The Devil

19

My limp had been acting up and I figured a decent walk might ease the ache. I took the route that leads to Grattan Road. But first I went to the Dominican church, to see Our Lady of Galway. When I’d sheltered from the rain and met Father Ralph I’d never given her a second thought, so if I made up for the lapse now, who knew, maybe she’d appreciate it.

A seventeenth-century Italian Madonna. There is a mother-of-pearl bead in her hand, given by a fisherman.

Her crown was presented by the first ever Catholic mayor of Galway in 1683.

She was literally buried when the waves of persecution began.

I love the altar surrounding her, it shows a Claddagh boat,

St Nicholas, patron saint of Galway,

St Enda, venerated on the Aran Islands.

It is said that if a real Galwegian asks her help, she will grant it.

So I asked,

‘What am I supposed to do?’

Waited, then decided that walking was the only thing I was able to do just now. I blessed myself, then headed on, moved along Grattan Road, glancing to the right at the abandoned lighthouse. Maybe I could rent that and put the isolation in its proper place. I reached the aquarium. I’d never been inside. Perhaps they had displays of the poisoned water.

Beside it was Seapoint ballroom. My mind attempted to recapture those glory days of the showbands:

The Regal,

The Capitol,

The Clipper Carlton,

The Indians,

The Royal,

The Miami.

Dressed in blazers and pants with actual creases, those guys played three-hour sessions, and the crowd loved them. I’m not going into some rap about a more innocent time, but the fact we knew less seemed to suit us better.

Now we know everything and talk to nobody.

A priest would patrol outside to ensure lewd behaviour didn’t occur. If only we knew, we should have been patrolling the priests.

As I hit the promenade proper, I gazed out at the ocean. It never failed to make me yearn. For what?

America,

love,

peace?

I don’t know, but it was like balm to my tired soul. It didn’t quiet the voices in my head that had the same refrain of

reminding,

re-telling,

reprimanding

the trash I was.

Once a cop…

Those instincts never fully leave you.

I’d been aware for the past ten minutes of a sleek black BMW tracking me.

Sawyer’s men?

Payback?

The Sig was to hand. I was ready and be-jaysus, I was willing.

I kept walking, replaying my most recent conversation with Stewart, his anger at my insistence that we were dealing with the Devil. He even asked if I’d checked for the number 666. I’d laughed out loud, said,

‘He’s bald, how hard would it be to look?’

Then I added, venom spilling all over my words,

‘You saw The Omen and bought the glitz version.’

He didn’t know what I meant so I told him.

Hollywood versus Revelation.

And read out the actual passage from Revelation, 13, 16-18:

‘And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred three score and six.’

He was confused and I said,

‘The number 666 is the mark of the beast, not of Satan!’

The BMW stopped, the back door opened and a voice said,

‘Get in.’

Cautiously I bent down and there was Superintendent Clancy. Once my best friend, but my lethal adversary for a long time. In my last case, I had saved the life of his child and he owed me. I knew he hated that, the debt. I got in, closed the door. Sitting in the front were two Guards, plain clothes. One I didn’t know, but the other, he had beaten me to a pulp the year before. He was known as Tom the Thug. It fitted. I said,

‘How’s the hurting biz, Tommy?’

He didn’t reply, but I could see his neck redden from temper.

Clancy said,

‘Always with the mouth, Jack?’

Jack.

For years, it had always been Taylor.

I looked at him. He was in full regalia, the deep-navy Commander’s rig, with medals pinned on the right collar. He’d been carrying a lot of weight the last time we met, but seemed to have grown even larger, his stomach pressed against the tight tunic. His jowls testified to rich dinners with the lads and layers of fat had narrowed his eyes into slits. I asked,

‘Life treating you good?’

He sighed and I knew he was waiting for me to ask about the boy, to remind him.

I didn’t.

He said,

‘I was reliably informed you were going to America.’

I smiled, said,

‘Not that reliable, it seems.’

Usually, at this stage in the proceedings, one of his men would have walloped me, hard. He said,

‘Jack, we have the Volvo racing competition coming to Galway. Out of all the cities in the world, we get to be the base. This means a huge influx of money, prestige, tourists, puts us on the world stage.’

He paused, shot his hand out, adjusted the cufflink on his snow-white shirt.

Who the fuck wears cufflinks any more and more to the point, why?

I swear, they had the Garda crest on them.

I had a real hard time not to burst into Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’, but that would have definitely gotten me a hammering. He continued,

‘Now Jack, how would it sound to the world media if some eejit were running round making wild accusations about Satanic murders and such crazy talk as that?’

I said,

‘I’m guessing the Tourist Board wouldn’t be happy with such an individual.’

He turned his beady eyes on me, said,

‘You’ve got it arseways as usual, Jack. You’re forever bleating about not liking our new Galway but it’s the other way round, Galway doesn’t like you, I don’t like you and the fucking Tourist Board is prepared to ship you out themselves.’

Tom laughed out loud, nudged his mate and they snickered in unison. Clancy said,

‘Get the fuck out of town, and this warning as opposed to other…measures…means our slate is clean, am I clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He made a bone-breaking noise with his fingers, said,

‘Get the hell out of my car and remember, next time I’ll send Tom alone.’

I was not fully out of the car when the driver put it in gear and roared off. I fell on to the pavement, shouted like the show bands always did,

‘Goodnight and God bless.’

I suppose in the interests of truth I’d have to admit that I’d been to see Sawyer but had been holding off on recounting it. I’m not ashamed of it, it needed to be done, but the stuff about his daughters, spoilt or otherwise, made me hesitate to relate the event, the reason why I’d expected Sawyer and not Clancy in that sleek BMW.

In truth, it comes to the same deal.

Thugs and bullies.

Save one wore a uniform.

It was almost too easy to get to him.

Arrogance breeds stupidity and he had both.

In buckets.

He’d played his usual round of golf, seemed mightily pleased with his own self. Had the customary drink with his buddies after, picked up the tab.

Just one of the guys, and generous with it.

Except he kicked the living shite out of a Ban Garda.

My Ban Garda.

Dressed in a cashmere sweater and, I swear to God, a cravat and pleated golfing pants, he was whistling as he headed for his car.

All was hunky fucking dory in this cat’s world.

Looked momentarily puzzled as his driver didn’t bounce to open the car door.

The driver was out cold in the back seat.

I came up behind Sawyer, smashed his face into the door, broke the fingers of his right hand, the gun nuzzled against the base of his neck, and said in a whisper,

‘Once, only once am I going to give you this message.’

Paused.

‘Your three spoilt brats of daughters bully a child again,’

I pushed the barrel of the gun harder into his neck,

‘I will kill you, your wife, and then I’ll take a decent look at your three precious darlings.’

Then I cold-cocked the sucker and got the fuck out of there.

Who says golf chills you out?

The papers reported the Sawyer shooting, the consensus being ‘drug related’.

Ireland today had so many drug shootings, even the old reliable drive-by gig didn’t warrant the front page any more.

The Cheltenham Race Festival had begun and fears of the recession affecting the number of Irish who usually travelled over to it seemed unfounded.

To the great relief of the Brits.

The Paddy pound, as they termed it, meant a huge source of income to the tiny English town.

They didn’t like us any better, but they sure as hell were glad of the Irish insane gambling spirit.

It wasn’t just the betting, the Irish liked to party and their parties were the stuff of myth.

Like the Oscars on meth and Jameson.

Publicity wise, Sawyer got shot the wrong week.

The lead singer of the Devil’s Minions, nobody gave – forgive the pun – a toss. Trash was tossed in the canal every night.

Sawyer had, to stay with the racing terminology, form.

Or as the Americans say,

‘He was a person of interest.’

Did I feel any remorse?

Did I fuck.

Ridge phoned me a few days after, asked if we could meet for a coffee.

I asked if I had to gear up.

She thought I meant clothes.

We met in Café du Journal on Quay Street.

Does it get more Irish?

The place was packed and we had to wait for ten minutes to get a table.

Recession?

Not for the designer-coffee crew, or maybe the news hadn’t filtered down yet.

Or perhaps, following the government’s lead, they just didn’t give a fuck.

St Patrick’s Day was looming and the government, in the midst of the worst crisis we had faced in twenty years, awarded themselves a twelve-day holiday.

St Patrick had obviously seriously screwed up the ridding-of-snakes gig.

Ridge looked well.

Despite her recent beating, she had an almost healthy glow. Make-up had disguised most of the fading bruises. She was dressed in a tweed suit, as befits the wife of a Lord.

I could see black shadows under her eyes though.

No make-up is that effective.

I know shadows, and not just beneath my eyes.

I lied, said,

‘You look great.’

She lied right back.

‘You too.’

Getting a table finally near the door, we ordered lattes from the extremely affable Polish waitress. Ridge declined a Danish and me, of course, I don’t do sweet.

Never one to preamble, she launched in with,

‘I see Mr Sawyer had some bother.’

One way of putting it, I suppose.

I nodded.

She knew, let a silence build, then,

‘Thanks.’

I gave her my fake smile, admitting nothing. She was still a Guard.

The coffee came, lots of froth. I asked the waitress,

‘Think you could hit that with a double espresso?’

Gave me the radiant smile of another caffeine fiend, said,

‘I think we could manage that.’

Ridge sipped at hers, I just knew she couldn’t let it slide, said,

‘Always the rush.’

I could play, went,

‘Don’t tell me, the movie with Jason Patric and Jennifer Jason Leigh. Not a lot of people know this, but Pete Dexter did the screenplay.’

Movie buffs like that kind of small print.

Ridge didn’t.

I think the last movie she saw was The Quiet Man.

But Jesus, she’d had the crap beaten out of her by a thug, so I said,

‘The rush, the edginess, it’s what I’m used to.’

Surprise, surprise, she let it go, asked,

‘How was your dinner with Carl?’

I had a lot of answers that didn’t contain civility, so I said,

‘Didn’t develop along the lines I’d anticipated. He speaks very highly of you, though.’

Her face darkened, like a cloud crept behind her eyes and lodged there. She asked,

‘Can I be honest?’

It would have been cheap to take a cheap shot. I took it, said,

‘Isn’t that part of your job description?’

Wounded her and she looked away. I said,

‘Tell me.’

She was torn between walloping me and fear. Never an easy choice. She began,

‘Anthony has money problems. He had to sell the horses and those thoroughbreds will go to the knacker’s yard. He had to sell some land too. The upkeep on the estate is ferocious, we even had to let three of the staff go.’

My heart bled.

Sell the horses?

Let the staff go?

Most of the frigging country couldn’t put fuel in their lighters, never mind their cars.

She faltered for a moment then reached in her purse, took out a small gold box. Flipped it like a pro, took out a pill and swallowed it, washing it down with the latte.

I had but a fleeting glimpse of the pill but I know me pharmaceuticals.

Valium 10.

Not yer 5, yer 10.

Mother’s little helper.

I didn’t comment, waited while she let the Val do its work, weave its artificial magic.

My serious coffee arrived and I took a serious slug of it.

Bliss.

Had instant heart palpitations.

Lock and load.

I thought of me Sig, nestled in the waistband of me jeans.

Never leave home without one.

Mine was the grown-up model, 226. Recently revised to carry fifteen rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammo.

You get what you pay for.

Like the militants’ new promise, maybe?

She finally continued and I had to put aside childish things.

Her eyes had that V-glow which delights

Roche,

Bayer, and all the other legal dope moguls.

She continued,

‘Carl showed up, he has such magnificent plans for the estate and he is, as you know, so charming.’

I stayed quiet, thinking,

Charming?

‘He seemed the answer to our prayers.’

Made you wonder who they prayed to.

‘We were so relieved. Jennifer, Anthony’s daughter, would be able to keep her pony and so naturally we invited him to stay with us.’

She took a hit of the latte, maybe the Val gave it a blast, went on,

‘Carl liked you so much, Jack, said he could get you into America, and I was so delighted.’

Being the renowned PI I am, I asked,

‘And?’

She looked truly scared now, then said,

‘It was a few days after the dinner party. I was tidying up. That makes Anthony cross, he says that is the duty of the help, but I suppose you can’t escape your upbringing.’

I was wondering how she’d feel about sharing some of the Val. She said,

‘I had some fresh towels for Carl. I thought he’d gone shooting with Anthony. They like to get an early start while the pheasants are resting.’

No doubt a peasant would suffice if the birds had flown the coop. She went on,

‘I entered his room and he was there. Stark naked.’

Not an image I wanted to cling to. She asked,

‘You know how bald he is?’

I thought it depended where and when you met him. Then, she seemed to physically shrink, said,

‘He was combing long blond golden hair. I thought it was a wig. I was so shocked, I dropped the towels.’

She squeezed her eyes tight shut for a moment, then said,

‘He turned, smiled at me, asked, “Would you like to touch it?”’

Her voice now a little stronger, she said,

‘I thought he meant his hair, till I saw…Mother of my heart, his…phallus. Erect and monstrous.’

She buried her face in her hands, weeping softly. I reached over, took her hands, said,

‘It’s OK. I know who he is.’

That seemed to help her, and worse, she was grateful. She said,

‘Jack, oh Jesus, Jack, when he appeared that evening for dinner – Anthony likes a formal sit down when we have guests, produces his finest vintage wine – Carl was dressed in a formal suit and was completely bald. Then he looked right at me and…winked.’

The waitress, concerned, appeared, asked,

‘Is everything all right?’

I gave her my best smile – it’s a blend of thank you and fuck off – said,

‘Absolutely, my friend here just got promoted to Sergeant in the Guards.’

Cops?

She took off.

This was a people who’d believed in Lech Walesa.

We got out of there and Ridge produced a pack of Silk Cut, lit one with a trembling hand, apologized with ‘I know, I shouldn’t be smoking.’

I took one, lit up, said,

‘Nicotine is the least of our problems.’

As we walked towards the Spanish Arch, she linked my arm.

It felt good.

She asked,

‘So who is he, Jack?’

I said,

‘Wrong question. Not who…what?’

We reached the memorial there near the bridge to the lost seamen, and I said that some people just liked to see everything burn.

She asked if that was one of Stewart’s Zen lines.

‘No, it’s Michael Caine in The Dark Knight.’

We watched the swans for a while and her face was like a little girl’s, her delight in those creatures as basic as good nature.

She looked at her watch, nice slim gold Patek Philippe.

Anthony obviously still had some funds.

She said,

‘I’m on duty soon.’

I nodded, feeling the old pang for the career I’d lost.

‘What are we going to do, Jack?’

I stayed with the same movie, said,

‘Kill the batman.’