In the Galway Silence

Jean and Claude Renaud were twins.

Terrible twins.

Truly.

Les enfants terribles.

Their father was French and the mother from Galway.

On their eighteenth birthday they were given matching sports cars. That neither could drive was neither here nor there. The father had made a greedy fortune from one of the first hedge funds in Ireland and was cute enough to get out before the ax fell. He then invested in property and made more.

Instead of being jailed, he was made a Freeman of the City.

The twins on the said birthday went on a massive pub crawl.

Ingested

Ecstasy

Speed

Coke

Jack Daniel’s.

And did it bring them any joy?

Nope.

Just added to their sense of entitlement. Barred from the clubs along Quay Street, they headed for the Spanish Arch, seeking aggravation. Saw a man huddled in a wheelchair on the edge of the pier. Jean said,

“Let’s fuck with the retard.”

Claude shouted,

“Hey, spastic!”

Jean came up behind the chair as Claude came from the front. There was a moment of utter quiet, then the man lashed out and caught Claude in the groin, and then he was out of the chair and hit Jean with the flat of his hand in the throat. Moving quickly, he bundled them forcibly into the chair and secured them with duct tape, grabbed Jean’s mouth and applied a liberal dose of superglue to his lips, then the same to Claude.

Finally, he took a sign wrapped in cellophane, attached it to the back of the twins, stood back, and, with a firm push, sent them into the water.

He waited as the water settled over their frenzied thrashing and, satisfied that he could read the sign, turned on his heel, strolled away.

1

I was happy.

Unbelievable as that sounds.

I had endured just about every trauma there is and had reached the point of suicide, and then,

Things got worse.

I was friends with a nun, which is as unlikely as me being happy but true. I had helped her out some years back and we remained friends. She introduced me to her cousin Marion and we had clicked.

Were even considering moving in together. I had moved to a new apartment on the Salthill Promenade. Big spacious place with a view of the ocean that was astounding. I had been

Involved

Mired

Baffled

Over the past few years with a homicidal goth punk named Emily / Emerald. She had wreaked all kinds of murderous havoc until I had reluctantly taken her off the board.

Now get this.

She had left me a shit pile of money.

Go figure.

Thus the new pad and certainly a factor in my new view of the world.

For the zillionth time I had cut back on my drinking. Yeah, yadda, yadda. As Marion was fond of a drink, I was reasonably free from censure for the time being. Felt no need to mention the wee issue of Xanax. I had also stopped beating people in every sense.

Marion came with her own story: namely, a son.

Nine years old and the first time I met him I would like to think we bonded and shared warm days out at hurling matches.

Dream on.

Marion brought him to the GBC, my favorite restaurant as they still served old-fashioned grub and had no list of calories on the menu. The boy was small with blond hair and, fuck, a curled lip, from attitude rather than design. Before I could speak, he whined,

“Why couldn’t we go to McDonald’s?”

I put out my hand, said,

“I’m Jack.”

He looked at my hand like it was diseased, scoffed,

“Who even shakes hands these days?”

I let that slide.

He sighed, said,

“I’m Jeffrey.”

Least that is how I heard it. I said,

“Good to meet you, Jeffrey.”

He raised his eyes to heaven, said,

“It’s Joffrey.”

I said,

“What?”

He looked at his mother, said,

“You tell him.”

She said, with a tinge of mild hysteria,

“Like Joffrey in Game of Thrones?”

He stared at me, asked,

“You do know what that is?”

This asked with a world-weariness.

I said,

“Joffrey is the spoiled pup that gets poisoned.”

I was sitting in Garavan’s, black coffee with a base of Jay. Reading the latest horror from Trump. Le Pen was ranting in France and all of Europe in turmoil.

When you manage to grab the snug, it is implicit that you do not want company. A large man appeared before me, blocking the light, muttered,

“Taylor.”

He was in that bad fifties range with streaks of stringy blond hair clinging precariously to the scalp. Disconcerting was the hint of baby powder from him. From a grown man it is just creepy.

I said,

“I’m busy.”

He moved in front of me, launched a slew of photos on the table, said,

“I’m Pierre Renaud. You have heard of me.”

Not a question.

I said,

“Nope.”

There was a trace of accent in his speech, as with those for whom English is a second language.

He said,

“I received Man of the Year five years ago.”

Before I could be scathing about that, he said,

“My beloved sons, look, murdered.”

I looked at the photos and could make out two men bound and bloated in

A wheelchair?

I asked,

“Is that a notice pinned to one of them?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t decipher it, asked,

“What is it?”

He took a deep breath, then said,

“Silence.”

I tried,

“I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

That seemed to seriously annoy him. He said,

“Your condolences mean nothing.”

He produced a thick envelope, dropped it beside my empty glass, said,

“You will find who did this terrible thing and bring them to me.”

I pushed the envelope aside, said,

“I won’t.”

This shocked him. He asked,

“You say no to me?”

I stood, pushed past him, got a refill, then back to the snug where he was still standing. I sat and went back to the paper. He leaned over, said,

“You will do this for me.”

I was sorry for his loss but beginning to tire of the aggression, said,

“Go to the Guards.”

He spat in contempt, said,

“Imbeciles.”

I shrugged, not something I had ever done but felt it was at least Gallic. He gathered up the photos, said,

“À bientôt.”

Sounded a lot like

“Fuck you.”

2

I didn’t want to investigate the murder of the twins. To immerse in darkness again was a road I had no wish to travel. Battered and wounded by all the loss of previous cases, I had barely managed to survive. Beatings, attacks, had left me with

Mutilated fingers

Hearing problems

A limp

Lethal dreams

And

A shitload of anxiety that Xanax barely kept a lid on. With a new woman in my life and happy for the very first time, would I risk it all?

Nope.

But.

It is that very but that has led me astray so many times. A sly curiosity niggled at me so I figured,

“Vague inquiries couldn’t hurt.”

I had one ally / friend still remaining in the Guards.

Owen Daglish.

He was a drinker of fierce proportions and that might have held my link to him. When I called him, he groaned, said,

“If you want information on anything, fuck off now.”

I did what you do.

I lied.

Said,

“Hey, I just want to buy you a pint.”

We met in the Stage Door. Sounds like a theatrical pub and there is always plenty of drama afoot but, get there early afternoon, it is quiet. Owen was already at the counter, murdering a pint. Seeing me, he said to the barman,

“Couple of large Jamesons.”

The barman was a nonnational, asked,

“Ice?”

Like, seriously?

Owen gave him the look, said,

“Not if you want to go on breathing.”

Owen was dressed in a cheap suit and cheaper shoes, and his hair needed a trim. He had the look of a guy who had been on the lash for too long. I said,

“You look, um... great.”

He laughed, said,

“Fuck you.”

Got the iceless drinks and moved to a corner table where Owen produced a silver tube and sucked on it.

Vaping.

Blew a cloud of vapor over our heads, said,

“Had to pack in the cigs so I’m reduced to this...”

He looked at the tube.

“This shite.”

I asked,

“What do know about the twins who were tied together and tossed in the river?”

He sighed deeply, then,

“I thought you were out of this game.”

“I am, really, but, you know, sounded like a bizarre case.”

He shook his empty glass and I got some refills. I settled for a single Jay. I was meeting Marion later and had to mind my manners. I said,

“Sláinte.”

He didn’t reciprocate, said,

“Superglue.”

“What?”

“Their mouths were sealed with it.”

“God almighty.”

He took a deep drink, said,

“Takes one sick fuck to do that.”

I asked,

“The father, Renaud, what’s his story?”

Now he turned to look at me, said,

“You seem awfully interested for a guy who is not investigating.”

Time to cough up.

I took out a flat envelope, said,

“A little something for the Garda fund.”

He put it quickly in his jacket, then,

“Seriously Jack, stay well away. Renaud was up to his arse in every kind of hedge fund scam. A guy like that, you don’t want to be around.”

To lighten the mood, I said,

“I appreciate your concern, Owen. It is kind of touching.”

He scoffed, said,

“Jack, I couldn’t give less of a fuck what happens to you.”

On that bright note we parted.

Marion worked as a speech therapist and was offered a chance to attend a conference in America.

Attending a conference in the U.S. was like a mini lottery win in Ireland. Half of the government usually were in on this scam. Plus all the travel expenses to be claimed. She asked,

“Jack, come with me.”

Phew.

So many years I had tried to go to America. It was my ultimate dream but always something conspired to ruin the plan. Usually my own self. Life is a bitch. Just when you’ve deleted the hope it sneaks up and kicks your arse.

I said,

“No.”

Cold as that.

She was taken aback and took a few moments to ask,

“Why?”

I said,

“It is not a good time.”

She gave a brief, rueful smile, then tried,

“Could you expand a little?”

I always hoped I wouldn’t be one of those assholes who whimpered,

“I need you to trust me on this.”

I said,

“I need you to trust me on this”

She considered for a moment, then,

“Fuck that.”

We had that awkward moment when you basically want to cut and run. The mature thing was to discuss.

Thrash out the issue

Ponder a bit

Concede, etc.

I ran.

Joffrey was at the door as I passed and he said,

“Shithead.”

Love has no past or future.

3

I crawled back to Marion, murmuring contrition. She forgave me in that Irish fashion:

V

 E

  R

   Y

Slowly.

And, of course, with a codicil.

To mind Joffrey.

Like fuck.

I did weakly protest,

“I’m not great with kids.”

But she had me by the balls and said,

“I will only be gone a month. Joffrey is staying with relations and you...”

Pause.

“Could take him out twice a week.”

I said,

“I don’t think he likes me.”

She laughed, said,

“Joffrey doesn’t like anybody.”

Terrific.

I began a low-key investigation into the deaths of the Renaud twins. It wasn’t a mystery as to them being killed but a mystery as to why it hadn’t happened sooner.

Like that.

A series of pubs, clubs, and friends all spoke of the sheer nastiness of the boys. Using their money as a weapon, they had abused, bullied, and mocked just about everybody they ever encountered. Three girls at least hinted at rape being part of their repertoire but any allegations had been crushed by the twins’ solicitor, named Nery.

I went to see him.

His office was on Merchants Road and consisted of a lot of glass and bespoke granite. I went to reception and a frosty receptionist snapped that I needed an appointment. I decided to test the weight of the family name, said,

“I don’t think Mr. Renaud will be very pleased to hear that.”

Presto, I was in.

Nery looked like a cricketer gone to seed. Fading blond hair swept in a hopeful quiff, a suit that said,

“Here is serious fucking cash.”

He was in his late fifties with a high complexion and eyes that had never alighted on anything they liked. My appearance didn’t change that view.

He barked,

“ID?”

I said,

“My name is Jack Taylor and Mr. Renaud hired me to find out what happened to his sons.”

Nery grimaced — or it could have been a smile — said,

“They were murdered is what happened.”

I said,

“I can hear your deep sorrow even saying that.”

His head shot up and he asked,

“Sarcasm? Well, some washed-up drunk comes into my office and gives me... sarcasm?”

I wanted to slap his well-fed face but went with,

“Any light you could shed on the matter?”

He sniggered, said,

“Thomas is going to get a kick out of this.”

“Thomas?”

“Thomas Clancy, superintendent of the Guards.”

I held my hand up, said,

“Lemme guess. A golf crony?”

He picked up some papers, said,

“Good day, sir.”

I didn’t move.

He looked up, said,

“You’re dismissed.”

I turned to leave, left with,

“Funny, that’s the exact same thing the Guards said to me.”

It is said that if you are at the Claddagh Basin in the hour before dawn, after Saint Brigid’s Day, and you sit very still, you can see the famine ships glide across the bay and along the wind hear the faint whisper of the names of the coffin ships.

Emma Prescott

Joshua Carroll

Margaret Milne

C. H. Appleton

The Luculus

William Kerry

So it was that I was thus perched, at the end of that bitter cold month, looking at Nimmo’s Pier. Not so long ago, I had stood on that very spot, a revolver in my hand and suicide on my breath. To this day, I’m not sure what turned me ’round.

I saw a man there now, standing real close to the edge, almost exactly the place I had stood. Shook my head to dispel the illusion.

He jumped.

I muttered,

“Fuck.”

I tore off my Garda all-weather coat, shucked my shoes, and went in the water.

Christ, it was cold. I lost sight of him twice and he was going down for the final time when I reached him. I grabbed his collar with my hand and kicked for shore. He fought me, the bad bastard. Nearly drowned us until I got a fist to his chin and stunned him.

Pulled him up the shore and collapsed. He was muttering,

“Cold, so cold.”

I got to my feet and retrieved my coat, wrapped him in it, then got my phone and called an ambulance. My whole body shook. I reached back into my jacket, got the flask, got some of the Jay into the man’s mouth. Took a long swig my own self.

The ambulance came within minutes with a squad car right behind. I explained the situation. The attendants got the man wrapped fast and offered me a blanket, said,

“You better come too.”

I said no.

I saw the flash of an iPhone. Damn dog walker.

The Guards treated me with suspicion. One of them suddenly said,

“God almighty, it’s Taylor.”

His partner, young and eager, asked,

“Who’s that?”

The older guy said,

“Trouble is what he is.”

Leveled a hard stare at me, barked,

“What are you doing here, this time of the morning?”

The ambulance attendant said,

“Being a hero, is what.”

I took a slug from the flask to the disapproval of both Guards.

The ambulance attendant handed me my coat, said,

“You might well have saved that man from hypothermia.”

Not to mention drowning but I said nothing.

The young Guard grabbed the coat, said,

“That is an official Garda coat. I’ll write you up for that.”

The attendant said,

“Christ, don’t be a bollix.”

My thoughts exactly but they kept the coat.

Before the ambulance departed, I went over to check on the man. He managed to sit up and beckoned me. I was ready to say,

“No need to thank me.”

He leaned real close, whispered,

“Fuck you.”

The ambulance guy heard him and, as he prepared to leave, said,

“It’s the shock.”

I thought about that, answered,

“He’s probably a Guard.”

Coatless, I made my wet, frozen way home.

4

The country was reeling under a double horror.

The Grace case where vulnerable children were left in a home where abuse of all kinds was not only known to have occurred but had been reported numerous times to the department of health. Grace was removed once, but

Then returned to the same home.

And this was not a matter of months but twenty years.

As people tried to find some way of analyzing this, it was revealed that a

Septic tank, yes a septic tank, was the dumping place for babies of unwed mothers or mothers deemed unfit, and children up to three years old had been thus dumped. A cursory search had disclosed that at least eighty-five bodies were

Thrown there.

The order of nuns in charge of the poor women refused to take any responsibility and had indeed hired a PR lady who, on hearing of the accusations, replied,

“So?”

Further, she told a TV crew investigating that the most they would find was

“A few old bones.”

I made the papers.

“Local hero saves drowning man.”

They detailed how ex-Garda John...

John!

“... Taylor risked his life to save a man in the Claddagh Basin.”

It didn’t mention the Guards confiscating my beloved coat.

In the pub, I took a fair amount of slagging.

Like

“Oh, save me Johnny.”

“Throw us a lifeline, John boy.”

It did earn me some free drinks. I was on my second of these when Renaud appeared. Not, alas, to praise me.

Opened with,

“You have time to jump in rivers when you should be searching for the killer of my sons?”

I nearly said,

“I was looking for clues.”

But went with,

“I found nothing in my investigation.”

He looked like he might spit in my drink.

Which would have been a very, very bad idea.

I finished my drink, brushed past him out to the street. He followed me, uttering a string of French invectives. He reminded me of somebody.

On a wall opposite was a tag that was to be found all over the city.

2

 4

  J

I was staring at it when Renaud grabbed my arm, shouted,

“You are fired.”

I turned to him, the penny dropping. I said,

“Trump! You are the spit of the Donald.”

He laughed almost manically, exclaimed,

“Le Donald, c’est magnifique.”

5

The Tuam babies scandal rocked Irish life to its core.

How do you even vaguely understand how nuns...

Nuns!

Dumped the bodies of babies and very young children into a septic tank.

The Grace shock.

A vulnerable girl, later as an adult, was left for twenty years with foster parents who abused her in every way there is.

And

Despite social workers’ reports, even after she was temporarily removed, was then put back into the same viper’s hole. And other children and adults too.

All vulnerable and horrendously molested.

You listened to the news, the reports and, truly, your jaw dropped.

Enda Kenny, our much-maligned leader of the coalition government, responded with one of the finest speeches of barely contained rage.

Said,

Amid all this horror, you strove desperately to find a reason even to stir from bed. Got some through football.

For once, the beautiful game was... beautiful.

Barcelona were four down going into the second match with Paris Saint-Germain. The papers had crucified Barca in the week leading up to the second match.

Incredulous, I read descriptions of

Has been

Finished.

I mean, seriously?

You can never, ever write off such a team. I knew that team would roar back with absolute ferocity.

Did they just.

Not only had they to score four but, when PSG scored, they had to up the ante again.

And again.

And, fuck me,

Again.

Never have I seen such a comeback.

I’m not your up-on-his-feet shouting at matches unless it’s Galway in the hurling and even then I’m relatively mild.

I was up

Shouting

Wild.

And only sorry I hadn’t my beloved pup to dance with.

Thinking of dogs, my heart was scalded by the memory of my gorgeous dog.

Storm.

And a tiny hurricane he was.

Jesus.

I wept when they killed him.

And in such a vicious bloody fashion.

The maniac who did it had a warped awful sense of twisted humor.

Cut the pup’s heart out

And

Left this note, with the heart literally in the middle of the sentence:

I heart Fenians.

I made an unholy pact to enter the darkness of my own mind. The cold place where nothing lives.

I did so with vengeance aforethought.

Did I fucking ever.

And knew such a price as would ensue from that dark territory. They mutter,

“For revenge, then dig two graves.”

I dug a whole brutal field.

I was not consoled.

I would never again go gentle into any sane night.

Ever.

I knew and I was content.

6

I was listening to Jimmy Norman’s show. He plays the best music for rock heads. News on top of the hour revealed that

1,487

Bodies of children were now believed to be in the septic tank in Tuam.

1,487. Jesus indeed wept.

The nuns named in the allegations, Bon Secours, whose very name implied

Help and succor, were hiding behind a PR lady who told a newspaper,

“You’ll find nothing in the tank but old bones from the famine.”

She had since remained incommunicado.

The night before, reeling from Irish horrors, a search-and-rescue helicopter rushing to the aid of a Russian seaman was lost off the Mayo coast, with all four crew missing.

Desperate for mind distraction,

I binged on

Suburra

Spotless

Gomorrah.

Then found a small gem of a Western,

Bone Tomahawk.

With Kurt Russell and Patrick Wilson.

I made a double espresso, black, bitter like the very air of the present, heard

Marc Roberts on his show give a shout-out to Johnny Duhan’s Winter.

The doorbell chimed and I swore, muttered,

“Better be bloody good.”

Opened it to a stranger.

A man in a very fine long suede jacket, dark cords, and what seemed to be white

Converse. He was tall, in that vague fiftyish bracket, buzz-cut black hair, a hawk nose, and eyes that the romantic novelists might call burning.

He had that Russell Crowe gig of quiet smoldering going on. I snapped,

“Yeah?”

He put out his hand, a rough callused one, said,

“They call me Tevis.”

I had no clue, said,

“I have no clue.”

He gave a wide grin, the kind of shit-eating one that Trump would like, said,

“You saved my life. From drowning.”

I wittily said,

“Oh.”

He asked,

“Might I come in?”

Why not.

He took a brief scan of the living room, checked the panorama of the bay, said,

“Fantastic view.”

I offered,

“Something to drink?”

He seemed to like that, said,

“I could go a stiff one.”

Somehow, in that Brit fashion, investing it with a vague lewdness. Caught that his own self, added,

“I’m a bit nervous. I mean, how often do you get to thank your savior?”

I detected a hint of sarcasm, so went with,

“If you’re Catholic, just about every day, they recommend.”

He smiled, great capped teeth, no National Health dance there. He said,

“They told me you were a hoot.”

“They?”

“Don’t be coy, Jack. May I call you Jack? The dogs in the street tell tales about you, man! You’re a goddamn genuine legend,”

Suddenly, I was tired.

He smiled, asked,

“Where are we on that drink?”

I said,

“Bar’s closed. It’s Good Friday.”

He did a mock emo face, then put his hand in his jacket. I shot out, grabbed his wrist, said,

“You best just have attitude in there.”

Raised his eyebrows, said,

“Bit jumpy, fella, maybe cut back on the caffeine.”

Then handed me a small marble figurine.

“As my thanks to you, Jack, I am going to teach you some first-rate chess.”

The figure was heavy in my hand and beautifully carved, I said,

“It’s a knight.”

He gave a short hand clap, said,

“See? You’re learning already.”

When I finally persuaded him that he had to actually leave, he said,

“A man of books like your good self will know what the Chinese say.”

I sighed, sounding horrendously like my mother, who could have sighed for Ireland and did,

Often.

I asked,

“Do tell?”

“You save a man’s life, you are thus responsible for that life.”

“Like fuck,”

I answered.

He headed for the door, said,

“You and me, buddy, now we are joined at the hip.”

I watched him from the bay window. He stood on the promenade, gazing at the water. I could hope he might be reassessing that body of water for another go.

He turned, gave what can only be described as a cheery wave.

I poured a large Jay, the bishop lined up alongside. The glass hit against it, knocked it to the ground. I bent, picked it up, noticed letters on the base.

Peered close, read,