by Ken Bruen
He opened the file, asked,
“You sure you want to know?”
I was.
I think.
He said,
“Okay, you’d expect a monster, at least in description, but it’s a woman, girl really, twenty years old, lives with her parents, and gets social security. In appearance she seems almost normal, drab really, doesn’t go down to the pub or hang with anyone.”
I said,
“Spends her time frightening young vulnerable girls.”
He considered that, then,
“Here’s her photo and address.”
She lived off Grattan Road, nice unremarkable house, a study in normalcy. The photo showed a girl rather than a woman, looking away from the camera, brown hair in long braids, a face that missed being pretty by a distance but makeup would have helped: Mostly, she looked young.
Her name was Greta Haut.
Unusual surname. The only time I’d ever come across it was the writer Woody Haut. Her parents were some sort of born-again Christians and belonged to a group that met on Wednesday nights where, it was said, some spoke in tongues. One wondered if any of them were civil.
Greta had been recruited by a top tech company but was let go for unspecified reasons. Like being a psycho, perhaps. She dressed like an ex-nun,
That is, unremarkable, mainly old green combat jacket, high-top sneakers.
She had never been in trouble with the law save for a minor charge of stealing a six-pack of Red Bull. Most of her time seemed to be spent at home, destroying lives.
I said,
“A winner.”
Danny gave me a look of mild distaste, said,
“The wee lass is obviously unhinged.”
Lass!
That infuriated me. I snarled,
“Lass! She’s a full-formed psychotic bitch who gets off on tormenting vulnerable girls.”
Danny physically pulled back, as if I’d slapped him, said,
“Whoa, get a grip.”
I bit down for a moment, trying to rein it in, tried,
“I’m just a little tired of excusing sick fucks that ruin others.”
Danny was done, stood up, said,
“I better go. I hope you won’t do something criminal here.”
I offered,
“Let me pay you for your time.”
“No.”
I had preparations to make for Greta Haut. In a dive bar off the docks, I bought some Rohypnol, the date rape drug. The guy who sold it to me didn’t bat an eyelid, then went to get a single bottle of Coke, screw-off top.
I also got a large knife, known as the Bowie blade, which had a serrated edge that would put shivers on a corpse.
Wednesday evening Greta’s parents would be attending their prayer meeting. I put my purchases in a small backpack, dressed in black jeans, black T, and threw in an old tie that had attended more funerals than I dare remember.
I broke into Greta’s house at eight that evening. No sophisticated locks; I guess born-agains are more trusting. The house was plainly furnished, attesting to tidiness more than money. I crept up the stairs, could hear the white noise of Greta’s PC. Her door was ajar. I pushed it open carefully.
Her back was to me, headphones on: She was dressed in sweatpants, sloppy sweatshirt. I tapped her gently on the shoulder. She nigh jumped a foot, screamed once. I gripped her hair, said,
“Scream again and I’ll kill you.”
I pulled up my backpack, produced the bottle of Coke, my own flask, offered her the Coke, asked, as I offered the flask,
“You want something stronger in the Coke?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide but a nasty malevolence creeping in. I said,
“Sláinte.”
She asked,
“Is there poison in it?”
I gave her my best smile, all wolves, said,
“The only poison here is you.”
She took a large gulp from the Coke, so step one done. She seemed to ease with the sugar rush, asked,
“Are you going to rape me?”
I said,
“Good Lord, no.”
I leaned back as if relaxing, then sprang forward, gave her one almighty lash to the face. Few things on earth pack such devastating heft. As she reeled back, I took out the rope, tied her securely to the chair, took out the tie.
Shoved it in her face, said,
“This is the tie Meredith hanged herself with. You can keep it.”
As she began to droop, I said,
“I am going to carve the initials you like so much into your forehead, slowly and large.”
She managed,
“No, my face is my best feature.”
I looked at her, said,
“You’re even more deluded than I thought.”
Then, she was out.
I had to force blank my feelings, because so much of me wanted to kill her.
I swept her laptop off the desk, allowing my full rage to knock it clear across the room. The desk was a beautiful oak; gorgeous, really.
I took the knife and carved deliberately and with malice flowing,
D.
B.
S.
When her parents returned, them being Christian, they could express shock in the many tongues they’d acquired and no doubt attribute the deed to the devil.
They wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
“If the monks and nuns
Are not living a life of constant prayer,
Or at least striving to,
Then their lives are a waste
And a scandal.
Let this monastery be sold
And the money
Be given to the poor.”
(Fr. Basil Pennington, abbot and writer, 1966)
Connie had a week of near bliss due to Benjamin J.
He wined, dined, and bedded her with élan.
She’d never had such attention before. The only flaw in the gorgeous setup was Brid. Brid who seemed to hate Benjamin with ferocity and glared at him with burning eyes, eyes of naked resentment. He seemed to thrive on her bile, would pat her head and whisper,
“Good dog, you’re such a loyal dope.”
Connie tried to subtly rein him in, suggested,
“Darling, maybe ease up on the teasing.”
He gave that radiant smile that lit her heart, said,
“Ah, it’s because I love her.”
Uh-huh.
Brid fantasized about putting a knife in his black heart, twisting it as she got right in his face, screamed,
“Who’s a dog? Who’s a fucking dog now?”
He scolded her,
“Have you found the children? You can’t just sit on yer ass, welch off my largesse. There’s a limit to even my big heart.”
Then he winked at her.
A Friday evening, he said to Connie,
“My love, I’ve booked a table for us at Milano’s, so dress, like, hot.”
She swooned, went all coy, then saw the disgust on Brid’s face. She took a risk, asked,
“Um, what about Brid? Maybe we should take her along, just this once?”
He looked at Brid with what might actually have seemed like benevolence but was anything but. He said,
“Brid, my not-so-busy little bee, how about I give you some cash, treat yourself to a bottle of Baileys or some other sweet shit you crave?”
Before she could raise enough vigor to spit in his face, he peeled off some euros, seemed to consider, and then dropped a ten note on the floor, said,
“Maybe a few miniatures of Baileys. We need you sharp.”
Brid stormed out, the ten note abandoned like a useless invocation.
That evening, in Milano’s, Conni
e was dressed in a slinky black number and, to her satisfaction, turned some heads. Benjamin J. was dressed in a well-cut black suit, a white shirt that gleamed, his hair neatly trimmed. They presented a picture of fulfilled ambition.
Connie had the house special, a spaghetti Bolognese that was the best she’d ever tasted and—fuck calories—she had garlic bread to mop up the delicious sauce. She paused mid-bite with the bread, asked Benjamin, because of the garlic,
“Will we be kissing later?”
He gave his demure smile, not a mile from a grimace, said,
“You betcha but the garlic will add a kick.”
He had the sirloin steak, baked potato, demolished the lot with short, sharp-focused bites, ordered a second bottle of wine, and, as they sat back, he raised his glass, said,
“To the flames we engulf.”
A lot of the time, she’d little idea what the fuck he was talking about but it all sounded sexy so who cared? She said,
“Burn, indeed.”
He produced a long match, red top, and the bottom half of the match appeared to be enclosed in silver, said,
“This is our special match, nonsafety of course. It is to commemorate the beginning of your fame and riches.”
She took the match, examined it. He asked,
“What do you want? Shall I tell you?”
She nodded, half blitzed from the wine and the whole gig.
He ordered espressos with a hint of Grenadine to spice them.
He said,
“To be famous, rich, revered, and, best of all, a hero. Sound good?”
Good?
Sounded bloody fantastic to Connie. She took a moment to gather herself, asked,
“What will it take?”
He rose from the table, said in sultry tone,
“Walk with me.”
Nodded to the waitress, to indicate smoke break, got outside, produced a pack of Lucky Strikes, the irony of the title of the cigs a source of added fun to him. He took out two, looked at Connie, and said,
“Woman, what’s the matter? Strike the match.”
She got it on the first flick, fired them up. He said,
“You’re a natural.”
She beamed.
He took a few rapid drags, then ground the cig under his heel with vehemence, said,
“Here’s the deal. To be great, sacrifice is required. Are you prepared to suffer to be magnificent?”
She nodded, already in so deep that she’d have given him a BJ there and then. He continued,
“Here’s the plan. I know where the children are being kept. Brid in her cups told me you said the only feature all the shrines lacked was the death of the visionaries. Well, we’re going to provide that, to set a fire of biblical beauty, and here’s the tough part. You, in attempting to rescue the blessed children, will be burned in your heroics—nothing too serious but enough to muster deep sympathy. You will lose your dearest friend in the attempt, your devoted ally who gives her life to try and rescue those poor mites. You, in burnt clothes, will try for actual smoke still rising from your clothes. You will be on the front pages of all the papers. Your message from the children, their last dying plea, to build a shrine for them and your fallen comrade.”
Connie was shocked. She’d seen or heard just about every callous act on the planet but this took her breath away.
Benjamin read her hesitation, said,
“Or not. Just crawl back into your tiny world of being nobody.”
She heard the steel leak over his tone. She knew if she refused, the very fact of her knowing his plan put her in a lethal position. She tried,
“Brid has been at my side through the bad years. Does she have to, um, go?”
Benjamin sighed, looked to the sky, said,
“Only fire is reliable, the only sure element.”
He walked into the restaurant, laid a stack of bills on the table, then came back out, didn’t even look at Connie, strolled away.
She wasn’t entirely sure but she thought he was whistling.
Connie felt utterly defeated, the feeling of floating, being enchanted as she’d been over the last weeks, evaporated. She got back to the tent. The so-called new convent she’d had such plans for . . . She sank into a chair, muttered,
“I need a flaming miracle.”
You might say her plea was weirdly heard—if not from above, from someplace way darker, as Brid staggered into the tent very drunk and spoiling for a fight. She saw Connie, snarled,
“The whore of Babylon.”
It was at that moment
That they would feel the presence of the devil
And beg God
To come, deliver them from him.
It was that moment
I made them see
That they finally realized
That God had been there all along.
It was then that they realized
That the devil
Is just God
In his night attire.
(Craig Russell, The Devil Aspect)
Keefer and I were sitting on the rocks overlooking Galway Bay. It was one of those fine crisp March mornings, you almost felt optimistic. We’d a flask of one of Keefer’s sour mash whiskeys and, like old cowboys, were sipping it from tin cups.
Why?
Why, indeed?
Because Keefer had shown up at my apartment with the above items and suggested we sit by the dock of the bay. He was dressed in a seriously battered fringe suede jacket—something Fleetwood Mac might have used in their heyday—battered waistcoat, Willie Nelson bandanna, motorcycle boots. As usual, he looked like an extra from Easy Rider.
He had covered all the musical genres with old Hollywood movies riding point.
He said,
“I’ve been reading.”
Showstopper.
What do you say but
“What?”
He pulled out a battered paperback from one of his numerous pockets, handed it over.
Honky Tonk Samurai, by Joe Lansdale
I knew enough to know it was about book twelve or so in the Hap and Leonard series, featuring a white trash guy and a large black gay man who solved crimes in glorious and violent fashion. I said,
“It’s a TV series now.”
He looked at me, said,
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope, with James Purfoy and Michael Williams.”
He savored that a minute and found nothing to like, asked,
“Purfoy—isn’t that dude English?”
Before I could reply, he said,
“Anyhow, talk about serendipity or such shit, the preface to the book is like spooky. Here, take a look.”
Having no idea what he meant I took the book, read this at the beginning of chapter 1:
Just when you think
You got things learned good
And life’s flowing right,
A damn Mack truck comes along
And runs your highly attractive
Ass over.
I said,
“It sure is odd.”
Lame, right?
The rocks we were sitting on are about a swim from the main beach. The small stretch of sand below us is usually empty but a young man appeared, held up a stick, threw it, shouted,
“Fetch!”
Nothing unusual there save there was no sign of a dog. Then he walked to the stick, said, “Good dog,” and picked up the stick, repeated the process.
Keefer said,
“See that there, one of the reasons I love this city. You can be stone cold insane, bonkers, as they say in the country formerly known as Britain, but as long as you keep the craziness to your own self no one bats an eye.”
The guy spotted us, stared at us a m
oment, asked,
“Why are you drinking out of tin cups?”
I nearly said,
Same reason you’re walking an imaginary dog.
But sense prevailed as it’s never a great idea to fuck with someone’s illusion; no good comes of it.
Keefer said,
“We’re worried about the environment. Styrofoam ruins the ecological balance.”
The guy was distracted by a sign near the main beach that warned,
“No dogs allowed on the beach during the summer months.”
He looked at me, asked,
“What month is this?”
I said,
“You’re good, summer is ages away.”
He switched his eyes to Keefer, asked,
“You do realize your mate is not all in it.”
Keefer, enjoying the whole episode of weirdness, said,
“But it’s Galway, madness is okay.”
The guy shook his head as if freeing it from us, then turned on his heel, parting with,
“If you find my dog, there’s a reward.”
Keefer and I were in the GBC, the only real restaurant in the city if you wanted a serious fry-up, the whole carbohydrate neon nightmare, the type of food that you believe soaks up the booze. Well, you don’t really buy that but you have the false appetite that early-day drinking provides.
I knew Frank the chef from way back. He had two dogs and tended to them better than most anyone I know. We were sitting at the window table, the city up close and almost personal.
The waitress approached with caution. Keefer has that effect but then he smiles and charm ensues. He said to her,
“How are you?”
She blushed.
When do you ever see that anymore?
She managed to say,
“I’m well, thank you.”
I said,
“Could I get
Eggs, fried soft.
Sausages.
Rashers.
Toast.
Pot of tea?”
Keefer let out a sigh, said,
“Dude, that’s hard core.”
Then to the waitress,
“I’ll risk the same with an ambulance standing by.”
She stood for a moment, then walked away, uncertainty in her stride.
Keefer asked,
“Tea, really?”
I tried to explain to him that with a fry-up tea is the only rider. He wasn’t convinced but let it slide, asked,