Galway Girl

Horses.

I was leaning on the corral fence, admiring the gorgeous animals.

A chestnut mare and a black stallion — they seemed perfect, like what you’d find on a box of Milk Tray. Keefer came up from the left, Jones as always loping beside him.

He was dressed in a denim jacket, torn not for fashion but from actual age, black combat pants and the dusty motorcycle boots, a black T with the near illegible Exile on Main Street. He looked like a Hell’s Angel, if those dudes ever smiled, said,

“They’re not mine.”

I laughed, asked,

“What, you’re a rustler too?”

His smile vanished and Jones tensed, alert to his owner’s every mood. Keefer said,

“They belong to a friend. His other ones have been stolen.”

I was a little skeptical, asked,

“Rustlers?”

A touch more sneer than intended leaked over the question. He gave me a look that was not aggressive but in the vicinity, said,

“A gang from the North, they steal to order...”

Paused, spat in the dirt, added,

“Those two are on their list.”

I asked,

“Are they a worry, I mean, like dangerous?”

He lit a Camel, unfiltered, didn’t offer one, showing he was angry, said,

“If beating one of the owner’s crew half to death with pickaxes qualifies, I dunno, what in the city” — the word dripping with contempt — “you class as dangerous but, out here, we think that qualifies.”

Jones had fixed me with an intense stare, the one that said,

I kind of liked you, but now...

We had breakfast in silence; fry-up:

Sausages

Double eggs (over easy, said Keefer)

Soda bread

Beans

And a gallon of coffee.

If we drank out of tin cups, we’d have been the complete Clint Eastwood western, bar us wearing Colts on our hips.

I said,

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Apologizing is not natural to me and I stumbled over the words. Keefer was very quiet, feeding bits of bacon to Jones who, for a German shepherd, took the food as gently as if he were in a James Herriot book. Keefer’s gaze was focused on the large front window, opening out to the woods. He finally said,

“She’s buried out there.”

That will kill a breakfast cold.

It did.

The she was his wife.

He said no more about it.

That night, instead of us drinking and chatting until the small hours, he said he was tired, the bad vibe lingering. I went to my own cabin, read,

Keith Nixon

Ger Brennan

Hilary Davidson

Late, I finished off a Jay, turned in.

I think I was dreaming of my dead daughter when I was wrenched from sleep by two loud bangs. I knew the sound.

Shotgun.

I grabbed my hurley and, in just a T, underpants, and socks, ran outside.

Keefer was down, Jones on his side beside him, two men kicking the bejaysus out of Keefer, a third pulling the stallion into a horse trailer.

Without a word I was on the first guy, walloped him on the head. The other turned and, using the long swing, I took his knees out. The guy at the trailer let the horse go, reached for a hatchet, came at me, swearing,

“Where the fuck did you come out of?”

He swung the hatchet, which I sidestepped. I moved in low, smashed his face with the hurley, then stood back, adrenaline deafening me. The three were moaning, crying but not getting up, so I moved to Keefer, helped him stand. His face was bloody, one of his arms useless, but he was conscious, muttered,

“Check on the dog.”

The dog was dead.

The shotgun had near obliterated his head.

I threw the shotgun as far as I could into the woods, having ejected the cartridges.

I got Keefer inside, did some makeshift first aid, gave him some painkillers and a large glass of brandy. I heard a jeep start up, ran outside to see the men take off without the horses.

I buried Jones, then went back inside, got Keefer into bed.

I checked on the falcon, and then went back outside to round up the horses.

Stopped to grab a breath at the place where Keefer had lain, said,

“The countryside is losing its appeal.”

Keefer wasn’t doing so well. I said,

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

He shook his head, pointed to his journal, made of well-worn leather, the Stones’ logo on the front, said,

“On the back page there’s a number. Call, tell him I’m hurt.”

I called the number, waited, then it was answered, heard a guarded,

“Yeah?”

I said,

“Keefer is hurt.”

“Twenty minutes.”

Click.

Okay. Fuckit, I could do curt.

Sure as shooting, a van showed up on the twenty. A man in his fifties, dressed in a beaten wax coat, not Barbour, flat cap, Wellingtons.

He walked towards me.

I said,

“He’s inside.”

He threw me a look of contempt, as if I thought he thought the man could be anywhere else. He was carrying a black case, went in.

I followed.

He examined Keefer, snapped at me,

“Get a bowl of hot water, clean towels.”

Paused, looked around, amended,

“As clean as possible”

Two hours later, he emerged from the room, his hands swathed in blood.

I pointed to the bathroom, he went in, and — what? — he was whistling.

Emerged, ready to roll, handed me a bottle of pills, said,

“He had a serious cut across his eye, so leave the eye patch there for a day or two. I’ve made a splint to support his busted leg. Try to dissuade him from walking.”

He paused, concerned, then,

“The knife wounds, they are a worry.”

What?

I asked,

“Knife wounds?”

He looked at me like I was an ejit, said,

“I counted seven wounds. Where the hell were you when they were knifing your mate?”

I was well tired of this prick and his condescension. I said,

“Hurling.”

His head snapped round, reevaluating me, then,

“Is that even a sport?”

I could play, said,

“Depends which county you support.”

I looked at the pills, said,

“Jeez, these seem very big.”

He sighed, said,

“Of course. They’re horse tranquilizers.”

Took me a minute, then the penny dropped. I said,

“You’re a veterinarian.”

He pulled on his wax coat, sneered,

“Well detected, Sherlock.”

The next few days I tended to Keefer, changed the dressings, fed him, slowly at first; my specialty:

Irish stew

Real gravy

Carrots

Shitload of good veg

Spuds

And a wee taste of Jameson.

He was able to move to the couch in the front room, give me pointers on the falcon. I was getting better, the falcon finally responding to me and, no shit, but I felt a glow of achievement.

To see it soar, so high it was nigh invisible, then shaping itself like a missile, it dived at 200 mph to hit prey. I was chilled and filled with awe — awe in the biblical sense.

Keefer was recovering rapidly and I said so. He went,

“You tour with the Stones, you become bulletproof or roadkill.”

He lit a spliff, drew deep, said,

“Before the awful events at Altamont, Jagger was about to launch into ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’” he said.

“Strange shit happens whenever we do this song and, sure enough, all hell — Hell’s Angel — style — ensued.”

I said nothing. What was there to say?

He continued,

“The other day, first time in over twenty years, I played that cursed song.”

I laughed nervously, said,

“Come on, there’s no connection.”

A knock at the door.

Keefer said,

“See? I mentioned that bloody song.”

I grabbed the hurley, opened the door.

Now, of all the specters I might have anticipated, I never foresaw a

“Priest.”

Keefer roared,

“Jeez, how bad am I, you sent for the priest?”

Malachy,

Who breezed past me, stared at Keefer, demanded,

“Who are you?”

Keefer sat up, laughed, said,

“I think you have that assways, Padre. Who the fuck are you?”

Christ, the whole scene was so insane I wanted to laugh. I said,

“This is Father Malachy, bishop-elect of Galway.”

Malachy turned when he heard a sound from the falcon. He sneered,

“A bloody parrot. Who has a parrot?”

Keefer managed to stand, using my hurley as a crutch. I asked Malachy,

“How’d you find me?”

He looked at me with disdain, said,

“No one can hide from the Church.”

Keefer said,

“And no one can hide people better.”

Malachy sized up Keefer, summarized,

“I don’t much like your tone, laddie.”

Then he turned to me, snapped,

“Where’s your manners? Don’t you offer a guest a drink?”

Keefer said,

“Our last guests were lucky to get away alive.”

This might have increased in hostility save for a poster.

On the wall was Jagger, looking ethereal in what appeared to be a floaty white blouse. He looked very young. Malachy gasped, went

“Is that the Hyde Park concert for Brian Jones?”

Keefer was astonished, nodded yes, asked,

“You were there?”

Malachy, lost in happy recall, mumbled,

“Oh, yeah.”

I butted in,

“But you’re a priest — were/are.”

Malachy, still rapturous, said,

“I was a novice, visiting my aunt and my uncle. He was a Stones superfan.”

Keefer, delighted, asked,

“After that, you still went ahead and became a priest?”

A hint of stubborn admiration leaked over his tone.

Malachy, suddenly sad, said,

“I couldn’t disappoint my mam.”

Fuck, that mam was heartwrenching, from a grown man about to be a bishop.

Malachy soon dispelled that feeling by rounding on me.

“Not all of us bitterly disappointed their mothers.”

Keefer got a bottle of Maker’s Mark, poured liberal amounts, asked,

“A toast?”

Malachy said,

“To rock ’n’ roll.”

They drank.

I was feeling very much the odd man out at this Stones reunion. Malachy asked,

“What is Keith really like?”

Jesus.

I thought,

Enough already.

Keefer, in mighty form, disclosed,

“A bit of a pagan.”

Malachy was delighted, said,

“Sure, that’s what keeps my crowd in business.”

Even the falcon seemed to be cooing.

Keefer hobbled over to the bookcase, carefully slid out an album from his cherished vinyl collection, the Stones one with the cover of a pair of jeans, an actual zipper on the front — designed by Warhol.

Keefer, with reverence, intoned,

“One of the very few albums the entire band signed. Mick was tight on keeping merchandise closed down.”

He handed it to Malachy like the keys to a city. Malachy, full of devilment due to the booze and an actual good time, asked,

“What would happen if I pulled that zipper down?”

He was like a child shocking his own self.

I decided to rain heavily on this fucking parade, said,

“Ye’d cover it up, as usual.”

Keefer said,

“Phew, downer.”

I stared at Malachy, demanded,

“Why are you here?”

His face was that of a spoiled child whose ice cream has been swiped from him. He said,

“I’ve a good mind not to tell you.”

“Good,”

I said.

“So fuck off or out with it.”

A tense silence, then Keefer said, in his gee shucks voice,

“Man, come on, dude, what’s the gig?”

Malachy, still smarting, said,

“There’s a bounty on Taylor’s head.”

I asked,

“How much?”

“A thousand euros.”

Keefer was taken aback, said,

“That’s all? Fuck, that’s like...”

Groped for a derogatory term, found,

“Insulting.”

Malachy explained,

“There’s a mad bitch who first leeched off my sister, then had her killed.

“She is some sort of she-devil. I’d say she’s Protestant.

“She blames Taylor for all the woes of her life so she set the bounty for word on his whereabouts.”

He added,

“I’m tempted to tell her my own self now.”

Before I could comment, he added,

“She has a sidekick, name of Stapleton, out on bail.

“Who imagines this? Hates Taylor, too.”

Keefer lit up a spliff, said,

“Guess I’ll go and collect that bounty my own self.”

Malachy prepared to leave, said to me,

“You better stay in the country.”

Then grudgingly added,

“I’ll pray for you.”

He shook Keefer’s hand, said,

“‘Twas a joy to meet you.”

Keefer, equally delighted, said,

“I’ll vote for you as bishop.”

Malachy looked crestfallen, said,

“The people don’t get a vote.”

Keefer could have said,

“See, that’s the problem right there.”

But he let it slide.

After Malachy’s departure, Keefer gave me the look, asked,

“How much do you think Jericho will like the country?”

I nearly smiled, said,

“Not a whole lot, I’m thinking.”