The Emerald Lie

I watched Emily drive out of the gated building. She was driving an Aston Martin. She seemed to have unlimited access to cars, like everything else.

I got across the road before the gate clanged shut, and getting into the main block took a good five minutes. I had a fine-tuned set of burglar keys given to me by a guy who now sat on the new water board. Still picking people’s pockets but with sanction, if not approval. The door to her apartment gave me a moment of pause. Would she booby-trap?

Oh, yeah.

So I was extremely careful, my heart hammering.

Finally the door opened and I stepped inside. An OCD wet dream. Spotless and everything in white: walls, sofas, coffee table. A lingering aroma of weed and patchouli. Not unpleasant.

There was an open-plan sitting room leading to a kitchen and bedroom. On the main wall was a large framed photo of a man with his collar turned up, heading into a dark alley. It was black-and-white and, dare I say, arresting.

“Fuck,”

I said,

As

I realized it was me.

Jesus.

Shaking my head, I headed for the kitchen, a solid steel fridge, opened to reveal a full-stocked range of supplies. Six-pack of Shiner Bock; had me one of those cold babes. Still hadn’t decided if I wanted her to know she’d been invaded. On the kitchen table was this:

A solid gold Colt.45, fully loaded, ready to rock. It was a beautiful piece. Yeah, I’d confiscate it. Slid it into the waistband of my jeans. Felt better already. If she came home suddenly, I could simply shoot her.

A small shelf had some books, titles were

All My Puny Sorrows.

Probably among the finest novels ever on suicide and indeed family fuckup.

Then,

David Foster Wallace essays.

And

Anne Sexton poems.

Why was that not a surprise?

I finished the beer, thought,

“Go another?”

Yeah, why not?

Pulling drawers open at random, I found a faded photo, four men, one I recognized as Emily’s murderous father and, beside him, a man whose head was circled in red, and a red label above proclaiming/asking?

“The Grammarian?”

The other two I knew from a high-profile case where they had been convicted of assaulting young girls. I said,

“Fucking motley crew.”

In her closet I found a metal chest, opened to see stacks of banded cash, muttered,

“Holy shit.”

Tempted to grab a wedge but, hey, taking the gun, that was simply disarming her. But taking money — that was outright stealing. Put a pack in my jacket, hundreds of euros. Moved across the room and opened a closet and, oh, fuck

Reams and reams of baby clothes. I shut that quick, my heart scalded. Said,

“I am not going to think about that, no fucking way, I didn’t see it.”

I moved to the door, looked back at her life, barren, cold, empty, and like, I had something better?

That evening I was sitting in Garavan’s, pint and chaser in play, feeling tired. I’d taken the pup for a long hike and he was now home, knackered. I was in the snug in the hope of no one bothering me. I had about as much chat in me as the government had credibility.