by Ken Bruen
“That woman hasn’t been poisoning your kitten, Michael. She doesn’t even know who you are. She wouldn’t know how to poison a kitten even if she wanted to.”
“Could swear I’ve seen her—”
“No, you haven’t. She hasn’t done a thing. Trust me on this, okay? Jesus, they train me for this sort of thing, and believe me, if she was guilty I’d know and I’d have dealt with her. You’ve got to stop yelling at the woman and threatening her, Michael.”
Sullen look. A child being unfairly chided. A flash of malice. I wish I could make him shut up. I wish I had some way to frighten him into behaving. Then, suddenly, there it is.
So I do it. I drop the threat. Let the genie out of the bottle.
“And you listen good to me, Michael. You leave that woman alone from now on, or else I’ll send your name, address, and photo to Iron Kurt’s Gay Nazi website.”
Let me explain. I have a friend, Curt, who’s funny, erudite, can hold his drink remarkably well, and happens to be gay. One night in Fallon’s, the conversation turns to gay rights and marriage, a subject which he understandably feels strongly about. He speaks his piece, and someone else makes some comment about him being a “facist homo” or something. Funny in its stupidity. And so the remark resurfaces and transforms, blossoming into something so much more.
It helps that there’s been trouble with a couple of neo-Nazi crackpots in the city on TV recently, even with the NSRUS pulling out of Ireland. Nazis make the best bad guys. Ask Indiana Jones. And I see a twitch of fear or homophobia in Michael’s eyes.
“I’ll do it,” I tell him. “And you know what’ll happen then …”
Of course, his mind fills in the blank with its own worst fears. He promises to be good.
And over the next few weeks, he is. And I trot out the same threat to other lunatics I have to deal with. And they don’t see me as a punisher. Iron Kurt is the punisher. I’m just the messenger. So they don’t even resent me for it.
My fellow Gardaí find the whole thing fucking funny. Some of them start using Kurt themselves. And Dublin sleeps safer at night. Kurt’s out there, watching over them. A specter in the fog blowing in off the harbor, creeping upriver. A paper tiger keeping evil at bay.
One afternoon, I see William, one of our deranged, sitting in the doorway of a boarded-up shop with an Iron Cross badge pinned proudly to his battered old blue Leinster rugby top. Next to him is a scratched metal strongbox.
“Hey, William.”
“It’s … you’re gonna beat me.”
“Leave it alone, William. What’s in the box?”
“They’re mine, see.”
“Fine. But show me what you’ve got.”
“It’s private. Mine.”
“Last time we had this conversation, you had a petrol bomb on you. I just want to make sure you don’t have another one. Anything else, you can keep.”
He thinks, pops open the box. Inside, an untidy pile of black fur.
“Why are you carrying a bunch of dead rats around?” I ask.
“They pay me. It’s my deal. Not yours.”
“I’ve got no ambitions of being a rat-catcher. Who pays?”
“The big red building down Castleforbes Road. Food warehouse. To set traps. Ten cents a rat.”
“And you get them from somewhere else, and they pay for them.”
“Yeah. It’s a good job.”
“Good for you. What’s with the Iron Cross?” I point at his chest.
“It’s protection, is what. Keith saw Iron Kurt.”
I try not to smile. “Yeah?”
“And he said, you wear stuff like this and you’ll be okay.”
“Unless you’ve been posted on his website.”
“Well, yeah.”
“While we’re on the subject, you’re keeping away from that playground, right?”
He nods vigorously. “Yeah. Never meant to do anything.”
“Did Keith say what Iron Kurt looked like?”
“Yeah. A big guy, tall, built like a brick shithouse. Bald. With a beard. Tattoos all over.”
The real Curt is 5'5'' and built for comfort, not speed. Again, I stifle a smile. “Yeah, that sounds right. You’d better stay out of trouble, huh?”
Not long after, I see Keith himself. The shopping trolley that holds his worldly possessions has a bunch of plastic German soldiers on string looped all the way around it like fairy lights. Now that I’m looking for it, I start to notice similar items on most of the other nutcases in my patch.
A belt buckle like an Iron Cross around the neck. A pencil-drawn swastika. An SS-style shoulder patch. In one house in Clontarf, a guy named Terry has a toy soldier shrine in a foil-lined cardboard box.
Votive offerings. Symbols of fear, not worship, not support. Warding off Kurt and his unholy wrath.
I shouldn’t be surprised. They all gather together in Duff Alley off East Wall Road to drink Tenants Super until someone passes out or pisses themselves. And they talk, and share stories. Chinese whispers. Some believe them, some don’t. But they all listen.
They say Kurt’s the son of an SS officer. They say he’s raped and killed more than two hundred men. They say his website has more than a thousand followers, all over the world, who take perverse delight in making each victim last as long as possible. They say—and when I tell Curt this he practically wets himself laughing—that he has a fourteen-inch dick and that most of his victims die from blood poisoning caused by massive anal tearing.
Iron Kurt.
My creation. My Frankenstein. My cartoon monster.
And then Keith disappears. One day, gone. No one knows where. No one’s seen him. They find his trolley round the corner from a soup kitchen on North Quay, but he never comes back for it. Shit happens, these people move on.
William stops picking up pay for his rats and vanishes from the hostel he’s been staying at. Someone tells me he’d been beaten up and his badge taken a couple of days before.
I stop seeing Terry. When I go to his house, his toy soldier shrine is still there, but he’s gone. The neighbor says the last they saw of him, he was going to get a pint of milk. A couple of the others disappear too.
Duff Alley gets very empty, and the conversation there becomes very muted. They get drunk, huddle together, and after dark they whisper that Iron Kurt has come for them. And now I’m
shit
scared.
Another trip to the piss-stained steps outside Michael’s flat. He’s almost the only one left, and I need to know what he knows. To find out if he can reassure me. Keith left for Cork. William found a winning lottery ticket in the street and moved to the Caribbean. Some other Gardaí told the Duff Alley crazies to get out, so they’re meeting somewhere else now.
When I knock on the door, I hear a wet thudding noise from inside. When I try the handle, it’s unlocked. When I should turn and run away, I push it open and walk in.
The sickly sweet smell of blood on the air. The acrid spike of human waste. The cloying taste of someone else’s sweat. Michael lies in a crimson-splashed, naked tangle in the middle of his living room floor. The carpet around him soaked black with blood. Legs splayed at an unnatural angle, and pink-yellow ribbons of intestines running from the split and tattered gash that yawns between them.
He twitches, and I realize he’s still alive.
“Michael? Can you hear me?”
Whimper. Twitch. One eye creaks open and fixes me with a stare of utter agony and shock.
“Who did this? What the fuck’s going on?”
“It … Kurt … didn’t …”
“Kurt? You’re sure? Christ.”
“Said … name … site … to punish … I didn’t …”
I should be calling an ambulance. I should be calling my colleagues. “Where is he now?”
Michael’s eye looks down. Pleading. Betrayed. “You said … wouldn’t … website … I … good …”
He thinks I did it. “I didn’t tell him,” I say. “Jesu
s, Michael, I wouldn’t even know how. I swear to you.”
“He … told …” Michael smacks his lips. Dry mouth. Lost too much fluid already. Bleeding out. Dying.
“What did he tell you?”
“No … he asked … who … gave my name …” Smack. Smack. “I … told him … you …”
As Michael’s head drops to the carpet, something thumps out in the stairwell and my heart jumps into my mouth. Again I think about running, but I don’t. Again I think about calling the station, but to tell them what? That some kind of phantom is stalking lunatics on my beat?
I step outside, check the stairs with shaky steps and trembling hands. And there’s nothing there.
When I come back down to Michael’s flat, the body is gone. So is the blood that soaked the carpet a moment ago. Is the smell gone as well? I can’t tell. But there’s no sign that Michael was ever here. And was he—could I be imagining it? Could all this be in my head, a product of my own fear?
Fuck. Fuck.
When I search the flat, I can’t see any of the protective trinkets the others had. He was an unbeliever.
I’m not. Not now.
When I walk away from Michael’s, I see the tall figure of a bald man watching me from the trees on the far side of the park across the street. He’s massive, and bare-chested. The dark outlines of tattoos that litter his skin flicker and swirl like flames. He points at me, long and hard, then slides back into the undergrowth.
So now it’s been four days since then, since I called in sick. Since I barricaded myself into my flat, to wait for the end. In the yellow glare of the forty-watt bulb, in the air that reeks of stale sweat and fear, I’m protected by a butcher’s knife and an Iron Cross. A spray-paint swastika on every wall. A replica of one of those Nazi imperial eagles they’d carry everywhere in those films. Terry’s foil-lined box with his tableau of half a dozen toy German WWII soldiers.
Maybe they’ll help me. I certainly won’t step beyond their protective radius.
Because Kurt is coming to kill me. His creator. To close the circle. I’m the last one he’s looking for here. And he won’t let me go. I know it.
Soon I’ll hear his footsteps on the stairs. Slow, heavy, deliberate.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
THE DEATH OF JEFFERS
BY KEVIN WIGNALL
Heg the Peg was the end of it. Marty had known from the start which creek he was up; this was just the confirmation on the whereabouts of the paddle. If it had won, he’d have been in the clear, or as near as made any difference.
True to its name, though, the first race had finished five minutes ago and Heg the Peg was still running. So much for Bob and his cast-iron tips, straight from the stable, the whole crowd of them laying money on it like it was the only horse in the race. If there was any cast-iron, it was in Heg the Peg’s saddle.
So now Marty had two choices. First was finding some other way of raising two thousand euros by the end of the month—and frankly, that was looking about as likely as the stewards disqualifying every other horse in the last race.
Second was borrowing the money off Hennessey and paying back the interest for the rest of his life.
Three choices—he could tell McKeon to sing for the money, leave Dublin, leave Ireland, and find a monastery in Bhutan that was recruiting. Four choices—his next fare could be some crazy American on his first trip to Dublin, wanting to hire him for the whole week, money no object. You never knew with the airport.
The door opened and Marty turned off the radio.
“Wynn’s Hotel, please.” English, in a suit, overnight bag; no big tip here. The fare leaned over and handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. “Could you stop here on the way? I’ll give you a good tip.”
Marty glanced at the address. It wasn’t far out of the way.
“No problem. First time in Dublin?”
“Yes it is.”
Marty pulled away. He could probably take the guy around the houses and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. He found himself going the direct route, though; that was why he ended up in positions like this in the first place—he was too honest for his own good.
He looked in the rearview. The fare looked like a civil servant, or someone who worked in life insurance, nondescript, late thirties, the kind of guy who was born to make up the numbers and get lost in the crowd. But he’d still offer him the same old patter.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to sample some of the good stuff while you’re here?”
“Sorry?”
“Guinness.”
“Oh.” The fare smiled like it was something he wasn’t used to. “Actually, I don’t drink. Very rarely, anyway.”
Marty nodded and said, “So what brings you here then?”
“Business.” He smiled again, though he wasn’t getting any better at it. “But I’ve been wanting to come to Ireland for a long time. I’m of Irish stock.”
Jesus, who wasn’t? The day he picked up a fare at that airport who didn’t claim to have Irish blood, that was the day he’d win the lottery. Still, he put on his best “that’s amazing” smile and said, “Really? What’s your name?”
“Jeffers. Patrick Jeffers.”
Well sure, anyone could call their kid Patrick, but he wasn’t so sure about the Jeffers bit. Didn’t sound particularly Irish to him.
“Don’t know any Jeffers. Must be a name from out west.”
“I think it is.” End of conversation.
Jeffers kept him waiting no more than two minutes. He went into the house empty-handed and came out with a briefcase. Now that was suspicious, no other way of looking at it, particularly some guy who’d never been to Dublin.
By the time he got him to the Wynn’s, though, there was no doubt it was his first time here—he’d been looking out of the window like a tourist for the last ten minutes.
“That’ll be twenty-two euros.”
“Keep the change,” said Jeffers, handing him thirty.
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Jeffers. Enjoy your stay in Dublin.”
One thousand nine hundred and ninety-two to go.
Bryan was a charmer, all right, and there was no doubt about what he thought he’d be getting when they went out later. First day on the job, all the girls had told Kate not to fall for any of his talk, and here she was, second day behind the reception desk, going out with him tonight.
She was smiling at him now as he leaned across the desk. And he thought she was smiling at the silver words coming from his mouth, but it was how much he looked like Danny that was really tickling her. If it weren’t for Bryan’s blue eyes, the two of them could meet and think they were long-lost brothers.
Of course, Bryan would be the good brother. They all thought she was some naïve young slip of a thing, but twenty-four hours had been enough to tell her that Bryan was decent to the core. He was one for the girls, sure, but a good family lad at heart, working his way through college, a bright future ahead of him.
Danny, on the other hand, he was sexy and dangerous and the biggest mistake she’d made in her eighteen years. He’d come to a nasty end sooner or later and probably take a good few with him. The important thing was knowing that Danny wouldn’t stick around, and that she wouldn’t want him to.
Suddenly, Bryan pushed himself up and stepped away, making himself busy, and she saw one of the guests heading toward the desk, a businessman, boring-looking. She put on her best smile.
“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”
“I checked in a short while ago?”
He sounded like he was asking a question, and she felt like telling him straight, Mister, if you don’t remember, I sure as hell don’t. He certainly didn’t look familiar.
“That’s right. Is your room satisfactory, Mr… . ?”
“Jeffers.”
“Mr. Jeffries, that’s it.”
“It’s fine. But it’s Mr. Jeff
ers. Actually, it’s an Irish name.”
“It is so. From up north, I think, Donegal, that way.”
“Yes, I think you’re right.” He smiled, wonky somehow, like he’d had botox and was still getting used to his face again. “How do I get to Trinity College?”
“Ah, you have to work really hard at school.” His smile stayed fixed—no sense of humor. “Just a little joke there. It’s right around the corner. Bryan here will point the way.”
Bryan had been straightening leaflets but snapped to attention now and ushered the Englishman out onto the street. He was cute, Bryan, a tight little backside on him, and he was going to get exactly what he wanted tonight, and the dates would be close enough that he’d never think to question whether the kid was his. How could he? In all probability, it was even going to look like him.
Jeffers had listened attentively as Bryan gave him directions for the short walk across to Trinity, but he seemed in no mood to move anywhere once he’d finished. So Bryan stood in silence with him, the two of them surveying the street like they were looking out over their ranch at sunset.
Then, absentmindedly, Jeffers said, “Have you heard of the name? Jeffers?”
“I haven’t. Sorry.” Jeffers nodded but still looked straight ahead, feet planted firmly, so Bryan tried to fill the pause by saying, “I’m a student at Trinity myself. History.”
Jeffers turned and looked at him as if he’d revealed something vital. He stared at him for a few seconds, a look intense enough to be unnerving, and Bryan couldn’t help but see that Jeffers seemed troubled. Finally, he said, “Let me tell you something: Don’t ever fall into the trap of believing you don’t have choices. You always have a choice, in everything.”
He seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded to himself and handed Bryan five euros before walking off along the street with Bryan’s thanks lost in the noise behind him. Bryan stood there looking at the five euros, wondering what might have induced such a bizarre fit of profundity.
He was close to laughing it off as he walked back into the hotel, ready to get another smile out of Kate by telling her, and then for some reason it made him think of Lucy and it was no longer funny. You always have a choice, in everything. Lucy—if ever a girl could have turned him into a poet.