by Ken Bruen
I had hoped never to see Nimmo’s Pier again. A daunting task if you live in Galway as it’s the crucial point in walking the Prom. That walk is mandatory. I had drowned my best friend from there, with malice aforethought. The largest gathering of swans is at the Claddagh, and the pier is the focal point. There is only one way to approach the birds, and that’s down a slipway to the water. Most days, somebody’s there, distributing bread. The swans gather at this feeding point. You plan on killing one, this is where you have to do it. A week now since the last slaughter, I got down there at two in the morning. The lights of the city across the bay. I kept my eyes averted from Nimmo’s, found a place to hunker down against the wind. In my dark clothes, I was invisible to passers-by. Least, hoped I was.
Clad in my all-weather coat, thermal gear and gloves, I could endure the wind. A black watch cap pulled over my ears. As preparation, I’d filled a thermos with coffee and brandy. Music and laughter floated across the water. I nipped from the flask. My legs were aching with stiffness, and I did some exercises to free them. At four, fatigue came calling and I popped the amphetamines. For twenty minutes, nothing; figured the guy had sold me a dud. Well, I’d have his ass. Next thing, I was near catapulted to my feet with a jolt of energy. Cranked? I was in hyperspace. Into my mind came “Speed kills”, followed by “Who gives a toss?” My heart was accelerating by the second, and I was digging it. You’re in serious bother when massive palpitations are a buzz.
And buzzing it was. Felt I could bend iron bars with my teeth. The inspiration for a novel came roaring down the pike and I speed-wrote it in jig time. Wanted to shout,
“It’s going to be a classic.”
Kept hopping up and down like Johnny Rotten at his zenith. Jumped up on the road, begging the swan killer to show. He didn’t. Eight o’clock, winding down, I headed home. My face felt raw with twitches, the nerve ends were electric. A milkman said, “Good morning,” and I roared, “GOOD MORNING TO YOU.” Tried to rein it in but shouted at a postman and a cleaner. Took me two hours to get to the house as my feet propelled me into hundred metre dashes. Finally home, I ran up and down the stairs in a frenzy. With the thermal gear on! The crash when it came was nasty and brutish. Collapsed on the sofa, totally wiped. Focused on the clock and saw it was noon, muttered,
“Not-High Noon.”
Slept then till ten at night. Coming round, thought,
“You are no way up to speed.”
Tried the restoration stuff: shower, food, coffee, fresh clothes. Barely dented the speed afterburn.
Come midnight, I prepared again. When this was done, I checked the mirror. Not good. The skin on my face was grey, my eyes like high points of lunacy. Trudged again to the Claddagh. Whatever else happened, I wouldn’t be using the speed. Took my place against the wall as heavy rain began. If the attacker showed up, the very best I could do was call him names. He didn’t show. Odd times, I dozed, just enough to run through a nightmare. Round four, I woke to two swans pecking at my feet. I shouted,
“…the fuck away!”
They hissed and seemed set to strike. The sound they make is truly intimidating. I forced myself to stay still, and finally they waddled away. I was fast losing my fondness for them. The early hours of the morning, cold wet and depressed, I muttered,
“Am I too old for Tesco?”
The swans were beginning to scare the bejaysus out of me. In the half light, they appeared so menacing. I drank often from the flask, begging the brandy to ignite. As dawn began to break, I swore.
“No more; I’m through with this.”
At nine, I moved from my vigil and climbed wearily on to the walk. A spasm of dizziness, and I barely made it to the bench. Tried to light a cig but they were sodden. A short time later, I heard,
“Jack Taylor?”
Turned to see the swan guy. I nodded and he said,
“My God, you look awful.”
“It’s my disguise.”
“Have you been here all night?”
“Yea.”
He indicated the houses behind, said,
“Look, I live over there…St Jude’s. I’ll get you breakfast, a hot shower.”
“No, I’m OK.”
“I apologise for the outburst the other day. I see now you’re a conscientious person.”
I stood up, said,
“I’ll have to go.”
He put out his hand, said,
“Thank you for helping.”
I’d gotten about a hundred yards when he shouted,
“I’m going to personally see to it that you get another pound.”
I was tempted to go,
“My cup overfloweth.”
But he was, as the Irish say, “a harmless idiot”, so I simply waved my hand. My bile could be better directed.
Laura came by the next evening. She’d bought Chinese and we’d a mini feast. With a shy expression she said,
“I bought wine.”
“Great.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Me neither.”
Big smile.
“You’re a lovely man.”
“So, what did you get?”
“ Beaujolais, is that all right?”
“Perfect.”
Later, she said,
“Something odd happened last night.”
“Tell me.”
“I went out for a jar with Vicky…you know, my friend?”
“Right.”
“So, we were in Busker’s and these two guys, they kept bothering us, just wouldn’t let up. Anyway, when we left, they tried to grab us on the street. Then this man came out of nowhere and…” she opened her arms wide, “banged…” she brought her palms together, smack, “their heads together, ran them into the wall. He turned to us and said, ‘Miss Nealon, you can carry on now.’ We were like gobsmacked.”
I thought Bill was keeping his word, could only hope when the time came, I’d be able to keep mine. I said,
“Old Galwegians, they look out for each other.”
“Oh, it isn’t anyone you know?”
“Me? No.”
What was I going to tell her, that I’d hired protection. No, I’d keep that deal on the need-to-know basis. There was no way in hell she needed to know. I raised my glass, said,
“Sláinte.”
Third night and I’m crouched against the wall. A driving rain found me at every turn. The swans were huddled towards the shore; felt I’d gotten caught in some episode of The Twilight Zone, for ever surrounded by unpredictable swans. Had decided to cut out early on this vigil, maybe fuck off home at five. Just after four, a figure stopped at the wall, directly above me. I could hear troubled breathing, like asthma or something. I watched as he approached the slipway…
And stepped down.
All I could make out was a long overcoat, wellingtons and, then, a flash of metal. Machete.
He began to walk towards the water. I was up, trying to ease the pain in my joints. I could hear identical sounds to the swans. He was calling them. That spooked me more than anything. Two of the birds were approaching. He raised the knife. I said,
“Yo, shithead.”
He turned and I moved nearer. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, blond hair cut short, an ordinary face, nothing to distinguish it, till you saw the eyes. I once read how Hemingway described Wyndham Lewis as having “the eyes of a professional rapist”. Here they were. He said,
“Fuck off or I’ll cut you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“For me exams.”
“What?”
“Lucifer will give me all A’s for eighteen heads.”
“Eighteen?”
Annoyance crossed his face and he spat,
“Six six six, the number of the beast.”
“Jesus.”
He ran at me. I let him come, then hit him with the stun gun. The voltage took him off his feet and into the water. I was astonished at the power. As the kid thrashed, it cr
ossed my mind to let him drown. Then the swans went at him. I’d a battle to fend them off as I dragged him out. Took a second to catch my breath and then heaved him over my shoulder. He was groaning as I made my way across the road. I banged on the door of St Jude’s till a light came on. Tate opened it and went,
“Oh my God.”
“Here’s your swan killer.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
I laid the kid on the ground, said,
“You better do it quick, whatever it is, as I think the swans took his eye out.”
I turned and started to walk. He shouted,
“Where are you going?”
“For a pint.”
Afterglow
The story made page one.
LOCAL HERO
Galway born Jack Taylor helped apprehend the person suspected of killing swans. In recent weeks, residents of the Claddagh had been outraged at the attacks.
A spokesperson for the area said, “The swans are part of our heritage.”
Mr Taylor, an ex-guard, had mounted a vigil over a number of nights. The alleged perpetrator is believed to be a teenage boy from the Salthill area of the city. Superintendent Clancy, in a brief statement, said:
“The guards are increasingly concerned at the lack of respect by young people for the institutions in the public domain. We will not tolerate wanton vandalism.”
He called on parents to play a more active role in the supervision of young adults. Mr Taylor was unavailable for comment.
I’d finally solved a case. Yup, I cracked it. Did I feel good? Did I fuck. A sense of desolation engulfed me. Cloud of unknowing?…Not quite. I knew and was not consoled. Emptiness lit my guts like a palpable sense of dread. Back to basics, back to books. I read as if I meant it. In ’91, I came across David Gates, first novel Jernigan, not a book much ratified by addicts. The narrator is boozy, belligerent, demented. Crucified by his own irony, he is on a course of bended analysis. It depicts the horror of American suburbia. I lent it to a few people who hated it. I asked,
“What about the humour?”
“You’re as sick as Jernigan.”
Valid point. Payback though when he was nominated for the Pulitzer. I settled down to read his short stories titled Wonders of the Invisible World. In “Star Baby”, a gay man leaves the big city for life in his home town, only to find himself cast as a father figure to his detoxing sister’s son.
“Mostly he avoids taking Deke to restaurants, not because of the catamite issue but because the two of them look so alone in the world.”
I thought what a great word catamite was. A little difficult to insert into everyday conversation, but you never knew. The next up was “The Crazy Thought”. A woman misses her true love and chafes at city life with an embittered husband.
“ ‘Nothing wrong with John Le Carré,’ Paul said. ‘I’d hell of a lot sooner read him than fucking John Updike. If we’re talking about Johns here.’ ”
The doorbell went. I said,
“Shite.”
And got up to answer. At first I didn’t recognise him, then,
“Superintendent Clancy.”
He was in civies, dressed in a three piece suit. A big seller in Penney’s three years ago. He asked,
“Might I step in?”
“Got a warrant?”
His face clouded and I said,
“Kidding. Come in.”
Brought him into the kitchen, asked,
“Get you something?”
“Tea, tea would be great.”
He eased himself into a chair, like someone who has recently hurt his back. He surveyed the room, said,
“Comfortable.”
I didn’t think it required an answer. I took a good look at him. When I first knew him, he’d been skinny as a toothpick. We’d been close friends. All of that was long ago. His stomach bulged above his pants. Rolls of fat near closed his eyes, his face was scarlet and his breathing was laboured. I put a mug before him, said,
“I’m all out of bickies.”
He gave a wolf’s smile, said,
“You’re to be congratulated.”
“On a lack of biscuits?”
Shook his head, said,
“The swan business. You’re the talk of the town.”
“Lucky was all.”
“The other business, the tinkers, are you still pursuing that?”
“No, I got nowhere. Couple of your lads gave me a wallop recently, said you ordered it.”
“Ah, Jack, the new lads, they get a touch overzealous.”
“So why are you here?”
“Purely social. We go back a long way.”
And all of it bad. He stood up, the tea untouched.
“There was one thing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Bill Cassell, our local hard case, you’d do well to steer clear.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Jack, you’re becoming paranoid. I’m only passing on a friendly word.”
“Here’s a word for you…catamite. Look it up, you’ll be rewarded.”
As he stepped out of the door, a car glided up, a guard got out and opened the rear door. I said,
“Impressive.”
“Rank has its privileges.”
I gave him the stare, said,
“It shows; you’re a man of weight all right.”
I’d been reading Derek Raymond again, and noted,
THE CRUST ON ITS UPPERS
It seems to me that no matter whether you marry, settle down or live with a bird or not, certain ones simply have your number on them, like bombs in the war; and even if you don’t happen to like them all that much there’s nothing you can do about it – unless you’re prepared to spend a lifetime arguing fate out of existence, which you could probably do if you tried but I’m not the type.
Over the next few days, I laid low. The most amazing thing had happened. I’d cut back on the booze. The ferocious craving for coke had subsided. Now just a dim ache I could tolerate. Was afraid if I went out, the whole nervous charade would collapse. Read some Merton in a futile search for spiritual nourishment. And got none.
In truth, he now irritated the shit out of me. This usually prefaced a bender of ferocious intent. When Laura rang, I said,
“Hon, I’ve got flu.”
“I’ll come mind you.”
“No, no, just let me Lim-Sip through it.”
“I want to see you, Jack.”
“Not sick you don’t.”
“I don’t care.”
“Jeez, how many ways do I have to say this, you don’t want to see me sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. Three days tops, I’ll be fine.”
She annoyed me, too. I’d have been hard put to name anything or anyone that didn’t. Second day of interment, the doorbell went. Opened it to one of the clan. I’d seen him with Sweeper. I snapped,
“What?”
“Sweeper asked me to check you were OK.”
“You checked, goodbye.”
Tried to close the door. He put out his hand, said,
“I’m Mikey, could I come in for a minute?”
“A minute, that’s it; the clock is ticking.”
He came in, glanced round. I asked,
“What were you looking for?”
“Nothing. You’ve kept the place nice.”
He had a studied way of speaking, as if he tasted each word. He asked,
“Any chance of a glass of water?”
I gave him that and he drank deep, said,
“I’ve a desperate thirst. Must be the rashers I had for breakfast.”
“Mikey, why do I get the feeling you have an agenda?”
“I used to live here.”
“Sweeper said it was a family.”
“No, just me.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Sweeper moved me for you.”
I lit a red, blew smoke in his direction, said,
; “Ah, you’re pissed off.”
He squeezed the glass, said,
“I wouldn’t mind if you’d earned it.”
“I found the most likely suspect.”
“And he’s…where?”
I’d had enough, said,
“I’ve had enough. Was there anything else?”
“No. Could I borrow some books?”
“You read?”
“You think tinkers don’t read?”
“Gimme a break. I’m in no mood for persecution gigs.”
He didn’t move, said,
“So, the books?”
I moved to the front door, said,
“Join the library.”
He stood at the step, said,
“You’re not letting me have books?”
“Buy your own.”
And I slammed the door in his face.
The bell rang again and I pulled it open, ready for fight. It was my neighbour. I said,
“Oh.”
He looked rough at the best of times. Now he appeared to have been turned inside out and trampled. He held a bottle, said,
“Poitín.”
“Um…thanks…I think.”
“I bought a scratch card, won.”
“Much?”
“I’ve been on the batter for a week.”
“That much, eh?”
“I was in a human pub last night.”
“A what?”
“You open the door and everybody’s singing…‘I’m only human’.”
I held up the bottle. The liquid was as clear as glass. I said,
“The real McCoy.”
He shuddered, said,
“I can vouch for that. The still is in Roscommon.”
“I thought the guards were cracking down.”
“A guard sold it to me.”
“A guarantee in itself.”
“None better.”
“…clear to me at last that the dark I have always struggled to keep under is in reality my most unshatterable association…”
Samuel Beckett, Krapp’s Last Tape
Another day of hibernation. On the radio for some reason they’re playing an interview with Muhammad Ali. I’m only half listening till,
“The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.”
I’m turning that sucker over.
