by Ken Bruen
I felt the urge to get the hell out of there, be among people. Put on my all-weather Garda coat and, in the side pocket, the Walther PPK I’d had since the time of the devil. Just the weight of it eased my growing paranoia. Once outside, I felt better-not great but getting there. What I needed was a large Jameson but maybe some caffeine would be wiser first.
I turned left at Nun’s Island, moved along to the low bridge close to the Samaritans, stole a furtive glance at Mill Street, the Garda headquarters, a pang,
“never to belong there no more.”
Muttered,
“Get a grip.”
Turned left again and across O’Brien’s Bridge. Saint Patrick’s school looming large and off-white. In my time, the teachers were mostly Patrician Brothers. They wore a green sash like a belt and were very fond of the reed cane. They could lash with impunity and did. At least once a week I staggered home, my legs bruised and battered, welts clearly visible on the bare skin. No one questioned their authority. They walloped the bejaysus out of you, it was simply the norm.
It wasn’t that they were always right, simply that a cowed populace never thought to ask if they might be wrong.
All has changed, utterly. Corporal punishment is illegal. And in a ferocious, ironic turnaround, the teachers were now the ones being bullied.
I had replaced their reeds of punishment with a whole new way of lacerating myself.
Called it Jameson.
Stood there for a moment, thinking,
“If I continued to dig the hole, I was going to need the headstone sooner than expected.”
Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk.
That will keep your mouth shut.
– Irish proverb
I walked down Quay Street, stepped into Cafe Du Journal. Real Irish place, right?
I half hoped I’d run into Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop but, no, the place was half empty. I got a corner table, old cop habit, so you can see who’s coming at you. Ordered a double espresso, a large Danish. I had no appetite but figured it would soak up the inevitable Jay. The sugar rush wouldn’t hurt either. Far end of the cafe was a Goth girl. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. They are harmless, do their gig, despite ridicule, and carry a continuous torch for The Cure.
I admire tenacity.
The girl, beneath the white makeup, the black eye shadow, black lipstick, couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was staring right back at me. She was pretty, in a sort of wounded way; even the Goth stuff couldn’t quite hide that. Her eyes, a deep brown, were boring into mine, so I asked,
“Help you with something?”
She moved from her table, took the seat opposite me, and, when she spoke, I noticed the stud in her tongue. How do they eat with that?
Maybe they don’t.
She said,
“You don’t know me.”
Statement.
I asked,
“Any reason why I should?”
Allowing a hint of force in there. If she was here to bust my balls, she’d chosen the right fucking day and the right fucking time to try it.
Her accent was the new cultivated Irish that spoke of: money, education, confidence, and fuck you.
As alien to me as a Brit.
She said,
“You put my brother in the mental hospital.”
As lines go, it’s a showstopper.
I asked.
“What?”
She took my spoon, asked,
“May I?”
Cut a corner of my Danish, said,
“I like sweet things.”
She’d thrown me. The only person I knew for sure I’d put in the home for the bewildered was my own self. Then,
Jesus Christ.
Years ago, a young man had been beheading swans. I’d nailed him and, yeah, he came from a good family, meaning cash and clout. No jail time, sent to a hospital. She asked,
“Coming back dude? The booze hasn’t destroyed all the brain cells?”
I’d met most brands of psychos during my career as a half-arsed investigator. They all shared the same total lack of empathy. Not so much they lacked a human element, more like they were a whole other species. A highly lethal one. But that kid, he’d used a samurai sword to decapitate the swans. What I most recalled was the absolute glee in his eyes. He didn’t so much enjoy his deeds as revel in them. I’d used a stun gun to knock him back into the water. The swans had gone for his eyes. He lost one. Every fiber of my being had been to let him drown. But I’d dragged him out. I’d hoped never to see the creep again.
Years later, he’d turned up,
“ Cured,” he told me.
The medicine hadn’t been invented to rewire his kind. They simply changed their act. The deadly impulse even more honed and ferocious than ever. He’d then vanished from my radar. I always knew he was out there and I was unfinished business. I said,
“I remember him; he told me he was a student.”
She gave me a look of pure defiance, said,
“He got his degree.”
I couldn’t resist, said,
“Long as it wasn’t as a vet.”
She pushed the Danish back, said,
“It’s stale.”
I said,
“So….?”
“He’s missing.”
I wanted to say,
“He was born missing,” but went with
“And I should care… why?”
“I want you to find him.”
I laughed, said,
“I’m the very last person he’d want on his case. You never gave me your name.”
Her whole body language was screaming that she had ammunition. She said,
“Bethany.”
I signaled to the waitress for the bill, said,
“Your family as I recall has lots of resources, and at last count, there are nine professional investigators in the city. They’d be glad to take your money. Me, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse what happens to your whacko brother.”
I paid the bill, stood up, and was turning to leave when she near whispered,
“I have something you want, Taylor.”
I shook my head, had already reached the door when she hissed,
“I know what happened to the priest,” pause,
“and the retard.”
Stopped me. But she was up and brushing past me, moving fast.
I went after her.
Great.
Pursuing a young girl on the busiest street in Galway. My mobile shrilled, I said,
“Fuck.”
Pulled it from my jacket. Bethany had reached McDonagh’s Fish ’n’ Chip shop, the bottom of Quay Street. Christ, that girl could move. She turned, stared back at me, then ever so elegantly, gave me the finger. She disappeared among the horde of tourists being off-loaded from a coach.
I answered the mobile, heard,
“Jack, it’s Stewart.”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
“Iraq.”
“What?”
“The bottom of Quay Street, the fuck does it matter where I am?”
He wasn’t fazed, he’d heard it too often, asked,
“I’m at the Meyrick, can you come? We need to talk.”
I said OK and rang off. The Meyrick used to be the Great Southern Hotel. It was never great but it was one more fading landmark on the city’s landscape. I’ve always had a sneaking fondness for it, mainly as they allow me in. It had moved further up the ladder in its new incarnation. And me, I just got older.
I headed up Shop Street, marveling at the new outlets, a new one every day. The street was ablaze with buskers, mimes, panhandlers, and the dying remnants of a drinking school. I stopped outside the GBC Cafe. The name had come to me. Bethany’s brother broke the surface of my bedraggled mind.
Ronan Wall.
The last time I’d met him, he’d been charm personified. You’d think he’d have a hard-on for me. But no, despite his ey
e loss, his incarceration in the mental hospital, you’d swear I was his best friend. Did he, as you’d expect, lacerate me, berate me for destroying his life?
Nope.
He thanked me!
I shit thee not.
Said, and I quote,
“Thanks to you, Jack Taylor, I’ve turned my life around. I have great plans for my future.”
My arse.
He was the real McCoy, a full-blown psycho, the out and full-focused ultimate predator, and he’d learnt to hide in plain sight. He could mimic human behavior to a degree of charm that probably fooled most people. A good-looking kid, blond hair falling into his remaining eye. The new artificial one was, no doubt, the best money could buy, but disconcerting in its stillness.
His good eye couldn’t quite disguise what lay beneath, and worse, he knew I knew.
But he’d rattled on, flush with affability and studied warmth. I hadn’t seen him since but I knew, one day, he’d show, and so here he was again in my life. Whatever the gig, it wouldn’t be good. How could it, with a stone killer just biding his time?
The Meyrick Hotel lies at the bottom of Eyre Square and the new renovations should have made it imposing. All that solid granite, the iron railings, but to me it was still the hotel of my youth. I pushed through the freshly polished glass door, saw Stewart in the lounge. A white porcelain teapot, matching cups before him. Decaffeinated or herbal tea no doubt. He stood up on seeing me. Dressed in an Armani suit, one of those suits that whispered to you,
“You ain’t never going to be able to afford this.”
He was the personification of the new Irish: sleek, smug, self-contained. I felt like his bedraggled grandfather. We sat, he offered me some of the shite stuff he was drinking, and I gave him the look.
Asked,
“What’s up?”
He reached in the pocket of the immaculate suit, produced a small package, said,
“This came in the post.”
I said,
“A headstone.”
His surprise was evident so I said,
“I got one too.”
He glanced at the package, said,
“It’s unnerving.”
I gave a short laugh, said,
“That’s the point.”
He waited, apparently believing I had an answer.
I didn’t. Finally, he tried,
“Would it be some kind of Halloween prank?”
I said,
“Trick or threat?”
I told him about Ronan Wall’s sister and her parting shot about Father Malachy. Stewart was edgy. He liked patterns, things that made sense, events he could Zen-control. His mobile shrilled and he checked the screen, said,
“I have to take this Jack.”
Like I gave a fuck?
While he talked, I played with ordering a large Jay, decided the distaste on Stewart’s face wasn’t worth the hassle. He finished the call, said,
“Sorry about that, a new venture.”
He’d been a dope dealer, got busted, did a long jail stretch, and since then I knew he was involved in all sorts of business gigs. He never shared details but was always awash in cash. For once,
I asked,
“What is it?”
He grimaced, said,
“You’re going to laugh.”
I said,
“I could do with a decent laugh.”
He flexed his fingers, then,
“Head shops.”
He was right, I laughed. Galway already had two of them, selling: herbal joints, bongs, high e. s, flying angels, rockets, chill.
And all the assorted paraphernalia of a doper. A crazy legal loophole allowed all sorts of illegal highs to be purchased. How fitting that a convicted ex-dealer would get a slice of the action.
I shook my head and he asked,
“You disapprove?”
I stood up, said,
“No, I think it’s brilliant.”
He came as close to a plea as his nature allowed, asked,
“What about the headstone?”
I thought,
“….headstone
….head shop.”
Said,
“You’ll make a killing.”
Facts of… Light.
Putting headstones out of my mind, I figured I’d better begin my search for the rogue priest.
Where would a renegade cleric with stolen money go?
I answered with,
“As far as possible.”
But maybe not.
Back to basics, use my feet. I trudged around the town, showing his photo. It’s a given. You do this kind of tedious work, you’re on a hiding to nothing. People will give you answers. It’s Ireland, no one is ever… ever going to simply say
“No.”
Would that they could but they can’t. Mostly they asked,
“Why?
What’s he done?
What’s in it for me?”
And of course, lots of misinformation. You had to follow that shite anyway. Mostly what you got was tired. My limp ached. I even did a Google search. Nope. He had really flown under the radar. Eventually, I had to phone Gabriel, give him my report. A very short one. I played with the idea of stringing him along, saying I had a definite lead. When I called him, his clipped sarcastic tone changed that idea.
Quick.
I hoped he’d fire me. I never wanted to have to listen to this sanctimonious gob-shite again.
I’d begun the call with,
“It’s Jack Taylor.”
He snapped,
“I know that.”
Great start but I tried,
“I’ve been tracking down every avenue of investigation.”
“And?”
Jesus, I disliked this bollix, said,
“And….” let it hang for max impact, then,
“I got nothing.”
Silence and an ominous one.
Then he ordered,
“Stay on it.”
Notice the lack of…. please. I fucking did, said,
“What?”
“Are you deaf, Taylor?”
Well actually, yes, in one ear, but didn’t feel this was the time to share. He continued in a curt, no-shite tone,
“I’ll expect more positive news on your next report.”
Report!
I said,
“Your money, pal.”
He near shouted,
“Not my money, the Lord’s!”
Is there a reply to this kind of spiritual mugging? He ended with, “You’d be wise to remember, Taylor, that God is watching.”
“A divine accountant, no less.”
Rang off and thought,
“Pray that.”
You want to find a priest, there is one, dare I say, infallible route,
“Ask a nun.”
I knew exactly my pigeon. My previous case, I’d met a Sister Maeve. Like most of my relationships, it began well. Then, per rote, came apart. I liked her a lot but she, like so many others, had come to despise me.
I’d say loathe, but I’m not sure nuns have that one in their training manual. She taught at the Mercy School in Newtownsmith, beside the Electricity Board, what the ESB failed to electrify, the teenage girls made up for. The name of the school in Irish has a lovely resonance,
“Scoil an Linbh Iosa.”
Last time I’d met her, a huge construction site was in full roar opposite. Now complete, it was a mega retail outlet, named, I shit thee not… Born. I walked down there, stopped at Holland’s shop, got a warm hello from Mary, God bless her, bought a large box of Dairy Milk.
Beware of gimps bearing gifts.
I glanced at the tabloids, all ablaze with the tragic suicide of the German goalkeeper. I said a silent Hail Mary for him.
A Mhuire Na Gras…
Passed down by the Town Hall, advertising the coming appearance of Steve Earle. I loved his singing and even more his role in The Wire. “Galway Girl” began to unreel in
my head.
At the school reception desk, I asked if I might have a moment with Sister Maeve?
“Yes.”
Was she glad to see me?
Take a wild fucking guess.
She had aged but then, apart from Donny Osmond, who hadn’t?
She fixed me with those clear, unyielding blue eyes, said,
“Mr. Taylor.”
In nun speak,
“Aw fuck, not you.”
I said,
“Jack… please.”
Her eyes gave that the disdain it deserved. Establishing, from the get-go, you are no friend of mine. Yet, during our brief time before, there had been genuine affection building. The death of a former nun had banjaxed that. I offered the chocolates, she said,
“No thank you.”
I felt whipped.
I asked,
“If I might have five minutes of your time?”
Before, we’d gone for coffee and I remembered her childlike joy in a slice of Danish, coupled with a frothy cappuccino. She said, “We’ll step into the recreation room.”
We did.
She indicated we sit at a hard wooden table. Seemed appropriate.
She folded her hands, asked,
“How may I assist you, Mr. Taylor?”
I tried to ease the level of frigidity present, inquired,
“How have you been, Sister?”
“The Lord provides.”
Jesus wept, the usual wall of spiritual gobbledygook. I abandoned the ingratiation, went with, “I’ve been employed by the Church.”
Paused.
Let that nugget hover.
Continued,
“To find a Father Loyola.”
The name hit.
She almost recoiled, actually moved physically from the table, as if to distance herself. Deception was not in her DNA, so I pushed,
“You know him, I guess?”
She nodded, guarded.
I went for the kill,
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Long silence. I didn’t try to fill it, then she said,
“He belonged to the Brethren.”
Past tense?
She knew, I waited.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “I imagine your employer is less the Church than Father Gabriel.”
Her use of his name implied she was not a fan. I asked,
“Are they not the same?”
She gave me a look of not quite disdain but in the neighborhood, said,
“Father Gabriel is more interested in… power than pity.”
Bitterness leaked over the last words.
She fingered her rosary beads, continued,