by Ken Bruen
I lit a cig, said,
“You trashed my house, made calls, terrorised my girl.”
“I only wanted your attention. Have you think I was more than your match.”
I stood up and he cried,
“Oh, God, Jack, don’t go.”
I leant in close to him. Fear rose off his torso like smoke. I said,
“Even if I was to buy any of that, there’s one thing that damns you.”
“What, Jack? Tell me…I can explain…anything.”
“The hand.”
He seemed genuinely confused, asked,
“What hand?”
“One of the victims, his hand was chopped off, left on a doorstep. Then I get a plastic hand in the post. How could you have known about that, unless you did it?”
“Jack, I swear, I don’t know anything about hands. I never posted you anything. God Almighty, you have to believe me.”
“I don’t.”
I turned to go and he began to cry, begging me to come back. I closed the door behind me, went back to the living room. Sweeper asked,
“Did he confess?”
“No.”
Sweeper looked into my eyes, asked,
“What’s your final word?”
“He did it.”
“OK, Mikey will drive you back. I’ll call round in a few hours, settle our account.”
On the return journey, Mikey didn’t speak. I heard a clock strike twelve, thought,
“Call midnight, cry alone.”
At Hidden Valley, I was getting out when Mikey said,
“I’m starting to read poetry. Who would you recommend?”
I took a moment as if I was contemplating, said,
“I couldn’t give a fuck who you read.”
In the house, I was near afraid to keep up the high intensity drinking, decided to attempt to read. Chose Chester Himes; he’d be vicious and funny. From The Primitive I underlined the following,
But at this moment of awaking, before her mind had restored its equanimity, phrased its justifications, hardened its antagonisms, erected its rationalisations; at this moment of emotional helplessness…she could not blame it all on the men. That was for crying, and day for lying; but morning was the time for fear.
I’d dozed in the armchair. The doorbell went and I got groggily to my feet. Checked the time. Five o’clock. Sweeper was alone with a bottle of Black Bush. Led him into the kitchen. He said,
“I brought cloves, we could have hot ones.”
“Why not?”
I boiled the kettle and built big drinks, stirred in the cloves, sugar, the Bush. Handed him his and sat down. He said,
“It’s done.”
“OK.”
“You want to ask me anything?”
“Would you tell me?”
“Probably not.”
We drank and he built the next ones. I said,
“The hand bothers me.”
“What?”
“The one in the post.”
He gave a short laugh, no humour in it, said,
“That was Mikey.”
“What?”
“He goes to Belfast a lot. He thought you needed a wake-up call. I didn’t know till afterwards. The lads told me.”
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“Jesus…let me think.”
Tried to settle my mind, to recall Brendan Flood’s words, said,
“Sweeper, I’m going to describe a person. I want you to listen very carefully and then tell me who comes to mind.”
“OK.”
I took a deep breath, then began.
“A man in his early thirties, batchelor, high intelligence…only child. Good with his hands, drives a custom-fitted van, had a minor run in with the guards, probably gave someone a serious beating once. He’s polite, well-spoken, educated.”
Sweat was leaking out of me. Sweeper didn’t hesitate, said,
“Mikey, why?”
“Nothing, I was curious.”
If he’d been less knackered, he might have pushed it. But exhaustion was closing his eyes. He shrugged, took out an envelope, said,
“A bonus. You did well.”
“I’m going to move.”
“To London?”
“No, back to Bailey’s Hotel.”
“But you can stay here.”
“Thanks, but it’s time for a change.”
He stood, put out his hand, said,
“I’ll be seeing you, Jack Taylor.”
“Sure.”
After he’d gone, I opened the envelope. Enough to keep me going for a long time. I resealed it.
Next day, I was sitting in Sweeney’s. The cries of the seagulls across the docks. Bill Cassell arrived a short time later. He seemed even thinner, took his usual seat, and I sat opposite. I put the envelope on the table, said,
“Will you count that?”
He did, said,
“That’s a lot of money, Jack. What do you want? To have somebody killed?”
I lit a cigarette, took a last look at the Zippo, pushed it across to Bill, said,
“His name is…”
Ken Bruen
***
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