The Devil

8

Next morning, I was all over the frigging place.

Me nerves were shot to ribbons.

I wanted to get right on the Sawyer case, the girls bullying the Down syndrome child. But I knew I was too frazzled to do that with any refinement.

Beating the be-jaysus out of three children wouldn’t exactly look good on me next American application.

I had some coffee, real smart I know when yer nerves are dancing jigs along the ceiling.

Did a Xanax, muttered,

‘Do some kind of fecking magic, will ye?’

It did.

Took a time, but it got me there.

The snow had eased and there even seemed to be a ray of bright sunshine on the horizon.

As I got me all-weather gear on, I was even able to listen to some music.

Counting Crows.

Johnny Duhan, of course, me beacon always.

And the truly angelic Gretchen Peters.

Song on her album, ‘Breakfast At Our House’, about the agony of divorce and it was too acute, too accurate, I had to stop it.

The bells for the Angelus tolled.

I stopped, blessed myself.

I was probably one of the last people on the whole damn island who still took the time to say it.

‘The Angel of the Lord…’

And like the song goes, took some comfort there.

Not from childhood, fuck no. But maybe from that vanished Ireland where people stopped in the streets, blessed themselves and said the prayer.

We’d come a long way.

And gained?

Sweet fuck all.

I tried not to think of that gorgeous girl Emma and her heart torn from her body. The anger and rage literally steamed off me.

I said aloud,

‘Get a bloody grip, son.’

Then without another thought, headed out to the pub.

Answers there?

Course not. But at least I could be numb enough not to ask questions.

My mobile rang.

Ridge.

All warmth.

Thanking me for my fine behaviour at the drinks party.

Through gritted teeth, I asked,

‘How is Carl?’

Like I gave a fuck.

She gushed. God forgive us both, but she did. Went,

‘He is very taken with you. Who’d have guessed you had such charm?’

Who indeed?

She prattled on.

Ridge!

I reined in me animosity, not easy but got there, and she said,

‘I hope you don’t mind, Jack, but he asked for your mobile number. Was that OK to give it to him? I think he has plans for you.’

I nearly laughed, said,

‘You’re right, I do believe he has plans for me.’

Then she changed her tune, asked,

‘Are you all right, Jack? You sound a bit strained.’

Surely not.

I said,

‘Must be a bad connection. But I wonder if I might ask you a wee favour, you being a newly appointed sergeant and all?’

She was still high on the party’s success and agreed to do whatever I needed.

Dumb bitch.

I told her about the Sawyers, the little girl Kelli and the bullying.

No problem.

She’d be delighted to straighten them out, and in fact was in town the next day and would appear in full uniform to have a chat with the bullying girls. She said,

‘Who knows better than you, Jack, the effect of a uniform?’

I felt a pang.

True, me days in uniform, you had a certain presence. Said,

‘Thank you so much, I owe you.’

She laughed, said,

‘Tis nothing.’

She was so wrong. And ended the call with,

‘Jack, I think you’ve really turned your life around. I’m so proud of you.’

I hung up before she got more ridiculous.

Garavan’s, on Shop Street, one of the last remaining old Galway pubs, with an Irish barman.

Wouldn’t last.

But I’d appreciate it while it did.

A busker outside was singing ‘It’s Raining In Baltimore’.

I dropped a ten in his wet tweed cap and he said, in a German accent,

‘Zank you.’

The barman thankfully hadn’t known of me travel plans, so no need for all the fandango of bullshite. He said,

‘Usual?’

I nodded and headed for the snug, a portioned little corner where you can see but not be seen.

The Brits would love it.

The Irish Independent was on the table. I scanned the headlines:

1,177 workers lost their jobs every day during January.

327,861 are now out of work.

132,263 posts have been axed since the new Taoiseach came to power.

And the editorial screamed,

‘It’s going to get worse.’

The barman came over, put down the Jameson first, then the pint of Guinness, nodded at the paper and said,

‘I’ve applied to go to Australia.’

The young people were all heading out again. Like the awful eighties, when our best and our brightest left the dying economy, and never came back.

But tough times bring out the street entrepreneurs.

I’d hardly sank half the Jay before I’d been offered a batch of shirts.

Nearly bought a light blue as it was so like my old Guard’s one, but passed when the guy said,

‘You can’t just buy one.’

The bollix would probably have his own franchise within the year.

I was sinking the black when a woman – Romanian, I’d guess – offered me some DVDs. Said,

‘All the blockbusters, sir.’

I flicked through them and smiled.

Hellboy?

Hell, yes.

And

The Reader,

The Wrestler,

London Boulevard,

Abba: the Movie,

Alien vs Predator 2,

Appaloosa.

Said I’d take them all save Abba.

She was surprised, asked,

‘You no like Abba?’

Sacrilege?

I asked,

‘It’s a happy, feel-good one, right?’

She nodded.

And I stared into her gypsy eyes, asked,

‘I look to you like a guy who does happy?’

We settled on a price and she was pleased. Then she leant over, said,

‘The boy – don’t look now, but to your right – he no like you, is true?’

I waited till she’d gone, then casually looked to my right and sure enough, there was a young guy – eighteen, maybe? – sipping a pint bottle of cider, the loony juice, giving me what I can only describe as the Evil Eye.

And his body movements, that jerky motion that spoke of speed jag.

I knew it.

Had, alas, been there.

I checked the sports page.

Robbie Keane, captain of our national team, had been sold from Liverpool, his big chance blown.

Before I could see why, the jittery kid was sitting opposite me, said,

‘Taylor.’

Not a question.

I reached for me pint, not knowing what was on this lunatic’s agenda, but at least I’d have something in me hand. I said,

‘Help you?’ Flexing for the violence that was coming in waves off him.

He smiled. His teeth had been filed down, and he had one of those rings through his nose and really serious sniffles.

Coke rag.

He asked,

‘Ever hear of a band named the Devil’s Minions?’

I tried to keep it light, said,

‘Nope, missed that one.’

He had a battered Tesco bag clutched to his side, and he said,

‘Have a look at this.’

Reached into the bag and took out a clear jar of what looked like water. Held it in his right hand. Said,

‘You don’t know how to mind yer own fucking business, do yah?’

Before I could react, he said,

‘But you have an acid tongue, the One says.’

In a moment, he had the top off the jar, said,

‘Here’s some acid. Don’t mess with Our Dark One.’

Threw it in my face.