by Ken Bruen
“For you, your days of getting anything, any fucking thing, are so over.”
Stapes whined.
“Why?”
Sheridan leaned back, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, said,
“Shite, you really don’t get it.”
Stapes, in a state of near collapse, screamed,
“Get what?”
Sheridan sat up straight, said,
“We got a call that the Guard killer was hiding out where we found you and there you were.”
Stapes was incredulous, screeched,
“But that’s insane.”
Sheridan gave him a smile of faux warmth, said,
“Bottom of your bag, we found a bullet and, for your sake, we did a rush forensics, and guess what?”
Stapes was truly lost for a reply, so Sheridan said,
“’Tis a match.”
Waited.
Then,
“So, every which way, you are absolutely fucked.”
Stapes tried,
“I was there to get a Jack B. Yeats. You can check, it’s in the bag.”
Sheridan sneered.
“That piece of shite? It’s not even close to a decent copy.”
As a last resort, Stapes tried,
“It’s a setup. The bullet was planted.”
Sheridan stood, stretched, said,
“Cop killers, phew, they get the very special treatment, so get ready for suck city.”
*
When Jericho heard that Stapes was in custody she sighed. She would have really loved to see his face when he walked out to the sea of blue.
Now just Taylor remained.
As for Scott, she had such little regard for him that she didn’t even bother setting him up.
The grand theatrical event she was planning was almost ready.
As she relished the sheer audacity and cold-bloodedness of what
Was coming, she let out a mighty cry of,
“Shock and awe.”
Did glance at the window and recoiled in terror.
A large black crow was pecking at the glass, its dead eyes riveted on her.
*
In the dying weeks of May 2018,
Ireland voted by 70 percent to 30 percent in favor of legalizing abortion,
One of the few remaining countries where it had been illegal.
Wild celebrations with women sporting Repeal
On sweatshirts.
A man with a Down syndrome child wore his own sweatshirt.
It read,
Repent.
*
Not even sure why I agreed to help Father Malachy with the issue of his sister.
Curiosity, mostly, to see what on earth a sister of his was like.
She lived in a huge house off Grattan Road. No trouble identifying her home as a large plaque proclaimed
Duchess
Jessica
Selwyn
Rose
Obviously, modesty wasn’t a problem for her.
I said to myself,
“All you have to do is persuade her young companion to leave.”
Piece of cake.
Rang the doorbell and fuck, it sounded like the gong used back in the day by the Rank Organisation. The door swung open and a young woman in cut-off denim shorts, black T, bare feet, asked,
“Yeah?”
She was pretty in a haphazard way but something in her look suggested ugliness, plus she seemed to have a smirk.
I said,
“I’m here to see Ms. Rose.”
She considered that, then said,
“No.”
And slammed the door.
I banged the door, the fucking gong again, and the door opened. She asked,
“What?”
As if she’d never seen me before.
I put my foot in the door, snarled,
“You look familiar.”
She was saved from answering by a cry from inside.
“Who is it, dear?”
I pushed by, entered a marble hall, saw a large sitting room to my left, and turned in there.
An elderly woman, dressed in what appeared to be a Barbara Cartland / Shirley MacLaine / Fionnula Flanagan medley outfit, i.e.,
Swaths of scarves,
Bangles,
Big hair,
Gold kimono / dressing gown.
Her face had been lifted so she appeared expressionless. She purred,
“Who have we here?”
A wave of patchouli engulfed me. I said,
“Jack Taylor, a friend of your brother’s.”
She gave a massive roar, which I realized was actually a laugh, but her face didn’t move. She said,
“Don’t be ridiculous. My brother has no friends.”
Argue that.
The girl had moved in to stand too close to my back. I turned, said,
“Rein it in.”
The woman said,
“You may call me Jess.”
Fuck, lucky me.
I said,
“Jess, Malachy was concerned about your welfare.”
The girl snorted.
Jess said,
“My intern PA with the intriguing name Jericho is very protective of me.”
I said,
“That’s sweet but I need a word in private.”
Jericho moved next to Jess. Didn’t quite sit in her lap but was in the neighborhood. Jess said,
“We have no secrets in this house. That’s the sort of thing Malachy and his cronies indulge in.”
Dilemma.
How to delicately say,
Get shot of the girl,
Fire her,
Kick her arse out.
I said,
“Get rid of the girl.”
They both gasped as if they had rehearsed and maybe they had. Jericho said,
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”
I tried,
“I’ll leave my number, if you want to talk.”
Jericho moved up real close to me, said,
“Fuck off.”
I gave her my benign face, said,
“We’ll meet again.”
She sneered, said,
“Count on it.”
*
Psychopaths are distinguished by two characteristics. The first is ruthless disregard for others; they will defraud, maim, and kill for the most trivial gain. The second is an astonishing gift for disguising the first. It’s the deception that makes them so dangerous. You never see them coming.
*
It is said that childhood forms utterly who we are.
There is no escape.
In Jericho’s home, one room at the top of the house was off-limits to Jericho and her young sister, Gina; it supposedly held a priceless picture by Jack B. Yeats.
Jericho, despite dire warnings, went into the room. A huge skylight illuminated a portrait on the wall.
*
Jericho was startled when a raven came through the window and was trapped. It flew crazily,
Crashing into walls.
Jericho was screaming when Gina turned the key in the door, locking her in with the raven.
Hours later, her father managed to open the door. He found Jericho unconscious on the floor, the painting ripped from the wall and in shreds,
And the savagely torn remains of a raven.
Pieces of the bird were lodged in the girl’s teeth and a piece of the frame was shoved through the raven’s eyes.
Jericho absolutely blanked this event from her memory; she never connected it to the push she gave to Gina into traffic.
Nor did her intermittent shudder at the sight of a raven dredge up the memory, so deeply was it buried.
She did develop a fixation on the painter Jack B. Yeats.
21
Roseanne Barr,
In a series of twenty-four-hour tweets, scuppered her new show,
Letting loose a rant of monstrous bile.
Later, in an a
ttempt at justification, she blamed the sleeping aid Ativan.
The makers, in a memorable response, admitted,
“Indeed, our product does have some side effects, but
We didn’t realize it included racism.”
From nowhere, we got another ten days of sweltering heat wave.
Joy indeed,
But—
In Ireland, we always include the but—
Humidity.
The fuck we know about humidity?
Left us with a dilemma:
We daren’t complain about the heat, God forbid, you may as well diss the pope, but this wet, corrosive temperature did fray nerves.
We muttered,
“Grand weather.”
As rivers of sweat immersed us.
Sheridan, the supercop, joined me as I had a pint in Garavan’s. He was dressed in a light linen shirt, already creased in the heat, and shorts. Sunglasses propped on his head, he ordered an iced tea.
The bar guy stared at him, asked,
“You do know this is a pub?”
Sheridan, never noted for his patience, snapped,
“Give me a very ice cold Coke then.”
Got that and rolled the bottle across his forehead, said,
“Phew, that’s better.”
I was wearing a T with cooling material, light fawn jeans, and, have to say, looked like this weather was no surprise to me.
He was kind of impressed, said.
“Cool guy.”
I nodded, said,
“We have our moments.”
He let me savor that, then said,
“Hate to rain on your coolness.”
“But you will.”
He drained the Coke bottle, making a spectacle of it, then,
“You know we have the Guard killer?”
I did, and was astonished they were charging Stapleton, but I went with,
“Alleged, surely. Alleged killer.”
He gave a wry chuckle, said,
“We have, literally, the burning bullet.”
I had nothing to add, so he pushed,
“But here’s the best bit . . .”
And he waited.
I ordered a round, no intention of playing his game, so he caved, said,
“He wants to see you.”
“No,”
I said.
Sheridan was still in the flush of mind fucking, said,
“He promises to deliver the real killer if you go to see him.”
I looked at him, asked,
“Are you asking for my help?”
He mulled that, then,
“Not really asking. Think if it as a veiled threat.”
“Veiled? Sounds almost benign.”
He snarled.
“It’s anything but fucking benign.”
*
Stapleton looked more than the worse for wear when I visited him. We were in the green room, so named not because of its hospitality but rather to imply intimidation.
Puke green.
Stapes had a complexion to match and a dark bruise under his left eye. He also appeared to have lost some teeth and a lot of weight.
The smart-arse cocky fuck I’d met before was long gone. A Guard who weighed at least 320 pounds sat on a chair very close to us. He was reading the Daily Mirror. I swear, his lips were moving as he perused the sports page. I asked,
“Could you back it up a bit, some privacy maybe?”
He looked at me with deep hatred, said,
“He’s a cop killer.”
I said,
“So that’s a no?”
He put down the paper, recognition lit his face, said,
“I know you.”
This would not, I felt, be to our advantage.
I tried,
“Good to see you.”
He got to his feet, said,
“You used to be a Guard. What are you doing talking to this piece of shite?”
I said,
“He might be innocent.”
He sat back down, glanced at the wall clock, said,
“You have five more minutes.”
I could have argued but let it slide. The guy added,
“Children keep getting killed around you.”
Did it piss me off, incline me to action?
I bit down, looked at Stapes, asked,
“What’s the story?”
In a low whisper, he told me about:
Scott
Jericho
Even the barman being shot.
I asked,
“You were part of all this?”
Searched for a term, tried,
“You were part of this gang?”
He rolled his eyes, managed to actually sound offended, said,
“Man, for fuck’s sake, I was playing along until I could call the cops.”
Before I could pour scorn on this, he added,
“That’s why they set me up.”
I sat trying to take all this in, then stood up.
He asked,
“What do you think?
“I think you are completely fucked.”
*
It wasn’t hard to track Scott down.
His father had been a supercop and Scott, not exactly following the family biz, did two years in jail.
He lived in the family home, off Taylor’s Hill, the posh side of town—or used to be. I broke in early in the morning, figuring Scott wasn’t a guy to be up doing chores.
He wasn’t.
The house had indeed once been grand but was now threadbare, anything of value sold. I went quietly up a fine old staircase, found Scott snoring loudly in what seemed like the master bedroom.
Empty bottles scattered all round, and discarded clothes.
A minimum of searching revealed the gun; it held one bullet.
I pulled up a chair beside his bed, settled myself, then kicked the bed, hard, repeatedly. His face contorted in fright, he looked at me, the gun, muttered,
“Oh, fuck.”
I let him hear the cylinder click, said,
“Stapes sent me.”
Horror ran across his face like the prayers you knew were never going to be answered. He looked around for help, there was none, so he asked,
“Are you going to kill me?”
I said,
“I think so.”
He cried.
I mean, he really bawled.
The author Jilly Cooper recently asked,
“What is it with new men, they’re always weeping.”
Mind you, a gun in your face could be a good excuse.
When that subsided, he asked,
“Can I put on a T-shirt, some jeans?”
Did that with trembling fingers. His T had the logo
Women Are the New Black.
Cute.
Sensing I might be relenting, he pushed,
“Can I, like, get a shot of booze?”
I slapped him twice upside the head, hard.
Dazed, he whined,
“What’d you do that for?”
I asked,
“Why’d you kill the Guards?”
I think he told the truth, said,
“To get back at my father.”
I found his bottle of Southern Comfort, let him have a glass, and the effect was near instant. He sat up straight, said,
“I’ll tell you about Jericho if you don’t kill me.”
She was, he said,
“My soul mate.”
I sighed, indicated he continue.
Jericho was planning on getting rid of the old actress, taking the house, killing Jack Taylor as he was responsible for the death of Emerald, her soul sister.
(Lots of soul shit, I thought.)
But,
Stapleton had fucked everything up by sleeping with Jericho, then Jericho, tired of him, set him up.
I reached into my jacket, clicked off the recorder.
Scott stared at me in horror and, get this, betrayal, w
hined,
“You recorded this.”
I stood up, said,
“You have a choice.”
Tears again, God almighty. He asked,
“What?”
“Run or turn yourself in.”
I stood up, put the gun in my jacket. He asked,
“How am I going to defend myself?”
I said,
“Try foul language.”
22
Deargar:
A carnival of bloodshed.
There is a term in psychology,
A chilling one.
“The theater of murder.”
Jericho loved this.
She didn’t need it explained.
She knew how to murder with the maximum of drama.
There is a tinker woman named Brid I meet at odd times. She is supposed to have the bronntanas, the gift of seeing.
Certainly, there have been times when she foretold events in my life that proved to be all too tragically true.
Do I believe it?
Phew-oh. When you have been raised a guilt-ridden Catholic, with a native tongue awash in curses, prophecies, banshees, the odd leprechaun, you tend to keep, if not an open mind, then certainly options open.
After I left Scott, with the damning recording in my jacket, I met her in Buttermilk Lane, our version of the Yellow Brick Road.
She wore the handwoven Connemara shawl, a riot of rings and bangles, and she could have been anything from fifty to seventy, with a ton of hair, long, jet-black, and always immaculately washed, with a scent of roses.
Her eyes, a washed-out nigh white with flecks of what ofttimes seemed to shine gold that I told myself was a trick of the light.
“Young Taylor,”
She said.
Insofar as I could gauge, she had a certain fondness for me, thanks to some assistance I had rendered to her people. I instinctively knew that was the smart place to be with her. Once, I had seen her wrath when a group of young trainee thugs had called her names.
She had unleashed a torrent of curses that seemed to frighten the shite out of them and they cowered away, like beaten dogs.
I put in her hand a mess of notes, which she quickly hid in her shawl, then she took my hand and closed her eyes.
She swayed from side to side, my hand held tight, then muttered,
“Och ocon.”
This is not good.
Means,
“Woe is me.”
And a whole slew of other shite too, none if it good.
She said,
“Bhi curamach leis an cailin Gaillimh.”
“Beware the Galway girl.”
Added,
“An deargar ag teacht.”