Purgatory

24

Kelly climbed out of my bed, looked back, said,

“What you lack in heat you make up for in desperation.”

Add that to a fragmented ego, see how it plays. I propped myself up on one elbow, like Matthew McConaughey seems to do in every movie, but I did skip the squeezing of my eyes. She was doing that thing women think is cute:

. . wearing the guy’s shirt

. . and drives guys mental

And it was also my prized multi-washed cotton work shirt.

I said,

“So, you were married to Reardon.”

She pulled her bag over, took out a pack of Virginia Slims, lit one with a solid gold Zippo, that clunk sounding as it always did, like some weary hope. She blew out a cloud of smoke, said,

“You’ve been holding that for a time, measuring the max impact.”

She was caught between annoyance and amusement, continued,

“He comes from. .”

She paused,

Asked,

“You know the term fuck-you money?”

Sure.

“Well, his family is so far up that fuck-you trail they don’t even bother to brag about it, they just do it: annihilate and move on. I come from jack shit and, to get in that charmed circle, I’d have fucked his whole clan.”

This riled me in ways I couldn’t even articulate. I spat,

“So did you? Lay the whole crew?”

She dropped the cig in my coffee cup and, no, I wasn’t finished, said,

“Pretty much.”

She was heading for the shower. I asked,

“You must have done pretty fine from the divorce.”

She looked at me in genuine puzzlement.

“Who got divorced?”

She switched on the TV, the final of the Volvo Ocean Race at the Galway Docks. Eighty thousand people turned up at two in the morning to welcome them. New Zealand was first over the line but the French won on overall time. It was to be the beginning of nine days of party-on in Galway and a huge financial coup for the city.

She flicked it off, said,

“Reardon’s got a boat.”

Jesus, quelle surprise.

Like I gave a good fuck. I asked,

“In the race?”

She laughed, began to make coffee, said,

“Yeah, right, like the dude’s got the time to sail round the world. It’s berthed in Saint-Tropez, or is it Saint-Malo?”

I asked, edge leaking over my tone,

“Remind me again why you’re with me?”

She glanced up, asked,

“You don’t know?”

Dare to hope.

Said,

“I make you laugh?”

She sighed as she surveyed my range of coffee, said,

“Slumming, see how a loser lives.”

There was no smile on her lips.

And certainly

No warmth in her tone.

I’d recently come across the first of Arne Dahl’s novels to be translated into English, The Blinded Man, a passage in there that captured a look that passed between Kelly and me as she handed me a mug of coffee.

Did those few minutes in the kitchen draw them closer together? Or had a final chasm opened up between them? It was impossible to say but something decisive had taken place; they had looked into each other’s naked loneliness.

So many times, a piece, quote, passage from a book reflected exactly the current of my life.

But never did my life reflect a single piece of uplifting writing in all my reading years. My life didn’t imitate fiction; it mocked it.

More and more, I was reading into darkness, the resonance of my days simply ratifying what I read. This knowledge was less a revelation than an affirmation.

A memorial was unveiled in Celia Griffin Park to honor the victims of the Famine ships, and those ships, rescue ships, that had tried so hard to deliver our people to the United States. Celia Griffin was six years old during the Famine and died of hunger on the streets of Galway. An autopsy revealed she had not a scrap of food in her stomach.

Mark Kennedy had

Cajoled

Struggled

Fought

To raise the funds for this memorial and, close to his seventy-sixth birthday, he saw his dream fulfilled. How fitting that the unveiling was attended by Brian Sheridan, the harbormaster, as he juggled with the logistics of the Volvo Ocean Race.

Truly, a shard of sunshine amid so much darkness.

Don Stiffe had composed a song for the occasion, titled

Celia Griffin.

And there, in the sunshine, he sang it as the spectators, their eyes wet, turned out toward Galway Bay. Kelly had come along with me. I had promised to show her a slice of the real Galway and she went,

“Dead kid, huh?”

I wanted to wallop her.

Len Waters’s apartment was beyond basic. Someone with money and spare time had attacked it with clichés. The mega-flat screen, heavy leather sofa, kitchen outfitted with every expensive gadget, never used. Lads’ mags scattered on the glass coffee table and obligatory ashtray with butts and spliff ends. The fridge had simply six-packs and a half bottle of Grey Goose.

C33 was partial to a chilled vodka, found new Waterford crystal in a cupboard, and poured a decent measure. Sat on the couch, feet up on the table, and wondered what anxiety was like, having recently read about it in a medical column. It seemed like a useful vibe to imitate.

Too, it could double up with stress and have a whole concerned presentation running. C33 placed the shotgun on the sofa, double O ammunition. Bought in that fish and tackle shop without any fuss. Even exchanged pleasantries,

“Shame about the weather.”

“Indeed.”

And, on leaving, heard,

“God bless the hunting.”

Gotta love that.

C33 thought about Waters, wondered if there was any point in a chat before offing the little bastard. The guy terrorized old women, working his twisted path toward the main event. What was there to talk about?

The vodka was slipping down easy, a nice glow building. C33 thought about Jack Taylor and knew now that he was not going to be an adversary. Had seemed like an idea to play with him, him being such a book fiend. But he had failed to follow up on the clues and now seemed more interested in his limp romance.

C33 sighed.

Stewart. Now maybe that’s the way the game should have gone. Stewart was definitely willing to rap but,

C33

Shouted,

“So goddamn freaking slow.”

Needed everything spelled out?

Fucksake!

A key turned in the door, C33 breathed,

“Showtime.”

Len Waters had been on the piss, big-time. A fairly average evening for him.

Barred from three pubs

Thrown out of two clubs

One fistfight outside Supermac’s

And threw up twice near the canal. Whatever company he’d been in had abandoned him, nothing new there. He was just trouble without the humor. Now Waters was hit by the late-night fake appetite, for something

Greasy

Full of fat

Cheap

And had no money.

Fuck.

He roared.

Thought, back in his kip of a flat, he had some stashed coke. Yeah, get some lines done, then he’d see. Maybe head back out, smash some old bitch up, yeah, get right in her old face, crush it. That never got. . old.

Took him a few minutes to get his key aligned to the lock and involved a stream of obscenities, then literally fell in. He lay on the floor, unable to get up for a moment, and started to laugh for no reason other than simple derangement.

A voice cut through his mirth.

“Care to share the joke?”

C33 had decided to go with one barrel. Mainly as one was more than sufficient to wipe Waters off the map. All the talk C33 had planned on giving had just evaporated and C33 had thought,

“Who the fuck can be bothered?”

Too, what could Waters have possibly said of vague interest? Standing over the body, nudged the head with a boot, dead as a doornail. The smell of cordite was intoxicating. C33 looked around the flat, shrugged, opened the door, the shotgun cradled on the right arm.

A man was standing outside, stared at C33, struggling to place the face, said,

“I know you.”

The movement

Shotgun

One

Moved fast to the right hand

Two

Finger on the trigger

Three

Second barrel goes

Into Stewart’s face.