by Ken Bruen
In exasperation, John asked,
“Jack?”
I said,
“Kevin Higgins.”
I was beginning to feel just a tad informed until
“Name three Irish presidents.”
I finished my drink, took my ignorant leave.
Homelessness was a major problem. Hundreds of families living in direct provision schemes. The number of patients on trolleys in the hospitals was shocking. Boris Johnson was leader of the Tories now and getting out of bed (or off a trolley) was daunting.
I’d been walking down Water Lane, then turned into the field that leads to Hidden Valley. A man emerged from the trees, a tent pitched behind him. He was shoeless and looked traumatized. I took some notes from my pocket, offered them, he said,
“No, I’m good, but thank you.”
Manners were so rare these days that for a moment I was speechless, then I foisted the notes on him, suggested,
“You’d be better off pitching the tent up the top, would protect you from the late-night gobshites.”
He allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. Then he asked me a question that would haunt me for a long time. He asked,
“Are there rats?”
I couldn’t answer that for a myriad of reasons so went with
“Get yourself a small terrier. Not only will he deal with any rodents, he’d be great company.”
He considered that, then stuck out his hand,
“Thanks man, you’ve been a great help.”
I took his hand, shook it with a feeling of utter forlornness.
I checked on him a few days later. His tent was there but torn to shreds, his meager belongings scattered to the ruthless wind. Of him, there was sign.
Ireland in the year of Our Lord 2019.
The Epiphany of Benjamin J. Cullen
Benjamin J. had never really been taken by surprise. Few events shocked him, and he was the bringer of shock.
The morning of Tuesday the eighteenth, he found the kitchen in a mess. James Powell was not the tidiest of guests/employees.
Benjamin read him the riot act, culminating with, My house, my rules.
As Benjamin finished shaving, he was debating,
“Scrambled or fried eggs for breakfast?”
James came behind him, pulled his head back, cut his throat with one deep lethal slash.
Then he dragged Benjamin by the scruff of his clean-shaven neck, out through the spacious hall, trailing a line of blood, opened the front door, flung the body out across the drive, shouted,
“Not your house!”
James was eating scrambled eggs when the Guards came bursting through the front door.
When asked why he’d murdered Benjamin,
He asked, in total bewilderment,
“Who?”
James Cromwell is one of those character actors that people recognize but never know his name. They go,
“Don’t tell me, I know.”
But they don’t.
His one leading role was with a pig, literally, in Babe.
He gave numerous heavyweight performances in movies such as The General’s Daughter and L.A. Confidential.
I mention him as on a sunny Friday morning I was availing myself of a brief shot of sunshine on Eyre Square when James Cromwell came striding toward me.
No, of course, it wasn’t him but the spitting image. Tall, rangy as they say in the States. A weather-walloped face, distinctive nose, in the age range of good seventies or not so fine sixties. Dressed in a dark suit with, oddly enough, sparkling trainers, dressed as the song goes, like,
“A walking contradiction.”
He stood over me, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
I nodded and he asked,
“Might I have a word?”
I said,
“Seems you’re having it.”
He smiled briefly, then,
“I’m Edmund Dysart.”
His accent, ting of U.S. but more like English was a second language. I studied him for a moment, ventured,
“You’re a priest.”
Staggered him but he recovered, asked,
“Why would you think that?”
The devil was in me to say I can smell you.
But a bit harsh so I said,
“My life is beset by the clergy.”
He thought about that, said,
“I’m no longer a priest.”
Right.
I said,
“Once a priest . . .”
He asked,
“May I buy you a drink?”
I agreed and said,
“You’re definitely not a priest anymore.”
If he found that insulting, he let it slide. We went to Richardson’s at the top of the square, got a table. I ordered pints and he didn’t demur but, unpriest-like, he paid for the round.
We skimmed the heads of the pints, then he began,
“I was sent to Guatemala for various sins of my past,”
Paused, added quickly,
“Nothing to do with children, I swear.”
Then he continued.
“The caravan trail of people heading for the U.S. border had just begun, a long line of destitute folk walking or hoping to walk through so many countries. It was in Guatemala that I first heard of a miracle child, a girl surrounded by light, but it was soon discredited, then other stories began of this girl/woman attaching herself to young boys, declaring them her brother, and evoking sympathy.”
He sighed with tremendous weariness, then,
“More stories of young boys found with their throats cut, and rumors turned to La Niña del Diablo.”
He looked at me, asked,
“Do I need to translate?”
I ventured,
“Devil child.”
He signaled to the barman, another pint and shorts of scotch.
I hadn’t the heart to correct him. Scotch! And figured he was paying so . . .
He took a gulp of his, then,
“I met her once, but once was more than enough.”
I tried the scotch. It would suffice.
His eyes had a far sheen to them when he continued.
“She seemed the essence of innocence at first, with a charisma that invited you closer, and then I noticed a small boy almost hiding behind her. I asked,
“Este es su hermano?” (Your brother?)
He now looked right at me, said,
“She was peeling an apple, slowly, deliberately, with a knife that glinted off her eyes. She said, with a kind of a hiss . . .”
He took a moment, then,
“She said, Fuck off, priest.”
His whole body went into a minor spasm but he reined it in, said,
“Then she turned to the boy, offered him a slice of the apple, cajoled, Eat, my sweet.”
He sighed, continued.
“I threw my rosary beads at her. I still am not sure why but it hit her neck and it sizzled, left the mark of the crucifix just below her jawline.”
He shuddered violently, said,
“She said, ‘My mother cursed you at Camargue, I curse you anew.”
He said,
“I had indeed crossed paths with a psycho woman in France and this child, this spawn of evil, was her daughter. There is a legend there of a child, Sara: The Gypsies worship her. I had gone to see this creature who was supposed to be possessed. She had a cobra tattooed on her arm. She cursed me, told me her daughter would be the cause of my death, that she would find me in Guatemala. Now this was long before I was banished to that country by the Church.”
I felt something cold, sinister creep along my spine, needed a moment to regroup, and asked,
“Why are you
here?”
He said.
“Because she is here.”
In near contempt, I said,
“You seriously think a fourteen-year-old girl is capable of such . . .”
I searched for a word, got
“Malevolence?”
He looked at me in what seemed to be disbelief, said,
“In your own country, have you not recently tried two thirteen-year-old boys for a horrific murder?”
He was referring to the Ana Kriegel case, our very own version of the Jamie Bulger case in the U.K. Two teenage boys had lured a fourteen-year-old girl to a derelict building, tortured, raped, and murdered her.
The details of the boys’ preparations to kill were so terrible that even the media practiced restraint in their reporting.
What was known was that Boy A, as he was called for legal reasons, had over a thousand videos of porn that involved animals, murder, satanic rites, mutilation, which he brought to the murder site with tape, knife, homemade zombie mask. The girl had more than a hundred wounds on her body but she had fought like a tigress so that Boy A had a host of injuries.
Ana, adopted from Siberia when she was two, had been a beautiful girl but shy, vulnerable, sensitive, badly bullied at school for her stature and otherness. She longed for friendship.
Both boys were found guilty, the youngest convicted killers ever in the history of the state.
I asked Dygart,
“When you find her, what then?”
Without hesitation, he said,
“I’m going to kill her.”
“The
Annals
of
Human wisdom
Fall
Silent
When faced
With the feral
Within
Us.”
(William Girondi)
June 23, 2019.
As I contemplated how to prevent an ex-priest from killing a supposed child, the world was thus:
Jimmy Kimmel on Trump’s launch of his presidential campaign in Florida:
“The stadium had a capacity of 20,000
Or, as Trump calls it,
A million.”
Sara Collins (comedian) on the Remainer frustration that Labour leader Corbyn won’t take a stand against Brexit:
“Couldn’t we just tell Corbyn that Israel is behind Brexit?”
Trump ready to launch rockets on Iran:
“We were cocked and loaded.”
Raisa Carolan, a child survivor of the Chernobyl disaster who was adopted and now lives in Ireland, on the wave of tourism to Chernobyl following the hit TV show about the disaster:
“It’s disgraceful to all the people who died and sacrificed themselves so others could live, people need to think before they decide to take selfies.”
Owen McDonagh was a young Guard. I’d met him years before, when he worked as a cashier for Dunne’s. We’d become friendly discussing TV shows. I’d lent him Preacher, season one, and cemented a friendship. One day, as he was overwhelmed with customers being especially demanding, I’d asked,
“Ever think of another line of work?”
He asked,
“Any suggestions?”
I’d said without much consideration,
“You could do worse than join the Guards.”
He did.
I’d meant it as a casual off-the-cuff remark but he’d gone and joined. He’d recently been assigned to Galway and we met up from time to time. He loved being a Guard, reminded me of the long-ago time I’d had such aspirations. He tipped me off to various cases where my name was mentioned. Never in a good light, alas.
A Thursday, his day off, he’d phoned me, asked if we could meet. He had to be careful as a friendship with me was not a route to advancement in the force.
We met in the Crane Bar, not a place much favored by the cops. He’d been to the gym, was dressed in sweats, looking fit and fresh, not anything that could ever be remotely applied to my own self.
He was drinking pints of water after a vigorous workout; I was on pints as always. We did the usual catch-up but he had something on his mind, so I pushed.
“What’s up, Owen?”
He dithered for a while, then,
“The suspected arsonist Benjamin J. Cullen was found murdered.”
I immediately thought,
Keefer.
I asked,
“How? How was he killed?”
He said,
“His throat was cut.”
My mind roared.
Definitely Keefer. Or, God forbid, Sara? Or, heaven forbid, the both of them.
But Owen’s next words canceled that. He said,
“A mental patient staying with Cullen did the deed.”
I never expected that.
Nor, it seems, did Benjamin J.
Owen continued,
“I was one of the first responders, as Mr. Cullen had been thrown out his front door after his throat was cut. We found the accused sitting having scrambled eggs and . . .”
He had to pause to compose himself, then,
“He was using the knife to eat his eggs.”
Now Owen looked like he might throw up, said,
“I’ll never use ketchup again, at least not on eggs.”
I finally could put it off no longer; I had to see Keefer. He’d left the pickup truck at the rear of my apartment so I climbed in that, with a heavy heart, and at first I was nearly relieved when it didn’t start.
Thank fuck, I thought.
Tried again and the engine turned over, much in time to the heavy beat of my heart. I pulled into traffic and headed for the country.
My time on the farm with Keefer and the falcon had been one of the most peaceful episodes of my life in between the interludes of violence. I didn’t dwell on Jericho, who’d come to the farm to kill me. She never left the farm.
I listened to the radio. Jimmy Norman, now running Norman Media, was explaining his use of drones as a vital part of his media company. It was reassuring to hear of drones that were not part of U.S. foreign policy.
I got to the farm by noon, pulled up beside the small cottage to the back that had been my home, if briefly. I’d brought supplies.
Booze.
Steaks.
Chocolate. (For Sara? Maybe.)
And a pile of books from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop.
I wasn’t entirely sure if they were peace offerings/bribes/distraction or a blend of all three. A young woman came out of the main building. In her late twenties, I guessed, with long dark hair, sallow complexion, a serious expression, wearing faded jeans and a well-washed Rolling Stones T-shirt.
I got out of the truck, hazarded,
“Ceola?”
She smiled, a gorgeous one, and up close she smelled of patchouli and a sweet nature. She had a Romany vibe, more Gypsy than civilian. She said,
“Jack Taylor.”
And then she hugged me.
I don’t do hugs.
May be my generation, we didn’t come from the kind of families that expressed affection. The most you could hope for was,
“Don’t bring the Guards to our door!”
This hug was more desperate than affectionate. She whispered,
“Thank God you’re here.”
Keefer appeared, shouted,
“Hands off my chick, Taylor!”
Chick, like, fuck sakes.
He didn’t hug me.
He asked,
“So what brings you here?”
I reached into the truck, dragged out the box of supplies, said,
“Thought you might need re-up.”
He took the box, asked,
“Any bourbon in there?�
��
I said,
“Kentucky’s finest and some serious chocolate for the girls.”
He handed the box to Ceola, said,
“Put these away, lass, but break out the bourbon to welcome our guest.”
I didn’t see any sign of Sara. I asked,
“Where is our miracle girl?”
He gave me a look that was more warning than warmth, said,
“She’s out with the falcon, every hour of the day with that bird.”
I asked,
“Might we have a word in private?”
He gestured around the farm, said,
“Doesn’t get more private, pilgrim.”
I began,
“Benjamin J. Cullen was murdered, his throat cut.”
He took that in, then near exploded.
“You think I did it?”
Paused to catch his breath, then, in a tone of dripping sarcasm, continued,
“Or maybe the girl? Fuck sakes, she traveled to Galway, did the deed, then got herself back here, you dumb cracker, that what you think happened?”
I had to rein in my anger, then tried,
“I wasn’t finished. I was going to tell you they already have the man who did it.”
The air of violence was heavy around us. Few fights as bitter as friends who fall out. I breathed heavily and he sneered,
“Weren’t you hoping to tell me of the ex-priest who came to Ireland to find Sara, or was that to be the big reveal?”
That was the sad truth of it. I said nothing, so he said,
“That pious piece of shit was here, told me his insane theory about Sara. I put the shotgun in his face and pulled the trigger.”
I literally rocked back.
He let me reel like that until he said,
“I told him next time the shotgun will be loaded.”
Keefer looked over my shoulder. I turned to see Sara, the falcon perched on her arm. The sun behind them gave the appearance of a statue, carved in ice; both were motionless. It was hard to say where the bird ended, so close they seemed, like one lethal force. I noticed the scar in the shape of a crucifix below her jawline. It seemed to throb like a resentment.
Keefer smiled, said with a forced cheer,
“Sweetheart, look who’s come to visit you.”
A few tense moments, then she handed off the falcon to Keefer, who said,
“I’ll give you guys a moment.”
She stared at me for a time then moved toward me, arms outstretched. She was no longer the vulnerable child, if ever she had been, but was now a young woman, looking way more than the supposed fourteen, an air of supreme confidence about her.