by Ken Bruen
“What’s going down, a scam?”
“If compassion is a scam, then yes. He’s telling them in broken if well-accented English how he left a small bag in a café corner. But he is upset, so many cafés, they all seem alike. All his valuables are there, ticket, passport, credit cards.”
“The mangy bastard, does he score?”
“He doesn’t want anything, leastways nothing material. He gets off on their compassion, their joint upset at his calamity.”
“You know him?”
“Sure, he used to be a guard.”
“Someone should give him a slap round the earhole.”
“Why? It’s the much lauded ‘victimless crime’ in all its classic glory. All he takes is their time and a drop of their emotions.”
We got outside and I said,
“Bryson has a studio apartment near the docks.”
Keegan wasn’t done with the compassion deal.
“This is one strange country, and you, Jack, might be the strangest in it.”
“Ah, Keegan, come on, don’t tell me you don’t have characters like him on your beat?”
“Dozens. In London, though, he’d get their address, then come some slow Tuesday, he’d nip round, rape the woman, behead the man.”
“That happened?”
“I had a dog once, Meyer Meyer, after a character in Ed McBain, a mongrel. I heard they can be babe magnets.”
“Was he?”
“He got the babes, all right. I got the dogs, still barking some of them.”
I laughed.
“There was a psycho loose then, the papers called him ‘the Torch’. He covered Meyer in petrol, flicked a match.”
“Jesus.”
“I liked old Meyer, he was good company.”
“What did you do to the Torch?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah, come on, Keegan.”
“We never caught him.”
“Oh.”
“Each broken truth I’ve sold, I’ve understated.”
Phyl Kennedy
Christopher McQuarrie, The Usual Suspects screenwriter, turned director with The Way of the Gun, said,
“I was afraid of hiring James Caan because I’d heard stories. Then the first thing he said to me was, ‘You sick fuck.’
“I guess he’d heard stories about me, too.”
I was telling Keegan this as we approached Merchants Road, but a trawler away from the docks. I asked him,
“How do we play this?”
He gave a sardonic smile, said,
“Straight.”
He produced keys and got us through the front door. Up one flight to 107, the apartment. Keegan again with the keys and we were in. The first sensation was smell, reek of incense. Keegan said,
“Our boy likes to smoke dope.”
“He smokes incense?”
“Cop on.”
I tried.
A large living room, looking like a garbage tip. Throw rugs on the floor, items of clothing scattered everywhere. Keegan said,
“Not a tidy lad.”
The kitchen was a mess. Discarded cartons of junk food on every surface. Dishes piled high on the sink. Keegan ordered,
“You do the living room, I’ll toss the bedroom.”
I found a stack of Time Out’s, the gay listings particularly well-thumbed. On the table was Fred Kaplan’s Gore Vidal. I shouted that in to Keegan and added,
“Shit, it’s signed.”
“By Fred or Gore?”
I was impressed by the question. He came out of the bedroom with a stack of mags, said,
“Hard-core S and M, gay, fetish and the perennial favourite, pain.”
“Not proof though, is it?”
“Proof’s overrated.”
“Not in court.”
“That’s what you think. Do you never watch The Practice?”
We rummaged some more but found nothing further. As we left, I put the Vidal book in my pocket. Keegan said,
“He’s going to miss that.”
“I know.”
“And the half weight of grass?”
“You took the dope?”
“Or vice versa.”
That evening, I was stocking the bookshelf. I’d been on another visit to Charlie Byrne’s and come away laden. I wasn’t anal retentive, didn’t need those volumes alphabetically or in neat alignment. No, I liked to stir it. Put Paul Theroux beside St Vida. That was wicked. Line Pellicanos with Jim Thompson, Flann O’Brien with Thomas Merton. Over the past six months, I’d read House of Leaves, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and discovered David Peace.
To hand was Anne Sexton’s poems To Bedlam and Partways Back. Another writer whose suicide and life of derangement threw shadows of dark identification. The doorbell went. Sweeper nearly fell in the door. His eye was blackened, bruising on his face, suit torn and blood on his hair. He limped to a chair, said,
“A whiskey please, Jack Taylor.”
I made it large. He gulped it down and I gave him a cigarette. I said,
“You fought in your suit?”
“This was not a challenge.”
“Something else, was it?”
“Something else, you might say that.”
He fixed those dark eyes on me, asked,
“How do you feel about us tinkers?”
“You have to ask?”
“Today…yes.”
“I’m working with you and glad to do so.”
Those eyes unwavering.
“And if we lived next door, Jack Taylor, how would that be?”
“Lively.”
Gave a short smile.
“Let’s see how true that is.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Come on.”
The van was parked in the alley, huge dents on its surface. I asked,
“Jeez, what happened, people hurl rocks or something?”
“Exactly.”
He put the van in gear, asked,
“You know what a halting site is?”
“Where they place the clans, like a camping ground.”
That amused him. He muttered,
“Camping ground, how ordinary that sounds.”
The stench of condescension leaked from the words. I said,
“Hey, Sweeper, ease up with the tone. Whatever happened, I’m not part of it. I’m with you, remember?”
A bitterness worked its way down from his eyes to his mouth, caused a tic to vibrate above his lips. He scratched at it, said,
“You’re from the settled community. No matter how outlaw you think you are, you’re part of them.”
I let it go but I didn’t fucking like it. Shook out a cig. Sweeper ordered,
“Light two.”
The child in me wanted to roar,
“Buy your own.”
I lit them, handed one over. He said,
“I’ve offended you, Jack Taylor.”
“Don’t sweat it, pal.”
He concentrated on his driving. The nicotine joined the cloud of tension. He pulled up at Dangan Heights and we got out. He nodded towards the valley, said,
“Look.”
Mainly I could see smoke. I said,
“Fires, bush fires. So what?”
“That’s the…camping ground.”
Focusing, I could see people, wandering stunned through the haze. Men, limping, were vainly ferrying water in a futile effort to douse the flames. Children, barefoot, were crying, clinging to mothers. Not a caravan was untouched. Those not aflame were overturned or charred. I asked,
“Where are the guards?”
He snorted with derision, asked,
“You listen to the news, right?”
“Sure.”
“Did you hear anything about this?”
“No.”
“Because it’s not news.”
“Who did it?”
“The upright citizens you’ll find in church.”
I thought of my mother, di
dn’t argue. I looked at his hair, his clothes, said,
“You were there.”
“Yes, but I arrived late. Not that it made any difference. I did stop two from castrating one of my cousins.”
“It sounds like Soldier Blue.”
“It sounds like Ireland today.”
“What will you do now?”
“Rebuild. It’s what we always do.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He clapped my arm, said,
“Come on, I’ll drive you back.”
“Could I go down, help somehow?”
“A settled person would not be welcome today or for many days.”
We drove back in silence. At the house, I said,
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I need one thing, Jack Taylor.”
“Name it.”
“Find whoever’s killing my people.”
“What laws shall you fear if you dance but stumble against no man’s iron chains?”
Khalil Gibran, The Prophet
I had no idea how to get Ronald Bryson. Shooting him was the most attractive idea. Proof, some bloody proof. I could pray, of course, but held little store in that. Whatever else, I didn’t think faith would nail the bastard. So I did what I do when I’m stuck. I read. Call it escape, I call it calm. My most recent find was Robert Irwin. A joy to my heart, a Cambridge scholar and wild drug user. Him I’d have liked on a pub crawl. How could it miss? His brilliant crazy work, Satan Wants Me, had just been reissued. Set in swinging London in 1967, it’s beyond definition. So taken was I, I had got Vinny to track down An Exquisite Corpse, about surrealism in 1930. They don’t have to be read in the west of Ireland with a line of coke and a large tumbler of Black Bush, but Christ, it sure enriches the rush.
My strategy on finishing those was to revisit James Sallis. In particular, his Lew Griffin novels, and then I’d be in the perfect zone for embracing mayhem. The phone went. I gulped some Bush and picked it up.
“Jack!”
“Laura?”
She was weeping, gasping for breath. I said,
“Take it slow, hon, I’m here. Just tell me where you are.”
“In a phone booth on Eyre Square.”
“Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”
I found the kiosk and a near hysterical Laura. When I opened the door, she jumped. I said,
“It’s OK…shhss.”
I cradled her, and a woman passing glared at me, her eyes shooting venom. I said,
“I didn’t do it.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Laura pushed a crushed package to me. The Zhivago logo. She said,
“I got you a present, Jack.”
That nearly killed me. Put that feeling on top of rage and you’re holding high explosive. I got Laura to a bench. A wino was slumped at one end, humming softly. Sounded like a Britney Spears tune.
Go figure.
I asked,
“What happened, darling?”
“I was talking to Declan in Zhivago and I saw that man.”
“Which man?”
As if I couldn’t guess. She said,
“The English fellah who came to your house.”
“Bryson.”
“He followed me out of the shop.”
“You should have told Declan, he’d have put his shoe in his hole.”
“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
And so evil flourishes and spreads because decent people don’t want to make a fuss. She continued,
“He spooked me. I’d got as far as Faller’s when he caught up. He said, ‘Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d like you to deliver something to our Jack, could you do that?’
“I said I would and he spat in my face.”
I wiped her face as if the spittle was still there. I felt near blind from fury. Lifted her up, said,
“I’m going to bring you to some friends of mine, OK?”
She clung to me, pleaded,
“So you won’t let him hurt me, Jack?”
“I guarantee it, sweetheart.”
I got her to Nestor’s. Jeff was tending bar, the sentry in his usual slot. I put Laura in the hard chair, walked to the counter. The sentry asked,
“Have you another wife?”
I said to Jeff,
“This girl has had a shock; would you mind her for a bit?”
He raised an eyebrow but said,
“I’ll get Cathy.”
“How’s Serena May?”
“Doing good.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The madness was burning. I’d have anybody.
Jeff said,
“Don’t do anything crazy.”
“What’s that mean?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, said,
“Hey, back off, buddy. You should see your face.”
I left.
Tearing along Forster Street. I heard my name called. Ignored it, kept going. Felt my arm grabbed. Whirled round to face Keegan. He said,
“Slow down, boyo.”
“Fuck off.”
He didn’t let go of my arm, said,
“It’s been a long time since anyone said that to me, Jack.”
“You want to let go of my arm?”
“Tell me what you’re doing, Jack.”
I gave a long sigh, one my mother would have been proud of. Could feel some of the white heat dissipating. I wanted to hug it closer, said,
“I’m going to tear that fucker’s head off.”
“Not smart, Jack.”
“Screw smart. You said yourself you’d destroy anyone who touched your woman.”
He nodded.
“But not with witnesses. Let me go up there, see what the story is. You hang here, smoke a cig, get your act together.”
It made sense, so I said,
“It makes sense.”
“OK, see you anon.”
I watched him walk to the green, turn towards the Simon. Even from a distance, you could sense the balled up menace of his posture. I tried not to think about the damage I wanted to inflict. Sat on the small wall, favoured seat of many drinking schools. The meths passed round here didn’t come in a fancy bottle or get stocked in trendy pubs. No, it was true rot gut, what they called “Jack” or “White Lady” in south-east London, 100 proof methylated spirits. I’d sipped it on rare occasions.
Moved my mind to books. Tommy Kennedy had said,
“There’ll be times when the only refuge is books. Then you’ll read as if you meant it, as if your life depended on it.”
My life and certainly my sanity had fled to reading through a thousand dark days. Resolved to get hold of James Sallis and his bio of Chester Himes. I’d reread all of David Gates. His Jernigan was my life if I’d had a formal education. Heard,
“Jack!”
Snapped out of it, looked at Keegan. He asked,
“Jeez, Jack, where did you go?”
“I was here.”
“Not if your eyes are any guide. Tell you, boyo, you’re going to have to quit the nose candy; it’s frying your brain.”
“I was thinking of books.”
“I rest my case.”
I stood up, asked,
“What went down?”
“He’s legged it, gave his notice.”
“Fuck.”
Connections were screaming in my head, couldn’t match them. Keegan said,
“My govenor came through from London.”
“Who?”
“My chief inspector.”
“What did he find out?”
“Our boy comes from money, like major bucks. Did public school, all that good shit. He’s a bona fide social worker all right. Now here’s the thing, he was attached to at least ten centres. The ones who had either street alcoholics or what the do-gooders call ‘the Marginalised’. He always left each place under a cloud. No specific charges, but a definite cloud of disturban
ce. So, people could disappear, who the fuck would notice? Then he did what the smart sickos do; he emigrated.”
The connection hit. I said,
“He follows Laura, deliberately, assaults her, knowing what she’ll do. That she’ll call me. I’ll come charging and my house is empty.”
Keegan nodded, said,
“Let’s get down there.”
“He’ll have been and gone.”
“But let’s see what he’s gone and left you.”
On our way there, he said,
“You think, Jack, that I don’t get the Irish. That I’m some sort of plastic paddy.”
I started to protest but he ploughed on.
“Just because I love the blarney shit doesn’t mean I’m blind. My mother was Irish, and when they’re rearing kids in England, they’re more Irish than you’ll ever know. She used to say, ‘Rear? I didn’t rear ye, ye were kept at room temperature like Fruitfield jam.’ You might have lived here, laddie, but I was fucking marinated in it. I knew what a hurley was before I could walk. When she used it, I definitely couldn’t walk. So do me a favour, pal, don’t pull Celtic rank on me.”
I was saved from a reply as we’d arrived at the house. The door was open. Keegan went,
“Uh-oh.”
And went first. The smell hit straight away. A huge crap in the kitchen. All the crockery was smashed and excrement smeared on the walls. In the front room, the new books were in tatters, the remains piled on the slashed sofa and reeking of urine. Keegan said,
“I’ll get cleaning.”
I went upstairs. My new clothes in bits and stuffed in the toilet, a note left on my pillow.
“Wanna play, Jack?”
Keegan shouted,
“Bad?”
The coke was gone, but more worrying, so was the 9mm. I was debating whether to tell Keegan when the phone rang. He said,
“I’ll get it.”
Obviously I only got Keegan’s side, which went like this.
“Jack’s not available. Oh, I know who you are, Ronald. Who am I? I’m Detective Sergeant Keegan from the Met, and I’ve a full report on you, son. Quite a work record. Oh dear, that’s very foul language. Yes, I’ve seen your actions here. Very impressive. I do hope you wiped your arse. Don’t shout, Ron, that’s a good lad. You’re leaving the country! Think about this, boyo; some day soon, you’ll get a tap on the shoulder and guess who? We have something in common…Oh, yes, I have a very dodgy past. I’m the animal you Guardian readers get orgasms about. No, no, Ronald, don’t worry about jurisdiction, because I certainly won’t. You’ll get to shit your pants again, and I’ll make you eat it. Okey-dokey, cheerio…lovely to chat with you.”