by Ken Bruen
…. cos everything goes better with it, right
Brought them to the table, thinking,
“Same old macho bullshit.”
Jimmy, always anxious to please, fetched the heavy Galway Crystal tumblers and Bethany poured lethal dollops of the Turkey, with a splatter of Coke, handed the first to Bine.
He raised his, toasted,
“To chaos.”
As was the custom, they near finished the drinks on a first attempt and all managed to stem the
“Holy fuck” that such a dose of Wild demanded.
Bine, his cheeks aflame, said,
“To business.”
Sean stood.
Once, he’d sat while reporting and Bine slashed his face with the Stanley knife. Sean said,
“Attacks:
We’ve hit the old priest, the lesbian, and await your next target.”
Bine moved his finger, meaning
“Refills.”
That done, he almost seemed relaxed. He caressed his manifesto.
By mangling Darwin, he’d managed to convince them of the urgency of ridding the city of: the misfits, the handicapped, the vulnerable, the weak, the pitiful.
Bethany thought it was a crock, but Bine gave her a cold icy channel for her rage, so she acted as if she bought into his motives. And though she despised herself, she had such a lust for him she was prepared to go along with whatever frenzy he’d envisaged. It sated her need to have to lash out alone.
Bine said,
“James?”
Jimmy leapt to attention, went and got the nose candy, a mini headstone, with cocaine done in nice consecutive lines and, naturally, presenting a fifty-euro wrapped note, offered the gear first to Bine.
He did three lines fast, moved the stuff to Sean, who did similar, then Jimmy, and, finally, Bethany.
She didn’t give a proverbial toss that they were as chauvinistic as the very society they decried, she did four lines just to fuck with the system.
She smiled as the dope jolted and at their almost boyish cries of “Sweet Jaysus,
Darwin rocks,
Bring it on muthahfuckahs.”
She watched Bine carefully, even as she felt the icy dribble down her own throat. Christ on a bike, that was A-1 dope, she was in danger of speaking, such was the potency. She knew the K could take him either way: magnanimous or malevolent.
He caught her stare, asked,
“The knife?”
She produced the new Japanese blade he’d ordered, serrated edge and as sharp as a bishop avoiding child molestation allegations.
He studied it, asked,
“And this for whom?”
She bit down, said,
“As you desire.”
Fuck, even to her own self she sounded like a wench in an Elizabethan drama or, worse, a bad Russell Crowe medieval romp. He moved his finger along the edge, letting the fine blade draw blood, sucked at it, the blood on his lips, his eyes on fire, and she knew, sex would be rough, and violent, and the stupid bollix, he’d probably bring the knife to their bed. Men and their macho toys. He said,
“Mmmm…in keeping with our strategy, I want a retard, but I want him gutted.
Can you do that?”
She wanted to say,
“How fucking difficult can it be, kill a handicapped person?”
Went with,
“When do you want it to happen?”
He smiled. If warmth had ever touched that expression, it had long since fled. He had his teeth filed down to points, adding to the sardonic effect. He said,
“As soon as you find a suitable dribbling idiot.”
She wanted to say,
“Have you been in the pubs in Quay Street recently?”
But irony was not his strong point.
He suddenly leapt to his feet, the Japanese knife curled in his right hand. He said to Sean,
“More drinks me-finks.”
Sean knew when Bine tried to speak Brit, shit was coming down the pike. And hard. He poured the Wild into Bine’s tumbler, trying to disguise the tremble in his hand. Bine began to move down the table, humming, We are the champions. Stopped behind Jimmy, who began to turn till Bine laid a hand on his shoulder, asked,
“Why does the priest live?”
Almost a metaphysical question.
Before Jimmy could mutter some answer, Bine leant forward, slashed his cheek from eye to mouth. Blood gushed onto the headstone. Jimmy gasped, raised his hand to stem the flow.
Bine said,
“Let it bleed.”
Cue to Bethany, who moved to the sound system, put on Exile on Main St. As Jagger began to moan and Keith laid on the heavy thump, Bine moved back to the map of the school, said, “December Eight, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, they’ll be having their special treat of turkey in the canteen.”
Swung around, eyed his crew, said, as he literally cackled,
“A turkey shoot.”
God holds unique plans for those who label others
….handicapped.
– Jeff, dad of Serena-May
Tom Reed had been born with Down syndrome.
“Mild,” the doctor had said.
Tess, Tom’s mum, nearly screamed,
“Fucking mild to you, you golfing bastard!”
And sure enough, the doc was due on the links in, like, jig time, so he didn’t have a whole lot of time to mutter the platitudes. The woman was whining blue murder and he wanted to say,
“You’ll get used to it.”
She never did.
Never.
When her husband heard, he did what was becoming more common: he fucked off.
Permanently.
Then the legion of social workers, with the Gestapo suggestions, “Give him up for adoption.”
Right.
They were just lining up to grab a child with DS. Ten grand bought them a cherubic dote from Russia or the third world. Tess was brief in her response to the suggestions.
“Fuck off.”
She raised Tom with every ounce of spirit and guts she had. Got him through school, then a job in a warehouse. Sometimes, the Gods there be cut a poor bitch some slack, not much but a thread. The lads in the warehouse were all from Tess’s neighborhood, Bohermore, one of the few real communities in the city. They watched out for him. He began as a messenger boy, then over the years, thanks to the lads, he learned to drive a forklift and that was one shit proud day for all.
Not to mention the extra few euros it brought into their home. Tom was tall, unusual for his condition, with dark hair, the eyes of a fawn, and the nature of an angel. The day he got to drive the forklift, he literally ran home to tell his mum, shouting, “Mum…Mum, I got me license, I can drive the big machine.”
She wiped her tears away, said,
“So, takeaway curry tonight and your favorite movie.”
“ Die Hard Th ree.”
If only she knew how ominous that was.
Truth to tell, Tom would watch anything with Bruce Willis. Tess watched him as he watched the movie, wondering if he thought he was Bruce Willis?
Their life wasn’t exactly easy but they relished what they had, primarily each other.
Friday evening, Tom got his wages, and had his ritual in place. Go to Holland’s shop, be polite to Mary, buy the big box of Dairy Milk for his mum, and then walk home. In Holland’s, a girl, looking through the postcards, smiled at him and he blushed. Got his purchases and left. He walked along Eyre Square and headed up Prospect Hill; he always quickened his pace when he came to the alley that led to St. Patrick’s Church. It had shadows and he didn’t like those. Then the customer from the shop, the pretty girl, appeared, asked,
“Could you help me please?”
His mum had instilled in him the virtue of always helping people. But the alley?
The girl had a lovely smile, said,
“I dropped my mobile in there and I’m afraid to look for it by my own self.”
Bruce Willis
would help.
He entered the alley and immediately got a ferocious wallop to the back of his neck. Two young men stood over him, the girl right in front, She said,
“Chocolates. Oh, I so love sweetness.”
Tom was getting to his feet, dizzy but still able to stand, protested, “Those are for me mum.”
One of the young men, with a livid fresh scar, lashed out with his Doc Marten, smashing Tom’s teeth, and the other asked,
“Oh, did that hurt?”
And delivered a ferocious kick to Tom’s crotch.
Tom threw up all over the girl’s boots. She said,
“Jesus wept, I just cleaned them.”
Tom was on his knees, still retching, and the girl knelt down to his level, asked,
“You wanna go home to your momma, that it?”
He muttered miserably and the girl said, “But the chocolates, we can’t waste them.”
One of the men grabbed Tom’s head and forced open his mouth, the girl ripped open the cellophane, grabbed a fistful of the sweets and shoved them into his mouth. Then she produced a knife, Tom knew it as a Stanley from work, and she said,
“Little trouble digesting all of them you greedy boy, let me help you.”
And slit his throat in one practiced movement. The other man took the box of Dairy Milk, scattered the remains over Tom’s falling body, said,
“Sweets for the sweet.”
The girl bent down, waited till Tom bled out, said as he gurgled, “Christ, keep it down.”
Then rifled through his jacket, found his pay packet, said,
“Payday.”
They didn’t glance back as they strolled from the alley.
If you woke up breathing
Congratulations!
You have another chance.
– Graffiti on the wall of the Abbey Church
Tom Russell’s powerful new album had his stunning song
“Guadaloupe,” sung by the ethereal Gretchen Peters.
It was unwinding in my head as I crossed the Salmon Weir Bridge. Looked in vain to see a salmon leap.
Nope.
Into our third year of the water remaining: contaminated, poisoned, lethal.
The bottled water companies continued to rake in the cash. No recession for them. The rest of us poor bastards continued to boil the water.
Grudgingly.
A Garda car swerved into the cathedral car park. Call it instinct,
I knew they weren’t stopping to light candles.
A Ban Garda got out.
Wearing sergeant stripes.
Ridge.
Or in Irish, Ni Iomaire.
The uniform suited her. She looked kind of regal. Seeing her, the late winter sun bouncing off the gold buttons on her tunic, I felt the old pang. The deep regret I’d been kicked off the Force. Ridge and I went back even further than Stewart. We weren’t friends. More’s the Irish pity.
Fate seemed to continually throw us together. I admired her. Not that I’d ever tell her. Her family had been scarred by alcoholism and she had an inbuilt loathing of alkies. My last case, she’d received a serious beating but appeared to be recovered. Insofar as you ever get past such an event. I had a limp, a hearing aid, more broken bones than a nun has polished floors.
Ridge was gay and then married an Anglo-Irish landowner with the imposing name of Anthony Hayden-Hemple.
He regarded me as a peasant. Their marriage was truly one of convenience. He had clout, played golf with my nemesis, Superintendent Clancy, and played bridge with the elite of the city. He needed a mother for his teenage daughter, Ridge wanted promotion.
Deal done.
Seemed to be holding.
Sort of.
She leant against the car, her face expressionless. I said,
“Think you may have missed the noon mass.”
She threw a brief glance at the church, said,
“Wouldn’t hurt you to go the odd time.”
I gave her my best smile, full of bullshite and malevolence, said,
“I’ve just been in the Abbey, lit some candles for all sinners.”
She seemed to have many replies to this but let it slide, said,
“You’ll have heard about Father Malachy.”
I said,
“I’ve an alibi.”
Now her annoyance surfaced, she spat,
“Don’t be such a thundering eejit.”
And a shadow of rage and compassion caressed her face as she said,
“And the other attack?”
“What?”
She looked at me, asked,
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
But the temporary feeling of whatever had fled and she snapped,
“What am I? Your private source of information? Buy a bloody paper.”
To needle her, I asked
“How is your husband?”
Leant heavily on the last word. She said,
“He’s away on business.”
I moved to go, said,
“Give him my love. I’m on my way to see Malachy. You think he’d prefer grapes or a pack of cigs?”
She shrugged, cautioned,
“This is Garda business, stay out of it.”
I loved that, the tone of authority, the sheer condescension. I said,
“I’m all done with priests. This is purely a good Samaritan gig.”
She got back in the car, hurled,
“You need to call the Samaritans yourself.”
And burned rubber outta there.
Cops watched way too many cop shows.
Malachy was in intensive care, no visitors. I’d said I was a relative and was told a doctor would see me soon. The health service is so bollixed that that probably meant two days. I had a book so I didn’t mind too much.
The new John Cheever biography, by the same writer who’d done the stunning bio of Richard Wright. The book sure captured the torment, agony, guilt, and utter loneliness of the alcoholic. I didn’t really need it described; I lived it every frigging day, heard “Mr. Taylor?”
A doctor, towering above me. Pristine white coat with all the pens in the top pocket. One, to my joy, was leaking. A name tag identified him as Dr. Ravin. Not Irish then but fuck, few were these days. They’d fucked off to where the money was.
He asked,
“You are a relative?”
Yeah, brothers in animosity, bonded in hatred, and related by booze. I said,
“Yes, first cousins; we are very close.”
Close to murder mostly.
He did the sympathy dance, I nodded idiotically, then he said,
“The padre…”
“Priest.”
I snapped.
How often do you get to correct the medical profession?
Yeah.
He said,
“My apologies, he has suffered severe trauma, he is in a coma and the next twenty-four hours are critical.”
“Will he die?”
He reassessed me. Then maybe acknowledging I was in shock, soft-pedaled. He said,
“He is not a young man and, alas, he has not taken care of his body very well, so, as I said, the next day will be crucial.”
“Cigarettes,”
I said.
He nodded then asked if I had a number I could be reached at. I gave him the mobile one. We shook hands and he headed off to do doctorly stuff, or maybe, if my smell was still vaguely intact, grab a sly cig. I was preparing to leave when a tall, stern-looking priest literally marched up to me. They ever needed a poster boy for the clergy or the Gestapo, this guy was it. A shock of steel gray hair, beautifully cut. I know, as I have the other kind. The cheap bad version. His black suit was immaculate. If Armani was doing a clerical line, he’d got the best of the bunch. Shit, I mean, if the current pope was releasing a CD wearing Gucci slippers, anything was up for grabs.
His face was deep tanned and I finally understood what an aquiline nose meant.
Hi
s eyes matched his hair.
Steel.
He moved like an athlete, assured, confident, and I thought,
“A player.”
A tiny pin in his lapel, shining in its gold almost-simplicity.
Opus Dei.
Memo to myself,
“Watch your wallet.”
He extended his hand, said, not asked,
“Mr. Jack Taylor.”
I took his hand, said,
“Yes.”
His grip was like the granite workers in Connemara. He smiled.
Fucking great teeth. I had great teeth but they weren’t my own.
He said,
“I’m Father Gabriel.”
Like I should know?
I asked,
“Like the Archangel?”
Too easy, but what the hell, how often do you get a Dan Brown moment, especially when he said,
“You know your angels?”
I countered,
“And my demons.”
The smile vanished. Just folded its tent and fucked off. He asked,
“Is there somewhere… less public we might talk?”
I bit down, asked,
“The confessional?”
He was seriously tiring of me, so I said,
“The River Inn, across the road, does a rather good lunch.”
I added the rather just to keep him off balance.
Some of the smile slithered back. He said,
“Capital.”
I mean, outside of Booker nominees, who talks like that?
He added,
“My treat.”
My cup fucking overfloweth.
A man brushed past me. I vaguely recognized him, a Down syndrome adult. I asked,
“How yah doing?”
He gave me a radiant smile, said,
“Wonderful, Mr. Tayor, thank you.”
Oh, God, if I’d only known, that brief encounter would feature large in what was to come. When I finally learned of the alley murder, I immediately thought of that lovely soul.
I just pray that I was as warm as he seemed to think I was. Gabriel was meanwhile moving fast and I had to hurry to catch up. The guy was a power walker and he stopped, noticing my limp, said,
“I do apologize Mr. Taylor; I’m accustomed to speed.”
Bollix.
I said, clenched teeth,
“Tell you what Gabe, you power on over there, grab the corner table and order up.
They do great bacon and cabbage.”
Like Mr. Perfect would ever eat such basic peasant food. He asked, smirk in place,
