Galway Confidential

10

Scott Williams was sixteen years old and vicious for every one of those years. Cruelty was his gig. He was a good-looking kid, could have passed for a minor Brad Pitt. His cruelty was matched by his superciliousness.

Early in his teens, he had learned to hide his true nature. He had been caught trapping a cat and barely managed to escape serious repercussions. If he hadn’t been caught, he would have set the animal on fire.

His neighborhood was almost completely free of felines due to his earlier efforts. Helping with his narrow escape was money.

Shitloads of it.

An only child, his mother adored him, and both she and her husband were fuck-the-world rich.

The cat woman whose pet had been trapped got a fat check for her silence and she used it to buy a dog. She named the dog Rich.

Scott had a buddy, a boy named Tony Wren, from a middle-class background, fourteen years of age and, according to his teachers, the boy was slow. Cancel culture had recently made an issue of the r-word.

Tony had come across Scott when Scott had just trapped one of his early cats. Scott had the animal in a net when Tony came upon them; he asked,

“Whatcha doing?”

Scott looked at the boy. He knew him from school and had heard he was a nutjob.

Instinct played a large part in what ensued.

Scott produced a gold lighter and a can of lighter fluid, looked at Tony, and asked,

“Wanna play?”

No one had ever asked Tony to play. Scott was smiling at him, and it made Tony feel like a player. He said,

“You betcha.”

Scott handed him the lighter, said,

“You gotta be fast. I’m going to release the little bastard, douse him, and you have to get him before he bolts, got it?”

The cat was released, and Tony missed him, fumbled the lighter. He expected wrath from Scott, who said,

“No biggie, I have more.”

And he did.

On the third attempt, Tony got it right and lit up the poor animal; the screeches from the creature delighted Scott.

Tony not so much.

But he faked it, said,

“Awesome.”

Folie à deux, the shrinks call it, when two psychos hook up, like the Hillside Stranglers. Usually in this lethal pairing, one is the alpha male. The other is like a brainwashed follower but fully cognizant of their deeds.

Over the following weeks, they embarked on a series of events.

Bullying of younger children.

More animals.

Burglaries.

And building up a supply of booze pinched from Scott’s father’s well-stocked cabinet. Scott had a shed at the bottom of their lavish garden, gift from Daddy, and they turned it into their den of iniquity. Books lined one wall, all detailing Columbine and other school shootings.

They didn’t have access to guns but lived in sick hope.

Scott had secured the basement tapes in which the Columbine killers sneered.

Snarled.

Planned.

Murder and mayhem.

They watched it a hundred times.

A Saturday afternoon, they were drinking Southern Comfort, shooting the breeze. Tony, always anxious to impress Scott, said,

“Shall we get some cats?”

Scott, built-in sneer in place, said,

“It’s getting a little old, time to move up.”

Tony didn’t know what that meant, asked,

“How’d you mean?”

Scott smiled.

“People.”

That scared Tony but a part of him thrilled to it. He asked,

“Who do we burn?”

Scott stared at him, thought,

Fucking loser.

Said,

“I hate winos.”

Scott didn’t share that he had once tried to piss on a homeless person who was far from a victim and got his arse seriously kicked.

That evening, they prowled Eyre Square, lots of potential targets but in groups. Scott imagined dousing the lot of them and having a sensational inferno, contented himself with,

“Later.”

They found a woman slumped in a doorway, near Merchants Road, and there was little foot traffic. Scott said,

“Let’s heat her up.”

But Tony had only enough petrol to douse her legs and Scott snarled,

“You are a fucking idiot.”

Tony felt the lash as if he’d been whipped. He asked,

“Shall we just leave her?”

Scott rolled his eyes, produced a box of matches, struck one.

“Time to burn, bitch.”

Raftery had saved my life and yet I knew fuck all about him.

We were having a quiet pint in Garavan’s, and I asked,

“Who are you really?”

He said,

“Not to give you a short answer but I’m rich.”

I drained half my pint, it was one of the rich, creamy ones, why we drink it. I asked,

“What the hell does that mean?”

He signaled for a fresh round, turned to me.

“Jack, being rich means never having to explain.”

“That is horseshit. You know just about everything about me, so unless you share some stuff, I’m out of here.”

He considered this, then,

“I’m half-Irish on my mother’s side, the very rich side. I worked as an accountant after the Marines, then my mum died and left me shed loads of property. Now I run a podcast.”

What?

He explained that to me and said it was titled:

Galway Confidential.

I asked,

“And what, people listen to you?”

He gave a large smile.

“Thirty thousand and change.”

I was puzzled, pushed,

“But there are other podcasts out there, right?”

His smile faltered. He said,

“A few.”

I was no nearer comprehension.

“So why listen to you?”

He thought about it, then said,

“Crime, I report on that.”

A thought hit me.

“Any money in it?”

He gave a satisfied smile, said,

“We have a steady stream of revenue, it spiked when you were the topic.”

I didn’t know if this was a good thing.

“So, people cared?”

He shrugged.

“They were interested but that’s a long way from actual caring.”

Asked and bluntly answered.

He asked me how the hunt for the nun assailant was progressing.

I said,

“Going nowhere, there hasn’t been an attack for a few weeks so maybe he’s gone away.”

He said,

“You don’t believe that.”

True.

A new strain of the virus was sweeping the world, named Omicron. Almost immediately scare stories abounded.

It spread faster than Delta, more virulent, immune to the vaccines.

Talk of returning to the severe restrictions were fast circulating.

Thirty hurricanes swept through the southern states of America, Kentucky was the worst hit. Sky News was showing scenes of utter devastation.

Raftery said to me,

“See, you legalize abortion and God unleashes plagues upon the world.”

I gave him a long look, said,

“Didn’t have you down as a religious fanatic.”

He gave a sad laugh, said,

“Oh, Jack, this isn’t about religion, this is about retribution.”

I had no answer to that. Is there one?