by Ken Bruen
Could not
Would not
Bond with another.
Midway, Vincent showed up, looking like a crushed nun, all wringing hands, guilt-pious expression. I said,
“Get yourself a hurley. We’ll wallop that hangover to hell and back.”
If you have depression, or just feel like shite, get yourself a hurley, stash of old tennis balls, a large field or, better yet, a spot above the bay, whack those babies out to America itself.
A dog is pure bonus.
Guaranteed to be the best vent you’ll get without kicking the crap out of people.
I had to lend Vincent my hurley and what a joy to see him belt out years of rage into the blue beyond. He loved it.
Exhausted him and the dog. He exclaimed,
“That is awesome.”
I asked him the name of the dog, he said,
“Novena.”
He was drenched in sweat, rivers pouring down his body, and he was delighted. He said,
“’Tis a fine hurley.”
I told him the truth. Sometimes it seems the thing to do. I said,
“My dad, the bed of heaven to him, went to an artisan in Bohermore, back in the days of the Magdalene laundries, and Rory Gallagher, the man took weeks to make individual hurleys from the ash. He’d put steel bands on the top if you were playing dirty bastards like Dublin. I’ve had it all these years and it’s provided a measure of justice, if not the law.”
I held it out, said,
“I leave tomorrow. I’d like you to have it.”
Despite halfhearted protests, he took it.
That evening I stayed in my room, playing all the angles as to where Sara would be. Even tossed a coin. All spelled out Ballyfin.
In the morning, my rucksack at my feet, I said good-bye to Sister Martha. She said,
“Good riddance.”
As the car approached, Vincent came hurrying out, handed me a well-read book. I said,
“Some spiritual horseshite, I suppose.”
Looked at the title:
The War Against Evil (author unknown).
He said,
“In your case, it is indeed a spiritual battle.”
The car pulled up, Rael driving. I got in, said to Vincent,
“Keep lashing those balls.”
I did wonder after if it hadn’t sounded just a tiny bit gay.
Rael drove fast, urgently, asked,
“Have you an answer for us?”
I lit up, blew smoke, said,
“Ballyfin. Next weekend she’ll be there.”
He nearly swerved off the road, gasped, asked,
“Isn’t that the village with Saint Patrick’s actual stick that he used to expel the serpents?”
I nodded. He mulled on that, that Sara would be there. Then asked,
“You sure?”
I was quiet for a moment, then said,
“I’d bet her dark life on it.”
There’s a moment in C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe when the human children who have arrived in Narnia ask whether the White Witch, who rules the land, is a human woman or not.
The kindly Mr. Beaver tells them she isn’t, and offers some advice.
“When you meet anything that’s going to be human and isn’t yet, or used to be human once and isn’t now
Or
Ought to be human and isn’t,
You keep your eyes on it
And feel
For your hatchet.”
The Beast Slouches Toward Ballyfin
I had inherited Keefer’s pickup truck as well as the farm.
The cynic in me echoed,
“I inherited the farm; he bought the farm.”
Sunday morning.
Ballyfin.
There was a hatchet on the back panel, where in down-home Alabama there’d be a shotgun to off any stray easy riders. If I put on a Stetson, played Hank Williams, got me a hound dog, I’d be the redneck dream.
I drove to Ballyfin early. I heard on the radio that the celebration festival would be concluded with Mass outside the church whose roof they were raising funds to restore. People were advised to arrive early as the new influx of migrants would mean space might be limited.
Between the lines, you could almost hear a worry/caution from the Ballyfin residents that perhaps taking a hundred refugees was a stretch but for the day of fund-raising they’d suck it up.
I dressed in black for a black day: combat pants, sweatshirt, my Garda coat, and watch cap. I didn’t have my hurley anymore but I did have the Glock.
Asked myself,
“Am I going to shoot Sara?”
On the pickup’s sound system I played Dylan’s “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.”
Ballyfin was overshadowed by a large hill and the refugee camp was the other side of that, away from the village center. I got out of the truck, lit a cig, surveyed the camp. It seemed to teem with people—a hell of a lot more than a hundred.
I figured eco-warriors, do-gooders of all hue were among the throng.
A huge banner proclaimed,
SAVE THE AMAZON RAIN FOREST.
A smaller one behind near whispered,
LET’S SAVE THE CHURCH ROOF FIRST!
I asked myself,
How the fuck do I find Sara in there, if she’s there?
Then I reassured myself.
She is drawn to crowds, needs a miracle, is fatally attracted to the glitz of a show, has the supreme arrogance of a predator who has never been stopped.
I went down to the church, managed to get past the crowds, saw the statue of Saint Patrick. The infamous crook was indeed ancient and the years had whittled away the tip so it resembled a spear more than anything else.
I thought I should maybe say a prayer but instead
I swore,
“Let’s see about that bitch.”
Most of the day I mingled among the ever increasing throngs of people.
Spotted two men.
I figured they were Monsignor Rael’s goons/priests/hatchet guys. Near the fall of evening, as time for the Mass drew near, I saw Rael directing his team to spread out. He barked orders to the poor old parish priest, who seemed bewildered by so many people.
Then I saw a woman with a young boy in tow. I managed to get near her without her seeing me. She now had blonde hair, was dressed in some type of kaftan with dark jeans. She flicked her hair and I saw it.
The image of a cross burned into her neck below her left jaw and, shining in the late afternoon sun, a glint of gold—my daughter’s miraculous medal.
The Mass was beginning and she hurried to the church, pulling the boy.
She entered the church. I was close behind. At the stairs, a sign warned:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MOUNT HERE. ROOF UNSAFE.
She flung the sign aside, hurried up, dragging the boy.
On the roof, she bent down, checked that the sky was dark, began to assemble her Guatemalan trick: blue light, cheap theatrics. She was intent on that, the boy near dozing at her side; doped, I figured.
I said,
“The show has been canceled.”
She leaped back, stunned to be caught, drew in a breath, pulled out the serrated blade, spat,
“You.”
I moved forward and she ran at me, spittle running from her mouth. The roof cracked, shuddered, and for a brief moment she was suspended in air where the portion of roof had been, then she fell, emitting a howl like all the anguished rage of hell.
I stood stock-still for a moment, then went to the boy, took his hand, gently, carefully took him down the stairs. He asked,
“Is she gone?”
I said,
“Yes.”
His eyes su
nk in his small head for a moment, then he said,
“Good.”
The fall through the roof she might have perhaps survived but she’d landed on Saint Patrick, or rather his crook, been impaled. Her head was thrown back, her face almost gentle in death.
I handed the boy off to Rael’s men, went back to Sara’s body, Rael beside me. I reached over, snapped the gold medal from around her neck. Rael cautioned,
“That might be evidence.”
I said,
“No, it’s my daughter’s.”
He stared at the statue of Saint Patrick, then at Sara’s left arm, which was thrown out from her. The cobra in that position seemed to have shriveled. Rael looked back at the saint, the saint who’d rid us of serpents, said,
“That’s some irony.”
I said,
“More like an epiphany.”
I was drinking from my flask, watched as Rael summoned a car to take the boy away. He caught my look, said,
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”
Like a boy handed over to the clergy was in any way fine.
Rael saw my doubt, said,
“He’ll be given a good home. I’ll even send you the address when he’s settled.”
I accepted that bogus lie. Where could I take him?
Rael asked,
“You couldn’t have taken her alive?”
I looked him straight in the eye, said,
“No.”
As they were about to put the boy in the car I took off the green bracelet, handed it to him. He dropped it, spat on it, crushed it under his foot, said something I didn’t understand. Rael looked to one of his men, who translated,
“He says magic is shit.”
Back home, exhausted; if I’d been more sensitive I’d have cried me a river.
Instead I poured a large Jameson, downed a Valium, chased it with a Xanax (yeah, utter madness, but after the day of Sara what was sanity anymore?), then I lit a cig, read a poem by Kevin Higgins,
“The Reckoning.”
Marked this:
My lungs are two talentless divas
Competing with each other for newspaper headlines
May everyone be arrested without warrant?
And made plead
Because my bill for life is on the mat
My lungs are rooms in which the yellow wallpaper is slowly falling down
My hates have come to get me
How apt would be “my hates have come to get me”?
The combination of speed, dope, booze didn’t knock me out. Rather it took me out, out my front door and into town. I felt the desperate need of human contact.
What I got was Hayden.
The Hayden Epiphany
Hayden the crime writer.
“The mid-list guy.”
As he so often said,
“Which means,
“I don’t sell but do get some decent reviews and what they call honorable mention. If you see a collection of crime stories edited by a big name, they’ll put the famous ones on the cover and add ‘including others,’ like the fluff tracks you find on an album with two big hits and eight duds.”
He was, in most ways, an enigma. I’d said that to him and he near laughed, said,
“Right, I’m a half-arsed fact disguised as a dark rumor.”
If I liked him, he tolerated me, like you would the last decade of a rosary you have to recite or get your knuckles walloped.
I met him outside Garavan’s. He was dressed in his customary battered leather jacket, boot-cut jeans, trainers, and a T-shirt that was faded but still legible.
It read,
“Sorry
Me
Hole”
Have to be Irish to get the full lash/flavor of that.
Refers to a heroic man who confronted a fly tipper, videoed him dumping a rotten mattress, and the guy, realizing he was being filmed, said, Sorry.
Our hero answered with the above logo. It went on a T-shirt and went viral.
Hayden said,
“Lemme buy you that drink I keep promising.”
We grabbed the snug in the pub, ordered boilermakers, and, as the young guns say,
“Chilled.”
He began after we knocked the heads off perfect creamy pints.
“I’ve been reading like a reconnaissance fighter, reading
Joan Didion.
Marianne Moore.
Eudora Welty.
Charlie Byrne’s is my vital support system.
Vinny, the star, gave me The Enneagram, a method of understanding your own self.”
He paused, took a shot of the Jay, continued,
“Turns out I’m ‘the Mediator.’ The opening paragraph described how this type of child who, ignored by all, shuts down, falls asleep, knowing he matters little to others, especially in their family. They numb themselves.”
He sat back. I said nothing.
Then, he went,
“That nailed me exactly and, in the modern usage of woke, prison woke me the fuck up.”
Then he said,
“I need a smoke.”
We went outside. He produced a pack of Lucky Strikes (where the hell he got them, fuck knows?), lit us with a battered Zippo, looked at the lighter, said,
“Craig McDonald gave me that, in Arizona, when we went to a reading by James Sallis.”
He wasn’t trying to impress me, just stating a fact.
I said what any lame bollix would say, I said,
“You were in Arizona?”
God almighty.
He laughed, said,
“I’ve always wanted once in my life to say the following, so here goes,
“Well, duh.”
I laughed. He had the keen Irish gift of undermining you with a simple jibe that sounded like warmth but was anything but.
He crushed the butt under his sneaker, said,
“Let’s get another round.”
We did, got on the bliss side of those, where the world seems cozy.
He said,
“Your turn, Hoss.”
I feigned ignorance, asked,
“How d’ya mean?”
He grinned, said,
“Stories, we trade. You as the wankers say share.”
Utter contempt spilled all over share.
Had to like the guy and I did, so I said,
“You’re in the area of crime. How would you describe a teenage girl/young woman/demon/psychopath?”
I laid out the whole saga of Sara, all of it.
He never interrupted, focused, took the odd sip of the Jay but otherwise was still. When I finished, he said,
“Pure evil, you’ll find her in People of the Lie by Scott Peck, or Primo Levi, who in Auschwitz asked a Gestapo guard, ‘Why are you doing this?’ meaning the killing, torture, annihilation of a race.”
He paused, as if he could see the very evil, and maybe he had, in South America. He continued,
“The guard gave the best answer to that I’ve ever heard and, believe me, I’ve searched for reasons my whole life. He said . . .”
Pause.
“There is no why.”
With that showstopper, he stood, said,
“I’ve to bounce, as they say in Breaking Bad.”
He looked at me, said,
“Bhi curamach mo cara (be careful my friend). I sense your narrative is ending and that would be truly an Irish pity.”
He was gone and I was left like Padraig Pearse wrote in his poem
To ponder.
The Final Epiphany
I slept for two days solid. Did I dream?
Yes, of my father, who was walking away from me. No matter how I tried, I could not catch up.<
br />
I finally got myself together, showered, shaved, clean clothes, headed into town. I went to the best travel agency, with Annette Hynes behind the counter.
She is one of those Galwegians who effortlessly make you feel better than you are.
“Jack.”
She smiled.
I told her I wanted to visit Camargue. Professional that she is, she didn’t ask,
“Why?”
She suggested I fly to Marseille, take a train to the seaside resort Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. I said that sounded great, booked it there and then.
Thanked Annette, headed for coffee, black, strong, and bitter, I hoped. Got that in the GBC. Frank the chef waved to me. The whole day was shaping up well.
After the horrors of the last months I was glad of any small kindness.
Until.
Two young guys, dressed like wiggers—these are white guys acting like black men, the baseball caps worn backward, pants hanging round their arse, huge trainers, ultra-white, gold chains jangling.
I thought that annoying phase had died and been replaced by young guys adopting either
Peaky Blinders gig.
Or alas
The McGregor bad dude persona.
These assholes hadn’t got either of the above memos.
Worse.
They were talking in what they thought to be the brothers’ rap, like this,
“Shit just got real.”
I figured I knew what it meant but it was so irritating to hear these fuckheads shoot it back and forth. What did I do?
Nothing.
Declan Coyle would be proud of me. His book The Green Platform proposed moving from “the red platform,” rage, to a mellow state.
New to me. Very.
I was approaching the Wolfe Tone Bridge, stopped to stare at the horizon, heard,
“Hey, Taylor.”
Turned to see Haut, father of the troll girl. He lunged at my neck. I felt a blade slice through the skin. I fell down and he continued to stab. I saw my hands awash in blood. I tried to count the stabs, managed,
“One,
Two?
No, there’s more?
Is that
Four?”
Then I saw my father.
He was saying,
“Shit just got real, Jack.”
* Real Irish Writers had three distinctive features: 1. They didn’t work. 2. They didn’t write. 3. They adored footnotes.