by Ken Bruen
He continued,
“I’m going to lose my house, and what am I going to tell my daughters? The youngest is only eleven.”
I wanted to scream,
“The banks will lend you millions but crush you if you owe a paltry sum.”
But asked,
“How much to buy you some time?”
His eyes nearly rolled in his head. If not salvation, at least a lifeline. He considered, then gave a figure. Not the amount he wanted to give but he knew me well enough not to act the bollix. I could just about manage that, from Father Gabriel’s blood money, said,
“Meet me in the Quays tomorrow, at twelve noon. I’ll have it in cash for you.”
He was stunned, said,
“You’re a good man, Jack.”
My dad was a good man.
I wasn’t.
And you’ve got to think,
“The fuck was with that?”
Trying to buy redemption with one measly act of generosity?
I don’t know, maybe.
The next day, I delivered the money as promised. After, did I feel better?
Did I fuck.
I was torn apart from fresh dreams of Laura and the sheer loss of her. A shrink telling me one time, when I was in the home for the bewildered, the confused, the looney bin:
“Jack, it’s not that you’re afraid to be happy but you’re terrified of making someone else unhappy.”
I stopped at Wolfe Tone Bridge, the city swirling around me, my heart in scorched ribbons, tears trying to make inroads on my beaten face. Then got a grip, sort of, muttered,
“A pint and chaser mightn’t help but, sure as rain, might bring oblivion.”
I turned towards O’Neachtain’s, not a pub I much used as it was so busy but now I needed the sound of people. The sheer volume of a thousand stories that had no bearing on my life, just to drown in the variations.
Buttoned my all-weather coat, my act in gear, if not really in place.
The sad line of slow suicides.
– Jack Taylor, watching a batch of huddled drinkers
There weren’t a whole lot of things, then, to make you smile but I was flicking through the Irish Daily Mail, came across a cartoon by the gifted Graeme Keyes. Showed a full shot of the Sanctuary at Knock. The Irish answer to Lourdes.
A bewildered pilgrim, with rosary beads around her neck, staring at a signpost which read
To Knock
To Mass
To Mass Hysteria.
And in the corner, an excited pilgrim gasping,
“The sun actually danced.”
Facing him is a less exalted pilgrim who sighs,
“Wow, the sun actually appeared.”
Classic.
Summed up the whole nation. I was waiting for Stewart. He’d arranged to come to my apartment and I’d mocked him,
“Bring your own herbal tea.”
He did, arriving at noon as the Angelus bell rang. I was probably one of the three remaining people in the country who still said the prayer.
Stewart brought: herbal tea, box of McCambridge’s cookies, and an attitude.
None of which I welcomed.
I pointed at the kettle, said,
“Knock yourself out.”
No disrespect to the aforementioned shrine. He made the tea, placed the cookies on a plate, I kid thee fucking not. A plate?
Said, with gusto,
“Join me.”
Right.
I got a bottle of Blue Moon from the fridge, joined him at the table, and dared him to comment. His eyes were fixated on the gun. He asked,
“Is that a Mossberg?”
I was impressed, said so, added,
“Modified to fit in my jacket.”
He had an avalanche of comments, reined them in, bit down on a cookie, then noticed my glove. I got there first, said,
“Keeps me from freaking out.”
He drank his tea, seemed to enjoy it, then,
“The attacks on the vulnerable are continuing. The Guards insist they are isolated incidents and not connected.”
Looked right at me, asked,
“Are you familiar with Darwin?”
I flexed my nonexistent fingers, tried,
“ Origin of Species. I’m waiting for the movie.”
He ignored that, said,
“Certain things Darwin wrote and said have been used and subverted -let’s say, reinterpreted-to fit the delusions of various whack jobs.”
I waited, he took out a notebook, read a piece, asked,
“Know who wrote that interpretation?”
I said,
“No.”
He was all focus now, said,
“Columbine, the two high school killers.”
The lightbulb nearly exploded over my head as I realized, said,
“Columbine. The fucker who took my fingers, they called him Bine.”
And with the awful understanding then of what my mind had been edging about, I said,
“Jesus, they’re going to hit a school, be the first Irish event.” He nodded, could see I was coming fast up to speed. Christ, I needed to chill, went to the bedroom, drew down two Xanax from my stash. Dry-swallowed them, my mind ablaze. I came back to Stewart who was about to say something but I cut him off with,
“Drink more tea, let me think, don’t talk, do some Zen shite or something.”
He did. Leant back in the chair, curled his body up into a ball of relaxation, closed his eyes, went… away.
I scanned the notes I’d made, let all the data saturate, pumped the Mossberg to keep me hyped, then after fifteen, twenty minutes, I said,
“Stewart, they’re going to hit a special needs school.”
He was appalled, hadn’t got that far in his own musings, asked,
“What are we going to do?”
I knew, beyond a shadow, said,
“Keep with the bait gig.”
Course, he had to ask, sooner or later, ever since I’d suggested he establish a routine,
“You think of me as bait?”
Had to defuse it a bit, said,
“Truth to tell, I rarely think of you at all.”
To soften it, I added,
“I’ll be there in the shadows, and if… if we can just grab one of the bastards…”
My whole history of, let’s say, reliability was not a great recommendation, and I could see it flit across his face, so he had to ask, “What if you’re not… not able to intervene effectively?”
I told the truth, said,
“Then you’re seriously fucked.”
When he was leaving, he’d admitted,
“I’m a little spooked Jack.”
I lied, said,
“Spooked is good, keeps you alert.”
I sat on the sofa, drenching myself in all that had happened, thought, a Judas goat? Is that what I was doing to Stewart?
Fucked if I could deny it.
Then told myself, I’d better get in the routine my own self. Start shadowing Stewart as I’d promised.
I got my coat and the Mossberg, and headed out.
Checked my watch. Stewart wouldn’t be at the head shop yet so I figured on a fast pint.
No.
I owed it to him to at least appear to be together. I went to the tiny cafe at the bottom of Quay Street. It was quiet and I ordered a double espresso. Was on the first sip when a stunning woman came in, looked round, and caught me looking at her.
She walked over, asked,
“Mr. Taylor?”
“Jack, but yes.”
“May I sit?”
Was she kidding? She could sit forever and I wouldn’t stir. The truly beautiful are almost painful to see. You know that such a gift has to bring a price of some kind, if only age alone. Sure enough, she seemed to carry an aura of sadness. She had that French elegance, effortless, compelling, and utterly fascinating.
And she knew it and was not at ease with the knowledge. Before I could catch my breath or
offer a coffee, she said,
“I’m Irini.”
And I knew, deep down, with a sense of dread, this was not going to make me feel good. I said,
“Kosta.”
She nodded and began to speak.
One meeting, can it change your life? Maybe. It can certainly twist and forge your whole previous way of thinking.
When she left, I knew what I’d have to do and hated it. No ducking this bullet. It had my name on it, in neon.
Stewart and I had met again after the first day of his laying down his routine, going over our respective roles and what would go down after-if there was an after. Finally, when all had been gone over so many times, he reached in his jacket, handed me over a syringe. I said,
“You think we need this?”
He was edgy, snapped,
“You’ll need it. This is your half-arsed plan.”
I took it and was about to enquire what it contained but he was way ahead, said,
“You don’t want to know. Try to jab it in the neck. Works faster and I’m thinking we won’t have a whole lot of time.”
I’d set up my kitchen, in the optimistic wish that we would actually grab one of them and could haul the crazy body back here.
Day four, I was beginning to think I was as nuts as Stewart implied. Standing across the street from the head shop, the syringe in my right pocket, way back in the shadow of a doorway, and forcing the talk with Irini out of my mind. I nearly missed the movement.
Then
Jesus, the girl, Bethany, setting up camp in the alley next to the shop. I fumbled for the mobile, got Stewart, rushed,
“She’s here, right next to you.”
A sharp intake of breath from him, neither of us really prepared for the fact of my prediction working. I added, trying to keep the panic at least one sentence away,
“Come out of the shop real fast, don’t give her time to think about it, cross the street. When you get to your car, drop your keys and bend down to retrieve them.”
He said,
“Jack, you ready for this? You really don’t want to fuck this up.
Tell me you know what you’re doing.”
I clicked off.
Best to keep him on high alert.
A minute later, he emerged, looking for all the world like a young harassed entrepreneur, and did exactly as I said. Nearly got run over as he pushed across the street. It worked, took her by complete surprise, but she rallied.
Went after him.
I moved.
She was looming over the bending Stewart when I hit her with the needle. She never sensed me, so sure was she of her prey. I plunged the needle into her jugular, slapped the Stanley knife easily from her hand, grabbed her as she began to crumble, pulled open the back door, shoved her in. Stewart was right: that concoction was fast. I could hear a slight whimper from her. Now, the rough part. Stewart was in the driver’s seat. I took a deep breath, leant against the door, nonchalance personified, lit a cig, scanned the area, and saw nothing, and heavens blessed, heard no sirens. My nerves only evident in the flicking of the Zippo. I knew Stewart was going crazy and to see me leaning against the car must have upped his anxiety to a whole new level. I risked a glance into the backseat. She was out.
Phew-oh.
I stubbed the cig under my boot, casually slid into the shotgun seat. Stewart was shaking, and, as I watched, he reached in his pocket, took out a pill, dry-swallowed it. I asked,
“Thought you didn’t take dope.”
He waited as he let the pill slide down, said,
“Thought I didn’t abduct people either.”
He let out a breath, put the car in gear, said,
“Your apartment, right?”
I nodded and we got out of there. Our insane luck held and we got to the apartment without any attention or screams of outrage. Carried the girl to the apartment. Inside, we faced the hard kitchen chair, lined with tarpaulin. For show, on the counter, were a range of what looked like surgical instruments, gleaming like terror. If she was like most young people, she’d have seen:
Saw,
Hostel,
The Ring, and all the other gruesome torture flicks doing the biz. Her imagination would do the rest.
Convinced Stewart, who croaked,
“You’re not seriously going to use… those?”
I didn’t look at him, said,
“I seriously don’t know.”
We put her in the chair and I produced the rope. Stewart went pale, said,
“Jesus, Jack, are we going too far?”
I lost it, ranted,
“We? The fuck is the we shite? You’re going to fuck off for an hour, have some Zen time, and when you return, I’ll have the answers.”
He left reluctantly, reiterated,
“One hour?”
“Yeah, fucking time me if you like.”
Slammed the door. Maybe that, or the drug wearing off, but I heard Bethany stir. I turned back into the apartment. The next hour is not something I ever want to think about, ever. Two voices running rabid in my head. The first:
“Torturing and psychologically destroying a young girl. Is this what you’ve slithered your way down to?”
The second:
“The devil drives.”
I clung to this as it elaborated,
“She is a stone killer. Preys on the weak and vulnerable and about to go after a special needs school.”
Her eyes widened as I approached and she spat,
“Taylor.”
I held up my mutilated hand, said,
“Now you get a choice. Tell me what I want to know without any incentives.”
Threw a glance at the ugly shining instruments, as she did, continued,
“Or we can do it your way. Sorry I don’t have a headstone but you’ll find it’s memorable anyway and, trust me, you’ll talk, so why not spare us both the grief?”
I moved back as she roared,
“Fuck you, alkie.”
I took the other kitchen chair, sat cowboy style, my arms resting on the back. She looked at the bindings, spat,
“Into bondage, is that it?”
I said,
“You wanted Stewart, he’ll be back soon.”
She took a fast look at my hand, said,
“Could almost pass for normal. Almost.”
I rose from the chair, took out a bottle of Jameson, poured a measure, knocked it back, asked,
“Thirsty?”
Her eyes pleaded yes but her body held fast. I pushed,
“Why did you pose as Ronan Wall’s sister?”
A snicker, then,
“You dumb arse, he’s my lover.”
I smiled and she instantly realized her error. I said,
“So now we have one name. Just yours and the other two losers to go. Oh, and the special needs school. I’ll need to know where and when?”
Her eyes darted around. Being alone with me was not giving her much confidence but she tried,
“What are you going to do, kill me? You haven’t the balls for that.”
She was right and I was having serious reservations about being able to do this. Truth is, she looked kind of pathetic and vulnerable. But by pure awful chance, the sun chose that exact moment to send a brief ray of light through my kitchen window and it hit on a gold pendant around her neck, just a glimpse of it, but it shone. Oh Jesus, did it ever. The Claddagh jewelry I’d bought for Laura. She was wearing it.
Rage engulfed me. I snapped it from her neck, and she laughed, said,
“Oh, was that for your American floozy?”
My Walther PPK was in her purse. I gritted my teeth, asked,
“Where is the Medugorje relic I was wearing?”
She smiled, said,
“We threw it in the trash. We don’t believe in all that bullshit religious mumbo jumbo.”
I stood, trying to control the ferocious violence her words aroused in me. Said,
“Believe this.”
I moved to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, asked,
“Is sparkling OK?”
We were done a good ten minutes before Stewart returned. I’d released her from her bonds, led her to an armchair where she curled up in the fetal position, whimpering like a savaged puppy.
There wasn’t a mark on her.
That you could see.
She was, in Irish,
“Briste.”
Broken.
I put a mug of Jameson in her hand. She needed both hands to hold it, then gulped it down lest I withdraw it. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Thank Christ.
Back in my early days, I was assigned to the Border. One wet dark Friday, Stapleton and I were sent to Belfast, a few weeks before Bloody Sunday. Told,
“Keep your mouths shut, the sound of your brogues would have the UVF all over ye.”
Civilian clothes, of course. We had no idea why we were going and, to this day, I’m sure the ones who sent us hadn’t a clue either. Those days, it was retaliation and madness. Still is but with a political sheen to gloss over the uglier aspects.
Saturday night, we were taken to a dank dark basement on the outskirts of the city. No idea if we were the ones who might be sacrificed. No one knew anything then, save it was possible the next atrocity was you. We were being taught a lesson. Here’s how it went down.
A cocky, confused lieutenant from the Para’s First Brigade was tied to a chair. Not a whole lot unlike the one in my kitchen.
He was mocking his captors, going,
“Thick as planks, fucking Paddies.”
You had to admire his spunk if not his intuition. The men in that room, silent as mourners, had seen and done things that no man should ever witness. You wanted to scream at the mad bastard in the chair,
“Look, look at the men you’re throwing insults at.”
Their eyes had that granite, dead expression of
“We’ve been to hell and we’ve brought it back.”
And still, the Para continued to lash them with insults about Fenian bastards, papist morons.
The unit leader said to me,
“See that snooty bollix, he’s trained to withstand anything. And the stupid fooker believes his training will help him.”
He was chugging from a silver flask, handed it to me, grimacing as he swallowed his. I drank, near choked, but managed to hide it, and he said,
“The holy trinity, coffee, poitin, and Guinness.”