by Ken Bruen
“Where is he? Do you think he’s gone on one of those biblical benders?”
Stewart never replied instantly, took all the factors into account, then,
“A ferocious lash, no. He’s drinking, sure, but not in his usual blitzkrieg blaze. Laura, the American woman, is due soon and I sincerely believe he has feelings for her. I’m almost afraid to voice it but I think he’s close to happy.”
Ridge tried to envisage such a concept, said,
“Jack and happy in the same sentence?”
Stewart didn’t reply to this, moved like a cat from the chair, offering more tea, and Ridge confided,
“One of my greatest fears is going to his apartment and finding he’s choked on his own vomit.”
Stewart stopped in mid-stride. He’d imagined that very scenario more times than he’d ever admit.
Torture should be inflicted as though completely disinterested.
No more than a procedure to be carried through to its brutal conclusion.
– Ex-freedom fighter [sic]
I cringe when I think how easy they took me. Am I ashamed.
You betcha.
Mortified, in fact. Worse, it made me vulnerable, the worst sensation in the world when all you’ve got to protect yerself is…yerself. Thing is, I’d been busy, oh fuck, like a banshee on a mission. Flush on my result from Loyola’s housekeeper, I’d nicked the photo of the cottage and muttered inanities about later visits. She seemed bewildered. Not my problem, least not then. I headed for Monroe’s at the end of Dominick Street. Huge place with the great asset of quiet corners. I ordered a Jay, Guinness black. Settled in to savor my triumph. I pulled the photo from the frame and bingo, all me ships coming in, the address was on the back.
Just outside Oughterard. I knew beyond a shadow of a tinker’s doubt he’d be there. The loving way the housekeeper had glanced at it, he was there. I drained the Jay in one burst of elation.
Told meself,
“You’ve still got the moves son.”
A hefty draft of the black and I was flying.
….in the face of God?
As the old people say.
I was as close to delighted as I’d been since Galway won three All Irelands in a row.
Glory days.
I was having me some now.
Muttered,
“I found him, Jesus wept, I did it, cracked the case. This meant a serious bonus from the lizard Gabriel and Laura was due real soon. I could afford to have the apartment professionally cleaned.” My mobile shrilled, I signaled to the barman for the same again, answered,
“Yeah?”
“Jack, it’s Stewart.”
“How’s it going buddy?”
Stopped him, then,
“You sound very… chipper.”
Chipper?
People actually used this outside British sitcoms?
I said,
“Laura’s arriving in jig time and… I cracked a major case.”
His voice quickened,
“You found who mugged Malachy?”
Malachy, Christ, I’d forgotten all about him. I said,
“No, but a case with a nice lump of change.”
Silence.
I figured he wasn’t counting my blessings. Then he said,
“Malachy too poor to count?”
Sarcasm leaking all over the words.
I was fucked if I’d let him puncture my balloon. Said, with total ice,
“Don’t lecture me pal.”
And God forgive me, added,
“You weren’t so damn righteous when you came to me whining about your dead sister.”
I regretted it instantly, knew how horrendous it was. I can’t excuse it, was a low cheap wounding shot. Blame my state of euphoria.
He sounded as maimed as I’d anticipated, said,
“I called to tell you that I’d been checking on Ronan Wall’s sister.”
Another case that had dropped way down on my priorities. As I fumbled for a way to erase or stem the pain, he said,
“Ronan Wall is an only child.”
But Bethany, the Goth girl I’d met?
I said,
“What?”
“He doesn’t have a sister.”
Clicked off.
I worked on my second pint, considered calling him back to say.. . what?
Instead, I used my mobile to get Directory Enquiries, got them to connect me to the best pub in Oughterard. It rang a bit, then a gruff voice answered.
I said,
“Liam, it’s Jack Taylor.”
Another ex-Guard, took early retirement, bought a pub/restaurant, we have some history, most of it fairly good. He needed a moment, then,
“By the holy, Jack Taylor. I was beginning to think you were a rumor running round as a fact.”
You don’t have to be Irish to decipher that, though it helps to remove logic from such conversations. I asked,
“How’s biz?”
He sighed, said,
“Sweet Jesus, bollixed. The usual crop of Christmas parties, and they bring in major cash, would usually be booking now but they’re scarcer than a politician with the truth.”
I didn’t sympathize. That would be as much help to him as an audit. I said,
“A lady friend and I were hoping to have dinner there this Saturday.”
Jesus, it felt odd to say that, strange and wondrous. To be, in fact, no longer singular. He laughed, astonished, said,
“There must be a rib broke in the devil. Jack Taylor finally hooked.”
Now for the lure, I said,
“I was hoping to introduce her to Loyola” (deliberately omitting the Father; get that hands-on friendship gig going).
He paused.
Few are as loyal as an ex-Guard and especially when they are protecting a disgraced priest. Our history was riddled with such precedents. Carefully, he asked,
“You know him?”
Time to kick for the sympathy/guilt trip, said,
“When my poor mother passed, may she rest in peace, he was a tower of strength, arranged everything. I don’t know how I’d have got through without him.”
Dumb fuck bought it.
Nothing like priests, dead mothers, and guilt to shake the bastards.
He flustered,
“Jack, I meant to get to the funeral, to send a mass card, to.. .” Enough of this shite. I cut him off at the knees, said, adding a wee sting,
“She always loved you, Liam.”
Then before he could regroup from that shovelful of polite recrimination, I asked,
“Is he still partial to the old drop of Paddy?”
Anxious to move on, he rushed,
“Oh, Lord yes. Only yesterday, I made him a hot one.”
Gotcha.
I said,
“Liam, put one of your oldest vintages aside, cost no problem, and don’t tell him we’re coming. We really want to see the look on his face.”
“Honest to God, Jack, my lips are sealed.”
“See you Saturday mate.”
Rang off.
Man, I was hitting them out of the freaking ballpark. Sank my second Jay in pure delight. It burned, like the Resurrection. I needed nicotine for the best call of all. Settled my tab with the barman and added a twenty for his trouble. He had to know, asked,
“Jack, you’re all lit up, you win the lotto or what?”
I gave him my best smile, said,
“Only the ecclesiastical version.”
More’s the Irish curse, I actually believed it. The next day, I’d arranged the cleaning service. They’d be done by evening. I made strong coffee, and it kicked in about the same time as the Xanax. Now for the fun part. I rang Gabriel; he answered on the second ring. I said,
“It’s Jack Taylor.”
He replied with a terse,
“Well?”
Boy, I’d be so glad to be free of this shithead. I decided to skip the frills, just lunge in, said,
“I found Lo
yola.”
He couldn’t hide his astonishment, went,
“Already?”
Trying, if not much, to rein in my smugness, said,
“What you paid for.”
The guy was really up now, said,
“That is capital. You’ve done splendidly and more than earned your bonus.”
I gave him the details and location of the cottage. A tiny voice niggling in my head, intoning,
“Thirty pieces of silver.”
I put the phone down and the Xanax dissipated my feeling of unease. I focused on Laura; two days and she’d be here. I was excited, as close to happy as it gets. I said aloud,
“Ton of cash imminent, Laura arriving, it’s almost too good to be true.”
I should have paid more attention to my own utterance. The cleaning crew arrived, I gave them the spare set of keys and they assured me I’d be able to return by five at the latest. I asked if they preferred cash or cheque and we all smiled at the absurdity of this. Cash it was. To kill the early part of the day, I went to see Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker. Last movie of hers I’d seen had Lance Henriksen in the ultimate Vampire/Rock ’n’ Roller.
The cinema was nigh empty, no screaming kids, no groups of eejits with buckets of popcorn. You come out of the cinema alone, there is usually a terrible sense of loss, but hey, I had Laura due, no more ticket for one. I went to Faller’s, bought a gold Claddagh pendant for her. Checked my watch. I was doing good, time for a jar, or three.
Went to the Roisin Dubh. Had intended to be out of there in time to get back and tip the cleaners. But I got involved in a session, someone started singing “The Cliffs of Doneen” and a guy joined in on the spoons, another with a bodhran, and we were off and reeling. It was way past six when I staggered out. I decided to take a shortcut along the canal. Stopped about a hundred yards up to light a cig, muttering about the amount of litter dumped in the water. Thought I heard footsteps and then received an almighty blow to the base of my skull. Saw the cigarette float down into the water, like a tiny light of hope. Blackness took me as my legs buckled.
I came to with a start and a ferocious fright. I couldn’t see. Jesus, was I blind? Took some deep breaths, which set off an already thundering headache. Then I realized I was blindfolded. And… tied down.
The fuck was this?
The DTs in a whole new guise?
My wrists and ankles were manacled and, by moving my body a bit, I knew I was spread-eagled. Not good. A voice, distorted with one of those robot gadgets, said,
“Jack, you’re back.”
Behind the metallic sound, you’d have sworn there was concern.
He was standing at my head but, once I began to orient a bit, I sensed there were others to my sides. He said,
“To satisfy your curiosity, you’re laid out on a headstone.”
A pause.
Added,
“Better than under it.”
Laughter from the others. Jesus, a psycho with a sense of humor.
He continued,
“You had a call from an American lady. I hope you don’t think we exceeded our brief but my female colleague answered, said, and I think I quote her correctly,
“….Jack is rather deep in me as we speak so fuck off home and harass Iraq.”
Oh, Jesus.
I managed to say nothing, mostly as I had nothing I could possibly think of that didn’t involve threats, heavy obscenities, and, when you’re tied down, it’s not really the best course of action. I could distinctly hear him drinking something and I’d have sold a lot for a drop of whatever it was. He said,
“The cunt took the very next flight out. It’s none of my business, Jack, but just how devoted to you can she have been when she baulked at the first hurdle?”
I managed to find some semblance of a voice, cracked, hoarse, asked,
“Could I have some water?”
He gave an artificial “Whoops,” said,
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Jack, where are my manners? Of course you can. We’re not animals. Sparkling or still?”
Despite the robotic device, something in his terminology triggered a memory. I’d heard this prick before. I’d deal with that later, if there was a later. I said,
“Long as it’s wet.”
He laughed, said,
“Ah, that spirit Jack, why we love you.”
My mouth was wrenched open, a bottle put to my lips and glorious cold water poured. I coughed, spluttered but got it down.
No Jameson tasted as sweet. The voice said,
“Now to business, I think we share a dislike of chitchat.”
A hectoring tone now behind the device, said,
“As a lover of America, I think you’ll appreciate our somewhat altered version of the following.”
He took my silence as assent. Intoned,
“… Give us your wretched, your poor, your infirm, your dregs, your outcasts.”
Stopped, said,
“You get my drift?”
I managed,
“How fucking complicated is it?”
He gave a bitter laugh, said,
“That’s my boy, bitter and vicious. We’ve added our own little kicker. Would you like to hear it?”
I croaked,
“I have a choice?”
Received a sharp vicious jab to my kidneys, with a bat… a baseball bat? It hurt like bejaysus. Heard, soon as I got my wind back.
“We’re being nice here Jack but we can do hardball too. Are we clear?”
I managed,
“Crystal.”
“So, would you like to hear our addendum?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Okeydokey, after the rigmarole of give us your scum and such, we’ve added
… and we’ll annihilate them.”
Sweat coursed down my body. He continued,
“Misfits, retards, gays, the parasites, oh, yes, I nearly forgot, especially for you Jack, alkies.
We shall cleanse the planet of them. Recognize anyone familiar in there, Jacky boy?”
Total silence reigned for a few blessed minutes, then his voice in an almost jolly tone said,
“But Jack, hermano, buddy, you’re sweating like a bloody pig.”
Maybe the worst thing of all, in this horror show, he touched my cheek with two fingers, almost caressingly, said,
“Chill big guy, we’re not ready to take you off the board…”
A single beat, then,
“Yet.”
Chills and sweats were running down my back, my hair was literally saturated from panic. It was about to get worse, a whole lot.
He said,
“We have a rather fascinating dilemma for you. You get a choice, not unlike The Dice Man or Sophie’s Choice. I mention books to help you de-stress.”
Guess what? It wasn’t helping.
He asked,
“I need to know first, though, which hand do you drink with?”
Without thinking, I said,
“The one that shakes the least.”
Received a second stunning blow to my gut that was so fierce I threw up-threw up the water and some other stuff I don’t think I want to know. I stuttered,
“My… right…right hand.”
“Just one more question buddy and we’re nearly done. Would you prefer to read or drink?”
The fuck was this lunatic going? I said,
“To read.”
I think that’s true.
He said,
“Good choice. Blinding you would be a trifle messy so just bear with us a minute.”
My right hand, manacled, was gripped, pinned down, my fingers forcibly spread. I heard,
“Stanley knife, please.”
The sound of one hand clapping.
I came to in a hospital bed. For some bizarre reason, an old proverb in my befuddled mind,
“Only dead fish swim with the stream.”
Shaking this off, I tried to get a handle on where I was. Then the previou
s events came slithering back and my whole body went into a mini spasm. I tried to sit up. Stewart was perched in an armchair, moved fast, said,
“Best to lie still, buddy.”
Buddy?
He ever call me that before?
Fuck, meant I was in serious bad shape. I took some deep breaths, trying to fend off the tidal wave of panic about to engulf me.
I asked,
“Could I have some water?”
He gently put some ice cubes in my mouth and nirvana, they tasted so fine. I lay back, refusing to look at my right hand. Between the glorious coldness of the ice, I asked,
“How’d I get here?”
He moved back to his chair, never taking his eyes off me, said,
“They had your mobile phone, found my number, said-”
He hesitated.
I pushed,
“Spit it out, Stewart.”
He swallowed.
Maybe he could use an ice cube?
Said,
“They said, we’ve left the garbage outside your door.”
I suppose they could have recycled me.
He continued,
“Ridge has been staying with me. You’ve been missing for nearly a week.”
I asked,
“How are Chelsea doing?”
He looked so ill at ease, no Zen gig helping, it seemed, so I cut to the chase, asked,
“How bad?”
I didn’t mean my football team.
He inhaled deeply, then,
“They took two fingers from your right hand. They’d, ah, cauterized the… remains, otherwise you’d have bled to death.”
A chill ran down my spine but I had to know, asked,
“Did they leave the digits, the severed ones?”
Oh, Christ, the freaking desperate hope that they did and that the surgeons did their magic and reattached them. Stewart looked stricken. I said,
“I guess that’s a no.”
It was.
He said,
“Ridge is working round the clock, trying to find a lead.”
My mind, maybe in an effort to save whatever tattered remnants remained, muttered,
“The moving finger, having writ, moves on.”
I nearly laughed.
Hysteria?
You bet your arse.
I asked,
“How is Malachy?”
He shook his head, said,
“No change.”
Then he did a thing that broke every rule Stewart held close. He moved over, had a lighted cigarette in his hand, said,
