A Galway Epiphany

June 23, 2019.

As I contemplated how to prevent an ex-priest from killing a supposed child, the world was thus:

Jimmy Kimmel on Trump’s launch of his presidential campaign in Florida:

“The stadium had a capacity of 20,000

Or, as Trump calls it,

A million.”

Sara Collins (comedian) on the Remainer frustration that Labour leader Corbyn won’t take a stand against Brexit:

“Couldn’t we just tell Corbyn that Israel is behind Brexit?”

Trump ready to launch rockets on Iran:

“We were cocked and loaded.”

Raisa Carolan, a child survivor of the Chernobyl disaster who was adopted and now lives in Ireland, on the wave of tourism to Chernobyl following the hit TV show about the disaster:

“It’s disgraceful to all the people who died and sacrificed themselves so others could live, people need to think before they decide to take selfies.”

Owen McDonagh was a young Guard. I’d met him years before, when he worked as a cashier for Dunne’s. We’d become friendly discussing TV shows. I’d lent him Preacher, season one, and cemented a friendship. One day, as he was overwhelmed with customers being especially demanding, I’d asked,

“Ever think of another line of work?”

He asked,

“Any suggestions?”

I’d said without much consideration,

“You could do worse than join the Guards.”

He did.

I’d meant it as a casual off-the-cuff remark but he’d gone and joined. He’d recently been assigned to Galway and we met up from time to time. He loved being a Guard, reminded me of the long-ago time I’d had such aspirations. He tipped me off to various cases where my name was mentioned. Never in a good light, alas.

A Thursday, his day off, he’d phoned me, asked if we could meet. He had to be careful as a friendship with me was not a route to advancement in the force.

We met in the Crane Bar, not a place much favored by the cops. He’d been to the gym, was dressed in sweats, looking fit and fresh, not anything that could ever be remotely applied to my own self.

He was drinking pints of water after a vigorous workout; I was on pints as always. We did the usual catch-up but he had something on his mind, so I pushed.

“What’s up, Owen?”

He dithered for a while, then,

“The suspected arsonist Benjamin J. Cullen was found murdered.”

I immediately thought,

Keefer.

I asked,

“How? How was he killed?”

He said,

“His throat was cut.”

My mind roared.

Definitely Keefer. Or, God forbid, Sara? Or, heaven forbid, the both of them.

But Owen’s next words canceled that. He said,

“A mental patient staying with Cullen did the deed.”

I never expected that.

Nor, it seems, did Benjamin J.

Owen continued,

“I was one of the first responders, as Mr. Cullen had been thrown out his front door after his throat was cut. We found the accused sitting having scrambled eggs and...”

He had to pause to compose himself, then,

“He was using the knife to eat his eggs.”

Now Owen looked like he might throw up, said,

“I’ll never use ketchup again, at least not on eggs.”

I finally could put it off no longer; I had to see Keefer. He’d left the pickup truck at the rear of my apartment so I climbed in that, with a heavy heart, and at first I was nearly relieved when it didn’t start.

Thank fuck, I thought.

Tried again and the engine turned over, much in time to the heavy beat of my heart. I pulled into traffic and headed for the country.

My time on the farm with Keefer and the falcon had been one of the most peaceful episodes of my life in between the interludes of violence. I didn’t dwell on Jericho, who’d come to the farm to kill me. She never left the farm.

I listened to the radio. Jimmy Norman, now running Norman Media, was explaining his use of drones as a vital part of his media company. It was reassuring to hear of drones that were not part of U.S. foreign policy.

I got to the farm by noon, pulled up beside the small cottage to the back that had been my home, if briefly. I’d brought supplies.

Booze.

Steaks.

Chocolate. (For Sara? Maybe.)

And a pile of books from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop.

I wasn’t entirely sure if they were peace offerings/bribes/distraction or a blend of all three. A young woman came out of the main building. In her late twenties, I guessed, with long dark hair, sallow complexion, a serious expression, wearing faded jeans and a well-washed Rolling Stones T-shirt.

I got out of the truck, hazarded,

“Ceola?”

She smiled, a gorgeous one, and up close she smelled of patchouli and a sweet nature. She had a Romany vibe, more Gypsy than civilian. She said,

“Jack Taylor.”

And then she hugged me.

I don’t do hugs.

May be my generation, we didn’t come from the kind of families that expressed affection. The most you could hope for was,

“Don’t bring the Guards to our door!”

This hug was more desperate than affectionate. She whispered,

“Thank God you’re here.”

Keefer appeared, shouted,

“Hands off my chick, Taylor!”

Chick, like, fuck sakes.

He didn’t hug me.

He asked,

“So what brings you here?”

I reached into the truck, dragged out the box of supplies, said,

“Thought you might need re-up.”

He took the box, asked,

“Any bourbon in there?”

I said,

“Kentucky’s finest and some serious chocolate for the girls.”

He handed the box to Ceola, said,

“Put these away, lass, but break out the bourbon to welcome our guest.”

I didn’t see any sign of Sara. I asked,

“Where is our miracle girl?”

He gave me a look that was more warning than warmth, said,

“She’s out with the falcon, every hour of the day with that bird.”

I asked,

“Might we have a word in private?”

He gestured around the farm, said,

“Doesn’t get more private, pilgrim.”

I began,

“Benjamin J. Cullen was murdered, his throat cut.”

He took that in, then near exploded.

“You think I did it?”

Paused to catch his breath, then, in a tone of dripping sarcasm, continued,

“Or maybe the girl? Fuck sakes, she traveled to Galway, did the deed, then got herself back here, you dumb cracker, that what you think happened?”

I had to rein in my anger, then tried,

“I wasn’t finished. I was going to tell you they already have the man who did it.”

The air of violence was heavy around us. Few fights as bitter as friends who fall out. I breathed heavily and he sneered,

“Weren’t you hoping to tell me of the ex-priest who came to Ireland to find Sara, or was that to be the big reveal?”

That was the sad truth of it. I said nothing, so he said,

“That pious piece of shit was here, told me his insane theory about Sara. I put the shotgun in his face and pulled the trigger.”

I literally rocked back.

He let me reel like that until he said,

“I told him next time the shotgun will be loaded.”

Keefer looked over my shoulder. I turned to see Sara, the falcon perched on her arm. The sun behind them gave the appearance of a statue, carved in ice; both were motionless. It was hard to say where the bird ended, so close they seemed, like one lethal force. I noticed the scar in the shape of a crucifix below her jawline. It seemed to throb like a resentment.

Keefer smiled, said with a forced cheer,

“Sweetheart, look who’s come to visit you.”

A few tense moments, then she handed off the falcon to Keefer, who said,

“I’ll give you guys a moment.”

She stared at me for a time then moved toward me, arms outstretched. She was no longer the vulnerable child, if ever she had been, but was now a young woman, looking way more than the supposed fourteen, an air of supreme confidence about her.

She was fingering her neck and I realized she was in fact rubbing my daughter’s gold miraculous medal, then her arms went round me.

She leaned in real close, whispered,

“Fuck off, cunt.”