In the Galway Silence

24

A good summer in Galway is as rare as integrity. That July

The arts festival

The Galway races

And the black swan.

She appeared in the Claddagh Basin, and speculation was she’d come from South Africa. Not so much credence given there. She drew massive crowds and seemed content to accept food from the onlookers. Even walked on the shore to the delight and apprehension of children.

The other swans ignored her, not big on prima donnas. I watched her glide along the water and a tinker woman said,

“Nil rud maith ag teacht” (Nothing good is coming).

I thought,

So what else is new?

Asked her,

“Why’s that?”

She looked at me, stated,

“Ta tusa an mac Taylor” (You’re the Taylor boy).

I nodded, she said,

“A black swan is black luck.”

I stared at her, asked,

“Really?”

More than a hint of disbelief lining my tone.

She took my hand. Spat in the palm, said,

“Anois ta tu bheannacht” (Now you are blessed).

I knew that gig, reached for my wallet, but she was gone. I looked ’round for her but she’d glided away as silent as the swan. I looked at my palm but it was dry. I said,

“I need a drink.”

Pierre Renaud, the father of the murdered twins, was found hanging from a tree in his fine garden.

No note.

The belief was he’d been overcome by grief. I was in Garavan’s on my first pint when Tevis arrived. Dressed in a good suit, linen lightweight, with a very sporty straw boater.

I said,

“Very Gatsby.”

He ordered a small vodka, slimline tonic, said,

“Another sad bastard.”

“Fitzgerald?”

He took a tentative sip. Then,

“No, I meant Renaud. You might say he had a bad heir day.”

I’d heard about the death, said,

“Guilt?”

He gave a nasty chuckle, said,

“More a case of qualms.”

Looked at him, got the nasty smile. He said,

“Ol’ Pierre decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he was going to confess.”

“Did he?”

Tevis finished his drink, contemplated another, said,

“Well, Allen felt there was another option.”

I wasn’t sure where this was going but didn’t like the sense of it, asked,

“You mean he hung him?”

He recoiled in mock horror, said,

“What a nasty chain of thought you have.”

Then he changed tack, asked,

“How is that Sophie’s choice gig going for you?”

I had a fair idea of what he meant but feigned ignorance, asked,

“What are you on about?”

“Your wives? Or wife and concubine? Who’d you choose, the one with the kid? Oh, no, they both have those.”

He gave an evil chuckle, said,

“One of those kids is, how do you say, shop-soiled.”

I hit him fast and dirty, so fast he didn’t actually fall down but it rocked his head like a seizure. No one in the pub seemed to have noticed. I leaned in, steadied him, and whispered,

“You have a real shitty mouth.”

It took him a few moments to orient himself, then,

“Cheap shot, Jack. I thought you were better than that.”

I got to smile, said,

“You thought wrong.”

He glanced around the pub, said,

“Gee, not any of those fuckers realize I was just assaulted.”

I said,

“Oh, they realize. They just don’t give a fuck.”

Harley and Raoul were waiting for Michael Allen outside Jurys hotel, at the bottom of Quay Street. Raoul was wary of the whole gig, said,

“What if this guy just offs us both?”

Harley, determined to be upbeat, said,

“Long as you get it on film.”

Raoul went,

“Huh?”

Harley pointed to the swans, said,

“Instead of moaning, you could be over there getting some footage of the black swan.”

Raoul, vaguely interested, asked,

“As a noir metaphor?”

Harley snapped,

“How many times have I explained to you the difference between an indie and a cult director?”

Raoul asked,

“Does either of those guys ever pay the camera crew?”

A white van rolled up, stopped. Allen leaned out, said,

“All aboard the magic bus.”

Harley muttered,

“White van. What a cliché.”

They piled in. Allen burned rubber.

As Harley and Raoul tried to find a seat in the rear of the van, Allen shouted,

“Mind what you touch, that’s a crime scene.”

As they sped up Grattan Road, the van braked suddenly, a group of hippie / monk-clothed people snaked across the road. Harley asked,

“Who the fuck are they?”

Allen sneered,

“The apostles of apocalypse.”

Harley nudged Raoul to begin filming. Allen added,

“Euro trash, their trust funds crashed, so now they chant doom and end of days.”

As Allen revved up, he said,

“Soon as I get some free time, I’m going to give them a taste of Armageddon.”

Harley noticed there was no humor in that statement. The van continued out beyond Spiddal, turned into a small lane, pulled up outside a bungalow.

Allen jumped out, displaying the controlled force of his fitness. Harley followed him into the house. In the front room, bare save for two hard back chairs, a fat man in only his underpants was tied to one chair, sweating heavily. A fading bruise under one eye was the only sign of violence.

He stared at Harley.

Allen said,

“Meet Peter Boyne, child molester and failed kidnapper.”

Boyne said nothing.

Allen indicated the other chair, said,

“You sit there, ask anything you want, and your camera guy can set up as he likes.”

They did so. Raoul whispered to Harlow,

“This is like seriously fucked up.”

Allen said,

“I’ll be outside milking the cows.”

To the baffled looks of all three, he added,

“Come on guys, cows? Really?”

But he did leave.

Harley got himself in interview mood, channeling what he thought of as his Cronkite tone. Boyne stared at him with dull curiosity.

Harley asked,

“State your name, please.”

“Peter Boyne.”

“Occupation?”

Raoul whispered,

“Kiddie hawk.”

Boyne said,

“Lollipop man.”

Harley nearly guffawed. It was like the title of a Stephen King short story. He went,

“What?”

“I help the children cross the road safely.”

He said this without a trace of irony. Harley was delighted, and he pushed.

“And do you abduct them after they are safely across?”

Boyne looked offended, near shouted,

“I don’t abduct children.”

There was a silence as all digested this. Allen appeared behind Boyne, said to Harley,

“Don’t adjust your set. This is a temporary glitch.”

He walloped Boyne twice across the head, said,

“Play nice or you don’t walk out of here.”

Boyne tried to turn to look at him, whined,

“You’ll never let me go.”

Allen moved to the front of Boyne, hunkered down, leaned on Boyne’s knees, said,

“Trust, Pete buddy, we got to have trust, else I take out your left eye. How would that be?”

Boyne nodded. Allen stood, did those neck stretches so beloved of deskbound yuppies, said,

“We’re good to go.”

Harley, shaken, began again.

“Um, when did you discover your, um, taste for, um, younger people?”

Allen moved, slapped Harley on the head, shouted,

“Seriously? This is your hard-core style? Ask him why he fucks kids!”

Harley pulled himself together, asked,

“How many children have you molested?”

Boyne just stared at him.

Raoul said,

“God sakes, this is not good.”

Allen said,

“We need some snap, some pizazz.”

He reached to his back, pulled out a Glock, racked the slide, moved to Boyne, asked,

“Snuff movie, anyone?”

25

Harley was busy. Very.

In anticipation of the coming success, he’d checked into the top floor of the Meyrick, said to the manager,

“Expect the world press to descend on this hotel in the next few days. You, my friend, are going to be very busy.”

Ordered champagne and began phoning top TV outlets in the States, hinting at the explosive material he had. Looked around, shouted,

“Raoul, the fuck are you? Bring me a drink.”

No Raoul.

Harley hung up on a West Coast hotshot, a nagging feeling starting in his gut. He saw Raoul’s knapsack, rummaged through it. No film.

No film!

But there was a note.

   “Dear shithead,

     You like to lecture at length about your art.

The art of cinema.

Here’s real art for you.

The guy with the film is the artist,

The guy holding the bag is

Fucked.”

Harley’s scream could be heard all the way down to the lobby.

The Galway races.

A week of utter madness, the pubs open until two in the morning, like the city went on the piss. Serious drinkers lay low; this was the time of messers. Apprentice drinkers who got loud and obnoxious.

I was in what civilized folk term a quandary.

Marion and / or Kiki.

I had met with Marion who, alas, wasn’t all that grateful for my apparent rescue of her son. I asked,

“How is the little lad doing?”

She said,

“Like you care.”

Jesus.

I wasn’t seeing a whole rosy future here. I tried,

“I was glad to be able to help get him back.”

Low shot, I know, but, hey, we weren’t playing fair here. She said,

“I feel if we had never met you, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Fucking outrageous, right?

I said,

“That is not only untrue but it’s downright offensive.”

She went with the other weapon.

“Were you ever going to mention your wife and...”

Pause.

“Child?”

Time to fold.

Did I go dirty and mention her husband?

I asked,

“And your husband?”

Kiki.

I met her for a drink in Garavan’s. I ordered a pint and she said,

“How typical of you, Jack. You know I’m in the program and yet you meet me in a pub.”

Aw, fuck.

I had no energy after Marion. I asked,

“How is my daughter?”

She looked at me with a far distance from affection, asked,

“You even remember her name?”

I could have mustered some defense but, instead, I drained my pint, said,

“Have a great life.”

Got the fuck out of there.

I walked along the canal, wondering if it was deep enough to drown myself. A guy was fishing and I stopped to watch. He was intent on the task, then said,

“Jack Taylor.”

I asked,

“I know you?”

He felt a tug on the line and reeled in a large eel, took the hook out then released it, said,

“Stocks are low.”

Then,

“You helped my old man out some years ago.”

Well, finally some brightness.

He asked,

“You a betting man?”

I said,

“I’m not against it.”

He said,

“There’s a horse running at Galway today, the two forty-five, everything about him

Trainer

Jockey

Owner

Is local.

He’s running against some very fancy horses. Like you, a lone voice against the big boys. His name is Pateen. He’s all heart and endurance.”

“Thank you.”

I went to turn away and he added,

“Put a decent wager. Act like you believe.”

I was on my way when he said,

“You know they say, You learn more from a loss than a win?”

“I’ve heard that.”

He gave a very small smile, said,

“That’s horseshit.”

I put an indecent amount on the horse. He was 20–1.

He won.

I was heading down Forster Street with my substantial winnings when a small shop caught my interest. Near to the Puckeen pub, it had a variety of Galway souvenirs displayed. At the very back of the items I saw a black swan.

An omen, I thought.

Of what, I had no idea.

Bound to be a metaphor, at least.

I went in and the owner was a quick study in hostility. Without saying a word, he conveyed the notion I was a shoplifter. I said,

“The black swan, I’d like to buy it.”

He stared at me, said,

“We don’t have any white ones.”

What?

I said,

“I don’t want a white one.”

His body shifted as if “How much more aggravation can one man endure?”

He said,

“The Galway swans are white.”

God almighty.

I said,

“There’s a black one there now.”

He muttered,

“Sure.”

But made no sign of moving.

I asked,

“So can I purchase the black one or not?”

He reluctantly got it, blew some dust off it, said,

“Thirty euros.”

I was in some new realm of Monty Python so decided to go with it, asked,

“How much do you charge for the white ones?”

He took a step toward me. Was I going to end up wrestling with a shopkeeper on the floor of his shop?

He snarled,

“You’re a bit of a smart-arse.”

I said,

“As opposed to an actual customer?”

I threw the money on the counter, picked up the now controversial swan, said,

“You’re probably overwhelmed with return shoppers.”

And was out of there.

I headed up toward the square. A wino asked me for a few quid so I handed over some notes. I still had the swan, unwrapped, in my hand. He said,

“Funny, I always thought them birds were white.”

I got back to my flat and, not for the first time, missed how no little pup would be waiting to welcome me. I shook my head to rid myself of the memory of the wonderful dog I had.

Was into the flat when I realized I was not alone. A man was standing against the window, staring out at the ocean. He seemed completely at ease, said,

“Hell of a view.”

Turned to face me.

Tall, with a buzz cut, dressed in fatigues, a face that was nearly remarkable in its blandness. A suppressed energy danced around him. He said,

“I’m Michael Allen.”

I said,

“The psycho.”

He shrugged, said,

“Not an auspicious beginning to our meeting.”

I said,

“It’s not a meeting when you break into my flat.”

He saluted, said,

“I didn’t break anything.”

Pause.

“Yet.”

I gave him a long look, said,

“Time to pack up whatever nonsense you’re peddling and fuck off.”

He smiled, said,

“Harsh.”

I had been rationing cigarettes in between vapings and reached for one now, fired up, said,

“Spill whatever it is.”

He said,

“I thought a little gratitude might be forthcoming.”

I said,

“You knew where the boy was being held but did nothing for three days.”

He let out a deep sigh, said,

“Let me demonstrate something for you.”

Crossed the room and in a split second flipped me on my back, his shoe resting on my windpipe, said,

“A little pressure and it’s good night Jack Taylor.”

He stood back, said,

“Just so we’re clear.”

I got shakily to my feet, let my head hang down as if I were still groggy. He came over, said,

“Deep breaths, champ.”

My head came up fast, catching him under the chin. I followed with an almighty punch to the side of his head. He staggered back against the wall but

Managed to stay on his feet.

I went to the cupboard, poured a decent shot of Jay, knocked it back, said,

“Now we’re clear.”

He recovered fast, said,

“I knew it, my kind of soldier.”

I said,

“We going another round or are you going to piss off?”

He smiled. I could see a bruise under his chin taking shape. He said,

“Tevis, I know he’s some kind of buddy to you.”

“Not my buddy.”

He let out a shout, said,

“Excellent, then we have no problem.”

He leaned against the wall, his body both relaxed yet crackling with a manic energy. Whatever else, I knew this guy was extremely dangerous so I decided to play along, see where the madness led. I asked,

“What exactly is it you want?”

He pondered this, then,

“Tevis is a loose cannon, probably the gay thing. He is having bouts of conscience and that I can’t have.”

I said,

“From what he told me, he seemed quite delighted you solved the problem — the guy who killed his friend.”

He laughed, said,

“I like the way you tiptoe ’round the acts committed in the name of justice.”

Enough of this nonsense. I said,

“So you’re removing Tevis, that it?”

He made an odd sound like a strangulated sigh, said,

“No, no way.”

I nodded, said,

“Great, so you can be on your way. Nice chatting with you and all that.”

He said,

“You’re not getting this.”

“What?”

“You are removing Tevis from our game.”

26

I did a background on Tevis. Didn’t take long.

He was thirty-nine years old, born in Dublin, worked in IT, single. Mostly, I wanted his address.

Got that.

He lived in new apartments off College Road so I dressed like I meant business: the Garda coat, Doc Martens, black 501s, black T-shirt. I rang his doorbell. Answered with a towel in his hand and another covering his body, said,

“I was in the shower. Come in, brew some coffee, or do you want a drink?”

The apartment was completely white, even the furniture — so white you didn’t want to soil it. He said,

“Sit down, chill, and I’ll be ready in a moment.”

I sat near a bookcase. The titles were all tech manuals, not one novel. He came back into the room, dressed in sweats, bare feet, like a guy who hadn’t a care in the world, asked,

“What’s up, dude?”

I said,

“Your psycho buddy came to visit.”

That stopped him for a bit, then,

“And you’re alive to tell the tale.”

Well, there was a cue right off. I said,

“Odd you should say that as he wants me to kill somebody.”

He didn’t seem fazed, asked,

“Anyone I know?”

Something off about his tone. I said,

“You.”

He laughed.

Not the response you’d expect. He said,

“That is priceless.”

I asked,

“What do you mean?”

He gave a bitter smile, said,

“He made me the same offer.”

Took me a moment, then,

“He wants you to...”

Deep breath.

“Kill me?”

He said,

“Guy likes to mind-fuck.”

One way of putting it.

I asked,

“Are you planning to try?”

He laughed, asked,

“Are you?”

I said,

“I saved your life, what do you think?”

He moved to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich, said,

“Been saving this for a special occasion. This seems to be it.”

Poured healthy measures, handed me one, said,

“To our continued good health.”

I said,

“Indeed.”

He knocked his right back. I paid mine a little more respect. He said,

“Something I want to share with you.”

“Go for it.”

He took a deep breath, said,

“You might recall I told you my partner was killed in a gay bashing?”

I remembered, nodded. He continued,

“We’d been drinking in Jurys bar, bottom of Quay Street.”

I thought,

Who the fuck drinks there?

He said,

“You’re thinking who the hell drinks there.”

No answer required, so he went on,

“We’d downed a fair few when I noticed a bunch of guys giving us dirty looks, like the looks you get from queer bashers.”

He looked at me, said,

“Trust me, you know the hostility vibe.”

I said,

“Hostility I’m very familiar with, gay or otherwise.”

He considered that, said,

“The guys left before us but I knew they’d be waiting. They smelled blood.”

He spat, said,

“The fuckers.”

Then asked,

“Know what I did?”

I told the truth.

“Ran?”

He nearly smiled, said,

“When we came out, John didn’t realize the danger and I didn’t tell him. I told him I was going to grab something from the shop.”

Now he paused.

He looked at his feet, as if there was some salvation there. There wasn’t. He continued.

“John looked baffled, especially as there are few shops down there and even more confused when I began to walk very quickly.”

Another long pause, then,

“Away.”

He was now reliving it and not for the first time, said,

“I glanced back only once and they were already on him, like a pack of wolves.”

A heavy silence hung over us, and finally he could bear it no longer, asked,

“What do you think about that?”

I thought of a lot of things and none of them would do him any good, so I tried,

“We all have shite we wish we could change.”

As lame as it gets.

I finished my drink, said,

“Okay, what about our current situation? Maybe we should pool our scant talents and go after him.”

He gave a shrill sound, said,

“No fucking way.”

“What then?”

He poured another drink, sank it, said,

“I’m going to do what I apparently do best.”

I waited and came the predictable,

“Run.”