The Devil

17

After Taylor left, Peg said a small Novena for him. Like all the tinkers, she had a deep love for the man.

All those years ago, when young tinkers were being slaughtered, their bodies thrown in the fair green, did the Guards help?

She gave a bitter laugh.

Did they shite.

The Garda Suichona…Guardians of the Peace.

Her arse they were.

More like Garda Chickana.

That Superintendent…Clancy?

Oh, a bad bastard.

Was overheard on the golf course saying,

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’

This was, of course, off the record, a private remark if you will.

In Ireland, a ‘private remark’ is like putting it on a billboard.

Then along came the bedraggled, befuddled Taylor, a broken man to hear it said. And ‘fond of it’.

Meaning, a drunk.

Taylor was wounded in all the ways that last. He took up their cause. And took some serious beatings along the way. One horrendous one, they literally kicked the teeth out of his head. Beat him with the ash, the hurleys giving him that limp.

Did he run?

She smiled. He kept on coming. Like a dog who will not quit, no matter how many times you wallop it. She blessed herself for him and her own self. He had solved the case.

Above all, he had true respect and affection for the clans. They never forget and he was among the few outsiders to be considered almost one of their own.

She poured a large Jay, raised it and said aloud,

‘Bhi curamach.’ (Be careful.)

She felt the Jameson light her stomach, like the child she’d never have. A wave of weariness began to wash over her. Maybe she’d just rest her eyes for a wee while.

Her dreams were vivid. She saw Taylor so clearly, going willingly towards a man. She wanted to cry,

‘No, not the Lord of Lies, he believes he owns you.’

The rest of the dream involved fire and a cemetery of young people.

She woke with a small sigh.

Her body was covered in sweat and yet she was frozen, ice cold.

But she’d left the heaters on, she could have sworn.

Then she saw the man sitting at the table. Long golden hair, like her Lord, Jesus. The same golden tresses as in the huge portrait of the Sacred Heart she prized.

Till he turned.

Looked at her.

Eyes…of yellow?

And a beautiful suit.

She had seen such clothes in the shops on the main street that would never let the likes of her inside.

He gave a smile of such radiance, her hopes rose briefly, till he spoke.

‘Peg, I thought you were sleeping the sleep of the damned.’

And he laughed.

A sound that sent slivers of ice along her spine. He lifted the miraculously full Jameson bottle, poured two generous glasses, said,

‘Come, drink with me.’

As if mesmerized, she rose, moved slowly to the table and took the hard chair.

His eyes were locked on hers.

She prayed she was still dreaming and somehow she’d wake.

Safe.

Warm.

He pushed the glass towards her, raised his own, asked,

‘Peg, oh Peg, my heart, what shall we drink to?’

She grabbed the glass, like some futile lifeline, drained half, seeking heat and oblivion.

He said,

‘I know, let’s drink to Jack Taylor.’

A beat. Then,

‘That work for you, Peg? A toast to the bold Jack?’

Each time he uttered her name, it was like a laceration on her soul. He indicated the ashtray. Two cigarettes, newly lit, were waiting.

She knew she was done for, but damned, by God, never that.

As she took the cigarette, he said,

‘All your needs are catered for, Peg.’

Her hand trembled and he watched it, said,

‘Woe is me, if only this whole episode were just the jigs, as you Irish call them. How amusing that your favourite dance is also what you call the horrors, Deliria Tremens. You could deal with that Peg, right? C’est vrai?’

She stared at him, defiance writ large.

He laughed, said,

‘Excusez-moi, what would a peasant like you know of such a language as French?’

She finally found her voice, fingering the gold miraculous medal round her neck, said,

‘What do you want?’

He lunged across the table, tore the medal from her neck and flung it across the caravan.

‘You think such trifles can help you?’

She was shocked. The touch of his hand was like a knife wound, and cold, like a dead heart. Her heart pounded but she managed,

‘You have no business with me.’

He laughed anew, but in a new tenor, pure unadulterated malevolence, said,

‘You told Mr Taylor that he was tainted, that he had taken the Devil’s coin?’

Peg was of pure tinker stock, she’d known every humiliation the world could cast. She had fronted up to bailiffs, sheriffs, Guards, tormentors of every sort, and had never given one inch.

But now?

Now she was terrified.

He indicated the booze, the cigarettes, said,

‘Purchased with…how should I put it? The same currency.’

She had to know, asked,

‘Why are you so focused on one wreck of a man, a poor creature who is only of danger to his own self?’

His lips drew back and she’d have sworn he snarled, but he reined it in. He lifted the box of matches slowly, methodically. Lighting them, flicking them across the table, on the floor, he said,

‘Very eloquently spoken, for a…’

The curtains caught fire, a bundle of Galway Advertisers, a flier for takeaway pizza.

‘…A barren sow.’

He filled her glass as the smoke began to envelop them, said,

‘I’m a very busy man – swine flu, genocide, the usual manifestations of my power, mild diversions if you will. But I do have certain fetishes, some idle projects I like to see come to fruition. A mere drop in the ocean, but of amusement to me.’

Then he was on his feet, towering over her. His voice like the awesome storm of ’82, he boomed,

‘And I will not be thwarted. These diversions have their place and are of some value to me.’

The smoke was hurting her eyes, invading her lungs, but she was transfixed. He continued,

‘Some years ago, I had wonderful aspirations for a young man, a true believer, and he was doing so well, laying waste to the young of your tribe, who even your own nation despises.’

Despite the fire raging, the congestion in her lungs, she managed to smile, said,

‘And Jack Taylor stepped in.’

His blow knocked her from the chair and sent her sprawling close to the burning curtains. He strode over, said,

‘Cunt, listen well, he has meddled many times. I even had a nun turned. Have you any idea, in your tinker’s soul, what it means to own a nun, what a spit in the face of the Nazarene that would have been, a Bride of Christ doing my unholy work?’

She would never know how she managed it, but she laughed, laughed at him, said,

‘And Jack stopped her, didn’t he? Despite all your fireworks and scare tricks, this small, insignificant man yet again kicked you in the balls, which I doubt you have. You might be the Lord of Hell, but it takes no balls to hit a woman. It takes a long yellow streak, as yellow as your piss-tinted eyes.’

He grabbed her hair, pushed her face into the flaming newspapers, said,

‘You will kneel before me, or by the Christ you worship, you will die a death you never imagined.’

She somehow dredged up a mere dribble of spit, spat it on his beautiful trousers, cried,

‘You’re a poor excuse for a devil, God help us, and mark my words, you cowardly piece of shite, Jack Taylor will show you hell before you’re through.’

True to his word, he made her die hard.

Very.

But kneel?

Never.

The caravan burned quickly. By the time the fire brigade arrived, it was but a smouldering shell.

One of the firemen, moving towards the debris, spotted a glint, reached down and picked out a medal. He held it up to the light. For years after, he’d swear ‘It shone like the purest gold.’

A passer-by said to his mate,

‘Another dead tinker, what a fucking surprise.’

On Long Walk, across the water from the caravan, the man with the golden tresses fumed, said,

‘Taylor, she goes on your list. The sow never knelt, but you will.’

The sun lit up the ruined caravan and the burnt remains of Peg.

The man knew that what her charred remains might yield was a smile of pure victory.

As he stomped along Long Walk, even the swans withdrew from his passing, huddled on the other shore.

Despite the sun’s brief respite, he threw no shadow.