Galway Girl

Scott looked at himself in the mirror.

Saw:

Young man in his twenties,

Blond hair,

Scar along his left cheek, not blatant but noticeable,

Muscular build.

He said,

“No psycho vibe there.”

He lived in a house off Taylor’s Hill. His father, one of the first prominent Guards in the country, had bought it before the Celtic Tiger disaster.

Had said to Scott,

“When you join the Guards, you can live here, then just a smash ’n’ grab to the station.”

That was a vague attempt at humor. His father could be accused of many things and, indeed, in his long career, was accused of most, but humor, no.

He had serious plans for his retirement; death never occurred to him. He was washing his prized Audi when a thundering heart attack canceled his plans.

The funeral was a grand affair.

Lots of

Dignitaries,

Clergy,

Top brass.

Scott had to force himself not to puke when they handed the national flag to his mother after the burial. One of the numerous elite guys took Scott aside, whispered,

“Look, sorry you didn’t make it onto the force.”

Pause.

“But apply again. Maybe we can view you in a more favorable light.”

Scott stood back, gave the man his practiced stare, the one he believed was ice. He asked,

“You think maybe if I work very hard, shite on everyone, perhaps one day I might be like you, a sad cunt?”

The obscenity shocked the man. He’d heard almost every epithet in his long career, but in a graveyard? He tried with,

“I’m going to cut you some slack seeing as the day it is.”

Scott laughed, an eerie echoing sound among the headstones. He said,

“Cut me some slack? Dude, you are so far up your own arse you look like you couldn’t cut air.”

The man looked round for some of his troops. Nope, not a one; gone to the pub already. He decided to try the trusted older statesman gig, put his hand on Scott’s shoulder, said,

“Son, you are troubled, I get that. Now go home and say your prayers.”

Scott leaned back, made a gurgling throat sound as if he were drawing his very heart up, then spat full face on the man, said,

“Pray that.”

Scott didn’t immediately hit on killing Guards but the incident in the graveyard set the basis. In one of those weird moments of serendipity, he was stopped by a Guard ten minutes after leaving the cemetery, driving his father’s Audi.

Was he speeding?

Yeah, okay, a bit.

He pulled over and the Guard ambled toward him, did the circular finger motion as seen on cop shows. Scott resolved to bite down, keep it together.

The Guard asked,

“License and insurance.”

Fuck.

Scott tried,

“I’m coming from my dad’s burial.”

The Guard was chewing gum. Were they allowed that shit?

Asked,

“Did I ask you where you’d been?”

Scott felt that resolve dip a little, said,

“See, it’s my father’s car and—”

The Guard cut him off with,

“Out.”

Just that.

Designed to intimidate.

Scott began to open the door and the Guard slammed the door against him, then pulled Scott from the car, body-slammed him against the bonnet, muttered,

“Pup, think you own the world.”

Then cuffed Scott, who said,

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

Scott was duly booked, appeared in court, got banned from driving.

He glared at the judge,

“I didn’t do anything.”

The judge threw in six months for what he called impertinence.

Scott was beyond outrage, screamed,

“You daft bollix, that’s not impertinence, this is!”

Launched into a tirade of abuse.

Got an extra six months.

Plus a beating from a Guard when they took him down.

All in all, he served fourteen months.

Jail changed him utterly.

Word was out that he was the son of a Guard, so daily humiliations, hidings, abuse were his lot. Eventually, he toughened up, did the gym and worked on perfecting a nasty streak, learned the power of a psycho rep.

If asked by a new guy,

“What did you do?”

As in, why are you here?

He said simply,

“Guards.”

On the day of his release the warden gave him what he liked to think of as

The motivational speech.

A mix of self-help shite infused with smatterings of Dr. Phil, Reader’s Digest nuggets of wisdom, and his own distilled philosophy of “no one is truly lost.”

Scott stood before him, a sphinx of unknowing, waited.

The warden asked,

“So, young Scott, have you plans?”

Scott swallowed spittle, said deadpan,

“Yes, sir, a major plan of action.”

The warden grinned, said,

“Splendid. Might I inquire further?”

Scott stared at him for a long moment, then,

“I am going to show the world my true worth.”

The warden wavered, wondered if he was missing something, suggested,

“Do tell.”

Scott was tempted but he did need his release, so said,

“Service to the community.”

Ah.

The warden gave him bus fare, an envelope containing enough to maybe pay for a burger, stood, said,

“I wish you the best of luck, young man.”

Scott said,

“Luck has very little to do with it. It’s all about determination.”

Again, the warden wondered if there was a subtext.

Outside Scott breathed the air, said,

“Determined? Oh, yes, to kill as many Guards as counts.”

For two years Scott worked, if such a term can be used, as an escort. A new flourishing biz for the new flourishing older lady.

Or, indeed, gentleman.

Scott had the looks and the careful cultivated air of an abandoned puppy.

His plan was to acquire sufficient funds, a safe base to launch his enterprise, all the while stoking his homicidal obsession.

The business he was engaged in eroded any traces of humanity that might still have lingered. If prison had fueled his rage, the escort trade added utter contempt to the mix.

The most valuable lesson he learned was to charm in full sight.

Scott rewrote the old truism on how to succeed.

Like this:

1..... Steal freely

   2..... Kill randomly

      3..... Get with a Galway girl

He stared at those lines,

Smiled, said,

“See? Sense of humor.”

Then the brain wave:

A Galway girl.

Wait for it—

“Who is a Guard!”

He had studied all the serial killer books, novels, and decided to leave a cryptic note after each kill, give a touch of mystique, and get the media hot.

Later, he’d abandon the notes he composed in Irish for the simple reason he got bored with it and, more important, he ran out of Irish; his education in his native tongue had been sporadic at best.