Galway Girl

by Ken Bruen

“I shouldn’t, with the training, but . . .”

  Indicated his ruined leg.

  Continued,

  “She once told me if I ditched her she’d cry rape, even get into a vulnerable shelter, not that she’d spend much time there, just enough to fake out the carers. And here’s the weird bit . . .”

  The agony of his ruined knee kicked in on a fresh wave and he howled with the intensity of it.

  I handed him the flask and he drank deep, muttered,

  “Thanks.”

  Then continued,

  “Alice had this scheme to entrap you, pretend she was fucked, and blame me, in every sense, then get you to hammer the be-jaysus out of me for ditching her.”

  He looked at me, said drily,

  “Seems to have worked.”

  I tried to get my mind around the way I had been played, then asked,

  “Her lesbian friend, lemme guess, is her name . . .”

  I had to take a breath, then uttered,

  “Jericho?”

  He nodded.

  I put the hurley back in my kit bag, muttered,

  “Sorry, I guess.”

  He limped away, said,

  “That really, really helps.”

  33

  Dancing

  with

  Jesus

  As I headed home, the kit bag slung over my shoulder, the hurley sticking out like a very bad idea,

  I was a maelstrom of

  Rage

  Shame

  Humiliation.

  To be played, and so expertly.

  My apartment overlooks Galway Bay. When I walk along the promenade the sight of the ocean usually makes me yearn.

  I stopped, saw two young men in their twenties and, what?

  Were they lighting a fire?

  Fuck.

  No, a makeshift spit and, to my horror, I saw a large bird struggling near their feet. They were hollering and high-fiving.

  I eased down onto the sand and approached, asked,

  “What’s up, guys?”

  Almost friendly.

  The first one turned, mocked in a South Carolina accent,

  “Gonna make us a little chicken dinnah.”

  He was on some dope that made his movements just that little bit delayed, but the second guy,

  A whole other country.

  Built like the proverbial brick shithouse, he was wearing a muscle shirt, shorts, and, get this, Doc Martens. He was slugging hard from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. His tone was menace in neon. He said,

  “Get the fuck off, yah old cunt, or you’ll join this buzzard on the spit.”

  The first guy was just your ordinary dumb brain-dead ejit but this number, he was a violence junkie.

  I looked at the poor buzzard. It had what looked like a broken wing, and each time it tried to scuttle away the second guy stood on the bird and relished the rush of cruelty.

  I dropped the bag, took out the hurley, asked the first guy,

  “You’re from Dublin?”

  He nodded and got a hard shoulder from the second, who snarled,

  “Don’t talk to the bollix.”

  I said,

  “The reason I ask is Sunday you guys play Tyrone in the All Ireland football final.”

  I swung the hurley, dropped the ejit fast.

  Continued in a quiet tone,

  “See, I prefer the hurling.”

  The dangerous one, true to form, produced a Stanley knife, blade of choice for your lower-grade thug, hissed,

  “Gonna cut yer fucking bollocks off.”

  Lunged at me. I stepped aside and walloped his skull as he went.

  That’s all he sang.

  I put out the fire, resisted the compulsion to put the psycho on the spit.

  Took a long draft of my flask, then gently lifted the wounded bird. It did try to bite me but, then, everything does.

  I could tell it was a very frightened creature, and if I had to guess there and then, I would have hazarded a hawk of some kind.

  Headed back to my apartment. Apart from cooking the bird, I had very little idea what the hell I was going to do.

  I said,

  “If you live, I’ll call you Maeve.”

  I did remember a line from the movie The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid.

  A greenhorn asks a grizzled cowboy,

  “What’s the name of your horse?”

  The cowboy spits juice, then drawls,

  “Don’t name something you might have to eat.”

  Argue that.

  Got back to my apartment to find Jericho had again been visiting.

  Left a note, of course, and a small figurine of Jesus.

  The note:

  Jack

  This is a dancing Jesus.

  There is a chorus line of the apostles doing a conga line behind him.

  Do you miss that nun? So

  So

  Bad

  It’s so sad, boo-hoo.

  (Then an emoji of a crying face.)

  I’ll slit your throat while you sleep and then Alice will ride your dead dick.

  xxxxx

  J.

  I tentatively put a hand on the figurine,

  And

  Jesus danced.

  34

  Never

  Rely

  On who you think you are.

  Never

  Rely

  On what you think you know.

  Do

  Rely

  On

  Murphy’s law.

  Alice came out of the shower. She’d taken a while as it was a bitch to get blood from under your fingernails.

  Jericho was listening to Leonard Cohen.

  The same track always,

  “You Want It Darker.”

  Some interpreted the title as a question,

  Others as a command.

  Jericho looked up, a piece of Maeve’s bloody skirt in her hands,

  Asked,

  “You think that’s dark enough for them?”

  *

  Pa Connell is a vet and a close friend.

  He’d once said to me,

  “Jack, you need something, call day or night.”

  You say that and, though sincere, the last friggin’ thing you want is a guy calling you after midnight.

  I mean, fuckit.

  When I had the dogs, and it kills me to even mention them, their passing nigh murdered me, Pa was a constant source of help and support.

  I called him now.

  Woke him too.

  I could hear his wife mumbling.

  I begged,

  “Let me see you now.”

  “Christ. Jack, it’s two in the morning.”

  I didn’t want to shout,

  “I know the fucking time.”

  I whined instead.

  “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  How could he refuse?

  He didn’t, said,

  “I’ll be in my surgery in an hour.”

  I had the bird wrapped in a light blanket, with a makeshift hood for its eyes to fool it into sleeping.

  It wasn’t fooled, tried to bite me every opportunity.

  I figured it was a very fine peregrine falcon—

  Not only a beautiful bird but valuable,

  Unless it died.

  I swore,

  “Don’t you fucking dare die.”

  When Pa saw me, saw the bird, he exclaimed,

  “A bird?”

  I nodded.

  He gently took the creature from me, laid it on his vet’s table, pulled on thick gloves.

  I began to ask him . . .

  His hand shot up, he said,

  “Don’t talk,”

  I didn’t.

  For ten minutes, he worked on the bird, having given it a shot to calm it. I could have done with some of it. Pa made sounds like

  “Um, ah, I see, well, well, who knew?”

  Finally, he finished, and the bird seemed to be sleeping. He said,

/>   “It’s a peregrine falcon. It has been shot by some sick bastard but this is a full-grown bird and, I’d say, rare enough in these parts. How did you get it?”

  I told him.

  He rummaged in a drawer, produced a bottle of brandy, poured two, asked,

  “What will you do with it?”

  I wanted Jameson but, in a bind, drank, said,

  “I think you should keep it.”

  He gave a short harsh laugh, said,

  “You’re even madder than ever.”

  I was thinking I might be a wee bit offended, asked,

  “What on earth would I do with a falcon?”

  He said,

  “There’s a guy I know, not well but enough, his name is Keefer. His name is from his years as roadie for the Rolling Stones. He also moonlit, so to speak, as a film extra and, while on the movie The Falcon and the Snowman, in trade for Stones tickets he got to hang with the film’s falconer and the rest, as they say, is, if not history, at least notable. A Scot, I think, lives out in the country, eccentric, so you should get on. He is supposedly one of the best falconers but he’s very . . .”

  Paused.

  “Hard-core.”

  I had no idea what that meant so pushed,

  “Will he take the bird?”

  Pa got a large cage, gently laid the sleeping bird in there, said,

  “I’ll call him and should have an answer in a day or two. I’ll keep it until then but be prepared.”

  “For what?”

  He sighed.

  “If—and that’s a big if—he agrees to see you, you’d better pack for a few weeks’ stay.”

  I was sure he was kidding, asked,

  “Why on earth would I do that. He can keep the falcon, no charge, valuable bird, he should be grateful.”

  Pa laughed, said,

  “It will take some serious training.”

  I said with relief,

  “He can train the bird for months, good luck to them.”

  Pa, and I swear I saw devilment in his eyes, said,

  “Not the bird, you.”

  Did I still even like the Stones?

  Well, I could fake it,

  Couldn’t I?

  *

  Back at my apartment, I found an old Stones album, played it.

  I had a book on rock myths, flicked through it, came across this:

  “Mick Taylor is the only one to leave the Stones and live.”

  How encouraging was that?

  35

  Deoch

  An

  Doras

  (The Parting Gift)

  Few sayings in Irish have been interpreted in so many different ways.

  There are those who see it simply as a gift of farewell;

  Others, the optimists probably, who believe it’s a blessing;

  And those of us,

  From the dark,

  Who know it to be the ultimate curse.

  As I prepared to leave my note for Jericho, I felt rage of biblical size, but after a large Jay, two Xanax, I felt sufficiently detached or, more to the point, in that part of my mind that is icy cold, a zone where nothing lives save sheer homicide.

  *

  If I was going to spend time with the eccentric falconer, I needed to put some plans in place:

  1. Deal with Alice.

  2. Leave a letter for Jericho for when she next housebroke.

  3. Respect the passing of Maeve.

  4. Buy supplies for my time away.

  Finding Alice, I was supposed to be a detective of sorts, so I found her.

  She was in the phone book.

  Go figure.

  Either stupidity or arrogance.

  I watched her for six days and, on the seventh night, caught up with her as she staggered to her flat, the worse for wear drinkwise.

  I said,

  “Maeve sends her love.”

  I did what I had to do.

  And

  I

  Did

  It

  With

  Slow

  Measured

  Deliberation.

  *

  The second week, I had Liam Garvey of the gift shop on Shop Street cut me a scroll of ogham on slate.

  Ogham is one of the oldest of alphabets.

  The word for love, Gra,

  Is like a cross, with seven horizontal lines, and is read from the bottom up.

  I took it to the Circle of Life Garden in Salthill.

  Founded in 2014 to commemorate the organ donors whose giving has saved countless lives, it is a haven of beautiful peace. You take some water from the well that is hundreds of years old, then stroll on and reach a lake where a steel heron rises from the water.

  It is staggeringly beautiful.

  I placed the ogham for Maeve in the water and said a silent

  Hail Mary.

  I said it in Irish.

  It begins

  Ar mhathair.

  On my way out, I met

  Stephen and Ann Shine, the sort of Galwegians who make you glad you live in this city. Just that rarity: lovely, warm spirit.

  In town, I bought some parchment, the real deal, and the quill pen to seal the deal. Thought about getting red wax as the seal for the document but, hey,

  “Don’t be showy.”

  Pa rang to say Keefer had collected the falcon and would collect me on Friday.

  Instructed that

  I was to be sure to bring supplies.

  I thought,

  “Oh, how I love to be instructed.”

  Especially by some half-arsed hippie drug casualty.

  And then I said, unreasonably,

  “Fucking nerve of him to take my falcon.”

  My mind responded.

  “Not your bird,”

  I think.

  I sat down, opened a bottle of Jay, thought about Jericho.

  Emerald, my former nemesis, had been a ruthless psychopath but something,

  Some weird, bizarre, fucked-up mind thing, still lingered in that

  I liked her.

  A lot.

  Now Jericho was just a poor man’s Emerald. She never shone.

  I had recently read New Yorker profiles of famous people:

  Writers

  Movie folk

  Celebrities

  By John Lahr.

  The piece on Roseanne Barr described Jericho perfectly:

  . . . her face and her presence have no luster.

  Without makeup her definition is muted and vague, her face has little mobility.

  Despite her intelligence and authority, there is something cadaverous about Roseanne,

  A deadness that only rage and combat can banish.

  Combat seems to make her more alive.

  Something has been murdered in her; this is palpable in

  The flatness of her voice, the slouch of her body,

  The quicksilver shifts of mood from bombast to gloom,

  The timidity and detachment behind her eyes.

  She has none of the charm of Gretchen by Chelsea Cain,

  Or the appeal of Lisbeth in the Dragon Tattoo novels.

  Jericho is a dead thing.

  And, soon, she’d be dead in a way that would spark in the utter darkness from whence she came.

  By Christ, I swore on that.

  Then I rolled out the parchment, wrote to Jericho.

  Finished, I propped it against the skull she’d left for me.

  I took a small envelope, put Deoch an Doras inside that, then opened my fridge, propped it against a bottle of Galway Hooker beer, closed the fridge gently, thought,

  My parting gift deserves to be chilled/chilling;

  On ice, as it were.

  36

  Samuel Spade’s jaw was long . . .

  His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal.

  A hooked nose . . .

  His pale brown hair grew

  From high flat temples to a

  Point on his forehead.

  He
looked rather pleasantly

  Like a blond satan.

  Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon

  I was waiting outside my apartment, a battered holdall, a crate of hooch by my Docs, the wax coat cutting the strong, bitter wind off the bay.

  I missed my all-weather coat, the Garda one.

  Gone with my nun.

  A vintage Land Rover pulled up, the driver got out, followed by a German shepherd; the man and dog had the same vibe:

  . . . don’t fuck with me.

  We’d take that under advisement.

  The man said,

  “Taylor!”

  I nodded, he held out a large callused hand, covered in scars and recent bites, the falcon I figured. He said,

  “Keefer.”

  He was a cross between Robert Shaw, as he was in Jaws, and Keith Richards, after he fell out of that tree.

  Wore a Willie Nelson bandanna, biker boots over combat trousers.

  He had plenty of gray-white hair, a face so lined you could see craters in it, eyes behind aviator shades, and a lean muscled body, none of it going to fat.

  He growled,

  “What’s in the crate?”

  I said,

  “A selection of Jameson, bourbon, scotch, and Bushmills.

  The Bush in case you are a black Protestant.”

  He nearly smiled, said,

  “Let’s get you stored away, dude.”

  We did.

  His voice, I would learn, was a blend of

  Hipster (the sixties type)

  Scottish

  Surfer

  Biker.

  If he’d been literary, he could have played Hemingway or James Crumley.

  I sat in the shotgun seat. He put the jeep in gear and eased into traffic, hit the music band, and the Stones’

  “Sweet Virginia”

  Flowed.

  He asked,

  “You speak American?”

  I sure did, said,

  “Like a good ole boy.”

  He went down-home South Carolina, drawled,

  “I sure done check you out, boy.”

  That might get a little bit irritating, but I asked,

  “What did you find?”

  He reached into the glove department, drew out a spliff, asked,

  “Do us the honor.”

  I did, took a hit, and passed it to him, trying to ignore the gun butt I’d spotted in the glove compartment. He drew deep, said,

  “You read like a mean son of a bitch.”

  The dog leaned from the backseat, nuzzled my ear. Keefer said,

  “You just done passed the crucial test.”