Headstone

by Ken Bruen

“You’ll be wanting some of this I’m thinking.”

  I’ve always had some incomprehensible bond to him but, I swear by all that’s holy, I fucking loved the guy right then. He said,

  “The nurses will massacre me.”

  I nearly smiled, said,

  “Jesus, they’d need to be quick.”

  The cigarette done, he took it, extinguished it, put it in his jacket.

  Opened a window to let the smoke evaporate. Either that or he was going to jump. He waved his arms futilely, said,

  “You caused quite a stir, Jack. The Guards were here. Even Clancy showed up.”

  Venom washed over me, I said,

  “No doubt he wept.”

  Then I zoned, it was to be like that, into and out of consciousness, lucid one moment, stark raving mad the next. I heard, as if from a great distance, a poem by Marin De Brun, based on Dalton Trumbo’s book, Johnny Got His Gun. The lines uncoiling in my head like a soured mantra: Sightless, soundless Your day’s begun Tearless, wordless, no songs be sung Your hand in ruins Your head in hell.

  Snapped back to hear Stewart say,

  “Clancy said it was self-mutilation, your self-loathing reached boiling point.”

  I said,

  “It’s a theory.”

  Maybe the nicotine, maybe Clancy, but I finally looked at my heavily bandaged hand, asked,

  “How long before I get out of here?”

  He told me the truth, said,

  “Few days but, Jack, get some rest, OK?”

  I thought,

  “Rest in peace.”

  Before he started on the bullshit of:

  They can do great things these days.

  Lots of artificial appendages.

  Etc.

  I told him,

  “They had me spread-eagled on a slab of granite, said it was a headstone.”

  I could see the dots connecting in his head, I said,

  “Stewart, be real careful, you hear me?”

  Rare to rarest did Stewart allow his real feelings to surface. Zen kept the six years of prison under wraps and, too, the death of his beloved sister. He utilized that deathly calm to block out the torrents of simmering lethal rage. Kept a mask of amused detachment to keep the world behind philosophical glass.

  Not now.

  Fury wrapped his face. His eyes were slits of sheer menace. He said,

  “I hope to fuck they have a run at me.”

  The nurse came, did that fluffing of pillows they do, then gave me a shot, hurt like a bastard. Stewart said,

  “I’ll be back later, Jack. Here’s your mobile, it was in your jacket.”

  I was slipping back into sleep, said to Stewart,

  “They answered the phone to Laura, said enough to send her fleeing back to London.”

  He looked truly sorry, said,

  “Ah, no, that’s just the bloody pits.”

  Which is one way of seeing it, I suppose.

  I might have phrased it a little more heatedly.

  I kept hoping, praying, that somehow, in some wild flight of a miracle, Laura would write to me, and I could then try, try to explain to her what happened.

  No letter.

  I wasn’t to know, she did write.

  Her letter lay, among the pizza offers, announcements of mega wins on the Spanish Lottery, and bills from the telephone company and other utilities.

  There are lines from the insane prose poem “Literary Heroine,” that go

  “I swear I’d have read your letter dying,

  But alas, it was lost, among the debris of the slow and lying.

  It’s the reason why your letter and my life, so softly

  Slip away

  Un-noticed least by me.”

  After he was gone, as my eyes closed, the nurse asked,

  “Is he your son?”

  Ah, for fuck’s sake.

  Before I could rise to indignation, she said,

  “Good-looking lad.”

  Then in that blunt way that Irishwomen have, she asked,

  “Is he married?”

  I was messed up enough to lie that he was gay, or say he was married, but I went with,

  “I’ll put in the word for you.”

  She beamed, said,

  “And I’ll get you a sleeping pill this evening.”

  Trade-off?

  I’m not afraid of dying, but I’m absolutely terrified of dying with a pink teddy bear.

  – Barbara Ehrenreich, Smile or Die

  Ridge was sick to her soul at what had happened to Jack. Stewart had told her as gently as he could but there isn’t really a way to soften the severance of fingers. He told her, too, about Laura, and Ridge wept. She had so thought that, just maybe, Jack might be happy. Recently, she’d had a checkup and mammogram to see how she was doing after the radical mastectomy. She loved the book by Barbara Ehrenreich on positive thinking and the so-called PC brigade who waxed fucking lyrical about the positive aspects of cancer. The do-gooders who saw cancer as a makeover opportunity. Barbara was her new hero. Anyone who could write that being down, being angry about your illness, meant instant pariah status.

  All the pink ribbons, pink freaking badges, made her so furious. Now at last, here was a writer who could say that those who preached cancer sufferers could be cured by developing the right attitude, as they peddled shitloads of pink garbage, books, DVDs, T-shirts, added insult to life-threatening injury.

  She fingered her gold miraculous medal round her neck, given to her by her late mother. God, she had adored her mother. A strong woman who, as she lay dying, said,

  “Alanna, don’t put me in a hospice.”

  She didn’t.

  Allowed her the dignity of dying at home. Her mother had fought alcoholism and every other battle in a poor family’s life.

  She had, as they say,

  “A hard death.”

  Near the end, she had gripped Ridge’s hand, whispered,

  “Be beholden to no man.”

  In light of Ridge’s sexual orientation, this seemed unlikely but, working as a Ban Garda, she had to eat a shit sandwich every day from men. Despite Jack’s numerous flaws, faults, Ridge felt her mother would have liked him, would have said perhaps,

  “He has a good heart.”

  As for Ridge’s marriage, she didn’t want to think what her mother would make of that.

  Not much.

  And Ridge knew for certain she would have described Anthony as “A poor excuse of a man.”

  She read on. Stewart was upstairs, doing Zen exercises, no doubt. He was just finishing up his regimen as it happened. Took a moment to dwell on Ridge. He was quite stunned at how well they lived together. He’d been so long on his own, he was, as the old people say,

  “Set in his ways.”

  But she blended right in. Was fine company, knew when to talk and when silence was the best communication. He finally had an eager student of Zen and, in return, she was demonstrating her kickboxing routines to him. He admired her litheness and her ferocious passion to heal her body and make it strong again. He didn’t ask how long she intended to stay as he really didn’t care. He’d miss her if she suddenly left, that he knew.

  He’d met her husband a few times and found him to be an empty vessel. Stewart, like Jack, didn’t really do friends, but he would put his life on the line for either one and had. He was selecting some casual gear. His casual gear was all top of the range. He opted for Japanese jeans-read, small fortune-his Ked trainers, and a silk T-shirt. He heard the post come through the letter box. Ridge shouted,

  “I got it.”

  He was dressed, ready to move, when he heard her scream. He rushed down the stairs. Ridge, sitting on the couch, was ashen. The remnants of an open parcel before her. A small wooden box in the center of the package. He picked it up and recoiled.

  Two severed fingers.

  Ridge stared at him, her eyes wide from shock. Then she indicated a pristine white card. He picked it up, read, Garda Ni Iomaire A touc
h of Taylor for you so you can, dare we say, finger yourself. Nice display of the martial arts the other evening. Perhaps we can sever your legs when we take you next time. Send a leg to your husband, let him have a piece of meat, too. Oh, what a gay delight. xxxxxxxxxxx Headstone.

  Ridge buried her head in her hands.

  Stewart, for the first time since the awful day he’d been sent to prison, wanted to bury his head in the sand.

  He’d been about as ill prepared for jail as is possible. Who is prepared?

  But some adapt fast and learn the basic rule of survival.

  Eat or be eaten.

  That day in the prison van, the paddy wagon they called it, manacled to some thug who’d raped a young girl, the judge’s sentence ringing in his ears:

  “Six years.”

  Stewart had been a designer dope dealer, believing, well, kind of believing, that he was a different sort of entrepreneur.

  Yeah.

  Had bought his own scummy act, just supplying what the people wanted and had his rules.

  Jesus.

  Like that made it different.

  He didn’t deal in heroin. As if all the other shite he peddled wasn’t lethal. How he met Jack Taylor, one of his regulars. He knew he was in deep and deepest shit when during process, the guard said,

  “Pretty boy, I give you a week before you top yourself.”

  And the thug he’d been manacled to, giggling,

  “They’ll run the train on you, nancy boy.”

  He learnt fast that the train was serial rape and the train ran all the long day. He took some severe beatings, which in a bizarre way stopped him from suicide.

  Who had the time?

  They’re kicking the living hell out of you at every moment, who had the energy to kill themselves? He’d have gone under, no doubt, just wrapped his neck in those wet sheets and let it swing. Then, his sister was murdered.

  And everything changed.

  Stewart didn’t know then about love but he did know he adored his sister. It was like a click in his head, the warden telling him,

  “Your sister killed herself, probably so ashamed of you.”

  He didn’t go after the warden. He went to the yard, walked up to the train head honcho, said,

  “Any last words?”

  The guy and his crew laughed, laughed a lot. Here was this yuppie, wannabe player, giving them cheek. The guy spat on Stewart’s prison-issue sneakers, said,

  “You going to off me, that it, yah little queer?”

  Stewart wondered why they not only aped American gangsters but spoke like them, too. Stewart glanced around at this guy’s crew, said in a calm level voice,

  “I’m going to kill him now, then, day by day, I’m going to kill each and every one of you.”

  The laughter had eased a bit, this wasn’t your everyday occurrence, a nerd not only called out the most dangerous guy on the yard but threatened his whole team.

  The guy, his smirk less smirksome, asked,

  “What you got homie, beside your head up your arse?”

  Stewart used the palm of his right hand to slam the guy’s nose all the way to his brain. Killed him stone dead, turned, said,

  “One down…”

  No recriminations, no payback. The warden figured if the worst guy in the prison got taken care of, good.

  Then he waited in his cell for hell or Armageddon. He was the most lethal kind of man now. He just didn’t care, and that vibe leaked its way to the crew who were clamoring for his head.

  Day One….threats.

  Day Two…silence.

  The third day, a guy appeared in his cell, said,

  “Enough.”

  Stewart, working on marine exercises he’d found on the Internet, paused, asked,

  “Is it?”

  The guy was nervous, they’d never come across such a case. How do you deal with a man who truly doesn’t care? He tried,

  “We want to call a truce, nobody will bother you and, if you like, we’d be glad to have your back.”

  Stewart wanted to shout,

  “Stop with the pseudo-American. You fucks tried to have my back all right.”

  He said,

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  And so began his Zen education.

  He devoured everything he could on the subject and then got in touch with Jack Taylor. The broken-down PI solved his sister’s murder. For that, Stewart would always be in his debt. In a hugely overpopulated prison system, Stewart remained solo. No one, not one con, would cell with him. He got a makeshift desk, hung above it the following:

  “….In the hour of adversity be not afraid for

  Crystal Rain falls from

  Black Clouds.”

  He worked out every day.

  Hard.

  Till his body screamed,

  “Enough.”

  Then he worked it some more.

  Devouring Zen like a famished peasant, he no longer thought in terms of the six years he’d serve. He thought only of discipline.

  The day came when he was finally released and he had to face the warden for the obligatory pep talk.

  He had his bag of meager possessions, the grand sum of twenty euros from his brief stint working in the mail room.

  The warden, sitting behind a massive pine desk, said,

  “So, you’re to be a free man.”

  Stewart toyed with the Zen idea of saying,

  “No man is free who thinks thus.”

  But thought,

  “Fuck it.”

  Said,

  “Yes, I am.”

  He knew he was supposed to utter,

  “Sir.”

  But he’d served every day of his time so he didn’t have to do shit.

  The warden didn’t like it, asked,

  “You passed up every chance of a parole hearing, time off for good behavior. You want to share with me why that was?”

  Stewart said,

  “No, not really.”

  The warden was close to apoplexy, said,

  “I could have you here for some more time if I wished. You are aware of that?”

  Stewart said,

  “Of course, and if you do, I’ll be obliged to divulge the young kids you personally entertain.”

  The warden, on his feet, his face red and bulging from temper, shouted,

  “You’ll be back and trust me, I’ll see to it that you have my personal attention next time.”

  Stewart gave what was to become his personal trademark, a languid smile, said,

  “I very much doubt that and I’d like to give you something to remember me by.”

  The warden was again perplexed, said,

  “I think I’ll remember you.”

  Stewart turned to leave. He was now free. Threw a tiny package on the pine desk, said,

  “Relish.”

  It was much later in the evening, a few Jamesons to the wind, when the warden finally opened the package, his hands trembling slightly, and out tumbled a scrap of toilet paper, with these words: “What you don’t see with your eyes, don’t witness with your mouth.”

  Ridge was sobbing. Stewart moved to her, put his arm round her, said,

  “I know some people, I’ll have them keep watch on Anthony.” Stewart wasn’t much of a drinker but he kept booze in the house. Never knew, Jack might arrive. He went to the kitchen, poured a sizable glass of Jameson and added sugar, for the shock, brought it back to her, and literally held it to her lips and waited till a sizable dent had been put in it.

  Waited.

  He had, of course, every drug known to man but he needed her to have the trauma eased and fast.

  Finally, she composed herself, said,

  “I’m not as tough as I thought.”

  He smiled, said,

  “None of us are.”

  Then added,

  “It’s not about toughness, it’s about strength.”

  She asked,

  “Zen?”

  “No, just
the truth.”

  She averted her eyes from the carnage on the table, said,

  “They’re like ghosts in the wind. We’ll never find them.”

  Stewart, fighting like a dervish not to let his simmering anger show, said,

  “They’ve made two major mistakes. The first was setting down a pattern that we can trace.”

  She waited, then had to ask,

  “The second?”

  “Not killing Jack when they had the chance.”

  From the place

  Term

  Vulnerable.

  – Romanian saying

  I had the usual professionals come and, as the Americans say, visit. They had the obligatory psychologist who, I shit thee not, said,

  “This will require a period of readjustment.”

  I was like a bastard, they’d cut back on my painkillers. I asked,

  “For us both?”

  He’d obviously been clued in as to what I was like, gave that tolerant smile, said,

  “Anger is part of the process.”

  So I said,

  “Then you won’t be surprised at my next line.”

  He continued with that emphatic smile, asked,

  “Yes?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Was he delighted?

  Yeah, I think so.

  He continued in that soothing tone they use for Musak interludes,

  “You’ve been through a traumatic experience and time is needed.. .”

  I cut him off, asked,

  “How would you know?”

  He had doe eyes, and a mop of hair that he continually flicked back, annoying the hell out of me. He said,

  “Believe me, Mr. Taylor, I’ve worked in this field for many years.” I asked,

  “They’ve a field for Stanley knives?”

  Lost him for a sec but he rallied,

  “We have many modules for coming to terms with such events.”

  I said,

  “Cutting your balls off, which module would that come under?”

  He stared at me. I continued,

  “That’s what I thought they were going to do.”

  He stood up, said,

  “Perhaps another day when you’re less…”

  He reached for the euphemistic adjective, settled for,

  “Stressed.”

  I sat up in the bed, asked,

  “What’s your name again?”

  Like I could give a flying fuck.

  He said,

  “Dr. Ryan.”

  I held up my bandaged right hand, said,