Galway Confidential

25

I met Owen Daglish in Busker Brownes, famous for its Sunday morning jazz sessions. I’d been meaning to go for years but Sunday mornings usually found me trying to recover from something.

Owen looked tired, the situation with the refugees from Ukraine was putting a strain on the Guards.

I’d ordered him a pint and the barman were just creaming the head of it when Owen sat down. He said,

“The force just got five hundred new recruits, of all nationalities. It is becoming a multiracial outfit.”

I told him about the tip from Galway Confidential that led us to thinking we might catch the nun attacker. He put his pint down, gave me a strange look, and I asked,

“What?”

He shook his head, asked,

“What’s Galway Confidential?”

I thought he was joking but he wasn’t.

“It’s a very popular podcast with more than twenty thousand listeners.”

He signaled to the barman to fix up fresh pints, then turned to me, said

“There’s no such thing.”

Galway Confidential didn’t exist and the shock of that led me to question everything. Just who the hell was Raftery and what was his game? I knew nothing about him. I had taken literally everything he told me on trust.

And where did that leave his story of Galway Confidential knowing who the nun assailant was? It was all lies. The main question being why? I was in my apartment a few days later and the doorbell went. I opened it to Raftery. He came in and I was friendly, poured him a drink, let him get comfortable, then asked,

“How is Galway Confidential going?”

He had but a moment of doubt but that moved fast on his face, and he said,

“Good, the figures are up so that will lead to new advertising.”

Jesus.

I asked,

“Where is it located on the wavelength? Give me the coordinates so I can listen.”

He looked at me, assessed the situation.

“Why now, Jack? You never showed a whole load of interest before.”

I said in a neutral tone,

“You’re my good friend, sat by my bed when I was in a coma, you’re always there for me so the least I can do is show an interest. Like, where do you live?”

He was sitting facing me, and within the space of a few minutes his whole appearance altered. The bonhomie was replaced by an expression of pure ice, his eyes were like granite. He put his glass carefully on the table, said,

“Time to back the fuck off now, Jack.”

I was on my feet, bewildered, tried,

“Who the hell are you?”

He said,

“Ah, Jack, I had hoped the charade could last a little longer, least until I killed the last of the nuns.”

Floored me.

I fumbled for words, and he reached for the bottle of Jay, poured me a measure, handed it to me, and in shock, I simply took it, downed it. He said,

“The day on the bridge, when the lunatic stabbed you, it was a revelation to me, I’d saved a life. Especially then, as I was planning my campaign against the nuns. So, I began to visit you, you’d piqued my fascination. Then you came out of the coma, and the whole situation, it was such a mind fuck, I stayed with it. Galway Confidential is something I thought might fly so I ran it by you, and you bought it absolutely.”

Of all the things I could have asked I began with the biggest.

“Why are you killing nuns?”

He poured himself a drink, began,

“I could give you a sad convoluted story of childhood abuse, throw in a Magdalene laundry reference, but the truth is, I like it. It’s so wonderfully blasphemous. The thing is now, Jack, what are you going to do?”

Maybe it was the Jay or shock, but I said,

“I’m going to bury you.”

He laughed as he asked,

“What might you put on my headstone?”

I said,

“Galway Confidential.”

“Who can you tell, Jack? I mean, it’s a crazy story and your credibility is never high. Plus, the evidence for me being your best mate is all there.”

With that, he turned to leave, added,

“Nun but the brave.”

And was gone.

He was right — who’d believe me? I phoned Sheila and had to fast say,

“Don’t hang up.”

“Better be good.”

“It’s about the nuns.”

She told me she was down at The Claddagh, walking along the shoreline, and she’d meet me there. I got my Garda coat, headed out. I spotted her down near Nimmo’s Pier and walked to meet her. She was dressed for wind-walking and her face had that healthy glow that comes in from the bay. She was not pleased to see me.

I said,

“I think we should sit down for this.”

She didn’t.

There was no easy way to tell it, so I began,

“I know who attacked the nuns.”

“You’ve solved it.”

I wanted the glory, course I did, but I told her the truth, said,

“Not exactly, the attacker told me.”

She said,

“I need to sit down.”

We found a vacant bench along the pier, we sat, and she looked at me with something like rage.

“Just tell me.”

So I did.

I went through the whole scenario and how, when I confronted Raftery, he literally just told me. Her face was a riot of horror, fright, anger, confusion, and she went,

“Why?”

I wished I had some pat answer, but the truth was he did it because he wanted to. Why did he want to? Because he was an evil bastard.

When I had finished, I waited for her response, she was silent for ages, just staring out at the swans. A mother swan was trailing her cygnets in a straight line, a picture of beauty and even peace.

Finally, Sheila spoke,

“There’s one thing to do now.”

I was about to lay out how going to the Guards was a waste of time without evidence, but before I could start my lame litany, she said,

“You are going to kill him.”