Galway Confidential

36

The country in deep mourning after a terrible accident. In Donegal, a petrol station in the center of a small town exploded, ten people were killed.

Each day saw one of the funerals pass through the town. It united the country, North and South, in a way not seen for a decade.

In Ukraine, Putin’s symbolic new bridge linking Crimea was destroyed by Ukraine forces. It was a fresh humiliation for Putin, who was running low on troops, supplies, and his country short on food. He threatened even closer to nuclear options.

Inflation was running at an all-time high, and people were unable to pay the huge new gas and fuel bills. A government minister suggested the population wear vests! The church whined that they were unable to heat the churches and that shorter Masses would be introduced, and the congregation could wear those vests.

A whistleblower reveals that for more than thirty years, Irish dancing competitions for young girls have been fixed. The country truly let out a collective gasp of...

      Is nothing, nothing f— sacred?

Nope.

I took the dog for a long walk, through the Spanish Arch then up to the Wolfe Tone bridge, the spot where I’d been stabbed. I turned toward The Claddagh Church, moving along the quay where the swans gathered. The dog stopped and gazed in wonder at the birds. The swans took no notice of him, dogs were of no advantage in their existence.

An old fisherman sitting on the quay bench watched me, asked,

“What kind of mutt is that?”

I told him and he made a sound that was not approving. He said,

“There was a time, people got some color of mongrel and paid little heed to it. Now they are buying coats for them.”

As I walked away, he shouted,

“Get a real dog for fucksakes!”

I walked along by the Connemara Road until I reached Grattan Road. And a joy to let the dog off the leash and fly across the beach. There was a strong wind, and it took me a moment to realize my name was being called.

Rachel, with her dog.

She looked terrific, wearing one of those Belle crew weather jackets. In the distance, they look like leather. She had faded blue jeans tucked into suede boots.

She made me feel shabby.

She asked,

“How are you, Jack?”

I spoke,

“I feel shabby.”

She laughed, replied,

“You sure behaved shabby.”

I figured I might go for the truth, see where it led.

I said,

“The man who approached you, said he was my brother, he’s a stone-cold psycho, he has been attacking nuns and he has threatened to harm you. I thought if I cut off contact with you, it might keep you safe.”

She listened intently and didn’t seem unduly alarmed, she reached in her bag, took out a silver flask, said,

“Call this a Jack Taylor move.”

And she offered me the flask. I took it, drank deep, and phew-oh, it nigh knocked me on my arse. I asked,

“The hell is that?”

She took a drink herself and seemed to take it without effect. She said,

“It’s a concoction my father used to make, so I’m continuing a tradition.”

I looked out at the ocean; the dogs were having a high old time in the surf.

She was quiet for a time, then asked,

“Have you heard of Edge?”

I asked,

“Like the guitarist in U2?”

Then I added,

“Two or three times I have heard it, one of those urban myths that do the rounds.”

I vaguely recalled talk of a vigilante crew, and the lawyer Brown had mentioned them, but the stories were always shrouded in rumor and innuendo. Even the Mother Superior had dismissed them.

Trip came running up the beach, shook himself at my feet, and covered me in sea spray.

Rachel took another swig from the flask, began,

“Edge is a group of people who term themselves the last resort. When justice has failed or is unable to act for some reason, Edge steps in. But, and it’s a huge but, they must be asked. In return, they demand a favor in the future.”

I asked,

“Who are they?”

She took a deep breath then, said,

        “Doctors,

            “Guards,

                “Politicians,

                     “Citizens,

                          “Soldiers.”

Her dog came bounding across the sand and she greeted him like she’d never seen him before. I liked that, a lot.

She said,

“People who’ve reached the end of their patience with the justice system and are literally crying out for help, Edge steps in.”

She took a deep breath and her dog folded itself into her as if sensing her disturbance. She continued,

“My son, Conor, seventeen years old, was killed by a drunk driver, a man named Trenton, who was driving an Audi. He hit my son so hard that my boy’s body was almost in two.”

She stopped, produced the flask, and drank deep, handed it to me, said,

“I’m sorry, I’m usually more in control. Trenton was given a suspended sentence and community service. He still drank...”

Pause.

“And drove.”

She composed herself.

“A man approached me, said he could help deliver justice for me, and sometime later, I might provide a small service for his organization, named Edge. I agreed instantly. I was insane with grief; I’d have agreed to anything if it eased the anguish.”

She continued,

“A month after, Trenton was found hanging in Barna woods, the keys to a new Audi at his dangling feet.”

The dogs were flat out, knackered from their play. I felt knackered my own self.

We sat in silence until I asked,

“Did they ask you for a favor?”

“Yes.”

I waited.

She shook herself as if rearranging her bearing. She said,

“They asked me to contact you.”