by Ken Bruen
“Yes, we’ve set a date for June. You’ll have to come, promise you will.”
I don’t know what I said. I stumbled away, bumping into headstones, cursing, near weeping. On the side of the van, one of the kids had glow scratched,
“TINKER.”
“And you have held my hand for reasons not at all.”
I’d spoken on the phone with Laura. Went like this:
“Jack, I miss you.”
“Good Lord, that’s…”
“Will I see you?”
“Sure.”
“Because Keegan is seeing my friend, like totally. She’s going to try for his baby.”
“That’ll get his attention. Look, how about a meal tomorrow night?”
“You’ll bring me to a restaurant, really?”
Why did I keep feeling she was winding me up? As soon as I got eager, people would leap out shouting,
“Ejit!”
Keep it low gear.
“I’ll meet you at eight in Garavan’s; we’ll take it from there.”
“I’ll look really nice for you, Jack.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Had eased my way back from the daily intake of coke. This could only be a good thing. I went to bed early and seemed to only just have got to sleep when the phone rang. I checked the clock, four…went,
“This better be bloody vital.”
“Jack, did I wake you?”
“Who’s this?”
“Thought you’d be guzzling whiskey all night.”
“Bryson.”
“What happened to you calling me Ron? Ah, be friendly, Jack.”
“Was there something?”
Could hear playfulness in his voice, a languid tone.
“I wanted to fuck with you, Jack, like you did with me today.”
“You’re getting there, pal.”
“Been doing your homework on me, Jack?”
“Why…have you something to hide?”
“Am I like ‘the Prime Suspect’? You, alas, are no Helen Mirren.”
“Would you like that, Ron, being a suspect?”
“Don’t patronise me, you worthless piece of sodden garbage.”
“Whoa…got a hard on for drinkers…that it, Ron?”
“How dare you presume to analyse me. Think about this, Mr Private Dick…Ann Henderson.”
I caught my breath. He heard it, said,
“Give you a start, did I, Jack? Now you have some clue as to who you’re dealing with.”
I needed some points fast; needed a cig, too, but fucked if I could see them, said,
“I know who I’m dealing with all right.”
“Pray tell?”
This last in a falsetto.
“A sick fuck who jerks off against windows.”
“8B, Hidden Valley, have I that right, Jack?”
Got me again, continued,
“Maybe I’ll drop by, catch you unawares.”
“You threatening me, Ron? I don’t do threats well.”
“You’ll grow accustomed. Alas, I must grab some zzzzzs, an endless line of deadbeat drunks to fix tomorrow.”
“Fix?”
“Oh, yes, Jack, I fix them fine. You’ll see soon enough.”
Click.
Got out of bed cursing,
“Where’s the fucking cigarettes?”
I couldn’t get hold of Keegan next day as he was touring Connemara. God help them, I thought. Sweeper was defending his position as leader of his clan. Literally. Every so often, a young buck would challenge and they’d settle it bare knuckled. Venues were usually held round Mullingar and attracted huge crowds. The betting aspect was the magnet, and fortunes were wagered. Nobody can generate cash flow like the clans. The guards would be reliably informed as to time, date and location. They’d overreact and flood a totally incorrect part of the country. The media particularly relished it and gave prime time to guards stopping innocent motorists. I had promised to attend at a later time. Not altogether sure I would.
I arranged to meet Brendan Flood. He suggested Super-mac’s. I got there first and took a table. Sign of the new Ireland, two black men were cleaning tables. I made a point of saying “Hello” but seemed to frighten them. Jesus, wait till they saw what the pubs and clubs disgorged at four in the morning. Then they’d know fear. Both the guards and the taxi men avoided it during the war zone. Those guys know. Brendan arrived in a suit, remarkably similar to my own recent purchase. I said,
“They get the dry cleaning free.”
“Who?”
“Vincent de Paul.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a detective.”
He looked round, and I asked,
“Why meet here?”
“They do lovely curried chips.”
“Want some?”
“Oh, no. I gave them up for penance.”
I let it slide. Would only open up all that ecclesiastical mayhem. I passed over a wad of money, said,
“For the missions.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Ronald Bryson’s address and the times he’s out.”
He nodded, asked,
“You met with him?”
“I did.”
“Is he the one?”
“He’s the one.”
I took my mobile phone on the date. Rarely I took it anywhere. I need to get out more. When it rings, it puts the shite cross-ways in me, and I swear “never again”. Only Jeff, Sweeper and Keegan had the number. Gave me an artificial sense of control. Dressed to impress. Wore the now-creaking leather. One day of Galway rain would wipe them notions. A white shirt and soft-to-softer faded jeans. You put them on, your body sways to the music of thanks. The off-white colour between stone and disintegration. Then the Bally boots. Oh, Kiki.
Walking down the town, two guards were coming towards me. Their combined age might be twenty. I said in the Galway vernacular,
“Min.”
They said,
“Sir.”
How old was that?
Garavan’s was hopping nicely. Old Galway still prowls there. A school friend said,
“Jack.”
I said,
“Liam.”
No more. Irish warmth at its best; that is, completely understated. Works for me. Laura was sitting at the back, stood up to greet me. Wearing what can only be called a slip. It revealed everything. She did a twirl. I said,
“Wow!”
“It’s a wow?”
“And more.”
I wondered, if she sat, where would the dress go. She said,
“It’s called a sheath.”
“I’m not going to argue that.”
I’d have said hankie, but there you go. She smelled great, so I told her. She said,
“It’s Paris.”
“It certainly is. What will you drink?”
“ Metz.”
I thought she was kidding, asked,
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I always have that.”
“It’s what the winos drink, 100 proof.”
She was lost, said,
“It comes in a silver bottle, with schnapps and orange, says Metz in black letters.”
“Oh.”
Feeling a horse’s ass, I went to the counter. Shelves of the stuff alongside all the other alcopops. Frigging evil it is. Came back with that and a pint, asked,
“Do you need a glass?”
“Oh, God, no.”
In my youth, you drank from the bottle ’cause there were no glasses. The mobile went. I wasn’t going to answer, but what if Sweeper was hurt? It was Jeff; he had hurt in his voice.
“Jack.”
“Jeff, how’s it going?”
“Cathy’s had the baby.”
“Oh, great. Is she OK?”
“I don’t know. Could you come?”
“On my way.”
Told Laura. She asked,
“Boy or girl?”
“Um…�
��
“What weight?”
“Um…”
“Jack.”
“Jeez, Laura, these are women questions; guys never think to ask.”
Leastways not any I knew.
She said,
“You better go.”
“What about you?”
“Can I wait in Hidden Valley?”
“Course.”
I gave her the keys. She spotted the miraculous medal, asked,
“Do you have a devotion to Our Lady?”
Irish women, they’ll kill you every time. They juggle a mix of blunt-nosed reality and a melting simplicity. Just when you’ve them figured, they blow you away. I said, “Jeff gave it to me.”
“Then the baby will be fine.”
She leant over, gave me a hard kiss, said,
“I’m up to me arse in love with you.”
Like I said, blow you away.
The Time of Serena May.
I caught a cab at Dominic Street. He began,
“You know the trouble with Man U?”
As I got out at the hospital, he was saying,
“Know who I blame?”
Jeff was at reception, said,
“Let’s go out, I need a smoke.”
“But you quit.”
“Jack…like I need a lecture from you?”
Fair enough. He looked awful. I’ve been wrecked so often, I’m surprised it’s ever someone else. I didn’t mention that. I shook loose the cigs, fired the Zippo, and he gulped down that smoke, said,
“If I’d coke, I’d demolish it.”
In the time I’d known Jeff, he was Mr Cool. Never no fuss, no moods, just glided on by. Life had him by the balls now. I said,
“Do I say congratulations…buy cigars or what?”
“She had the baby.”
“Boy or girl…oh…and what weight?”
“A girl. How would I know the weight? She’s a tiny wee thing.”
There! Right there was a difference. Jeff from The Big Lebowski was a father. All in a tone of voice. From hippie to protector in a few words. Truly astonishing. He was into it now.
“We’ve been here all day. Cathy, Jeez man, she’s good as gold. Then six o’clock, said they’d do a section. I’m like sick, Jack. The nurse comes down, gives me her jewellery, I thought she’d died. Fuck, man, the whole world ended. Lose her and I’m totally gone.”
For a moment he was, then snapped back.
“Ten to seven, they’re going, ‘Congratulations, you are a father,’ but muted, man. I knew something was off. They show me this little bundle, and it’s my daughter. I know nothing about babies, Jack, but she seems…limp. The paediatrician comes along, says, ‘I am so sorry, your baby has Down’s syndrome.’ ”
I think he’s going to pass out.
“Jeff, yo buddy, can I get you something, tea, coffee…a drink?”
He takes another cig but not a light, goes,
“I can’t get my head around it, is it cystic fibrosis, which flogging horror? I can get the names but not the details. Here’s the tune, pal, but we can’t help with the lyrics.”
Long pause as he gasps for second breath, then,
“OK, the guy explains it. She has an extra chromosome; she’s mild, which means she’ll take six months a year to catch up on other kids. I go down to Cathy, and you know what she says, Jack?”
I shook my head. Speak?…I couldn’t even smoke.
“She says, ‘Darling, I’ve let you down.’ I’ll carry those words to my grave. The nurse handed me the baby, and Cathy asks, ‘Do you love her, love?’ ”
Then he physically dredged himself up, handed me the unlit cig, said,
“No, I won’t be using them.”
“Good man, you’ve got a daughter to raise.”
They called her Serena May. Serena for the old Karmic vibe and May for “May all her dreams come true.” Asked me to be the godfather. Jeff had invited me up to see the mother and daughter, and in that hospital room, I felt like an intruder. At first I demurred, saying,
“I’m not the godfather type.”
Cathy gave me the look, so I added,
“I’d be privileged to be the guardian.”
Jeff handed the baby to me and I made all the guy protests till Cathy said,
“Oh, go on, be a bad influence already.”
Took her. This minute being, no more weight than half a pint, opens her eyes and looks. I said,
“She’s eyeballing me.”
Jeff said,
“She knows about ‘the guards’.”
I realised then for a fleeting moment what Thomas Merton knew. Serena didn’t have an extra chromosome; it was us, the normal ones, who were lacking the added spark. Would I could have held on to that moment, if I could have just sampled the energy for a little longer. I’d no longer need oblivion. Such knowledge is shocking, and few can handle it with care. I was even less able than I’d have imagined.
Back to Hidden Valley by four. The light in the kitchen. Laura was huddled in the armchair and immediately blurted out,
“He was here, he was waiting when I came in. I didn’t see him at first and he gave me a terrible start. He seemed to think that was funny. He said he’s a social worker who takes his work seriously and felt he should make a house call as you are drinking so much. He asked if I was your wife or if I was even Ann Henderson, and then he said that you, for an alcoholic, sure do manage to pull a lot of women and what was the attraction? Couldn’t I find a normal guy or was this just some kind of weird kick?”
That she was now shaking uncontrollably tore my guts. I went over, bent down, said,
“It’s OK now. I’m here and I won’t leave you.”
She grabbed hold of me, pulled me tight, said,
“He said he was a friend of yours, Jack.”
“OK…did he touch you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Jack, he scared me.”
“It’s all right, honest; we’ll go to bed and I’ll hold you close, and nothing like this will ever happen again.”
She believed me. As she drifted off to sleep, wrapped tight round me, I so badly wanted to go get the 9mm, go right round and blow his sick fucking head off. Those moments definitely influenced everything that subsequently happened. If I had to pinpoint one second when I made the worst judgement of my life, I’d say it began then.
Brendan Flood rang at noon the next day. Had the address and Bryson’s work itinerary. I asked,
“How’d you get all this stuff?”
“The Lord provides.”
“He sure does.”
“I mentioned you at our group.”
“Group?”
“We meet for prayers, say the rosary, ask for healing.”
“I see.”
Did I?
“Your name will be uttered for the next nine weeks.”
Nine weeks, 9mm…ammunition of all kinds.
“Thanks, I think.”
“Don’t mock, Jack. Miracles happen; look at how I’ve repented.”
That’s what worried me. I rang Jury’s and got a very groggy Keegan. I asked,
“Can we meet?”
“Oh, God, what time is it? What country is it?”
“ Ireland.”
“Shit, I thought I went home.”
“Can you find the GBC at three?”
“Is it a pub?”
“It’s a café.”
“Not a pub?”
“We have work to do.”
“Then it should be a pub.”
And he hung up.
I considered bringing the gun, but wasn’t Keegan as much weapon as anyone needs? He was late. I ordered a tea. The waitress said,
“We have lovely scones.”
“So my mother says.”
Her ears went back, interest riding high, asked,
“Do I know her?”
Time to shut her down, said,
“Hardly, she’s dead.”<
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No more pleasantries. When Keegan arrived, he got short shrift, and he said,
“That’s the first unpleasant person I’ve met in Ireland.”
“You think so? She offered me scones.”
“Fuck her.”
Despite this, he seemed remarkably chipper. I said so. He produced a silver hip flask. It had the Galway emblem. He said,
“My chick got it for me. It’s got poteen.”
“Poitín.”
“Didn’t I say that?”
“Sure you did.”
He took a hefty slug, said,
“Argh…the waitress looks better already. Want a blast?”
“No, thanks. Bryson’s been round my house.”
I then relayed the events of the last few days, including Jeff’s baby. He said,
“Down’s syndrome. There was a villain on my patch, he had a little girl like that.”
“How was she?”
He lit up.
“ Chelsea, yea, I remember her name. Oh, she was a beauty, class act. Alas, I used her to hit at her old man.”
“What?”
“Don’t get pious on me, Jacko. I’m a cop, not a very nice guy, which is why we’re here and I’m taking grief from some ugly cunt of a waitress.”
He looked over at her. She’d been about to bring him a menu, but seeing his face, she changed her mind. He said,
“If a piece of filth like Bryson came to my house, put a fright on my woman, I’d put him in the ground.”
He looked rabid. Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. He continued,
“Last year, we’d a serial rapist in Clapham. The brass used my WPC as a decoy. Hung her out to dry, the reckless bastards. Her back-up got delayed. I didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“He had her on the ground, her tights torn off, a knife to her throat, shouting obscenities. I pulled him off, and know what he did?”
“No.”
“He laughed at me, said he’d be out in six months and he’d do her then.”
“Would he…be out?”
“Less time probably.”
“So what did you do?”
“Helped him fall on his knife.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Hadn’t we better make a move?”
I said,
“Take a peek at the corner table by the door.”
He did.
A well-dressed man, obviously distressed, was pouring out a story to a middle-aged couple. They were listening eagerly, hanging on to his every word. Keegan asked,