by Ken Bruen
He crossed the road after a few streets, making sure no one had seen him. His old man had always taken the long way home, but he was usually ducking a bookie or one of the other carpenters he’d borrowed money from and didn’t intend to pay back. The long walks with his old fella had taught Reed patience and given him some endurance that had lasted all these years even though he was almost forty.
An hour later, he was close to Lucan and his favorite pub in Dublin, the Ball Alley House. He had stumbled onto it the first night he arrived in town and had been coming every night the last twenty days. He made sure the barmaid, Maura, always saw him and he tipped her well so if he ever had to explain to the Gardaí, he’d have an alibi and a witness. Besides, you could do worse than flirt with a young one with all her meat in the right places. Not that he’d stray. All he thought of most nights was seeing his Rose and the twins again. He wished they could have come with him, but he’d have had a hard time explaining his nights on the street.
After a stop in the loo to clean up and make sure his wound wasn’t worse than he thought, he strolled to the bar. The barmaid, Maura, smiled as she walked over to him roosting on his favorite stool. She had a pint in her hand already.
“Brilliant, love, thanks so much.”
The young barmaid from the north side smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “It’s nothing. You’re a tad late this evening.”
“On the phone with my bride.”
Maura’s smile dimmed slightly, then she noticed his face. “What in the name of God happened to you?”
He touched the twin scratches the dead man’s fingernails had made on his forehead. “Low branches over near the Uni were thicker than they looked.”
She eyed him like a wife who had caught her man stepping out, then without a word headed past him to another customer.
He leaned onto the walnut bar and took a gulp of the pint. At home he rarely visited pubs. Even with the new job he found himself more at restaurants or, occasionally, at hotel bars. The atmosphere seemed to soothe him.
He nodded as two men plopped onto the stools next to him. Maura was in front of them before they had looked up.
The older man, maybe sixty, next to him just said, “Pint.”
Maura knew to draw a Guinness stout. The other man, a good ten years younger and wearing a light sweater, said, “Harp, my dear.”
The older man turned to him and in a loud voice said, “Harp, Jaysus Christ, didn’t know I was drinking with a girl.” He roared with laughter and looked around for support. Finding little, he settled back with his stout.
Reed cut his eyes to the loud older man who had what sounded like a Limerick accent. Too bad these two were at this bar. They would’ve been perfect except that he knew to never shit where you eat. But the longer they sat there the more enticing it became. The older one told bad joke after bad joke and then commented on every subject from the weather to the euro.
“I tell you, it’s a German plot. They want a consistent currency for the next time they take over the continent. Just more convenient that way.”
He and his friend finally started chatting about some- thing of interest. The younger one said, “Things are quieter in here since the damn butcher’s been roaming the streets.”
“Aye, that’s the Gospel truth. You’d think the Gardaí would be swoopin’ in here like the wrath o’ God.”
Maura walked by adding, “Does nothing for our business and I don’t walk home alone anymore. Three dead in three weeks. It’s a shame.”
The old man said, “Everyone’s hurting, love. Restaurants are closing. The cinemas have three people per show. Even the airport is empty as more and more people hear about our problems.”
Reed kept his mouth shut, not correcting the lovely barmaid that it was four dead in the three weeks. She’d know by tomorrow morning at the latest. Tomorrow would be his last one. That way he’d have plenty of people scared, and by doing it two nights in a row he avoided patterns the police would pick up on.
Reed said to Maura, “You know if Blue Balls are playing tonight?”
“No, they’re only at the International on Saturdays. But with the trouble they may not be playing at all.”
“A shame.” He left some bills on the bar for her and headed out the door, nodding to the few regulars. It was good to be seen.
He slept soundly after a shower and a few minutes cleaning his scratches. He wasn’t used to sleeping late. Usually the twins would start their day early by jumping into bed with him until he woke, pretended to be a monster, and tickled them until everyone had to lay back and catch their breath. The whole time the flat would fill with the smell of sausages as Rose prepared breakfast. It was a grand existence, but he didn’t mind just lying in a big bed as the sun climbed a little higher behind the clouds that seemed to constantly surround Dublin.
By 10:00 he was out of bed and checking his forehead for any sign of infection. Aside from being fresh, they didn’t look much different than the set of scratches he had on his neck from the day his old man lost twenty-five quid on some horse at Gowran Park. He shrugged. It was almost over and he’d be the toast of the town when he got back.
Later that day, as the sun began to set—at least he thought it was setting because it was getting dark though he couldn’t actually see the sun—Reed stepped out of his hotel room and down through the main lobby. He had the last of the knives he had bought in Limerick. A sharp Gerber four-forty steel, with a four-inch blade. With luck he would have to toss it in the Liffey by 10 o’clock. As he turned toward the river, he heard a voice.
“Hang on there.”
Reed turned to find a Dublin cop with hard brown eyes staring down at him. His dark-blue uniform had the name Reily on the left breast. The cop was near his age and looked to be in good shape. That might cause problems if things didn’t go well.
Reed turned and faced the cop, conscious of the bandage he’d stuck over his scratch.
The cop walked over to him, eyeing his forehead. “What happened there, boyo?”
“Tree branch.”
“What were ya doin’ in a tree at your age?”
Reed wasn’t sure if the cop was having a go at him or serious. “Low branch. I was walking.”
The copper nodded and said, “Where you off to this time of night?”
“Six? This time of night is right for a pop before dinner.”
The cop nodded at the answer. “Where d’ya go?”
“Usually the Ball Alley House.”
The cop took in the information and stepped back. Reed tensed like he might be hit or more cops would swoop in and grab him. He had the knife on him. He’d hate to use it on this cop. He wiggled his hip and felt the knife in its scabbard snug against his waistband. He checked out the copper’s uniform, trying to detect any kind of protective vest under it. Too hard to tell. Reed decided he’d have to stab him in the neck quick and deep. The only problem was that it would bring a lot of heat. He’d be gone, but it was a danger regardless.
The cop said, “Bollocks.”
Reed just stared at the beefy man.
“Bakurs on Thomas or the Cukoos Nest beat the arse off the Ball Alley House.”
Reed relaxed slightly. “Ah, it will have to do. That’s my place.”
The cop said, “You got a funny accent. Where you from?”
“Galway.”
“What brings ya to the Big Smoke?”
Reed considered his answer as he calmly placed his hand on his hip, an inch from the knife. This would have to be fast.
An old Honda zipped around the corner and swerved to miss a trash bin in the road, nearly causing it to run down the cop. To make matters worse, the driver beeped at him. The cop hopped onto the sidewalk, pushing Reed away from the street too.
With the cop next to him and distracted, Reed reached under his loose shirt, gripped the hard handle of the Gerber, and prepared for a fluid motion of slashing up, then planting that thing right in the cop’s thick neck.
B
ut the cop jumped back into the street yelling, “You fucking rice-grinding shite!” Without a glance back at Reed, he trotted down the street and hopped into his small, unmarked car. Within twenty seconds the vehicle was racing past Reed toward the speeding Honda.
An hour later, Reed was behind a young American couple slowly strolling toward one of the local hotels. The five-story building had a decent restaurant and bar in the lobby. Reed hoped they were staying at the hotel and were on their way back instead of stopping for a bite and pint. He stayed back a ways until they were to the door of the hotel, then closed the distance to see where they were headed. The man was maybe thirty and built like a model, too thin and too neat. The woman was younger, about twenty-three and fresh-looking like a lot of the Americans from California or Florida. She had long blond hair and looked like she’d had to grease herself to slide into the Levi’s gripping her hips.
Reed came up the front steps and almost knocked into them in the lobby. They had stopped to look over the restaurant’s posted menu. Reed peered at the man. He wouldn’t be thinking about a toasted sandwich if he had a girl like that stuck on his arm. Typical Yank.
He eased past them like he was heading to the lifts, and then a miracle happened. They followed him. It couldn’t have been more natural. As he stood by the buttons, he asked the man, “What floor?”
He had a funny accent, even just saying, “Four, please.”
Reed nodded and mumbled, “Me too,” as he hit the button. He glanced over at the couple. The girl smiled at him with a dazzling spray of white.
Reed paused so they could get off the elevator, then followed them down the narrow hallway. The cheap carpet made a swoosh sound as they all glided along. His right hand was up on his hip.
The couple slowed at a room five from the end of the hall and the man fumbled with the plastic card key. Reed heard the door click and then saw a crack of light from the inside. He was on the man right as he entered the doorway, knife out and slashing deep across his throat before the girl even turned to see what the funny noise was. He shoved the shocked man into the bathroom to his left and advanced down on the girl as she turned. Before she could say a word, he had a hand across her beautifully sculpted face and the knife deep into her solar plexus. He wiggled his hand, slicing through veins and heart tissue as he watched the life seep right out of her blue eyes. He pulled the blade out and sliced into her left breast, amazed at the clear liquid that gushed out before the blood. Fucking implants. Unnatural.
He carefully placed her on the wide, unmade bed, even setting her head on the pillow. Then he turned and stepped toward the bathroom. The man was motionless on the ground and the blood still seeped from the massive wound on his neck. Reed had to step away from the door as the red ocean threatened to flow over the threshold. He leaned in and snatched a white towel from inside the door and wiped down his bloody knife, then his hands. He twisted the towel and laid it across the door frame so it would stop the blood from spilling into the room. He didn’t want anyone to find these two for as long as possible.
He checked his shoes quickly, reset the knife in its scabbard, took the Do not disturb sign from the inside door handle, and then opened the door. After hanging the sign, he casually walked back to the lift, more than satisfied with his last job. Now this whole ugly business was over. His own job secured, no one the wiser. As he waited for the lift, he made a quick check of his hands and found a splash of blood on the back of his right one.
The lift bell sounded and the doors parted. He looked up into a wide, round face that seemed familiar.
“Jaysus fucking Christ. What might Galway’s new tourism director be doing in Dublin?” He smiled showing crooked, browning teeth. The lift doors closed behind him as he came up to Reed. “This whole butcher business has pushed every fucking tourist in the country to Galway.”
Reed returned the smile, no easy task. “Hello, Jason, what’re you doin’ here?”
“Just passing through. I’m settin’ up a network for the university. But I thought you’d be up to your arse in work back home.”
“I return tomorrow,” Reed said.
Jason said, “You never answered my question. What’re you doin’ here?”
Reed let a little smile cross his lips. “I better show you.” He let his right hand come to his hip and started to lift his shirt as he slapped the emergency stop button with his left. He’d show the man just how far a good tourism director might go for his job.
HEN NIGHT
BY SARAH WEINMAN
It took three tries before I understood what Deborah was saying. The first time I must have completely misheard; the second, I simply refused to believe it.
“ You’re absolutely shitting me,” I said after the third try.
“Of course not, Andrea. When do I ever?”
She had a point. We’d known each other all our lives and Deborah never, ever joked around about anything. Let alone about where she wanted to have her hen night.
“But Dublin?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Don’t worry, I’m paying for everyone.”
I gritted my teeth. Even though we’d been best friends almost since birth, Deborah always had the knack for reminding me that she’d been raised on the right side of the Jewish ghetto in Golders Green, while I’d been stuck in Temple Fortune—or rather, I’d had the misfortune to grow up there.
“That’s not it. But Dublin? During Bank Holiday weekend? Are you barking mad? It’ll be swarmed with idiotic drunks looking for a shag.”
“And how’s that different from any London pub? Besides, I want something special. And you’ve always wanted to go to Dublin, I thought. At least, that’s what you say practically every other week.”
I often wondered why I was still friends with her. Family ties, perhaps; our mothers met in university and still rang each other every morning to discuss the latest community gossip and which of their friends’ children were misguided enough to break their parents’ hearts and marry outside of the faith. That’s why Deborah’s engagement to Sam had been such a coup; his family was well-respected, he was a financier with London’s oldest and finest, and best of all, he was Jewish. The community didn’t realize he was a complete and utter asshole and that he and Deborah only stayed together because she had good tits and he was well-hung, but I tried to keep those opinions to myself.
Most of the time, I remembered why we remained mates. Yes, she could be a bitch, but she was utterly loyal; once she’d decided you were one of her friends, that was that, and she’d do anything she possibly could for you. She was blunt, and often too harsh, but her advice cut to the quick and was nearly always right. She also had a freakishly good memory, especially about what her friends wanted and ought to do with themselves.
That’s why she was dead right about Dublin. I’d done Celtic studies at University College (to go with a more suitable biology major) and had spent a joyous summer after graduation traveling through Ireland. But for some inexplicable reason, I’d spent most of my time in and around Limerick, missing the capital city completely. In the two years since, I’d been chained to the lab at King’s so much I’d barely left the South Bank, let alone had time for a proper vacation. I was certainly due.
“You have me there,” I admitted. “So who else is coming?”
“Adele, Laura, Hannah, and Carol have said yes, though now that I think about it, I’m not so sure I should have invited Hannah. She’s been such a cow about Sam. Is she going to be any fun?”
I shrugged. Hannah was the only one of us with the guts to tell Deborah her—and our—true feelings about him. In a group, Sam was all sweetness and light, but any time he caught one of us alone, his hands started wandering and his speech turned filthy. The last time he’d tried something on me, I stamped my foot on his ankle until he finally screamed and left. That was six months ago.
“I’m sure Hannah is just trying to be helpful,” I said. “And you’d feel awful if you didn’t invite her.”
>
“You’re so right. This is so exciting! My last hurrah as a single woman and all my best friends will be with me. It’ll be fantastic!”
I said no more.
A month later, the six of us boarded a Ryanair plane and spent the hour-long flight catching up. It was the first time in a year we’d all been together, and as the noise level increased, I remembered why I’d always begged off: There was something about women in groups that made my skin crawl. One-on-one was fine, but en masse, I remembered these were Deborah’s friends, not mine; that she’d befriended each of them in primary school or uni or at work, and that I had little in common with them.
It was bad form to take out the crime novel I was only pages away from finishing, so I pretended to take part in the conversation. Thank God it was a short flight.
As I stared into space, I heard a snatch of conversation from behind me.
“Did you see Sam before you left?”
“No, Carol. He left a message saying he was stuck at work.”
“Typical, isn’t it?”
“I know, but he’s a very busy man, what could he do?”
Hannah cut in. “Too busy to say goodbye to his fiancée? Ridiculous.”
I tuned them out. I thought about what I would do when I finally reached Dublin. I had no desire to see the usual tourist crap, but didn’t expect anyone else to share my interest in lesser-known haunts. No doubt they’d spend most of their time shopping.
Sure enough, once we’d arrived and settled ourselves in the hotel bar, Adele announced to loud approving noises that she wanted to go to Grafton Street “to see what Dublin deems high fashion.”
I declined. “I’m rather knackered at the moment. What say we meet up back here at 8 o’clock before going to Temple Bar?”
“That’ll do. Enjoy … whatever it is you’ll be doing,” said Deborah.
I lay down in my room for a few minutes but quickly grew restless. I had a pilgrimage to make. After asking the concierge for directions, a ten-euro cab ride took me outside the premises of the Irish-Jewish Museum in the Portobello district. The building was a lot smaller than I’d imagined, and the actual museum was even tinier: a room filled with mementos of several lost Irish-Jewish communities and an entire section devoted to Chaim Herzog, the Dublin-born former President of Israel.
