Galway Girl

by Ken Bruen

  I knew he meant if the dog didn’t like me, my arse was gone.

  The joint seemed to ease the grim line of his jaw and he expertly navigated the son of a bitch roundabout on the Headford road. He said,

  “Here’s the deal.”

  Looked at me.

  I said,

  “I cannot bear the excitement.”

  He snarled,

  “I just added a new rule to the series.”

  A line of spittle on his mouth as he warned,

  “Don’t be goddamn snarky. I hate that shit, and Jagger was always running that gig.”

  A low rumbling from the dog.

  Keefer pulled into a lay-by, said,

  “I need a piss.”

  He and the dog disappeared into some brush.

  Was it some sort of bizarre test?

  It crossed my mind to fuck the hell off. He’d left the key in the ignition and, just as I thought I’d do that, a new track flowed from the speaker,

  “Strange Boat”

  By

  The Waterboys.

  The name of the foundation that began and maintained the Circle of Life Garden was Strange Boat, in honor of a young man who worked as a sound tech for the Waterboys.

  Ah, the Waterboys, like the Saw Doctors, one of the great bands to come out of Galway in the eighties.

  The lead singer / lyricist, Mike Scott, looked like what a rock singer should look like. Many of us believed they should have been the band that emerged globally, not U2.

  If you come to Galway, get thee to the Roisin Dubh and maybe catch Mike doing the awesome “Fisherman’s Blues”—almost like “Waltzing Matilda” on ludes.

  (Note to millennials, if you can spare a moment from the goddamn phone: ludes were quaaludes, the chill-out drug of choice for mellow times.)

  Keefer and the dog were back, got in, he burned rubber out of there. He handed me a flask, said,

  “Chill, bro.”

  I took a slug. Wow, hard-core. Near spluttered, asked,

  “The fuck’s that?”

  He cackled, said,

  “Maker’s Mark with sipping sour mash.”

  I drew a breath, my eyes watering, choked,

  “The rules?”

  He growled them

  Like this:

  1. Don’t ask for Rolling Stones anecdotes.

  2. Ten hours in the field.

  3. Stay away from the armory.

  4. Keefer’s word is the word.

  I lit a Red, blew out a near perfect ring that the dog tried to snatch, and said,

  “I don’t do rules.”

  He laughed, loud and lethal, the dog gave me a quick nuzzle. I asked,

  “What’s his name?”

  You could see his face soften when the dog was the topic. He said,

  “Jones.”

  Dilemma, was this a Stones anecdote?

  Fuckit.

  I asked,

  “For Brian Jones?”

  He sneered,

  “That loser. No, I had me a heroin jones, real bad, and just as I went biblically cold turkey the dog found me, in the woods, the barrel of my gun in my mouth.”

  We rounded the bend where you come to Cong, bypassed the lake, pulled up on the edge of the woods. He said,

  “Home.”

  A log cabin, frontier style, sat back in a clearing, smoke rising from a chimney, piles of neatly cut wood stacked on the side, a corral with two horses, then to the back, a small cottage, neatly white and solid. He said,

  “The cottage is yours.”

  We put away the supplies. No sign of the falcon. I asked,

  “The bird?”

  He strode across wood floors, his boots resounding, opened a room to the back. There on its perch, hooded, was my falcon, looking way better than my last sighting. He said,

  “This is a full-fledged falcon. She’d been trained and by an expert. Somebody should be missing a bird as valuable as this but, then, maybe the owner was shot too. I made some inquiries but no one is reporting a missing falcon.”

  He paused, considered, then,

  “She’s ready to hunt.”

  I gazed at her. She was fierce and beautiful, utterly still, a wonder of the sky. I involuntarily loud swallowed. Keefer said,

  “She has that effect on me every time. Your buddy said you called her Maeve.”

  I nodded, my throat constricted. He asked,

  “That your wife’s name?”

  I managed,

  “A nun.”

  He did a double take, then said,

  “Of course.”

  *

  I checked his bookshelf, a laden one, tomes spilling out all over the shelves.

  I pulled out Charles Maturin’s novel Melmoth the Wanderer.

  Published in 1820 by the Dublin vicar, it is a Faustian story.

  Melmoth is the classic loner, trailing the prospect of ferocious evil in his wake.

  Its most notable fan was Baudelaire.

  There were other dark books:

  Aleister Crowley, Kenneth Anger and his Hollywood Babylon,

  Various bios of the Stones and Led Zep, in particular, Jimmy Page and the years of the occult.

  Then Harry Crews, Hunter S. Thompson, Capote’s Music for Chameleons.

  Poetry,

  The doomed ones mainly:

  Anne Sexton

  Ted Hughes

  Robert Lowell

  If you can tell a person by his library, then what did I learn about Keefer?

  I muttered,

  “Keep a gun ready.”

  *

  Keefer provided me with a falconer’s vest; it had an abundance of pockets.

  Then a thick leather glove. He surveyed me, said,

  “Let’s rock.”

  The first afternoon we spent getting the bird to fly from Keefer to me.

  Scared and exhilarated me. Took a lot of time and my arm was tired from keeping it outstretched, and it involved lots of small pieces of meat as lure.

  I daren’t think where they came from.

  I knew, there and then, though fascinated, enthralled by the falcon, I would never be able to like setting it loose to kill birds.

  The first time it landed on my arm after exhausting hours, it hit with such force I nearly fell.

  God almighty, the power.

  Keefer ambled over the length of field to ask

  How it felt.

  I was almost in a trance, staring at the bird, but managed,

  “Like I was hit by a Limerick hurler.”

  Attempts by me to tie off the hood for the bird, using my teeth to secure the length of lead from the hood, were a pitiful failure.

  Darkness began to fall, thank fuck.

  Keefer said,

  “Okay, let’s get some brews.”

  No sweeter words.

  *

  Keefer made dinner, asked,

  “Steaks?”

  There was a table cut from what seemed literally the stump of a tree. It had been polished but still maintained a rustic vibe. The falcon had been set on her perch, hooded, in the corner.

  I asked,

  “That to get her used to us?”

  Keefer laughed, said,

  “No, to get you used to her.”

  Hmm.

  Keefer was standing over a battered stove, grilling the steaks, adding onions, peppers. Smelled real good, though I worried how Maeve might react.

  She was making cooing sounds that had me a little on edge. Keefer turned to me, said,

  “She’s happy. Worry when she’s silent.”

  That was so reassuring.

  Keefer asked,

  “With the steaks, a nice Lafite, from ’98, I think.”

  Wine.

  The fuck I knew from wine.

  I’d drink it from the lavatory—might even have over the years. He stared at me for a moment, then laughed, said,

  “Buddy, the fuck I care about wine? Pulling your chain. Grab us a coupla longnecks from the fridge
.”

  I did. He set the steaks in front of us, large French loaf to wipe the sauce, baked spuds oozing in butter, gravy, and beans. I had an appetite.

  When was the last time I had that?

  I’d hazard ’98, like the Lafite.

  Finished, he lit up from a soft pack of Camels, said,

  “Eddie Bunker’s fave cig.”

  If he said so.

  He pointed to a cupboard above the bookshelf, said,

  “Have a look in there, see what bourbon you fancy.”

  There was a huge range of bottles, and in the corner—right in the corner—a Walther PPK.

  I might know fuck all about wine but, by Christ, I know guns.

  *

  The next few days, it was evident my heart wasn’t in falconry.

  I loved to see the bird fly, soar, dive, and marveled at its slick, beautiful focus.

  But watching it kill . . .

  Not so much.

  I know, I know, the violence in my past and, worse, in my heart, but the deliberate hunting down of the birds, it turned my stomach.

  And I do understand ’tis nature but, hey fuck, it doesn’t say I have to like it.

  I did get a kick out of the long days in the woods, the country, but the city called to me. Keefer nodded at me during one hunt and I knew he knew.

  Odd thing, as the evenings progressed, we sat into the wee hours, drinking, doing some spliffs, trading stories.

  I told him more than I think I ever told anyone,

  Even about the deaths of the children, my own and others. He was appropriately silent, and when I told him about Jericho, he seemed to pay extra attention.

  As dawn came, he said,

  “There was a small town in Ohio plagued with crows. They became a danger to crops, the local birdlife.”

  He laughed, said,

  “They’d gone rogue, so a falcon was brought in, cleared out the crows in a matter of days. The moral is?”

  The fuck I knew from morals?

  He said, very quietly,

  “You set a killer to catch a killer.”

  *

  Later in the day, as I sweated heavily from the falcon whamming into my arm, Keefer tossed me a T-shirt, said,

  “Have a fresh shirt.”

  It wasn’t until I was falling into bed that I actually noticed the message on the T.

  It read,

  God sends your ex back into your life to

  See if you’re still stupid.

  37

  “Grief

  Is

  the

  Thing

  with

  Feathers”

  Max Porter

  Meanwhile, back in Galway,

  How Jericho really got her name.

  At the Burning Man festival, where Emerald and Jericho met and hooked up, they spent most of the time on peyote and a guy had a large screen showing the gruesome, violent movie Criminal.

  It starred Ryan Reynolds as an agent who is shot in the head and his memories are transferred to a vicious killer played by Kevin Costner.

  Yeah, family fun.

  Emerald had a serious hotness for Costner and, in a moment of drug euphoria, exclaimed,

  “If I die, my mind will be transferred to you.”

  Hard-core peyote, so little wonder Jericho bought into the craziness, and when Emerald baptized her with the best tequila, chanting,

  “From henceforth, thou art Jericho,”

  It became so.

  *

  Jericho liked to fuck with people and tell them her name came from U2 or whatever weird shite came into her head.

  She had watched Criminal while doing lines of coke and wondered,

  “Where the hell was Alice?”

  Her mobile was dead.

  Jericho paced, needed action, and, of course, her primary present target was Jack Taylor. Time to go fuck with his place.

  Jericho approached the door of Taylor’s apartment with extreme caution.

  She knew he knew she broke into his place regularly,

  So would he have the brains to set a booby trap?

  He wasn’t in there; no one had seen him for a week.

  Was he dead?

  “Fuck no,”

  She muttered.

  She wanted/needed the joy of killing him her own self.

  She set her tools on the lock.

  Click.

  Okay.

  She opened the door slowly, her heart in ribbons. She’d seen an episode of Fargo, the shotgun rigged to the door, cursed,

  “Where the hell is Alice?”

  Girl had gone on a tear, no sign of the cow for days.

  She stood in the middle of the room. On the coffee table was an envelope with

  “Jericho”

  In bold red marker, leaning against the skull she’d left on one of her forays.

  Nervous, she picked it up, opened it oh, so carefully,

  Read,

  Sorry to miss you.

  Your call is important to us.

  I’m unavailable for a few weeks

  But I will be back to chat about your massacre of my friend.

  Meanwhile, I left a small token/trophy of our dance so far.

  It’s on ice.

  That’s the fridge, you dumb bitch.

  xxxxxx

  JT

  She turned, looked at the small fridge. It seemed harmless but her stomach was in knots. Would he have rigged it to explode on being opened?

  She slapped herself, said,

  “Get with the program. He isn’t that smart.”

  All the same, she hesitated.

  Then, steeling herself, opened the small door, realized she’d shut her eyes, cried,

  “Fuck, girl, focus.”

  The fridge was empty save for a small red envelope propped against a bottle of Galway Hooker beer. She sneered,

  “Cute, Taylor.”

  Took the envelope out, shook it, heard a faint rustling, then slit the flap with her long nail and out onto the coffee table fell . . .

  A gold chain

  With the initials GG, blood still encrusted on the letters.

  The sound she made would have made a banshee shudder, a primeval howl of utter agony.

  “Someone roll the credits on

  Twenty years of love turned dark and raw

  Not a technicolor love film.

  (It’s a brutal document—it’s film noir.)

  It’s all played out on a borderline

  And the actors are tragically

  Miscast.”

  Tom Russell, “Touch of Evil”

  Horses.

  I was leaning on the corral fence, admiring the gorgeous animals.

  A chestnut mare and a black stallion—they seemed perfect, like what you’d find on a box of Milk Tray. Keefer came up from the left, Jones as always loping beside him.

  He was dressed in a denim jacket, torn not for fashion but from actual age, black combat pants and the dusty motorcycle boots, a black T with the near illegible Exile on Main Street. He looked like a Hell’s Angel, if those dudes ever smiled, said,

  “They’re not mine.”

  I laughed, asked,

  “What, you’re a rustler too?”

  His smile vanished and Jones tensed, alert to his owner’s every mood. Keefer said,

  “They belong to a friend. His other ones have been stolen.”

  I was a little skeptical, asked,

  “Rustlers?”

  A touch more sneer than intended leaked over the question. He gave me a look that was not aggressive but in the vicinity, said,

  “A gang from the North, they steal to order . . .”

  Paused, spat in the dirt, added,

  “Those two are on their list.”

  I asked,

  “Are they a worry, I mean, like dangerous?”

  He lit a Camel, unfiltered, didn’t offer one, showing he was angry, said,

  “If beating one of the owner’s crew half to death with
pickaxes qualifies, I dunno, what in the city”—the word dripping with contempt—“you class as dangerous but, out here, we think that qualifies.”

  Jones had fixed me with an intense stare, the one that said,

  I kind of liked you, but now . . .

  We had breakfast in silence; fry-up:

  Sausages

  Double eggs (over easy, said Keefer)

  Soda bread

  Beans

  And a gallon of coffee.

  If we drank out of tin cups, we’d have been the complete Clint Eastwood western, bar us wearing Colts on our hips.

  I said,

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Apologizing is not natural to me and I stumbled over the words. Keefer was very quiet, feeding bits of bacon to Jones who, for a German shepherd, took the food as gently as if he were in a James Herriot book. Keefer’s gaze was focused on the large front window, opening out to the woods. He finally said,

  “She’s buried out there.”

  That will kill a breakfast cold.

  It did.

  The she was his wife.

  He said no more about it.

  *

  That night, instead of us drinking and chatting until the small hours, he said he was tired, the bad vibe lingering. I went to my own cabin, read,

  Keith Nixon

  Ger Brennan

  Hilary Davidson

  Late, I finished off a Jay, turned in.

  I think I was dreaming of my dead daughter when I was wrenched from sleep by two loud bangs. I knew the sound.

  Shotgun.

  I grabbed my hurley and, in just a T, underpants, and socks, ran outside.

  Keefer was down, Jones on his side beside him, two men kicking the bejaysus out of Keefer, a third pulling the stallion into a horse trailer.

  Without a word I was on the first guy, walloped him on the head. The other turned and, using the long swing, I took his knees out. The guy at the trailer let the horse go, reached for a hatchet, came at me, swearing,

  “Where the fuck did you come out of?”

  He swung the hatchet, which I sidestepped. I moved in low, smashed his face with the hurley, then stood back, adrenaline deafening me. The three were moaning, crying but not getting up, so I moved to Keefer, helped him stand. His face was bloody, one of his arms useless, but he was conscious, muttered,

  “Check on the dog.”

  The dog was dead.

  The shotgun had near obliterated his head.

  I threw the shotgun as far as I could into the woods, having ejected the cartridges.

  I got Keefer inside, did some makeshift first aid, gave him some painkillers and a large glass of brandy. I heard a jeep start up, ran outside to see the men take off without the horses.