The Devil

5

Jesus wept.

I was rooted to the floor.

The blond locks had been shorn, but it was him.

The fuck was going on?

Champagne on top of Xanax and the shots of Jay would screw with anybody’s head. Right?

Ridge was pulling at my sleeve, going,

‘Jack, are you OK?’

I focused, shook my head and asked her,

‘The guy with your, er…husband, who is he?’

She threw a fast glance at Stewart. The one that asks,

‘Do we need to get him out of here?’

Stewart was no help and she finally said,

‘That’s Carl Franz. He’s arranging for Anthony to turn our home into a tourist resort. He is so amazing.’

Kurt…or maybe Carl?

Carl with a K, I’d bet.

Mr K?

Fuck, champagne really does meddle with the brain sockets.

Before I could arrange any of those fevered thoughts into cohesion, they were approaching. I braced meself, resolved to go with the flow.

Anthony was all Anglo-Irish cordiality, warmth without conviction, went,

‘Jack, so delighted you could make it. May I introduce you to an esteemed prospective business partner, Mr Franz.’

Kurt put out his hand, manners counting most. He said,

‘Jack, I’ve heard so much about you. A wicked pleasure to meet you in the flesh.’

I took his hand, and felt nothing.

Everybody’s hand conveys something.

Sweat,

tremors,

warmth,

cold.

His…zip, nada, like white space.

And oh my sweet Lord, I remembered the old people saying,

‘Shake hands with the Divil, you feel nothing.’

I asked,

‘We met before?’

He gave me the eye-fucking look, smiled, said,

‘Alas, I don’t think so. I’m sure I would remember.’

The tension was palpable and I could see even Anthony looking – what is it the Brits call it? – nonplussed.

But as the story of me bedraggled life, I went with it, reckoning if they are willing to mind fuck, bring it on, yah bollix. I asked,

‘You ever heard of a Mr K?’

He gave a tolerant smile to the others, like he could go along with nonsense, said,

‘No. Is this a lacking on my part?’

The odd twisted teeth had been fixed, or maybe I was just way off me fucking head.

He let go of my hand and, as luck would have it, the bell sounded for dinner. Ridge grabbed my arm and said, in no uncertain terms,

‘Time to eat, Jack.’

And pulled me away.

I didn’t look back. I could feel his eyes boring into my head.

Ridge whispered,

‘What on earth are you doing? Carl is our bail-out money.’

I shrugged her arm away, said,

‘I met the bollix before and trust me, he is the worst news you ever encountered.’

She was livid. Nothing’s quite like the fury of an Irishwoman crossed. She hissed,

‘Don’t you dare make a scene! You taint everything, but you won’t do it here.’

I gave her my most honest appraisal, said,

‘I’ll behave, but mark my words, this guy is the worst news to come down the pike in all our varied history.’

She sighed.

‘You’d test the patience of a saint.’

I let that slide.

Dinner was pretty much a blur.

A woman to my left who was shrouded in some perfume that made me gag gave me a full inspection, her eyes telling I was found lacking. She said,

‘I’m Mrs Beverley Mahon.’

This was obviously supposed to make you sit up and gasp.

I didn’t.

She was, dare I say, a trifle miffed, and persisted,

‘Of the Athenry Hunt.’

I fucking love fox hunters.

I drained my glass – some amazing vintage that I’d been told you sip and savour.

Yeah.

I asked,

‘Tell me, when you hunt the poor bastard of a fox and the hounds tear it to pieces, do you feel – lemme get the right bon mot – righteous?’

She turned to her other dining companion and I heard her whisper,

‘The country is overrun by riff-raff.’

Anthony was table hopping or social networking or whatever they call it.

I needed some air, headed out to the front where the smokers were huddled like the social lepers they’d become. Dark mutterings of a pack of twenty soon costing ten Euro.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, not at the impending rise in cigarette prices but at who I sensed behind me.

‘Jack – if I may be so bold as to address you informally – sneaking off for a smoke, are we?’

I turned slowly, needing to get me temper in check, for Ridge’s sake if nothing else, and said,

‘I quit.’

He was opening a gold cigarette case, drew out, I think you call them cheroots? Silly-looking bastards that are pretending to be cigars. Asked,

‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’

His tone conveying that mocking, jeering lilt.

I said, my voice level,

‘Temptation is a young man’s gig. I’m way past that shite.’

He lit the cheroot with a gold Zippo, blew a perfect smoke ring, then indicated the dinner progressing behind us.

‘Rich food not to your liking, Jack?’

And before I could answer, he said,

‘Fast food more your speed, peut-être?’

How little I knew then. But full of so much booze, anger, pills, I didn’t pay it the attention I should have and went with,

‘You’re the spitting image of a guy I met recently, except for the hair, or rather lack of.’

He loved that. I could see his eyes dance in delight and he countered,

‘The Devil you say.’

And we locked eyes.

Before we could get to the real dance, Ridge appeared. She said,

‘There ye are. I’m so glad you two got a chance to have a moment.’

He turned and, I shit you not, took her hand, kissed her fingers, said,

‘I think Jack and I will have many moments, but you, my dear, you are ravishing. C’est vrai.’

I’ve had beatings, some very bad ones, and meted out some of me own too, but in me whole bedraggled existence I never wanted to kick the living shite out of anyone as much as that bollix.

Then he offered his arm, said,

‘But we mustn’t keep your guests deprived of your presence. Shall we?’

I swear by all that’s holy, she blushed.

Ridge?

And they were moving.

He shouted back,

‘Mon ami, till we meet again. Bonne chance.’

Good luck?

Good fucking riddance.

I think I had some port and brandy later with Anthony, who told me how delighted he was that Carl and I had got on so…

What was the word he used?

I’m afraid to say I think it was swimmingly.

And he continued,

‘Let me be candid here, Jack.’

When they say that, you know they are going to tell you what a cunt they think you are, but nicely.

‘I had thought you to be a bit uncouth, to be honest, I mean no offence here, but a tad common.’

I smiled nicely.

Not a touch common.

And he clapped my shoulder, said,

‘But you came up trumps. Carl is very taken with you and I appreciate that, not only on my own account but my dear wife’s too.’

Jesus.

For once, I said nothing.

Someone called him and he took his leave, adding,

‘I’m someone who doesn’t forget his friends, Jack. You bear that in mind.’

I nearly said,

‘Mon ami.’

We finally got out of there.

I didn’t see Carl again, but Ridge gave me a hug and thanked me for behaving me own self.

Stewart and I got in the car, a silence between us till we got some distance from the estate and he accused,

‘Why did you tell that guy about my Zen?’

I knew who he meant, but I said,

‘What?’

‘Carl. He told me I was wasting my energies on the wrong power, that there was a far more powerful force he could introduce me to.’

‘I told the fucker nothing about you.’

He looked at me, and for maybe the first time in our varied history he seemed worried. He asked,

‘Why is he always using German expressions with me?’

I laughed and then told him about the whole encounter and his continuous use of French with me.

For all his Zen mellowness and outward cool, Stewart didn’t like not to be in control. He’d once told me that control was all that saved him in prison.

I told him about the fast-food remark, but we were for once on the same page, in that we laughed it off. I told him of my suspicions about Mr K, the airport guy, and added,

‘It sounds like a Dennis Wheatley novel.’

When he asked, Who? I realized yet again I was getting old.

Stewart was back and, I don’t know, I felt like we were back in civilization. He said,

‘God, I’m glad to be back in town.’

Amen, I thought.

As he dropped me off, he said,

‘That guy, he offered to teach me some other paths to power.’

To my endless regret, I said,

‘Go for it, string the bollix along, let’s see where he’s at.’

I was about to shut the car door when Stewart said,

‘Jack, I nearly forgot,’ reached in the glove compartment, handed me a small parcel, said,

‘Because of where you live, I couldn’t resist.’

And was gone, burning rubber like the Devil was on his tail.

I got into the apartment, yet again glad of the heat, and realized what it was I’d been feeling all that evening.

Cold.

Not just yer average ‘I’m friggin’ freezing’ type hype. But a deep insidious ice in my psyche.

I put on Sky News.

You live alone, you need sound, by Jaysus, some human contact, even of the virtual sort.

I popped a Xanax to ease me on down and, what the hell, poured a small Jameson and then decided to have a hot toddy.

Boiling water,

brown sugar,

cloves,

hint…tiny dollop of the black.

Then of course the Jameson.

God, it was good.

Got me through the horrendous news: lay-offs, despair, people losing their homes, an unspeakable incest case not twenty miles from where I was, bank rip-offs, drive-by shootings in Dublin in front of young children, suicides, and the impending Oscar ceremonies.

Drink?

Fuck, you’d need to mainline heroin to tolerate the news these days.

I saw Stewart’s package on the table and slowly opened it.

I kid thee not,

ten tiny nuns

and a bowling ball.

I turned off the TV, lined up the tiny nuns and, with an apologetic nod to the convent right outside me window, bowled nuns till I passed out.

Perhaps an ecclesiastical homage to Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians.

Or maybe just God’s own noir humour.