The Killing of the Tinkers

by Ken Bruen

  Jesus.

  Figuring it’s time to return to crime, bookwise anyway. I get stuck into Lawerence Block; have to speed-read him as Matt Scudder, his hero, speaks at length about recovery from alcoholism. Thin ice at its thinnest. Worse, at one stage, he describes the difference between an alcoholic and a junkie. With the cloud of speed, coke over me and a bottle of poitín in the cupboard, I’m between that rock and a hard place. Am I ever? Phew-oh. He writes:

  “Show a stone junkie the Garden of Eden and he’ll say he wants it dark and cold and miserable. And he wants to be the only one there.”

  I stood up, got a cig, I was not enjoying this passage. Put on Johnny Duhan’s Flame. The perfect album for my fragmented state. By the third track, I’m easing down, said,

  “OK.”

  And went back to Block.

  “The difference between the drunk and the junkie is the drunk will steal your wallet. So will the junkie, but then he’ll help you look for it.”

  I put the book aside, said,

  “Enough, time to go out.”

  And out I went, more’s the Irish pity.

  Passing the GBC I thought of my last meeting there with Keegan. On that whim, I went in, got a double cappuccino and an almond croissant. Asked the assistant,

  “Don’t put sprinkle on.”

  She was amazed, said,

  “How can you drink it without that?”

  “With great relish, OK?”

  Took a window seat, let the world cruise by. Cut a wedge of the croissant and began to chew. Good? It was heaven. Helped distance the coke craving. A woman approached, said,

  “You’re Jack Taylor.”

  Mid bite, I managed,

  “Yes.”

  “Might I have a minute?”

  “OK.”

  She was late fifties but well-preserved. Wearing the sort of suit popularised by Maggie Thatcher. Which told me one thing: “Pay attention.” She sat, fixed me with a steady gaze, asked,

  “Do you know me?”

  “No, no, I don’t.”

  “Mrs Nealon, Laura’s mother.”

  I put out my hand and she gave it a scornful glance, said,

  “We’re in the same age bracket, wouldn’t you say?”

  The froth on my coffee was disappearing. I tried for the light touch, said,

  “Give or take ten years.”

  Bad idea. She launched,

  “I hardly think Laura’s in your range, do you?”

  “Mrs Nealon, it isn’t a serious thing.”

  Her eyes flashed.

  “How dare you? My daughter is besotted.”

  “I think you’re overstating it.”

  She stood up, her voice loud.

  “Leave her alone, you dirty lecher.”

  And stormed out.

  All eyes in the place on me, high with recrimination. I looked at the pastry, curling in on itself, thought,

  “Too sweet really.”

  The cappuccino had wasted away entirely.

  As I slunk out of there, I remembered a line of Borges that Kiki was fond of quoting:

  “Waking up, if only morning meant oblivion.”

  Tried to tell myself the old Galwegian line:

  “The GBC is for country people. Them and commercial travellers.”

  Would it fly? Would it fuck.

  Rang Laura, who exclaimed,

  “You’re better.”

  “What?”

  “Your flu, it’s gone.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’m so happy. I bought you a get-well card, it has Snoopy on the front, and I don’t even know if you like him. Oh Jack, there’s so much I’m dying to know about you. I’ll come over right now.”

  “Laura…I…um…listen…I won’t be seeing you.”

  “You mean today?”

  “Today and…every other day.”

  “Why, Jack? Did I do something wrong? Did I…”

  I had to cut this, said,

  “I’ve met someone else.”

  “Oh God, is she lovely?”

  “She’s older.”

  And I hung up.

  Lord knows, feeling bad is the skin I’ve worn almost all my life. Standing there, the dead phone in my hand, I plunged new depths. Walked to the cupboard, took out the poitín and the doorbell went. I said,

  “Fuck.”

  Stomped out and tore the door open. It was Brendan Flood, ex-garda, religious nut, information grand master. Through gritted teeth, I said,

  “I gave at the office.”

  Took him a minute, then,

  “I’m not begging.”

  I moved past him, examined the door. He looked at me questioningly. I said,

  “Thought maybe there was a sign here that read ‘Assholes Convention’.”

  Went inside, showed him into the living room. The poitín was neon lit in the kitchen. I gestured to the sofa and he sat. He had a battered briefcase which he placed on his knees. He said,

  “You look better, Jack.”

  “Clean living.”

  “Our prayers are working, alleluia.”

  “What do you want?”

  He opened the briefcase, began to sort through papers, said,

  “You’ll know about forensic psychology.”

  “Not much.”

  “Despite the guards’ lack of interest in the killing of those young men, a forensics man was sufficiently intrigued to make his own study.”

  “On all the bodies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s writing a book.”

  “And you know him…how?”

  “He’s in our prayer group.”

  “Of course.”

  “Here’s what he found.”

  The killer is male, early thirties. A batchelor, only child. Very high IQ. A craftsman. Drives a van that’s been refitted. As a child, he’d have killed or tortured animals. Learnt early to cover himself. Growing up, he’d have had minor skirmishes with the law but learn from each mistake. At some stage, he’d have attempted a serious assault on another male. You meet him, he’s polite, speaks well, educated but he feels nothing. He’s simply not there. Remorse is alien to him. His characteristics are grandiosity and hidden hostility. The psychiatric heading is a narcissistic personality disorder and poor impulse control. Violence is inevitable. Sexual gratification comes with the first kill. He will then be unable to stop.

  Flood stopped, asked,

  “Could I have a glass of water, please?”

  For all the world like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws. I got the water, toyed with the idea of a poitín spike, but let it go. As I handed him the water, his hand shook. I said,

  “Jeez, this shit really gets to you.”

  “Please don’t swear. Yes, evil deeply disturbs me.”

  I sat, lit a cig, said,

  “Highly impressive, but it amounts to what? I already know who the killer is.”

  He drank deep of the water, gulped, said,

  “Ah, Mr Bryson. That’s why I’m here. I’m not sure he fits the profile.”

  “Profile, bollocks. Where do you think you are? Quantico? Wake up. You’re an ex-guard with no future, playing at detection. Believe me, I know how sad it gets. You pray, I drink, and may someone have mercy on our miserable souls.”

  He was stunned by my outburst. Sat back in the sofa as if I’d hit him. In a sense, I had. A few moments before he spoke, then,

  “I didn’t realise the depth of your bitterness. I am sorry for your despair.”

  “Whoa, Flood, back up. I don’t want your sorrow.”

  He took a deep breath, said,

  “Jack, these assessments are uncanny in their accuracy.”

  “So?”

  “If it’s Bryson, he wouldn’t have run.”

  I stood, said,

  “It’s him.”

  He stood, pleaded,

  “Jack, listen please. You have that friend, the English policeman, get him to ch
eck the background on Bryson, see if it matches the profile.”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Jack!”

  I showed him the door, said,

  “Tell your friend I’ll buy the book.”

  “You have a hard heart, Jack Taylor.”

  “So they tell me.”

  And I shut the door.

  The phone rang continuously that afternoon. I could care. I was the other side of Roscommon’s finest.

  “In that day you shall begin to possess the solitude you have so long desired. Do not ask me when it will be, or how, in a desert or in a concentration camp. It does not matter. So, do not ask me because I am not going to tell you.

  You will not know until you are in it.”

  Thomas Merton, The Seven Story Mountain

  There are few nightmares to touch those engendered by poitín. In the early sixties, there was a classic whine record called “Tell Laura I Love Her”. The guy in the song is killed on his motorcycle as he roars the above. I dreamt of this. The guy was Jeff on his Harley, and my Laura is calling my name. I’m covered in swan entrails, and Clancy is coming at me with a machete. I came to in the back yard, rain lashing down upon me. No idea how I got there. The poitín bottle was smashed against the rear wall.

  I crawled into the hallway and threw up, vomit cascading along my sodden clothes. A thirst burning supreme. Managed to stand and pull the ruined clothes off. Shoved them in the washing machine, turned to max. Then had to force it open, water pouring on to the floor, and ladle in washing powder. Kicked it shut. Into the kitchen and found a can of Heineken, lacerated my fingers attempting to open it. Muttered,

  “Thank you, God.”

  Swallowed half and threw up again. I climbed the stairs and got in the shower. Did five scalding minutes, dried myself slowly as every muscle ached. Nothing kicks the shit out of you as systematically as that uisce beatha. No wonder Connemara men drink sherry for penance during Lent. Pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. To my horror, the shirt had a logo. When I finally focused, I read “I’m a gas man.”

  Fuck.

  Lay on the bed and passed out. Didn’t wake till late evening. More nightmares. Sat up with a start, my heart pounding. I’d been sick again, so tore the bed linen off. Another shower, feeling one degree less awful. Downstairs to search for another cure. Not a drop: zilch, nada, nothing. Had drained everything in the house. I’d have to go out. Last pair of jeans, sweatshirt and my guards coat. Buttoned it tight as a spasm of ice racked my system. A cold from the very dead. The phone went and I nearly didn’t answer. If I hadn’t, I wonder if things would have turned out any different. Probably not, but I can’t help wondering. Picked it up, said,

  “Hello?”

  “Jack, it’s Sweeper.”

  “Yea?”

  “We got him.”

  “What?”

  “In Athlone, working with the homeless.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He’s asking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want to see him?”

  “Um…OK.”

  “I’m sending Mikey for you.”

  “Tell him I’ll be in Nestor’s.”

  “OK.”

  I headed for the pub. Jeff was behind the bar, looking fit and healthy. The sentry was in place and said,

  “Saviour of the swans.”

  I ignored him. Jeff said,

  “You don’t look so good, Jack.”

  “What else is new? You, however, are shining.”

  “Thanks to you, buddy. I owe you one.”

  “Yea, yea, gimme a pint and a half one.”

  For a split second, he hesitated, and I said,

  “What?”

  He got the drinks. The sentry tried again,

  “You’re a hero, Jack Taylor.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Jeff put the drinks on the counter, said,

  “On me.”

  I got out my money, said,

  “No, thanks.”

  Took the drinks, my hands shaking, and I had to put them back. Jeff was going to help but saw my face and backed off. I took the short in both hands, drained it. The sentry was mesmerised. I said,

  “Didn’t I just tell you?”

  He studied his habitual half empty glass. The whiskey hit my stomach like a rocket. Felt the blood rush to my face, knew I’d have the instant barroom tan. A glow rose from my guts, up through my chest, and I felt the ease. A few seconds later and I could lift the pint with one hand, no tremor. Was about to ask Jeff to hit it again when Mikey appeared at my elbow, asked,

  “Bit of a party?”

  “You want something?”

  “We don’t have time. We’re having a bit of a party ourselves.”

  He’d a half smirk. I said,

  “Time for a fast one.”

  I ordered a double and said to Mikey,

  “Join me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I lit a cig with the silver Zippo. Mikey said,

  “That’s Sweeper’s lighter.”

  “So, what’s your point?”

  He didn’t have one. I drained the glass, waited for the jolt, said,

  “Let’s go.”

  Jeff said,

  “Take care, Jack.”

  I didn’t answer. The Jameson kicked, robbing me temporarily of speech.

  Mikey had the van parked outside. Looked battered till you got in and saw it had been custom fit. You could happily live there with all the comforts. I said,

  “Nice transformation.”

  “I’m good with my hands.”

  He put the van in gear, eased into traffic. I asked,

  “Where are we going?”

  “ Headford Road, the settled community.”

  The contempt in his voice was like a knife. I didn’t bite, and he looked across at me, said,

  “I’m not a tinker.”

  “What?”

  “You presume I am.”

  “Yo, Mikey. I don’t presume anything about you. This may be hard to believe, but I don’t think about you at all. I met you what…once?”

  “Twice.”

  “Twice?

  “I was along for the Tiernans, remember? Of course, you just saw a band of tinkers.”

  I shook my head and got out my cigs, reached for the Zippo. He said,

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t, not in my van.”

  I lit up, said,

  “Like I give a fuck.”

  At Woodquay, he said,

  “My mother, when I was four, had me out walking at midnight. Ended up at the Fair Green. She tore all her clothes off. Always at a certain point of drink, she’d do that.”

  When I didn’t answer, he continued,

  “A van hit her, killed her instantly. Not that she felt anything, she was too drunk for that. The tinkers adopted me.”

  “Why?”

  “Their van.”

  “What about your family?”

  “It was just me and her…oh, and the booze. In a flat in Rahoon, remember those? You wouldn’t put a dog in them. A Galway ghetto, like America.”

  I crushed the butt on the floor, said,

  “So why’d you stay? You’re an adult now.”

  We were pulling into the driveway of a large house. He said,

  “Of all people, you should know there’s no going back.”

  As we got out, I asked,

  “Who lives here?”

  It was a large three-storey affair with adjoining garage. What it conveyed was cash, lots of it. I couldn’t see Mikey’s face, but heard the sneer as he said,

  “Who else? Sweeper.”

  “Life is a kind of horror. It is OK, but it is wearing. Enemies and thieves don’t lay off as you weaken. The wicked flourish by being ruthless even then. If you are ill, you have to have a good lawyer. When you are handed a death sentence, the newly redrawn battle lines are enclosed. Depending on your circumsta
nces, in some cases you have to back off and lie low. You’re weak.

  Death feels preferable to daily retreat.”

  Harold Brodkey, This Wild Darkness

  Mikey led me into the house. Down a hall lined with black and white photographs. Old Galway. Women in shawls, men in cloth caps. Maybe it was the whiskey, but it appeared a better time. Into a sitting room, lush with antiques and leather furniture. A huge open fire, Sweeper before it, his arm resting on a marble fireplace. Three young men in black tracksuits. Sweeper barked,

  “What kept you?”

  Directed at Mikey, who glanced at me, said,

  “Traffic.”

  Sweeper turned to me, asked,

  “Drink?”

  Mikey made a choking sound. I said,

  “No, I’m good.”

  Was I ever? Enveloped in the artificial calm of four whiskies. Sweeper nodded, said,

  “I’ll take you to him.”

  Led me through the house. In another room, a woman and three children were watching Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? I heard Chris Tarrant ask,

  “Final answer?”

  We entered the garage. Ronald Bryson was tied to a kitchen chair, naked. A two bar electric fire near him. Sweeper said,

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  A second chair was placed in front of Bryson. His head down on his chest, he appeared to be sleeping. His skin was chalk white, not a single hair on it. I couldn’t see any bruising and felt relieved, said,

  “Ronald.”

  His head snapped up, blood around his lips. A moment before he focused, then,

  “Dack…dank dog.”

  His teeth were gone, the gums were encrusted with dried blood and spittle. His speech was distorted and barely decipherable. For the sake of sanity, I’ll give his words as I finally decoded them. I said,

  “You wanted to see me.”

  He strained against the ropes, said,

  “They took my teeth with the pliers.”

  I wish I’d taken the drink. He said,

  “Jack, you’ve got to tell them it’s a terrible mistake. I know I behaved badly but I didn’t do those men.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Jack, please! There’s something in me that craves attention. I let people think I did those terrible things but it’s…”

  Then his voce fell into a whisper.

  “It’s only a game. I do good work, then it’s like I’m possessed. I turn against the people I’m helping and start to pretend I’ve done dangerous stuff. Then I have to move on. You can check. In London…loads of times, but it’s all fantasy.”