In the Galway Silence

7

Peter Boyne was a pedophile

And

Proud.

No fake remorse, no contrite wailing.

He had been a priest for years but even the Church couldn’t cover for him and booted him. He even looked like the notorious Brendan Smith. Soft build, weak face, and bulging eyes.

“I’m an ugly cunt,”

He told a victim.

But never charged.

Never.

The luck of the very wicked devil.

He gazed at the mound of trophies on his bed.

Red baby socks.

A small Lakers T-shirt.

Tiny hurdle.

Barney the dinosaur.

Teletubbies; he could name them all.

Laa-Laa, Dipsy, and had a way to incorporate then into a song, right before he used the chloroform.

And photos.

Hundreds.

He swooned with the joy of vivid remembrance.

Now.

He had his sights fixed on a new boy.

He’d learned his name, of course, and toned that with an orgasmic slowness:

J-o-f-f-r-e-y.

I don’t know what love is.

I hated my mother so not a great beginning.

I cared for my little dog as if my life depended on it and in a bizarre way it did.

I think I loved my dead friends.

Ridge,

Stewart.

But I certainly never showed it to them.

Not so they’d notice.

And a woman named Ann Henderson; I was truly obsessed with her. She did the big thing and, in Galway, by that we mean

Suicide.

Not a great record then.

Along came Marion.

Phew-oh.

She looked like Kate Mara, whose part in House of Cards was compelling. She was the sister of the more glamorous, successful Romola Garai. In common with the actress, Marion combined that blend of sheer spirit with vulnerability.

I’m a sucker for that shit.

Let me digress as a Booker novelist might do.

Eamon Casey, our former bishop, died.

In the same time frame as

Chuck Berry

Jimmy Breslin

Martin McGuinness. (Norman Tebbit said he hoped McGuinness would rot in hell for all eternity, adding he was a coward.)

Nice.

Eamon had been our most popular cleric, and if the Church ever seemed to be part of the people it was due to the likes of him.

Until,

Like the fallible human being he was, he fell in love.

No harm there.

But

He covered it up — and the birth of a child.

Until

The dame went on The Late Late Show and blew him out of the ecclesial water.

He resigned, despite the pope asking him not to.

He went into exile in South America and eventually came home to live a life of quiet desperation. Much like De Niro’s priest in True Confessions.

Marion went to his funeral and, in a bizarre move, the Church that had effectively banished him declared he would be buried in the crypt under Galway Cathedral.

Marion attended the funeral Mass in the cathedral. It was officiated by the archbishop. Eamon Casey had stood up to gun-wielding thugs when Archbishop Romero was assassinated.

As a young priest in London he had performed Trojan work among the poor.

So

What did the arch say in his speech on Eamon?

You guessed it.

Focused only on the sin.

Yup, lambasted the poor man, and spoke about how he had humiliated the people closest to him.

No fragging mention of the Church’s own record on child abuse.

Marion was spitting iron. Very nearly stood up and shouted at the arch.

Not doing so was one of the great regrets of her life.

So she wrote to him.

Like this:

“Dear Reverence / Irreverence,

I have been a regular attendant at Mass all my life.

I raised my son Catholic.

I pay my tithes.

I do the Nine Friday novenas.

I went to the funeral Mass of our beloved Bishop Eamon Casey.

You may have disbarred him but he will always be Our Bishop.

I was not expecting you to actually praise the man.

God forbid the Church would ever demonstrate such grace.

But

to castigate him,

Literally denounce him

All over again,

To the exclusion of the other shining deeds of his life, before his assembled family.

How dare you.

In our cathedral?

Yes, our money, alms, built it.

Shame on you.

The young people of Ireland don’t even know who you are. But to us who do, you owed at the very least a tiny hint of balance.

I know you won’t have the grit to answer me unless some lackey sends me the standard corn.

... your comments have been noted etc.

I expect you will do what the Church has excelled in:

Nothing.

God mind you better than you minded your brave bishop.

Yours in disappointment,

Marion R. Coyle.”

The Church did as she predicted.

Nothing.

8

The first outing I took Joffrey on left a lot to be desired.

I tried not to stare at his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit.

I mean, fuck, really?

White pants, navy blue shirt, and, I kid thee not, a knitted wool tie, with a blazer, complete with crest.

I was wearing battered 501s, scuffed Doc Martens, my way beat-up leather jacket. I was determined to try and bond with this little gobshite, but seriously?

I said,

“We’re not planning on the opera, are we?”

He sneered, turned his mean little mouth down.

“I doubt you’d be too familiar with that scenario.”

Scenario.

I was determined to be upbeat, began,

“Thought we’d swing by Supermac’s, grab us some bad boy burgers.”

He stopped, literally in his tracks, asked,

“You are serious?”

Okay, now we were cruising.

I said with gusto,

“Oh, yeah, and you can add curried chips if the fancy takes you.”

He said with venom,

“I don’t do carbs.”

Oh.

I hung on to the fading gusto, asked,

“What would you like? Italian, Cajun?”

He seemed to actually focus. Then,

“They have any sushi bars in this burg?”

His accent was a horror blend of clipped Brit with sprinkled American. I echoed,

“Raw fish? You want raw fish?”

I’ll admit my energy was flagging but, fuck, I persisted.

Said,

“Kid like you, you need to get some spuds, bacon, and cabbage in you.”

He put two fingers to his mouth, made the gagging sound.

I sighed, said,

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He began to stare at his phone, as the whole nation currently does.

I’d have sold his miserable hide for one shot of Jameson.

I said,

“We can swing by my flat, I’ll rustle up something and, hey...”

My voice had risen in nigh panic.

“I have some games there.”

He lit up, asked,

“You’re a gamer?”

Modesty be damned, I said,

“It has been suggested in the not so recent past that I do indeed have game.”

He gave me a blank look, which did not add to his overall charm, shook his head as if it clear it of nonsense, asked,

“Whatcha got? Like Assassins Creed, Warcraft Three, Mafiosi Four?”

I was lost, tried,

“I’ve got Monopoly and, well, that’s it.”

He mimicked spitting, said,

“Board games.” (His voice rising on the end bit.) “You can’t be serious, I mean it’s so...”

Searched for a word to convey utter contempt, got

“Retro.”

Sharp as a whip, I snapped,

“Retro is the new cool. Get with, dare I say, the game?”

While this brisk exchange batted back and forth, an overweight guy in a T-shirt with the logo

SIN AN SCEAL (That’s the story)

actually drooled as he eyed Joffrey. His hands in his dirty sweatpants, he actually groaned, muttered,

“Soon my love.”

You’d know the very last thing to do with the child of the woman in your life is to bring him to a pub.

Right.

I know that.

Brought him to the pub.

Sat him at a table in the back, him going,

“Mother won’t be pleased.”

Gee, you think?

I didn’t ask him what he wanted. I was all through with that gig. The bar guy peered over at him, asked,

“Your boy?”

Like fuck.

I said,

“Whatever else, mine he isn’t.”

A wag along the bar said,

“The clergy got in trouble for that kind of thing.”

I gave him the look.

Asked the bar guy for

Double Jay,

Pint back,

Bag of whatever flavor crisps,

Large Coke.

Guy asked,

“He want ice in that?”

“Shovel it in.”

I sank the Jay there and then, tasted like vague hope. Over to the kid with my goodies, said,

“Here you go.”

He pushed the Coke aside, said,

“That is equal to nine full spoons of sugar.”

I wanted so badly to wallop him.

I asked,

“And your point is?”

He sighed as in... Lord grant me patience with fools.

Said,

“My mother didn’t pay top dollar for dental work for some nincompoop to force pure sugar down my throat.”

Force?

Nincompoop?

The kid was like an escapee from a poor-rate Evelyn Waugh. In desperation I reached in my pocket and found the chess piece that Tevis gave me.

Joffrey’s eyes lit up, asked,

“A chess piece?”

I put it on the table and he picked it up, examined the writing on the base, the

I said,

“I dunno what that means.”

He scoffed, said,

“It’s obvious.”

Fuck.

Okay. Asked,

“What?”

“Two for Justice.”

I mulled that over, figuring, Some form of vigilante? Next time I saw Tevis, we’d have us a chat.

So I tried to cut some slack for the kid, asked,

“What would you like to drink?”

“Still water with a slice of lemon. Ballygowan or Evian at a pinch.”

I went to the counter, said to the bar guy,

“Glass of tap water, shove some lemon in it.”

He seemed puzzled, said,

“We have all the top brands.”

I stared at him, asked,

“You hard of hearing?”

Got what was not the cleanest glass and very wilted lemon, which, to no great surprise, the kid pushed aside, said,

“I called my mother.”

Oh, fuck.

I whined,

“Oh, no, c’mon.”

He smiled with devilish glee, said,

“You’re for the high jump.”

I leaned right into him, snarled,

“What is your fucking problem, son?”

He pulled back, said,

“I don’t like you.”

I smiled, threatened,

“Get used to it, punk. I’m here for the long haul.”

He stood up, said,

“I very much doubt that, mister.”

As I followed him out, I asked,

“Apart from the water, do you think it went pretty good otherwise?”

I followed him as he walked at a brisk pace toward the square. I wondered what he’d pull next.

A taxi.

I kid thee not. And he turned as he got in, gave me the finger.

I watched the cab head toward the docks.

Hate to admit it but I had a sort of sneaking admiration for the little bastard.

9

A second helicopter was lost.

Unbelievable.

Based in the UK, it contained a family flying to Ireland for a confirmation.

Unlike those from the first helicopter, the bodies were recovered quickly.

R 117, the search-and-rescue helicopter, still had two of the crew missing despite a massive search.

To see the families waiting reminded me of the widows in the Claddagh back in the harsh days as they awaited news of their husbands and sons.

Ochre ochon (woe is me indeed).

I was in my apartment, staring out at the bay and thinking how much the very ocean played such a part in our collective history.

The doorbell rang, a quiet ring as if the caller hoped I wasn’t home. I opened the door to Tevis, the man whose life I saved and who was now becoming a fucking nuisance. He offered a bottle, said,

“Old Kentucky sipping bourbon.”

And,

“Six genuine longnecks. If you read your crime fiction as much as you pretend to, you’ll know it’s the preferred tipple of Craig McDonald.”

I said,

“That is one long sentence.”

He laughed, moved past me, said,

“Like life.”

I followed him in, put the beers in the fridge, and turned to him. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels, said,

“Eddie Bunker’s favorite.”

I asked,

“You came to educate me on the tastes of crime writers?”

He stood before the bay window, asked,

“Like glasses?”

Marion had given me a set of Galway crystal to spruce up the apartment, said,

“Taylor, you need some style.”

She used my surname when she was being playful. Jack when I was in deep shit. Alas, she was using my Christian name a lot more frequently. I took out two of those heavy babes, poured the bourbon, admired the way the light caught the glass, like a tiny whispered prayer.

Truth is, though, I’d have drunk out of a wellington if my need was great.

He said,

“Nice glasses.”

“My mother’s,”

I lied.

He said,

“Ah, Irish lads and the mammie.”

As fucking if.

He knocked back the drink in jig time. I went,

“Whoa, like what happened to the sipping bit?”

He gave me what he probably figured was a roguish smile, said,

“Partner, we’re a long ways from Kentucky.”

I took a sip, asked,

“What do you want?”

He did the mock-offended gig, said,

“You don’t like me.”

True.

I said,

“True.”

He asked,

“Is it because I’m gay?”

I said,

“I didn’t know that. I don’t care if you like sheep.”

A silence.

Then he asked,

“Sheep?”

Enough with the sipping, I walloped back the drink, gasped, muttered,

“Phew-oh.”

Gathered my thoughts somewhat, tried,

“What’s the deal with the chess piece and the message on the base, the

Two for Justice?”

He applauded, literally, said,

“Well done, you figured it out, smarter than you act, methinks.”

His accent was now channeling Barry Fitzgerald via Dublin 4. Not an appealing tone. He put down his glass, said,

“Fill her up and I’ll fill you in.”

Managed to insert a certain mild menace into the sound.

I poured us both fresh ones, waited.

He launched.

“I had a decent living as an accountant. I work out, as is evident.”

Here, he flexed his upper body, did a small pirouette, continued,

“At the gym, as you do, I met my lover, a rather splendid fellow.”

Now he was aping Cumberbatch.

“We settled into a jolly old existence until...”

His face darkened.

“Until the twins, the Renaud twins, decided to engage in a little light gay bashing.”

He looked at me, asked,

“You know what the brain looks like after repeated kicks?”

How the fuck would I know that?

I stayed in low gear, shook my head.

He said,

“Like mushy peas.”

He shook a cig out of the Camel pack, so expertly that it had to have been rehearsed. Never no mind, it’s impressive.

He continued but now in a flat monotone.

“So, when a man contacted me, asked if I wanted justice, I said, You betcha.”

I poured us more sipping well-being, delaying any comment until I could get my head ’round this, then asked,

“You killed no twins?”

“No, of course not.”

“Who did?”

He drew out a tense silence, said,

“Pierre Renaud, their dad.”

10

I tried to take in what Tevis had said, asked,

“You’re claiming the twins’ own father killed his sons?”

He let out a tolerant sigh, said,

“I’m not claiming anything, I’m telling you what happened.”

Fuck.

I said,

“God almighty, to murder his family.”

He corrected me,

“Just two of them.”

I poured a drink but it didn’t seem to be having much effect. Maybe the sipping wasn’t really my style. I asked,

“Did he say why?”

He shook his head, said,

“I didn’t ask.”

Fuck that.

I demanded,

“Come on, seriously?”

He lit another Camel, said,

“I was in a blizzard of grief, rage, madness. I would have paid for revenge.”

That I grasped, having recently visited such territory my own self. I said,

“I’m trying to picture him actually doing that.”

Tevis said,

“He didn’t.”

I wanted to fling him across the room, shouted,

“You’re changing the story?”

He stood up, tired of the narrative, said,

“He had help.”

“Someone else?”

He shrugged, said,

“You hardly think a father would drown his own sons? I mean, get with the program, buddy.”

Enough.

I was across the room, grabbed him by the shirt collar, pushed him fast and hard against the wall, snarled,

“Stop fucking with me and answer the question without any more mind-fucking, got it?”

I was so enraged I could have beaten him to a pulp. I wanted it so badly I could taste metal in my mouth.

He nodded and I let him go.

Pulled himself together, tried to light a cig but tremors in his hands betrayed him. Instead, he gulped his booze, then,

“There is a man, served three tours in Iraq and had the distinction of surviving three bomb attacks. He understandably developed a phobia about noise. He now specializes in what the Americans term wet work. More prosaically, he kills people. They call him the Silence.”

I asked,

“And you met him?”

“Only once, and it was enough. He is the most nondescript man you’d ever see or, as the case may be, not see. He looks like every bad photo fit. He doesn’t turn up at the time you’d arranged and, just as you give up, prepare to leave, he is standing behind you.”

I was intrigued, tried to keep my tone skeptical, asked,

“What did he say to you?”

Tevis looked around as if he expected the man to be behind him, then,

“He asked me if I knew the value of silence.”

My mind was alight with so much craziness. I asked,

“And this mystery man, how does one find him?”

Tevis smiled, a hint of smugness there, said,

“You place a chess quote in the Irish Times.”

Then he gave a soft tap to his head, exclaimed,

“Oh my gawd, how could I forget?”

And ran to the door.

Then back a moment later, carrying a large parcel, said,

“As a wee token of my deep gratitude.”

Suspicious, I pulled the paper off to reveal my all-weather Garda coat, and like new!

He said,

“I took the liberty of having it dry-cleaned and, trust me fella, an expensive job.”

Not sure what to say, I asked,

“How did you? I mean...”

He shrugged, said,

“I made the young Guard who took it an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

I was impressed, I think, said,

“Thank you.”

He made a dismissive wave, said,

“You saved my life, I saved your coat. Seems fair.”

I pushed then.

“You felt guilty about those twins, and that’s why you were going in the water?”

He gave me a long look.

“Fuck no. I was depressed about my lover. But the twins? I was delighted they got theirs.”

11

Jimmy Reagan was a close friend of my father. They went to the dogs together. Greyhound racing, in College Road. Were the races fixed?

Let me say this.

One evening as my dad headed into the track, a man stopped him, asked for his race card, and then marked every single race. Said,

“We mind our own.”

All six dogs won.

After my dad died, Jimmy really went to the dogs.

The demon drink was mentioned.

I met him a few years back. He stood in a doorway, wearing what was once a very fine suit. I gave him a few quid. He said,

“Jackie boy, see this suit? I bought it from the winnings me and yer dad had.”

His face got a wistful look and he added,

“Ah, sweet Lord, that was the best night of me lousy life.”

Such men were not built for rehabs. They slipped through the cracks of society, like sad ghosts of what might have been.

He was found dead in an alley, wearing the suit. I was told he had no one to bury him so I took care of it. Brought the one suit to the dry cleaner. The guy there said,

“In its day, this was really something.”

I said,

“Weren’t we all?”

He asked,

“Going somewhere special?”

“The cemetery.”

Odd, he didn’t ask me anything after that.

The funeral was bare, like the poor bastard’s life. Me, the priest, and two gravediggers. It rained.

I phoned Pierre Renaud but he was unavailable. I even went to his home but the house looked dead, like his sons, I guess. I wasn’t sure what exactly to do about him. Crossed my mind to set the Silence on him. How poetic would that be? If I did find him, how to begin?

“Did you have your sons killed?”

There’s a showstopper.

Tell the Guards?

Oh, yeah, like they had such a high opinion of me to begin with.

But

I could tell one Guard.

Arranged to meet Owen Daglish. He was not happy, asked,

“What do you want now?”

Not encouraging.

I said,

“In fact, I might have some information that would further your career.”

“Yeah, that will be the day.”

We met in Garavan’s. He yet again looked the very worst for wear, said,

“I can’t talk until I get behind two drinks.”

So we did that.

The change was near miraculous. Years seemed to drop from his face, his eyes opened, and his whole physical stature improved. He grinned, said,

“That is the biz.”

Looked at me, asked,

“How is that new lady of yours?”

“In America.”

He seemed to think about that, then,

“Will she come back?”

I acted like I was offended, which I was a little, asked,

“Why wouldn’t she?”

He gave a low whistle, said,

“Because you’re Jack!”

Not really an area I wished to pursue so I laid out the whole story of the guy named Silence and the murder of the twins.

He asked,

“The father had his sons killed?”

I nodded.

He took a long swig of his drink, then,

“That is bollocks.”

I pushed.

“But what if it’s not?”

He took a long hard look at me, said,

“Whatever it is, you need to leave it alone. The Guards think you’re the worst kind of trouble. If you tell them one of the town’s alumni is a killer, a guy who golfs with the superintendent, I mean, they’re going to kick your arse.”

I went to protest but he said,

“Leave it alone, Jack, and leave me alone.”

He stood up, a look of resignation on his face. I asked,

“Don’t you want another drink?”

He said,

“Oh, yeah, just not with you.”

12

I was sitting in Eyre Square, on a bench close to the garden plaque for JFK.

As a child, I’d sat on my father’s shoulders watching the presidential car

Go by.

We sure loved JFK.

Not a whole lot of heroes since.

The Guards were in a whole load of shite. It was alleged they had tried to smear and destroy the career of a noted whistle-blower. Now, it seemed that over half a million breath tests had the figures inflated. The Garda commissioner refused to explain or resign.

Theresa May in the UK called a snap election.

I wondered how I got out of bed and, indeed, how the commissioner got out.

Trump was trying to cut the income tax rate for multinationals by fifteen percent to lure companies back to America.

I was watching the Meyrick Hotel when a slew of black SUVs pulled up.

Rock stars, I wondered?

Out hopped Father Malachy.

A longtime enemy, he had been my mother’s lapdog back in the days when vitreous women had a tame priest in tow to demonstrate their piety. Noting my mother was one cold bitch, you can guess what her priest was like.

Time back, I came into possession of The Red Book, a book of heresy that the Church was anxious to suppress. Bad publicity was the last thing it wanted.

Malachy inveigled me into parting with the book.

He had instantly become the Church darling. Of course, any attempts to reach him after were shunned. I headed for the hotel. The doorman was about to block me when he recognized me, said,

“Howyah, Jack?”

I asked,

“What’s the occasion?”

He raised his eyes to heaven, said,

“The Rotary Club are honoring some priest.”

Some priest indeed.

I spotted Malachy in the midst of a group of people. Least, I thought it was him but changed — changed utterly. A stunning new black suit, tiny hint of purple at the neck collar. I’d seen that on trainee bishops.

Bishop?

Surely not.

But then, in a Trump world, who knew? His hair was what I can only call coiffed. I’m not entirely sure what that means save that it’s not on the card of any barber I ever frequented.

More, he wasn’t smoking.

Him, the ultimate diehard nicotine fiend. I approached and two young priests with, I swear, earpieces like sub — special agents blocked my path. Malachy saw me, said,

“Allow.”

Imperious.

I asked,

“What the fuck happened?”

One of the young priests pushed me, warned,

“Watch the tone.”

Malachy smiled, benevolently, as in suffer the little children. He said,

“My dear, wild, uncouth Jack.”

What the hell was he taking?

He sounded benign.

I knew then that even his name was indeed Malachi, no more Malachy.

He said,

“I have been the unworthy recipient of many blessings.”

I was near speechless. I tried,

“The Red Book, it made you a star.”

He smiled, touch of the old Malachy seeping through, though the yellow teeth of yore were now glorious white. He said,

“We are aware of your own tiny contribution to the miracle.”

Tiny.

I asked,

“Do you actually believe your own bullshit?”

Got another dig from one of the minders. Malachi said,

“We’ll try and fit you in, to have afternoon tea at the Residence.”

He raised his hand in blessing and, I swear, if he patted my head I’d have taken his blessed arm from the elbow. A hint of the old priest peered through the smoke screen and he withdrew his hand. He intoned,

“God mind you well, my son.”

And he was gone.

I headed out, the door guy waited, his eyes dancing with curiosity. He asked,

“How’d it go?”

I gave the answer that offered me the only chance to use the expression. I said,

“Totally disco.”

A young man, four times with his license suspended, got behind the wheel of a Toyota Corolla. He had been on a marathon drinking session, downing fourteen pints of lager, followed by three shots of tequila. The now standard kill rate for young motorists. At over 100 mph, he plowed into a Mini Cooper, killing a young mother and her daughter.

His defense cited his depression and deep remorse. His life, said the defense, was ruined.

Yeah.

He got eighteen months suspended and a year’s probation.

He celebrated in the nearest pub.

He wouldn’t, he said,

“Drink tequila anymore.”

A week later, in a field near a bus stop, he was found with his suspended license shoved down his throat, the word silence written in red marker across his forehead.

I got a call from Marion.

It did not begin well. She started,

“What were you thinking?”

Now when Jay Leno asked that of Hugh Grant after the Los Angeles hooker scandal, his tone was friendly, perplexed, as in

“Hey buddy, we get it, kind of.”

Marion’s tone was

Ice

  To

   Coldest

Felt.

She did not get it.

I tried for bumbling but lovable rogue, said,

“I thought the kid might be thirsty.”

She echoed,

“The kid.”

“Sorry, Joff.”

Fucked up again as she ice corrected,

“Joffrey.”

Phew.

Then,

“You think a pub...”

Let the word hover like a goddamn virus until,

“Is suitable for my child?”

I wanted to say,

“Actually, the docks would be the best place for the brat.”

But for once in my fucked-up life I went with caution, tried,

“I’ll do better next time.”

Silence.

Then,

“There won’t be a next time. He said you tried to get him to smoke.”

“What?”

I could actually sense the sheer rage coming over the phone. She said,

“Joffrey said that you said every boy needs to break loose.”

I was nearly speechless.

Nearly.

Said,

“He is a liar.”

Phew-oh.

She let the loaded word swim a bit, then,

“You are calling my son, my son, a liar?”

“I am.”

She hung up.

Save for the wee touch of trouble at the end, I think it went fairly okay otherwise.

13

I was in the pub, the guy beside me saying,

“Listen to this.”

I said,

“Sure.”

Block out the click of Marion hanging up. The guy said,

“The White House has fallen into the hands of a bully, a boor, and a braggart, a demagogue who taunts his neighbors and revels in his own ignorance.”

He looked at me, checking I was paying attention. I made a vague sound of assent.

He continued.

“To his supporters he is a hero who speaks for the white working class against the sneering East Coast elite.”

He drained his glass, making a small burping sound, then called for a refill, got it, and asked me,

“You’re thinking Trump, right?”

Nope.

I was thinking,

“Shut the fuck up.”

He pounced.

“That was Andrew Jackson in, get this, 1829.”

Okay, I was a little interested, said,

“Wow.”

He wasn’t quite done with the quiz aspect, asked,

“You ever see a snap of the man?”

Andrew Jackson?

I said,

“Not so I recall.”

He was delighted, said,

“You’ve seen a twenty-dollar bill?”

“Well, yeah, probably.”

“Then you’ve seen Jackson.”

He looked ’round as if the whole pub might have been mesmerized.

They weren’t.

But he wasn’t about to give it up, pulled a page of a newspaper from his jacket, shoved it in my face, asked,

“What do you see?”

For a brief moment, I could see this lonely bastard in his lonely room, scouring the papers for articles that might make him appear interesting. That deeply saddened me so I looked at the cutting, saw a guy in what seemed to be very dirty stained jeans. I said,

“He’s got soiled jeans.”

He was near frothing now, said,

“Guess what he paid for them?”

I gave one last try, said,

“Don’t know.”

With glee, he said,

“Four hundred fifty quid. It’s the new fashion.”

I asked the obvious,

“Why?”

The drink turned on him, turned him mean as a snake. He snarled,

“Why? What the fuck do you mean why? It shows the world has gone apeshit.”

I asked with exaggerated patience,

“You’re only realizing that now?”

He took a step back, the brawler preparing to launch, mouthed,

“You think you’re better than me?”

I asked,

“The old Irish green pound note, who was on it?”

It confused him, he spluttered,

“What?”

“Yeah, the green note, back when the country was still Irish.”

He was showing tiny bits of foam on his mouth, spat,

“Who the fuck knows that?”

I said in a very patient, almost Dr. Phil tone,

“That’s the trouble with this country. We know who is on the dollar bill but not our own history.”

He tried to weigh the weight of the insult, decided to go with,

“Hey, I’m an Irishman.”

I shook my head, said,

“What you are is a buffoon.”

Now he began his swing but his hand was grabbed from behind, moved up fast behind his back. A familiar voice said,

“Now you don’t want to be a nuisance.”

Tevis.

Who then bum-marched the guy outside, all in the space of a few seconds.

Came back in, said,

“He decided to call it a day.”

I was impressed, said,

“Fancy footwork.”

He signaled to the bar guy for a round, said,

“Ballroom dancing, always a help.”

I asked,

“Are you following me?”

His pint was in his hand and he held up the glass to the light. The Guinness appeared to shine, if such a thing were possible. I had found that many things were possible with drink, if only briefly. He said,

“Such dark beauty.”

He drained half in an impressive gulp, said,

“But nothing lasts and, yes, I was indeed following you.”

“Why?”

He motioned to a table and we moved there. He settled himself, then,

“The man they call Silence goes by the name of Allen. He asked me to tell you he is about to do you a major favor.”

I was in no mood for mind-fucking, leaned close, snarled,

“I don’t want any fucking favors.”

He made a gesture of resignation by holding up both palms, said,

“Slow down, my friend. Don’t bite the messenger.”

I stood up, said,

“I’m not your friend and don’t let me see you on my case again.”

He laughed, said,

“The Greek gift.”

I asked,

“What?”

“It refers to a chess sacrifice that is frequently deadly, i.e., the Wooden Horse at Troy. What they thought was a gift was a fatal attack.”

I shook my head, said,

“Nobody talks sense anymore.”

I moved to the door, fed up with them all. The bar guy called,

“Hey, Jack, who is on the green pound note?”

14

I went to see the nun, Sister Maeve. It was she who introduced me to Marion and set me on the course of what seemed to be happiness.

The road to hell is paved with well-intentioned nuns.

Our friendship was odd, to say the least. She had asked for help on a Church mini crisis and, though I did sweet fuck-all, it got resolved and put me in good, if false, light.

You take the kudos when they fall.

She seemed to genuinely have great fondness for me. If anyone could help me salvage my love affair it was Maeve.

I purchased all her treats:

Black Forest gâteau,

Strawberry cheesecake,

And

Herterich handmade sausages.

She lived in a small house on Saint Francis Street, but a rosary from the Abbey Church.

Before, when I called on her, she would seem delighted.

This time?

Not so much.

She said,

“Oh, it’s you.”

Mmm.

I asked because I had to.

“May I come in?”

Grudgingly,

“Um, okay.”

I handed over the gifts as she didn’t ask me to sit.

Usually, she’d be all over those treats like delight in action but now left coldly on the table.

I asked,

“Is everything all right?”

I’m a PI, sensitive to these nuances.

Mainly I’m an asshole.

She was avoiding my eyes. I placed myself right in front of her face, put my hand on her shoulder, asked,

“What is it, Sister?”

Not using her Christian name seemed to snap her out of it, she gulped.

“Jack, I’m so sorry.”

I was all concern, soothed.

“It’s okay, really. Is it about Joffrey? I won’t bring him to a pub again, okay?”

She did something she never had done. She got a bottle of whiskey, a brand not seen since the flood, Robin Redbreast, poured two healthy dollops into glasses with a blue sheen and the logo

OUR LADY OF GUADALUPE.

I doubt she knew this was the Madonna of the cartels. I didn’t share, raised my glass, said,

“Dia leat”(God be with you).

She made a face as she sipped her drink, said,

“Oh, my Lord.”

Not so much a prayer as a shock.

I could see her steel herself for whatever she had to tell, her knuckles white. She said,

“Marion is going back to Sean.”

Sean? Who the fuck was Sean?

My blank face prompted her to add,

“Her husband.”

Aw, fuck.

She asked,

“You didn’t know?”

Like hello, take a wild freaking guess.

We had an unspoken agreement to leave the past alone, to take it from when we met. Like did I think Joffrey was an immaculate conception?

I said,

“I didn’t know.”

She went to touch my arm but I shook her off, said,

“I have to go.”

Then I spotted a new item on her bureau. A gleaming white chess set. I asked,

“You play chess?”

She nearly smiled, said,

“Your friend brought it.”

I was nearly afraid to ask but did, echoed,

“My friend?”

“Yes, Mr. Allen, a lovely man but I’m not sure I entirely knew what he meant.”

“How do you mean?”

He said,

“Tell Jack he’s touchable.”

I had a Montblanc pen that I’d nicked from a lawyer. I bought a Moleskine diary from Mary in Hollands. She was, as always, just lovely in every way, said,

“’Tis great to see you, Jack.”

I refused to allow that to lift my mood. Went to Richardson’s pub at the very top of Eyre Square. It had been there for as long as I could remember but few people I knew were likely to be there. I got a boilermaker, a table at the rear, set out my fucked life.

Like this:

Marion was very likely a done deal.

The Fisher King, this Silence guy, who kept intruding in my life.

Tevis, what was the bloody gig with this dude?

Pierre Renaud, who’d had his sons murdered.

And what...

What the hell was I to do with this mess?

If I visualized a chessboard, it was thus basically a four-move gig.

A guy came over to my table, despite the whole vibe of fuck off I was emanating. Well dressed, tanned, expensive haircut, about my age but oh, oh so much better preserved.

He had a shot glass of something strong, sat, asked,

“Remember me, Jack?”

“No.”

He nodded as if expecting nothing more, said,

“Jimmy Dolan. I sat beside you at school.”

I gave him the look that is but a twitch away from a glare, asked,

“And?”

Flustered him as intended. He tried,

“Just, you know, I thought I’d say hello.”

Looking like he now knew it was a very bad notion so I eased a bit, asked,

“How have you been, Jimmy Dolan?”

In Irish terms, you use a person’s full name thus, it is as close to a slap in the mouth as it gets.

A slight smile, then,

“I’m in tires.”

Did that require an answer that bore any relation to civility?

I nodded sagely as if I’d read Booker-nominated titles. He said,

“It’s not like I woke up one morning and thought, Whoa, I just gotta get into tires.”

I felt a question was probably required about here, so,

“There’s money in tires, is there?”

He stared for a moment, wondering if there was mockery. Then,

“Let me say, I’ve a nice home, place in the country, Barbados twice yearly.”

Here, he shot his cuff to reveal a shiny Rolex, the new very slim one that, really, you’d be mortified to own let alone wear.

Continued:

“Two boys in the very best schools.”

I wanted to shout,

“I know a guy with two boys in the river.”

Instead, I went,

“The Irish new success story.”

He stood up, went and got a round of drinks, came back, handed me a glass, asked,

“Jameson, right?”

His was a double, mine the lone shot, gulped his, swallowed with a grimace like in the movies, said,

“You’d think I’d be happy.”

I actually thought almost nothing save so what?

I said,

“I should think so.”

He scoffed, near spat,

“Like fuck.”

I said,

“Fried liver.”

He went,

“What?”

“It’s a chess tactic, like the four-move checkmate, and it is a lethal one. The name comes from dead as fried liver.”

He said,

“I don’t play fucking chess.”

I stood up, finished my drink, said,

“And you wonder why you’re not happy.”

May 22, in Manchester at a concert for youngsters and teenagers, a suicide bomber killed twenty-two and seriously injured fifty-nine others.

There was a stunned horrific silence

’Round the world.

The next evening, Man United were playing against Ajax for the only trophy they had never won.

The heavens cut Manicheans some slack and they won by two goals.

The globe was now oh, so much smaller and so very, very dangerous.

On the street, a guy tried to sell me the newest craze, fidget gadgets. Designed to allow children to fidget.

How times had changed and oh, so utterly. When we were children, in that country no longer recognizable, we were warned on peril of our lives,

“Don’t fidget.”

A four-day heat wave hit the city and, of course, confused us. The guys in battered shorts, very white scrawny legs, thick socks, and, phew-oh, sandals.

A and E would be swamped with sunburn cases and heatstroke. Ice-cream vans would make a small country’s killing.

After twenty-five years, Guns N’ Roses returned to Slane and it was even suggested that Axl Rose and Slash were talking to each other after decades of a feud. Murmurs of rehab and AA, sober living plus vegan tendencies slightly dented the old outlaw image.

Eighty-five thousand people were attending the concert with four hundred Guards on duty.

A guy asked me,

“Would you know offhand which page of the Bible tells you how to turn water into wine?”

At the height of the heat wave, a young man put his eight-month-old baby in the car, then went to work. Forgot the baby was there and went to his job.

Returned to the car after five hours to find the baby dead.

The Guards did not arrest him.

Donald Trump wept at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.

Across town, the pedophile Peter Boyne was putting the final touches to his plan to snatch Joffrey. He was in a state of high excitement. Laid out his materials:

Plastic ties

Chloroform

A long knife with serrated blade, not that he wanted to have to use this,

Wanted the goods in fine form.

He had memorized the school times and there was a window early morning as the boy went to meet the school bus.

He would wear black pants, black ski mask, and black sweatshirt. The last was tight, his bulk barely fitting it.

He hadn’t washed the van — white, of course.

They are always white (see Patrick Hoffman’s The White Van).

Dirt obscured the license plates. Not to mention the fact he was a lazy git who could barely wash himself.

Lately he had been in chat rooms dedicated to man / boy love. These were in the dark net where such items as

Weapons

Drugs

Passports

Were available.

Going deep a few weeks back, chugging Southern Comfort and emboldened, he’d gone to the electric website where killing kids was the gig.

It filled him with awe.