Sanctuary

14

Gary Blake’s house was midway along Newcastle Avenue, the original name of the avenue being Cosan an Aifreann. Mass Path. Because the hearses from the morgue drove along this road to the funeral parlours. Newcastle Avenue didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

The house had large wooden gates, but one was open and I went in. The small yard for parking was deserted and no lights were on. I rang the doorbell, and smiled at the nameplate on the door: St Jude’s — the patron saint of hopeless cases.

I waited, then used my tool kit to open the door — a present from Stapelton, a psycho friend, long dead and by my hand.

I found myself in a long hall, with icons and pictures of avenging angels lining the walls and a huge blue banner that proclaimed: ‘Aids is God’s answer.’

I muttered, ‘What’s the question?’

The house was well cleaned and had one upstairs bedroom with a skylight. I opened the cupboard. Apart from a few shirts and jeans, it contained a baseball bat that looked well used — the smudges on the top weren’t red paint — and a set of brass knuckles. Everything the urban vigilante required.

Downstairs again, I noticed a large bookcase with volumes on right-wing propaganda and numerous tomes on the scourge of homosexuality. I found a well-stocked drinks cabinet — I selected a bottle of Black Bushmills, got a heavy tumbler and poured myself a large one, had a sip and said, ‘Now that is real fine.’

Glass in hand, I looked at the framed photos, all of the guy I presumed to be Blake. He had militia gear on in one, another showed him receiving a trophy for service to the community, and the final one showed him on a golf course with a number of men, one of whom I recognized as Superintendent Clancy. I went back to the kitchen and checked the fridge: full of choice meats, wines, lots of delicacies and a fresh salmon. I found a stick of French bread and made myself a thick sandwich. It went real well with the Bush.

I put my mini feast on the kitchen table, placed the revolver alongside and settled in to wait.

The food was so good, I was contemplating a second sandwich when the front door opened. There was a heavy footfall, then he walked into the kitchen, near jumping out of his skin when he saw me.

I asked, ‘How was work, dear?’

He was in his late forties, slim build, pasty complexion with brown furtive eyes. Of course, you come home to find a guy at your kitchen table, eating your grub with a gun alongside, you’re going to look furtive.

He took a moment, then blustered, ‘Who the hell are you?’

I drained my glass, smiled in appreciation at the sheer quality of the booze and said, ‘I’m serious fucking trouble.’ I put my hand on the butt of the gun, said, ‘Sit.’

He did.

I took the revolver in my left hand, swung the chamber out and let the five bullets tumble on to the table. I picked one up, put it in the chamber, smiled at Gary, then spun the chamber.

‘I take it you’ve seen The Deer Hunter? Shit, macho guy like you, probably know it by heart.’

He had a light line of perspiration on his forehead as he asked, ‘What is this all about?’

‘Thing is, Gary — you don’t mind if I call you Gary? — you’ve a real tidy home here, no sign of, how shall we say, female occupancy, and you’re, lemme guess, in your late forties, not married, and in the fridge it’s all fancy meats, nice wines, none of that Guinness or beer crap for you, so I’m wondering. . are you gay? Got any Barbra Streisand albums, or is it Kylie now?’

His face contorted in rage. I waved the gun and he sat down as he spat, ‘How dare you even utter that word in my house? They are a virus, a modern-day plague.’

I aimed the gun at him. ‘And you’re the cure?’ I clicked the hammer back. ‘I pull the trigger, you’re gone.’

He nearly fell off the chair, stammered, ‘You’re deranged. God almighty, what is the matter with you?’

I said, ‘It’s real simple. I want you to retire from the bashing gig.’ I stood up, added, ‘You now have to decide how serious I am.’

I leveled the revolver, said, ‘They say I’m a drunk, and as you can see. .’ I indicated the dwindling Bushmills in the glass, ‘. . I’m certainly partial to a wee dram. The thing is, how steady is my aim?’

I pulled the trigger and the bullet whizzed past his ear, leaving the tiniest nick on the rim, and lodged in the wall behind him. I was as shocked as he was, but had to appear nonchalant.

Jesus, an inch or so and I’d have blasted him right between the eyes. The tiny abrasion began to pump blood, which ran down the side of his neck.

I said, ‘Next time, I’ll be more accurate.’

He put his hand to his ear, checking to see if it was still attached, and muttered, ‘Holy mother of God.’

I laughed. ‘You’ll need her if I hear of anything happening again.’

I went to the fridge, the gun held loosely in my hand, and took out the fresh salmon. I turned, gave him my best smile and said, ‘Change your diet. Need to get some meat on you, pal.’

I took the fish with me.

I headed along the Newcastle Road, the fish under my arm, until I came to the Salmon Weir Bridge, where I threw the salmon into the water.

A young boy, maybe twelve, was watching me. ‘Is that fish still alive?’ he asked.

I lied, said, ‘The water will revive him.’

He gave me a look of total contempt. ‘The water is poisoned, it will kill him.’

He gave one more look into the water, hoping against hope, I think, then turned back to me.

‘You’re a very stupid man.’

Few would disagree.