crushed with a hammer.”

  He got up abruptly, went to the bar, asked Jeff,

  “A small Jameson and a pint for my friend.”

  I looked at the list. A weariness came whispering at my soul:

  “You are so tired.”

  A line I’d once heard came to mind:

  “He drank, not because of the darkness in him but the darkness in others.”

  Sweeper returned, asked,

  “Payment?”

  “What?”

  “How much cash do you want?”

  “Aren’t you giving me a bloody house?”

  “You’ll need money, everybody does.”

  Argue that.

  He’d given me a fat envelope, stuffed with notes. I said,

  “Wish it had been brown.”

  He was lost, said,

  “I’m lost.”

  “A brown envelope, we could have been TDs.”

  The quip was not to his taste. He sipped at the Jameson like a man who’s been badly burnt. Whiskey had scorched me more times than I want to recall. A look between us and he said,

  “I have to ration it.”

  “Hey, I’m the last guy who needs an explanation.”

  “I know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ann Henderson told me of your aff
liction.”

  Rage burned. I asked,

  “Affliction…she said that?”

  He waved his left hand, vague in his dismissal.

  “My people suffer similarly.”

  I let it go…fuck it.

  Time to pack. I said,

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready.”

  Upstairs, I packed my holdall, nicked the bottle of Harley. Jeff smelled fine. I, however, needed all the assistance available. Put on my London leather. Creaked a bit, but I could call that character. Down to the bar, put out my hand to Jeff, said,

  “It’s been fun.”

  “Where are you going?”

  The sentry raised his head, shouted,

  “He’s going with the tinker.”

  Jeff clipped him, said,

  “Hey.”

  Sweeper nodded, went outside. I said,

  “I’ve got a house in Hidden Valley.”

  “From yer man?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “I’m going to look into a bit of trouble he’s had.”

  “Jeez, Jack, I thought you packed in that business…after last time.”

  “This is different.”

  “Yea, you’re in even worse shape. Cathy! Jack is going.”

  She came running.

  “Aw, Jack.”

  “I’ll be near, literally round the corner.”

  “But I had a fillum.”

  She pronounced it thus. When the English go native, they go bananas.

  “What film?”

  “Julien Donkey-Boy by Harmony Korine.”

  I gave her my best blank look. She continued,

  “It’s the Dogme #6 one. He made Gummo, remember?”

  “Um, not offhand.”

  “Jack, you have to see it. He takes the piss with Lars von Trier.”

  Jeff was pissing himself behind the counter. Even the sentry was smiling. I decided to come clean, said,

  “None of that makes the slightest sense to me.”

  Crestfallen, she produced a small package. I could see “Zhivago Records” on the front. She said,

  “This was to welcome you home.”

  I opened the package, a CD titled “You Win Again” by Van Morrison and Linda Lewis. I mustered all my enthusiasm, muttered,

  “Wow.”

  Cheered now, she gushed,

  “I knew you’d be happy. Remember before you went away, you gave me her album.”

  I didn’t, said,

  “Sure.”

  Outside, Sweeper said,

  “I’ve a van.”

  “Me, too.”

  It was a Ford Transit, beaten to a pulp. When he saw my reluctance, he said,

  “The engine is hyped.”

  Slid the door and threw my bag in. The white suited singer from my homecoming approached, asked,

  “Price of a cup of tea, sir?”

  Handed him the CD. He asked,

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “New material.”

  I was arrested my first night in Hidden Valley. They came for me at eight, rousing me from a power nap. I’d fallen asleep by an open fire. Hidden Valley is a steep incline running from Prospect Hill to the Headford Road. A haven of rare quiet in a city gone ape. From the hill, you can see out over Lough Corrib, wish for children you never had. To the north is Boher-more. Round the corner is Woodquay and Roches Stores. The house was a modern two up, two down. And hallelujah, wood floors, stone fireplace. Fully furnished with heavy Swedish chairs and sofa. Even the bookcase was full. Sweeper said,

  “The fridges and deep freeze are stocked. There’s drink in the cupboard.”

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Mr Taylor, we’re always expecting someone.”

  “What can I say? Let me get you a drink?”

  “No, I must be away.”

  I’d once come across a letter written by Williams Burroughs to Allen Ginsberg.

  I was first arrested when I beached, a balsa raft suspected to have floated up from Peru with a young boy and a toothbrush. (I travel light, only the essentials.) One night, after shooting six ampoules of dolophine, the ex-captain found me sitting stark naked in the hall on the toilet seat (which I had wrenched from its mooring) playing in a bucket of water and singing “Deep in the Heart of Texas ”.

  I looked round my new home and thought, I’ve beached pretty well. I had a long bath, put my clothes away and rummaged about. The coal bunker was out back, and I got a fire going. Intended to sit for a few minutes, drifted off. Banging on the door pulled me awake. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I fumbled to the door, opened it and said,

  “The guards.”

  In uniform. Looking about sixteen. But mean with it. The first said,

  “Jack Taylor?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  The second said,

  “We’d like you to come with us.”

  “Why?”

  The first smiled, said,

  “To help us with our enquiries.”

  “Can I grab some coffee?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The squad car was parked right by the door. I said,

  “Thanks for the discretion, lads. I wanted to impress the neighbours.”

  Just like the movies, the guard put his hand on my head as he put me into the back. Almost looks like care, managed to bang my head, went,

  “Oops.”

  At Mill Street, as we got out, Mike Shocks, the local photographer, rushed over, asked,

  “Anybody?”

  “Naw, he’s nobody.”

  Inside, I was brought to the interview room. Rubbed my wrists as if I’d been cuffed. A tin ashtray sat centre on a graffiti surface: a logo, “Players Please”. I shook loose a red, cranked the Zippo. Deep drag and tried to guess where the camera was. Door opened and Clancy entered. Superintendent Clancy. Man, we had history, none of it good. He’d been present at the action that cost me my career. Then, he’d been skinny as a wet greyhound. We’d been friends. During the events before my exile, he’d been a bastard.

  Dressed in the full regalia, he’d leaped into middle age. His face was purple, blotches on the cheeks. The eyes, though, sharp as ever. He said,

  “You’re back.”

  “Well detected.”

  “I’d hoped we’d seen the last of you.”

  “What can I tell you, bro?”

  “I only hope that other yoke, Sutton, won’t show up.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Sutton was dead. I’d killed him, my best friend. With, as they say, malice afterthought. Clancy walked behind me. The old ritual of intimidation. Rule one of interrogation. Not in the training manual but laid in stone. I said,

  “Fair cop, guv; I’ll spill my guts.”

  Sensed his hand raised, tensed as I waited for the wallop. It didn’t come. I shook another red loose, fired it up. He asked,

  “What are you doing with the tinkers?”

  “Tinker.”

  “Don’t give me cheek. I’ll run your arse up to Mountjoy before you can scream barrister.”

  “Oh, you mean Sweeper.”

  Rage exploded from him. He went,

  “He’s a blackguard.”

  “I don’t think he’s fond of you either.”

  He plonked himself on the edge of the table, his pants riding up. A white hairless leg was visible above his navy sock. He leaned right into my face. His breath stank of onions. He said,

  “Listen to me, laddie. Stay away from that bunch.”

  I ground out the cigarette, asked,

  “You won’t be investigating the murders of four of their men?”

  Spittle lit the corners of his mouth. He spat,

  “Fecking tinkers, they’re always killing each other.”

  He stood up, adjusted the tight tunic, said,

  “Get out.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  “Watch your step, boyo.”

 
; On my way to the door, I said,

  “God bless.”

  On release from Mill Street, I walked towards Shop Street. Radiohead’s Thom Yorke said,

  Every day you think, well maybe, we should stop. Maybe there’s no point to this, because all the sounds you made, that made you happy, have been sucked of everything they meant. It’s a total headfuck.

  I stood on the bridge for a few moments. Across the water, over near Claddagh, I could see Nimmo’s Pier. Sutton’s body had never been found. His paintings were now collectable. The French have a word for nightmare…cauchemar. Man, that is evocative. An alcoholic has dreams to rival that of any Vietnam vet. Closing your eyes you mutter, “Incoming”…and kidding you ain’t. Initially, like the worst irony, alcohol dispels them. Leastways you don’t remember. Then, of course, it fuels and powder-kegs them to the ninth level. Not a level on which to linger. The Irish for dreams is broinglóidí, a beautiful gentle sound. Of the many impossibles, a drinker prays most in that direction. In vain. I never dream of Sutton. Sure, I think about him most days, but he remains in the daylight hours. Thank Christ.

  I needed Merton and a pint. Not necessarily in that order. Headed for Charlie Byrne’s, a second-hand bookshop. It is the bookshop. During my apprenticeship with the librarian Tommy Kennedy, as he shaped and nurtured my reading, he told me about Sylvia Beach. In Paris, in the true glory days, her bookshop held court to

  Joyce

  Hemingway

  Fitzgerald

  Gertrude Stein

  Ford Maddox Ford

  Mr Kennedy’s voice would get such a sound of longing in the telling. As he recounted the near mythic atmosphere, I could smell the Gauloise, the aroma of pure French coffee. Being young, naturally, I asked,

  “Did you go there, Mr Kennedy?”

  With such loss in his eyes, he said,

  “No, no…I didn’t.”

  One of my embracing poems is Howl by Ginsberg. Nobody I ever told ever seemed surprised. I guess they’d heard me howl too often. It travelled back from London in the pocket of my jacket. The other travel book was The Hound of Heaven. It had been a collectors’ item, bound in calf with gold trim. When I told Tommy Kennedy of my career choice – the guards – he’d been bitterly disappointed. My farewell present from him was the Thompson book. Nights of drunkenness had marred that beautiful volume.

  Charlie Byrne’s comes close to Tommy’s ideal. Some years before, I’d been lurking in the crime section. A student had a beautiful American edition of Walt Whitman. He was peering at the price. Charlie, passing, said,

  “Take it with you.”

  “I haven’t enough.”