Callous

Kate Mitchell surveyed her new home in the Claddagh, Galway. She’d arrived a week earlier and was in a shell-shocked state still. The cottage had been vandalized, the utilities shut off. Rain pelted down as if it were personal.

But the locals were friendly.

Most said,

“Sell it, get a nice apartment.” Like fuck.

Her determination impressed them and they told her/helped her with the Utilities

Builders

Cleaners.

One of them said,

“You’re the spit of that opera singer.”

She smiled through gritted teeth, heard,

“That girl-een had a fine voice.”

OK, if it ingratiated her to the neighborhood, she could suck it up.

For now.

She thus learned the use of “—een.”

Man-een

Woman-een

Hand-een.

It was used to either diminish or build up a subject or person, to reduce to less fearsome size or even for affection, as in “girl-een.”

The Irish version of English took some getting used to.

She hadn’t yet mastered the ubiquitous fierce.

The weather was fierce.

Life could be fierce good or the exact opposite.

Kate settled for winging it, fall back on being American when language failed. A woman said to her,

“We like Americans...”

Pause.

“Again.”

Whoa, talk about fuckin’ loaded! But Kate, no slouch in verbal warfare, said sweetly,

“Oh my, that is such a relief.”

Thinking,

Take that, bitch.

You grew up on the streets of Brooklyn, with an Irish mother on point; a passive-aggressive shopkeeper was going to diss you?

Sure.

She went to see her lawyer, a guy in his sixties, all suit and fuss, no class. He offered tea, laughed, corrected, coffee?

Kate let a silence hold, to echo how that question sounded. And she let a little hard into her tone, said,

“Could I have coffee without being patronized?”

A beat.

Then he smiled, said,

“Your aunt will never be dead.”

After Kate had signed all the deeds, the lawyer sat back, surveyed her with a cold eye, then he said,

“Would you like me to help with the sale of the house?”

She was genuinely shocked, went,

“Sale?”

He did a movement with his mouth which suggested he had a bad taste in there, or even...

Even.

That he might be about to spit.

Which would be a very bad move before a woman like Kate. Instead, he cleared his throat, said,

“Young single woman like yerself, take the money, travel, enjoy the freedom.”

His face had an expression dangerously close to a leer. Kate said,

“I’m confused. Did I give you the impression I wanted your advice?”

Now he bristled, said,

“Wiser heads, you know.”

She said,

“Pity my brother Colin isn’t here.”

The lawyer felt in control again, smirked,

“He’d be the sensible one?”

Kate stood up, said,

“He’s a marine. He’d put you through the window for talking like you have to a woman.”

He picked up a pen, said,

“We’re done here.”

She leaned over, said,

“You’re a fierce man-een.”

Kate was waiting for an hour in the Guards station until finally a detective summoned her to a small office. He was in his bad mid-forties, going bald, with bloodshot eyes, a reek of stale alcohol seeping from his pores.

His nameplate said Det. Clarke.

He looked at Kate with mild distaste, but that might have been due to his hangover. He said,

“Kate Millet?”

She snapped,

“Mitchell, Kate Mitchell.”

He stared at his notes, asked,

“You sure? Says Millet here.”

He leaned back in his chair, asked,

“What can I do for you?”

She took a deep breath, said,

“My aunt was murdered. I’m wondering what’s been done.”

He seemed mildly confused, said,

“Done?”

Phew-oh.

She counted to ten and then on the outbreath said,

“Any suspects, any sign of a motive? You know, police stuff.”

He took another glance at his notes, then,

“Inquiries are ongoing.”

She stood up, snarled,

“So, like nothing, then.”

He gave a sly smile, said,

“I’m not at liberty to reveal details of a current investigation.”

She said,

“Bite me.”

Outside, she fumed, felt the draw of the heroin bliss but shook herself, wanted a kick-ass drink but forced herself to take a long walk. Ended up on Nimmo’s Pier.

Gazed out at the ocean, feeling a deep sense of loneliness. Heard footsteps behind her, didn’t turn. A man’s voice.

“Hope I’m not intruding.”

Then he came alongside. He was tall, in his thirties, maybe, bald with sallow skin, dressed all in black, but very expensive clothes. She knew quality, as when you can’t afford it, you are keenly aware of it. Just one of life’s little fuck-yous.

His accent was part American, part UK English. She gave him the full appraisal, said,

“You look like a crow.”

He gave a small smile, said,

“A raven, perhaps.”

He put out his hand, manicured hands, but strong, said,

“I’m Dio.”

She sighed, said,

“A name as ridiculous as your outfit.”

He let that slide, said,

“You are, I believe, Kate Mitchell.”

She shot him a look but he countered, fast, said,

“My apologies but this Claddagh is like a village. An American is known.”

Something in his tone had a whisper of menace. She said,

“Take a hike, fella.”

He gave a delighted smile, said,

“Such spirit de, del corazón.”

She put her hands on her hips, spat,

“Try this: fuck off.”

Then she noticed in his finely tailored jacket the tip of a paperback, did a double-take.

She’d recognize that book anywhere.

Near shouted,

“Is that a Sara Gran book?”

He took out the book slowly.

Indeed,

Sara Gran.

The very first Claire DeWitt adventure!

Instead of raging anger, she felt a desperate need for a fix.

Just shoot up. Don’t even try to figure out this weird shit.

He said, with almost a sheepish grin — not that sheepish was anywhere, ever, in his genetic code — but he could wing it, kind of,

“I must confess, you are not unknown to me, Kate Mitchell.”

You grow up in Brooklyn, survive the streets there as a functioning junkie, very little in this fucked-up world would flatten you.

His words did.

She reeled back and he reached out to catch her. She spat,

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.” He loved that.

Just fucking loved it.

He said,

“Forgive my presumption, but I know we are destined to be together.”

She had heard some shit in her time and most of it from her own family, but this guy!

I mean, for fuck sakes, was she to have no peace, having traveled across the ocean?

Then,

She made a dreadful mistake.

Understandable to an extent, perhaps, with the stress she was feeling, but in light of the fallout not forgivable. She snapped,

“You better not let my boyfriend hear this shite.”

She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she had met a man of vague interest. Mike Shaw, an Irish version of a surfer dude, if such a thing even hints at sanity. He ran a sailing school out of the bay adjacent to the Claddagh.

He wore sweaters that would have looked fine in any episode of Nordic Noir, very faded jeans, wild scraggy mop of blond hair and, in total contrast, neatly trimmed beard. He liked to smoke spliffs, took the world very much with an air of utter disdain, and seemed to find Kate, as he put it,

“One splendid example of a spirited woman.” Who could resist?

So, OK, nothing really hot had gone down yet, but it was there, in the air, the fun dance of flirting with a person who made your pulse race.

Dio’s face mutated into something very evil, very ugly. He said, very quietly,

“Woman, do not toy with me.”

She mistakenly misread this as some degree of capitulation and couldn’t resist rubbing his sinister face in it, said,

“Michael is a Viking to your...”

Stalled.

Searching for a suitably scurrilous comparison, found, unfortunately,

“Pitiful punk act.”

Dio didn’t reply, simply rubbed his face with both hands as if she’d spat at him. Then turned, strode away.