The Ghosts of Galway

1

A failed suicide is a sad, sad fucker.

The final chapter of Alvarez’s The Savage God, perhaps the best account of suicide, details the author’s own attempt at the desperate act.

For me, the years of fuckups, pain, mutilation, grievous loss would, you think,

... Lead to wisdom?

Like fuck.

Led me

To

A

Job as a security guard.

Suicide by boredom.

If I was to continue aboveground, I needed money. My last outing, adventure, case left me not only spiritually bereft but broke.

The ad for security guards sought those with a military background or police force experience. Some fancy dancing with my CV and I actually looked if not respectable at least not outright criminal.

The guy who interviewed me said,

“If you can walk and don’t have an outstanding warrant you’re in.”

My first assignment was protecting a warehouse on the docks. I had a torch and phone which, I guess, if thieves attacked, I could resort to foul language. Mostly the job was dull but that suited me just fine as I had more than enough action in past years to satisfy the most jaded adrenalized junkie. Plus, I could read and be paid for doing so. The ideal job. A guy I knew back from the States who had worked security in New York and who was armed told me,

“Jesus Jack, first I thought, gifted. I need never fear assholes no more, but then I’d get home and play the sad whining music, you know, the why did she leave me dirge stuff? They give you a free razor blade when you purchase it. Then I’d get depressed and want to kill myself and had the gun in my lap!

“But what if I missed? And was lying wounded for days?”

The first month, I was on nights and liking it, no need to talk to anyone, I was all out of conversation. Clocking out the Friday, end of my shift, a supervisor was waiting and said,

“Taylor.”

I nodded and he said,

“The head honcho wants you to meet him.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, said,

“No idea. He only this week went through the employee files and seeing your name asked for you.”

“Who is he?”

He took a deep breath, then,

“Alexander Knox-Keaton, from some, somewhere in Ukraine.”

Ukraine!

With all the waves of migrants literally throwing themselves into the ocean to flee Syria and other deadly regimes, Ukraine seemed to have momentarily dropped from the headlines, but it was nice to know one of their people was living it large.

I said,

“Not exactly your expected Ukraine name. I’d have expected something more

... Slavic?”

He sneered.

“Fucking get you, Mr. Knowledge. Shame you are wasted on this piss poor excuse of a job.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. Oddly, since my failed suicide, I felt less inclined to kick the living shit out of assholes.

He said,

“Here is his address and you are to report to his mansion tomorrow at noon.”

I echoed,

“Mansion?”

He gave me the look, the one that cries,

“Dumb shit”

Said,

“You will see and be sure to wear a suit.”

“I only have my funeral one.”

He sneered.

“Might well be just that.”

2

Early on the morning of October 1 a reveler, staggering home, went,

“What the fuck?”

He was standing or rather swaying at the top of Eyre Square. If he had been of a literary bent,

He might have intoned,

“Doth mine eyes deceive me?”

But being hungover and a moron, he uttered,

“WTF.”

In the middle of the square was the body of a horse. A bright chestnut already showing extreme rigor mortis. The drunk added,

“In all me born days...”

He moved down to take a closer look but a sudden spasm doubled him and he projected a line of vomit that would cause CSI all kinds of headaches. He wiped his brow and swore,

“That is my last drink. Ever.”

He didn’t of course stop drinking but he did avoid Eyre Square for a long time. He also stopped backing horses.

I dressed to, if not impress, then to make a statement. That being,

“I’m fucked.”

So my now very battered Garda all-weather coat, scuffed Doc Martens, a once white T now in shades of washed gray, and my fade to faded 501s.

The man from Ukraine had his mansion near the golf links. I had as a child worked as a caddy, thus ensuring a lifetime aversion to the sport.

I let his name swirl in my mouth to get a sense of it.

Alexander

    Knox-

       Keaton

No way was this his real name but I could care less. His house was a glass affair, screaming two things:

Money.

Bad taste.

A car, BMW, with two occupants, either bodyguards or the local cops. Which, depending how much juice you had, could be both.

I stopped to survey the house and, with Galway Bay at my back, let out a deep sigh. I was bone tired, tired of assholes and stupid money. I lit one of my now five a day rationed cigs and blew the smoke toward the monstrosity of glass. Then muttered,

“Let’s rock and moan.”

Headed for the door. Opened as I reached it, a young Filipino woman in maid’s uniform said,

“Mr. Taylor?”

I nodded and she stepped aside to let me by.

In the hallway was a huge tapestry of what appeared to be a page from The Book of Kells.

The maid led me to a study, ablaze with books, the walls lined with beautifully covered volumes and they had that look of being well used. Not for show then. But that rarity. A working library. Thick heavy wooden furniture that you might imagine carved from a line of oaks but, too, seemed to be lived in. An open fireplace had a raging inferno going on.

Few things as comforting as that. Like an echo of the childhood you only ever read about. The maid withdrew and I examined the books up close, nearly missed hearing the door open behind me, turned to see a man who reflected the grandeur and solidity of the room. A man over six feet tall and power oozing from every pore. He was wearing a tweed suit, very Anglo-Irish of the ’50s, and, I shit thee not, a cravat, adding a slight P. G. Wodehouse vibe. He had a full head of well-darkened hair and a face that testified to the use of money and force. His age was a well-preserved seventy or a very fucked forty.

He held out a big hand, calloused and creased so not just a sightseer. Boomed,

“Mr. Taylor.”

I took his hand and was relieved he wasn’t one of those bonecrushing idiots who think that means anything other than

“Bollocks.”

I said,

“Jack, please.”

He smiled, revealing one gold tooth among the very best cosmetic dentistry. He said,

“And I am Alex.”

Then,

“Sit, sit and let me treat you to a shot of Slain whiskey.”

Made at Slain castle and promoted by Lord Henry Mount Charles himself and not due to hit the market until late 2017.

Was I impressed?

Yeah, a little.

Taking a heavy tumbler of Galway crystal, I sank into an armchair. Inhaled a smoky whiff of the drink. Fucking marvelous. He asked,

“How are you finding the job?”

Tell the truth or kiss arse?

I said,

“Has me bored shitless.”

He laughed, seemed actually amused. Then he asked,

“The Red Book, this is known to you?”

His English had that tight careful air of the second-language perfectionist. Almost a clipped precision and you nearly hear the translation occur. I said,

“Apart from Mao’s little red one, no.”

He topped up our glasses and then,

“You are, I believe, an...”

He paused to taste, savor, the next word,

... Aficionado

A conniver of books?

Conniver?

I said,

“I like to read but a bibliophile? Hardly.”

He liked that word, could see him store it. He continued,

“The Book of Kells. This you know?”

“Know is hardly the description but, yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

He settled himself into the chair opposite me, composing some lecture he’d prepared.

Began,

“It was written around AD 800. It is a book of the Gospels. No one knows who wrote it but it is believed to be a series of monks.”

He paused.

I said,

“So?”

He gave what can only be described as a wolverine smile, said,

“A rival book came out shortly after, decrying the Gospels, and is generally regarded as the first true work of heresy.”

Let me digest that, then.

“Known as The Red Book, the Church of course denies its existence. It is sometimes known by its title in Irish but, alas, that pronunciation is a little beyond me.”

I supplied,

“An Leabhar Dearg.”

He was impressed, said,

“I am impressed.”

I said,

“Fascinating as this little side trip down a Dan Brown alley is, what has it got to do with me?”

“I want you to get the book.”

I stood up, said,

“Thanks for the drink and the chat.”

He said,

“Here.”

Offering a check it seemed like. Well, fuck it. I am always going to look at one of those suckers.

Gasped.

Went,

“You are shitting me.”

He said,

“I am told you are dogged in your dedication to a case and that, somehow or other, you get results.”

This was patently untrue.

But was I going to argue? A gift horse is what you throw a saddle on and shut the fuck up.

He continued.

“You are familiar with the term rogue priest?”

I nearly laughed, wanted to ask,

“Nowadays, is there any other kind?”

But went with,

“Indeed.”

“The curator of sacred manuscripts and other treasures in the

Vatican recently died and his assistant, a Father Frank Miller, took the opportunity to not only quit his vocation but also abscond with The Red Book.”

If he was expecting a comment, I didn’t have one. He continued.

“Mr. Miller is now hiding out in Galway and has offered the book for sale.”

I said,

“So buy it.”

He sighed.

“Would it were so easy but Miller is, as they say, gun shy.”

This term would come back to haunt him.

“I want you to negotiate with him.”

I said,

“I don’t really do well with priests.”

“Ex-priest.”

“Whatever. I am sure you have better people to deal with him. I am quite likely to end up beating the shit out of him.”

He laughed, delighted, said,

“This is exactly what is required, fear and loathing.”

What the hell. I could give it a shot.

I said,

“Frank Miller. Shares a name with the renowned author, graphic artist, moviemaker.”

He looked as if this was of no relevance. I added,

“The film was Sin City. Nice serendipity, don’t you think?”

He didn’t.

Said,

“Just get the job done.”

Heard the steel in there and wanted to tell him to go

... Fuck his own self.

But the check.

Won out.

Said,

“I’ll get right on it.”

My dog Storm seemed to know I had recently considered suicide and was now keeping a canine watchful eye on me. In the apartment, he’d sit on my chair, staring at me as if to ask,

“What’s up, bud?”

I said,

Going American,

“Phew, I nearly bought the farm there, pal.”

He didn’t speak U.S. so just wagged his tail. I grabbed the leash and got a short bark of utter joy. Shucking into my Garda all-weather coat we headed out, my pockets holding treats and a small flask of Jay. Ending October, the air was dry and alive, people shouted how yah, and the warm vibe was largely a result of our soccer team beating the Germans by a goal.

Beating the best.

With a government hell-bent on eroding the will of the country with a continuation of the hated water tax, it was good to have a reason to smile. We headed for the Salthill promenade and I relished the little dog’s sheer unadulterated joy in the walk. The dead horse in Eyre Square was a hot topic and especially since a notice had been sent to the papers with just this:

“FADH.”

Speculation on it being a shortened form of an Irish word led nowhere. It seemed obvious that it stood for

... flogging a dead horse.

Or was that just too facile?

Set a priest to catch a priest. Father Malachy was my dead mother’s pet, a practice back then of pious ladies adopting a tame cleric and having him in tow to demonstrate their holiness. My mother was one mean, wicked bitch and that she had this idiot in thrall spoke volumes as to the characters of them both. He loathed me, agreed with my mother’s description of me

... as a useless drunk.

Our paths continued to cross. One memorable time I even saved his arse from serious allegations of indecency. Was he grateful?

Was he fuck!

He was the most determined smoker on the planet. No electronic capers for him. Despite all sorts of upheavals, he managed to cling to the shreds of his parish. Just a prayer ahead of the lynch mob. I hadn’t been to Bohermore for a time and had near forgotten the warmth and goodness of a real neighborhood. I stopped at a new off license, bought a bottle of Paddy. Malachy was truly old school in his whiskey. A man in a flat cap, donkey jacket, his nose beet red from booze hailed me with,

“Jesus, Taylor, you’re alive.”

A new corruption of language was the young people answering any question with

Basically.

They used it without rhyme or reason. I looked at the man, said,

“Basically.”

St. Patrick’s Church was the parish I grew up in, back in the days when the church ruled. Now it was simply a small church with smaller aspirations. I went to the house beside it, knocked, waited. Door opened by a housekeeper in her very battered fifties and with a scowl that was set in the ’40s.

“What?”

She barked.

“Good morning, my dear,”

I tried.

Phew-oh.

Good was not an adjective she had ever met and seemed unlikely to adopt now. I added,

“May I see the parish priest?”

“No.”

Terse but concise.

She went to close the door, but my boot prevented that. She near spat.

“What is that?”

Staring at my foot.

In a very polite voice, I near whispered,

“That, darlin’, is my shoe, which I shall put so far up your arse you will scream hallellaia or such like.”

“You...

You’re not right in the head.”

No argument there and I did the thing that freaks the very best of them.

I smiled.

Father Malachy looked fierce. In both senses of the word, angry and fucked. A wreath of smoke hung like bad news above his head. He snarled,

“Taylor.”

Warmth.

I handed over the bottle of Paddy and, without even looking at it, he put it in a drawer. I asked,

“We’re not having a drink?”

He lit a cig, blew smoke at me, said,

“’Tis drink has you in the state you’re in.”

So, business as usual.

I said,

“You might be of some help to me.”

He laughed with no hint of humor, plain bitterness, said,

“What’s in it for me?”

Christ.

I said,

“Clerical satisfaction.”

He looked like he might spit, said,

“Whoever sold you that lie is a Protestant.”

The worst insult in priestly lore. I persisted.

“I was thinking of putting some euros to the roof fund. He smiled, said,

“Now we’re talking.”

Handed over a few notes and they joined the bottle in the drawer. He gritted,

“What do you want?”

“A priest, ex actually, named Frank Miller.”

Right on cue, he said,

“Sin City.”

How could he know that?

I asked,

“How could you know that?”

He made the humph sound, said,

“I have Amazon Prime.”

I shook my head. Life still had surprises. He added,

“I’m a big Mickey Rourke fan.”

Saw my jaw drop, said,

“There’s many say I have the look of him.”

For fuck’s sake.

I asked,

“After the plastic surgery fiascos?”

He ground the cig on the floor. I understood why the housekeeper was like a demon. Then,

“Call me in a day and I’ll see what I can find.”

I tired.

“Thanks.”

He said,

“May need some more cash.”

I sighed.

“The roof?”

He sneered.

“Nothing wrong with the roof, it’s solid, like the papacy.”

I was leaving when he said,

“You had some kind of Goth girl in tow, a heathen I hear?”

Emily.

I said,

“You’re well informed.”

He waved a dismissive hand, said,

“People think I have some interest in you because I knew your sainted mother. I don’t.”

No reply to this.

He added, almost like he’d near forgotten,

“The girl, someone kicked fifty kinds of murder out of her.”

“What?”

He stared at me, said,

“You’re not deaf.”

Well, kind of, actually.

He eased a bit, maybe seeing the shock in my face, said,

“She’s in the hospital. Bad state I hear.”

As I was heading out the door I nearly ran into the housekeeper, who said,

“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Jesus, people actually said that kind of thing?

I looked back, shouted.

“God love you.”

3

Emily

  Em

    Emerald

A Goth-like crazed girl who had blasted into my life two years ago and left me

Bewildered

Burned

Bewitched.

She may or may not have been involved in the deaths

Of

Her father

Mother

Various lowlife.

And managed to mangle and massacre my heart and mind. She woke in the morning and chose a personality for the day. Usually a personality bordering on the maniac. Whatever else, it was hard to ignore her. True too. She had saved my life and hide in many ways. Her act was to disappear for long stretches then blast back with utter impact. She was a long sentence from beautiful but her sheer vitality was highly addictive. There was a tiny defect in her left eye that seemed to deepen the emerald effect. Well, a deeply flawed stone but valuable nevertheless.

Was she

Bipolar

Byronic

Or simply a blip on the mental calendar?

Fuck knows. But boring? Never.

She had by many circuitous routes and canny connivance the ability to conjure up a constant cash flow.

And she liked to spend.

Recklessly.

I was relieved when she left and exhilarated when she returned. She had given me the gift of my dog Storm. And if you like people who love dogs, then she was a shoo-in.

But I have learned some things in my bewildered career and that was to know how extremely dangerous she was.

She had that aura that read

“Fuck with me at your peril.”

Emily was at NUIG hospital. I stopped to buy some grapes and the guy in the shop said,

“Of wrath?”

I said,

“Little early for literary smart arses.”

The National rugby team had defeated France in a stunning display of courage and grit, then gone to Cardiff to lose to Argentina.

Fuck it.

Prior to the match, hotel owners in Cardiff had increased their rates by almost 100 percent. Echoing the Irish government in their thinking: if it moves, price it to death.

Em was in ICU and thus not allowed visitors. Standing outside was Bean NI Iomaire, Sergeant Ridge. Once a great friend but now a cross between an enemy and an ally but a very precarious ally. Since the death of our mutual friend Stewart, she had become outright hostile. I tried,

“Comas ata tu?”

(How are you?)

She scoffed.

“Your attempt at Irish is like your friendship.”

Pause.

“Woesome.”

I reached out my hand, said,

“But good to see you, Ridge.”

She slapped my hand away, said,

“Your girlfriend is in a bad way.”

Fuck.

I said,

“She is not my girlfriend.”

Ridge smiled, not with any warmth but with a mean edge, said,

“Of course, you don’t do friends.”

I gave up, asked,

“Any notion of what happened to her?”

“Yes, she did what she does best, pissed someone off. In this case, the wrong person, apparently.”

“Got any person of interest?”

She didn’t even deign to answer, just smirked and strode off in that Garda way of

“Fuck you, civilian!”

Did I care?

Only a wee bit.

I managed to grab a doctor, tell him I was an uncle. He did the doctor gig of telling me,

“We will have to wait and see.”

Which was very closely related to Ridge’s response if somewhat more refined.

As I passed Ridge on my way out, I handed the grapes to her. She was caught, dare I say, off Guard, and asked,

“What do I do with these?”

I said,

“Thing is, they’re slightly bitter so just add them to your reservoir.”

I hit the pubs, not drinking but asking about the assault on Em. Took a while and I very nearly said,

“Aw, fuck this.”

But persisted,

And

In the Kings Head, a guy asked,

“Is there a few quid in this?”

There was.

And got,

Em had been giving it large the previous night and an apprentice thug named Corley had made a pass. She had very loudly dissed him and he waited outside... with a baseball bat.

He was apparently a minor dealer in GHB, the new form of deadly ecstasy that was hitting the streets. Some further inquiries to ensure he was not deeply connected. I didn’t want to step on some kingpin’s runner but, no, he was a bottom feeder. He liked to hang out near the Claddagh Basin and throw rocks at the swans. An all-round winner.

I went home, took the dog for a joyous run in Eyre Square. A number of people attempted to rub or chat to him but he was having none of it. He gave that canine look of

“I already got family.”

Worked for me.

Home to set out his dinner and water, then took down my holdall and shoved my hurley in there. Had still some coke from a previous encounter so did some lines to get cranked.

Be doped to beat a dope.

At the basin the sky was clear blue, a pretense of good weather that fooled nobody; we knew shit was coming and called it winter.

Wasn’t hard to find young Corley. You heard him before you saw him, one of those yahoos who shout at passing old people.

I got a good look at him. Built like a rugby player but a lot of flab in there and, from his movements, you knew he let his appearance do his intimidation; it was bulk without strength. He suffered, too, from that huge disadvantage of never receiving a serious puck in the mouth. That makes you not only vulnerable but downright careless. I put the holdall down and took out the hurley, gave it a trial swing, and got that reassuring whoosh. All good to go. He had noticed me now and his small ferret eyes told him,

“Victim.”

Told him wrong.

He said,

“Bit old for that, aren’t you?”

I gave him my best smile, asked,

“You want to try it?”

Held out the handle of the hurley to him. Something in my manner alerted the serpent in him to be wary but his overriding arrogance couldn’t discern a threat. He reached for it, said,

“Stupid old fuck.”

As he took the handle I pushed with all my might and it rammed into his stomach. He staggered back, managed,

“What the fuck?”

I said in the same even tone,

“Oh, did I startle you?”

Stood back, whistled, then said,

“What is it you kids say? My bad?”

Then pushed forward, driving him back, and he lost his balance, tumbled into the water. I went to the edge and swung again, catching him on the side of the head. I said,

“Now that is a score that the referee will not contest.”

An elderly man who had been on the receiving end of the idiot’s shouting, gave me a beatific smile, said,

“I’m not sure that young...”

Pause.

“Man can swim.”

Looked over at the fool in the water who was obviously struggling then added,

“Let me amend that. I sincerely hope he cannot swim.”

Father M called that evening and gave me the address of the rogue priest.

I said,

“Thank you.”

And got,

“Don’t bloody thank me, pay me.”

The blessings of the priesthood are a mystery to behold.

I told the pup about the thug I put in the water and, by the way he wagged his tail, I think he approved.

I watched Everest and was suitably impressed by Jason Clarke as Rob Hall. I ate some Irish stew with a tiny hint of Jay added and gave the pup some in his dish. He preferred a hint of Smithwick’s in his. When the storm hit on the mountain, he hid under the sofa, and if there had been room I might have joined him.

Frank Miller, the rogue priest, was staying in a hotel on Dominic Street, one of those new anonymous buildings that allowed short-term stays. And didn’t require a whole lot of ID. Money did the talking. There was a reception desk with a hostile guy reading a book, Spanish for Dummies. He had the book up high to discourage inquiries.

I was not discouraged, greeted,

“Hola, señor.”

He was not amused. I said,

“Basic greetings are at the very beginning of the book.”

He put the book aside and looked like he might punch me, snarled,

“What do you want, asshole?”

I said,

“Little manners would be good.”

I produced a wad of notes, said,

“Donde esta Frank Miller.”

He hesitated and I laid the notes on the counter, said,

“Mucho dinero.”

He grabbed them, said,

“Room 201.”

Up shabby stairs then knocked on 201. It opened almost immediately. Not sure what I was expecting, probably a whiskey refugee and old.

Neither.

Young guy, in his early thirties, long brown hair, bland face, dressed in gray tracksuit. Then I was falling backward from a punch. He was about to follow through with a kick but I grabbed that and flipped him, then, getting up, I dragged him by his hair into the room, kicked the door shut, said,

“Stay down or I will break your fucking neck.”

The introductions out of the way, I looked round the room.

Bare.

Thomas Merton would have been comfortable with it. I asked,

“Where is the book?”

Up close he didn’t seem as young though maybe being dragged by the hair ages you. He picked himself up, slowly, watching my boots carefully, asked,

“Are you working for the Church?”

I nearly laughed but went,

“I represent the private sector.”

He measured me, definitely found me wanting, but decided further tussle was wasted. Said,

“The book is gone.”

So I did what you do with a stubborn priest. I walloped him.

Twice.

Once to get his attention and the second because it plain felt good. He staggered back, moaned.

“I think you broke my nose.”

I said,

“Oh, it’s broken, all right. I can tell by the tilt but, you know, gives a touch of character to what is, let’s face it, a weak face.”

I swear, he nearly smiled but the pain in his face told him this was not wise. He said,

“From your accent and your whole black Irish face, you are probably Catholic. Didn’t they teach you it’s a sin to touch a priest?”

I laughed, said,

“Whoa, the clergy and touch? You really want to go there? Plus, the new teaching is that it’s a sin not to touch a priest.”

I gestured for him to stand and he moved to a hard back chair, settled with a sigh, said,

“There is no book. There were remnants of a manuscript but I burned it.”

I said,

“Now, that is not going to fly, padre. Why would you burn it if you went to the trouble of stealing it?”

He gave me the look that says,

“Lord, give me patience.”

Said,

“I was a high flier in the Vatican and the likes of you...”

Here, he gave me a look of such disdain,

Continued,

“Couldn’t even begin to imagine the power I had.”

I let the sheer arrogance of that hover, then,

“Had is the operative word. Now you are just a punk hiding out in a third-rate hotel.”

He nearly spat, said,

“You know nothing, you are... nothing.”

I said,

“Know this. There is a very powerful man who wants the book and I am, let’s say, the good cop.”

He wasn’t buying this, said,

“Run back to your employer and tell him to forget the whole thing.”

I stood, said,

“I could wallop you some more and, in truth, I would be glad to do so but I’ll pass along your message and,”

I headed for the door, added,

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

If this was supposed to intimidate him he hid it well.

4

A few months back, I had been given a deadly medical diagnosis. Then, like so many cases in the country, they found it was mistaken and urged me to be reexamined.

Like,

Fucking right!

The governor calls and you get off death row, you’re going to go back, and ask,

“Please, may I have my death cell back?”

The Health Department was paying out small fortunes in compensation and the minister on TV daily saying,

“We deeply regret.”

Not a person in the whole country who believed the regret bit. You hear of people who get a second chance who proclaim,

“I could smell the roses.”

As the kids go,

“Like, really?”

In truth, Jameson never smelled so compelling.

A morning in late October, I was in Crowes in Bohermore, and telling Ollie, the owner, about the misdiagnosis. He went the very Irish route of

“Well, you look well on it.”

The double well implies they couldn’t really give a fuck... but appearances’ sake. A guy on the stool next to me, reading the Daily Mirror, said,

“You should sue.”

The new Irish pastime:

Litigation.

He was reading the sports section and added,

“Ferguson has a new book out.”

I nodded. Ferguson’s autobiography was the bestselling book in Ireland followed by One Direction, and I was interested, asked,

“More about Man U?”

He shook his head in disgust, said,

“It’s about how to succeed in life.”

We all shook our heads in unison, thinking Fergie had gone American.

Happens, even to the gifted. He said,

“Says that the two most powerful words in the English language are...”

Waited.

Ollie said,

“Love you.”

I tried,

“Pay me!”

He said,

“Well done.”

I finished my drink, headed out, was near assaulted by a woman collecting for a basketball court for the youth of Salthill.

Jesus wept.

With refugees dying in the ocean every day and the number of homeless reaching shocking proportions, we needed the Salthill yuppies to have a basketball court?

She said,

“Anything would be of great benefit.”

I gave her my most earnest look, which is part compassion and most ways menace, leaned in, said,

“Well done.”

The following morning, a dead sheep was left on Eyre Sq. This time they left a note, or rather a large placard with this:

HFAS

Everybody seemed to get this meaning.

Hanged

   For

     A

      Sheep

The dead horse had evoked horrors, the poor sheep less so. People were now just curious and indeed intrigued. It was generally agreed that it was some antigovernment protest. And just about anything that stuck it to them bastards was approved by most of the country. Our political leader claimed he sat on a bench with a homeless person and...

Get this!

He spoke to the poor bastard for all of twenty minutes.

And to think they gave a Nobel Prize to that deadbeat Gandhi.

The All Blacks defeated the Wallabies in a crushing match and Mourinho was due to be fired from Chelsea. After Liverpool fired the great Brendan Rodgers, it was open season on all, especially sheep.

The culprits certainly had balls. A large van was seen at the end of the square, backed up on the grass and in no apparent rush, then they flung open the back doors and dumped the animal, then, again with no haste, drove back into traffic and disappeared.

Were there witnesses?

Were there fuck!

Hundreds.

And thus a hundred descriptions.

The Guards said, with conviction if little certainty, that a definite line of inquiry was being followed.

Right.

They were looking for a truck in a city with twenty thousand registered vehicles alone.

I could imagine Ridge’s face

— and relieved I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while.

I was wrong about that of course.

5

I didn’t realize it but I was about to get hold of a dream, albeit a mad one, but still... I do believe that a dream, however insane, will get you out of bed on many a dire cold wet November morning.

My neighbor Doc was slowly renewing his friendship with me. We had fallen out over Em and it was nasty and British. Like life.

I liked him a lot, principally because he had a great affection for the pup. He was English but kept that subdued. He had served with some distinction and darkness with the British army and he sure kept that tight wrapped. This was still the Republican West of Ireland no matter how far we might have traveled since the Peace Initiative.

We shared a love of fine whiskey

Bad whiskey

And box sets.

Too, he read voraciously and, like me, in a sort of controlled fever. Meaning he would follow a theme like say true crime, then read all and everything on that. Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop was on his speed dial. In his varied career, what most impressed me was his attempt with his army buddies on Everest. They had turned back at Hillary Step. Just below the death zone.

This resonated in me in so many ways that it was almost preordained. Currently he had lent me

Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer,

The Death Zone by Matt Dickinson,

No Way Down by Graham Bowley.

And probably my favorite, Matt Hail’s account of the 1996 disaster.

In addition he had given me a copy of The Summit, the Oscar-nominated documentary about the K2 tragedy. To watch eleven climbers die on the screen and the heroic Irish guy Ger McDonnell, who died trying to save the Korean team members. So, smitten with mountain fever I surely was.

The mind-set of the Sherpas echoed the way the Irish had once been before Celtic Tigers, crushing financial reparations, and water bills killed our very spirit.

Doc told me his last attempt on Everest brought down many of his team with HAMF.

High-altitude mountain fever.

What resonated with me most was Doc saying,

“On the mountain, more people are killed on the descent than the ascent.”

Story of my life right there.

Getting high was mostly a soaring ride of exhilaration and expectation then

The coming down

Hell.

He explained that the fever was a result of a swelling of the brain and caused the climber to imagine things, lose focus, stagger ’round dangerously. Again, I had a whole lot of experience with that. Then he surprised me with,

“I am planning one last attempt and this time I am traveling light, a two-man team, to hit it fast and furious.”

He paused, then,

“If I fail, then being buried is not the worst way to go.”

And

  Gave

     Me

My

  Dream.

6

I was telling the pup about my hope of traveling to Everest. He was eating his breakfast, some spareribs from the stew of the evening before. I told him about the various attempts on the mountain but he seemed singularly unimpressed. Then his head went up and to the side. I was having a visitor. Sure enough, a loud bang at the door.

I was just getting up to answer when a further series of loud wallops hit the door, I shouted,

“Jesus, have a bit of fucking patience, I’m coming and it better be important.”

Ridge.

With a young Guard in tow who had that formless look that Saturday nights on the beat would beat the fuck out of fast. She marched in and the pup growled. The young guy demanded,

“Is that animal aggressive?”

I gave him my, dare I say, guarded smile, said,

“It is not the dog who bites.”

Could be wrong but did Ridge allow a tiny flicker of a smile. He blustered,

“I must inform you sir that you are threatening a Garda Síchoána in the course of his or her duty.”

Ridge snapped.

“Ah, shut up you emit.”

I did wonder what an emit was?

Then turned to me, demanded,

“Do you know an individual named Frank Miller?”

I did what you do.

I asked,

“Why?”

The emit said,

“We’ll ask the questions.”

Jesus, seriously!

I said,

And do admit that I have waited many TV years for this, I said,

“I refuse to answer on the grounds I might incriminate my own self.”

The dog wagged his tail so I was amusing at least one. Ridge said,

“For fuck’s sake, Taylor.”

She sounded her wit’s end. I said,

“I met him one time.”

She consulted her notebook and I thought,

God be with the days I had one of those. She asked,

“Where were you between the hours of eight and midnight yesterday?”

I made a show of concentrating just to fuck with her a little more, then,

“Drunk in Fahy’s bar in Bohermore.”

She raised her eyes to heaven but found no solace there, said,

“You might need to contact a lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Miller was found dead and we know from a hotel receptionist that you were his last visitor.”

“How did he die?”

“Violently.”

God almighty.

As she left, she said,

“Looks like you are screwed this time, Taylor.”

The young guy glared at me, said,

“I am looking forward to having you down the station.”

I gave him a caring smile, said,

“Go with God, my son.”

Later that day, I met with one of the few remaining Guards who would talk to me. Owen Daglish.

We met in Naughton’s on Quay Street, now a hubbub of hen and stag parties. I remembered when this was a dead street with nothing but a pawnshop. Owen looked seriously hungover, as he had done for the past ten years. Not so much one episode but the very box set of hangovers. He said,

“I’m dying here, Jack.”

He had the serious cure, double hot whiskey and pint chaser, a heated boilermaker, if you will. I stayed on the cold Jay. Never ceases me to observe the cure occur. Owen gulped down the toddy, exclaiming,

Oh, sweet Jesus, let it stay down.

No.

Oops.

Fuck.

Yes, maybe.

And then it hit, his face got the glow, the sweat evaporated, the shakes disappeared, he sat up straight, looking for fight, as they say. He literally sprang from the stool, urged,

“Come on, cig time.”

Definitely on the mend if you want a cig. Outside it was cold and we huddled like lepers with the other wretched smokers but with a defiant air of camaraderie.

Owen lit a Major, the serious nicotine route, drew in some lethal amount, then on the exhale said,

“I had to go to the wall on this request of yours, Jack.”

Meaning it would cost me.

Dear.

I handed him a wad of notes and, for a moment, seemed he might count it. Caught my look and put it fast in his jacket, said,

“This is a bad business mate. That poor bastard Miller? Whoever did for him, it was vicious, beat the poor whore for a time before killing him, shoved pages of a book in his mouth so forcibly that it crushed his tongue.”

I felt a shiver, asked,

“A book?”

Back inside, he signaled for a refill, the cure coursing through his system and, of course, screaming for more. Then,

“Yeah, some pages in, get this, Latin!”

Oh, fuck.

Before I could ask, he added,

“A priest translated it.”

“Whoa, what was a priest doing at a crime scene?”

He gave me a look of

“Yah dumb fuck.”

Said,

“He was still alive for a time and the priest was called for the last rites.”

He got the fresh drink, said slyly,

“Translation costs extra.”

I reached for more cash, slid it across with bad grace, thinking,

Hope it chokes you.

He tried to chill the situation. Said,

“Next round is on me, pal.”

Nervous though.

I snarled,

“The translation?”

“Oh, right, I have it written down.”

A crumpled piece of paper, then a big show of getting his reading glasses, then read,

“Hic est diabolized.”

Waited.

I near spat.

“The fuck does that mean?”

He waited a beat, then,

“He is demonized.”

7

Time to go and see my boss. He would not be too thrilled that I failed to procure The Red Book. The fact that Frank Miller was dead and apparently with pages of said tome shoved down his throat. Would it cut any ice?

Would it fuck.

From my previous meeting with the great man, I knew he only understood results. Plus, I hadn’t shown up for the security job, figuring I was already working on something for him. I asked Doc to mind the pup while I was thus engaged. Doc was busy in preparation for Everest. I hadn’t yet asked him if I could come along.

I mean,

Here I was,

A drunk,

Xanax popping,

Two fingers mutilated,

A limp,

A hearing aid,

Dodgy health prognosis,

Recent wanna-be suicide.

Who wouldn’t want to climb the highest mountain with me? He had in his time summited

K2.

Annapurna.

McKinley.

Kilimanjaro.

Failed to reach the top of the North Face of the Eiger. I asked,

“You picked your team yet for the climb?”

He looked fit after a few difficult months and the mountain enterprise seemed to have rejuvenated him. He said,

“My old sergeant was first choice but he got a job as security consultant in Iraq so he’s out.”

Then he added,

“You are tied on a short rope to a guy on the most dangerous terrain on the planet, you need to know he’s the guy.”

I nearly said,

Better than a short fuse.

But for once my smart mouth did the right thing and shut the fuck up. I ventured,

“You know if you need a person to keep track of the provisions, like a manager at base camp, I could handle that.”

He stared at me for a moment then burst out laughing, managed,

“You!”

He was truly shocked, said,

“You can hardly climb the stairs.”

I was now late to meet with my boss and a rage was beginning to leak all over my being. I said,

“I don’t think I’m that bad.”

He nodded, said,

“You’re right. In fact you are way worse.”

Now he was shaking his head with the sheer incredulity of it. I said,

“You know what? Go fuck yourself.”

I strode off, the pup in tow, and he shouted,

“Jack, don’t you want to leave the dog with me?”

I threw back,

“I’d rather drown him.”

So, okay, a tad petulant, not to mention... the drama.

Sister Maeve, one of my few remaining friends. A nun as scarce ally, go figure. I had helped her in a small way many years before but she seemed to place a huge debt of gratitude to me. Was I going to dissuade her?

Was I fuck?

She was like the point man for her convent. She lived in the outside world and managed the lines of communication between the enclosed community and life. They chose the right front person. She exuded a warmth that was as natural as it was rare. She dressed in gray and one touch of color, a silk scarf I had given her. She lived in a small house on St. Frances Lane. But a decade of the rosary from the Abbey Church. I didn’t go empty-handed, stopped off at McCambridge’s to get goodies. She opened the door, greeted me with a tight hug, and the pup was delighted to see her. I handed over the clutch of goodies and she said,

“Oh, you didn’t need to do that, Mr. Taylor.”

“Jack.”

I left the pup with her and, several hours late, headed off to report to

Alexander

    Knox

      -

       Keaton.

Yet again I marveled at the sheer impressiveness of that name. Name like that, it was preordained you’d be CEO material. Dish washing wasn’t really in the cards.

I was ushered into his office with no fanfare, just glares of cold hostility from his bodyguards. I was anticipating him being

Angry

Aggressive

Sarcastic

But

Scared?

   Never.

He was scared now.

Very.

His type, they do the scaring. Being scared is not ever on their radar. He had a haunted look, and he kept darting his eyes toward the window. He barely acknowledged me, reached in his desk, tossed an envelope on the counter, said,

“Your severance pay.”

I decided to play dumb,

Asked,

“For which job? The security or The Red Book?”

Fuck, did I hit a nerve. He literally jumped, said,

“Take your money and go, Mr. Taylor, I don’t expect to be seeing you again.”

And on cue one of the bouncers/bodyguard appeared behind me.

Of all the troubles in my troubling life, I have never been troubled with minding my own business.

Never.

I asked,

“The poor bastard Miller? With pages of a book rammed down his clerical throat? Do I just forget about him?”

My arm was grabbed and I feinted to the left, came down hard on the instep of the guy’s foot with my Doc Marten, then swirled ’round and sucker punched him in the throat with an open flat hand.

He went down like the proverbial sack of spuds. A.K.K. Sighed, said,

“You are buying in to a world of hurt.”

Sounding not unlike a cut-rate Schwarzenegger and reached for his phone. I turned to leave and threw,

“Be seeing you, buddy.”

And got out of there fast before the rest of the crew arrived.

I stopped up the road and bent over, gasping for breath, muttered,

“Went well, all in all.”

“Did you put sugar in?”

He liked two spoons.

She had. Then, as we sat, she said,

“Mr. Taylor.”

I mentally said,

Jack!

She continued.

“I think you have many times in your life wished to travel the high road but circumstances led you to the lower plain.”

No argument there. Then,

“I think you have a good strong heart but life seems more acceptable if you adopt a shell of, um...”

She searched for a word that wouldn’t cause offense, then,

“Hardness.”

She poured the tea and then buttered the bread. I said,

“Out there” — and vaguely indicated the window — “there is precious little softness and any sign of weakness... they will annihilate you.”

She blessed herself which is, I suppose, answer enough.

She gave me a deep searching look, then asked,

“Do you believe in forgiveness?”

Aw, fuck.

I near snarled.

“I believe in retribution.”

She was upset, tried,

“The most difficult act of all is to forgive oneself.”

I tried not to snigger, said,

“Isn’t that God’s job description?”

She was flustered, torn between trying to explain and giving me some scant comfort.

A fool’s errand.

I mentioned the horrendous massacre of concertgoers by terrorists in Paris. Then added for pure maliciousness,

“Never thought I would quote Putin but he said if the terrorists see their mission is to get into heaven, it’s my mission to send them there.”

Horrified her, as was meant.

The pup sunk under a chair; tension freaked him. She made one last valiant attempt, said that old hackneyed justification

“God’s ways are mysterious to behold.”

I stood up, gave a low whistle for the pup, attached the leash, gave her a brief hug, parted with

“Oh, there is no mystery, sister. He likes to mind fuck.”

I regret the f-word but, fuck, I do not regret the sentiment.

Not one fucking bit.

I had read enough of James Lee Burke to nearly see his

Ghosts

    in

      the

        Confederate

              Mist.

Those days as I trudged through the streets of the city, on corners, at the tips of alleys, on the canal waterways, on bridges in the slight distance, around the cornices of churches, amidst crowds lining up for early shopping bargains at T.J. Maxx, slipping through the back doors of back street pubs, in the young people who gathered on the grass at Eyre Square, I saw

My

  Very

     Own

      Ghosts

         of

          Galway.

My parents, one loved and one despised.

Oh, so many of my friends:

Stewart, the most decent person I’d ever encountered.

A treacherous close friend whom I lured to his death in the Claddagh Basin and never regretted it for one moment. He was evil behind a smirk.

And, weird as it sounds, more priests than a minor scandal.

Too, a gorgeous child, Serena Day, who haunted me every day.

Phew-oh.

A life indeed less ordinary and littered with those I deep mourned and those psychos even deeper despised.

I had lived a small life in a small town with smaller aspirations and yet managed to create havoc and chaos under the guise of assistance.

An echo of the Vatican, really.

I let out a considered breath and watched it dance among the shattered dreams. If there is a meaning to life in the concept of having made some little difference, then I had wrought bedlam and decay.

As Padraig Pearse wrote

And

  I

Went

   Along

     My

       Way

Pause.

Sorrowful.

8

I was watching the new Marvel series

Jessica Jones.

Netflix had a huge critical and commercial success with Daredevil.

This was the second of a planned four-part series.

Phew-oh. It was amazing, stunning, and moving in equal measure, especially to a guy like me who knew fuck to nothing about comics.

A ring at the door, the pup barked. I switched off the iPad. Took a deep breath, just knowing it was bound to be more shite. A young guy, punk hairstyle, battered combats, an even more worn combat jacket, with a smile and expectant manner.

I snapped,

“What do you want?”

His smile broadened. He asked in a semi-posh accent,

“Might you be Mr. Jack Taylor?”

The pup was low growling, his small head down in the attack mode. The guy said,

“I’m not good with dogs.”

I waited.

Then,

“Oh, right, Emily sent me.”

Then he smiled some more. I asked,

“Was there a message?”

He considered this, then reached in his jacket and both the pup and I went to alert. He pulled a book out of his jacket, said,

“Here.”

It was bound in red leather and for a mad moment I thought,

The Red Book?

Looked at the title.

Don Quixote.

He said,

“You’re welcome.”

I was baffled, asked,

“Why, does she think I’m Don Quixote?”

He laughed, said,

“She said more like Sancho Panza.”

There was no sign of him leaving, I asked,

“Something else?”

Again with the smile, he said,

“I’m waiting to be invited in.”

Now I smiled, with absolute no warmth, said,

“Never happen son.”

He put out his hand, said,

“I’m Hayden, that is with a capital H.”

The pup had decided he was no threat, just an idiot, and went back into the apartment. I said,

“Time to fuck off, H.”

He lost the smile, edge leaking over the mouth, said,

“Emily said you could be... difficult.”

I said,

“Indeed, and you know what?”

He wasn’t entirely sure this was a question so settled for the ubiquitous,

“Okay?”

The tone rising up like a blend of whine and question. Another vocal our young had adopted from the U.S. I said,

“You need to fuck off with a capital F.”

He said,

“I was hoping to like, you know, hang with you and, like, you know, chill.”

I let out a sigh and decided it was wasted energy. He was definitely the type who had never been punched in the mouth or, at least, not often enough. I said,

“The dog doesn’t like you.”

Now he let the whine full play, whined,

“Like seriously? Is that even a reason?”

I shut the door with

“The only reason that counts.”

The pup wagged his tail. It seemed I still had some moves.

On Eyre Square, a dead cow was found with white paint on its flanks reading

“Not cowed.”

The papers yet again had a wild old time with speculation as to the culprits.

Were they

Water protesters,

Pranksters,

Supporting the nurses,

Animal rights,

Or simply

Pissed off?

Like the whole country.

Superintendent Clancy made a forceful statement with the usual blather,

“Definite line of inquiry.”

Which meant they had zilch. The culprits were definitely getting our attention but to what?

I opened Don Quixote and was rewarded with the aroma of fine leather and gold binding, a scent of class. I didn’t expect to find a clue in there but what the hell, tilting at windmills seemed like as good an idea as any others.

Next time I went to the hospital I was allowed to see Emily. She was out of Intensive Care and had a private room. Our health service was in such a shambles that most patients had to lie on trollies in corridors before they even caught a glimpse of a doctor. Only Em could have gotten a room. She was sitting up, dressed in a bright kimono-type top, her face heavily bruised and bandages around her head. The eyes, phew, they burned even more fierce than ever. She snarled,

“The fuck kept you, Taylor?”

I said,

“Life, I guess.”

She studied me, then,

“You’re old, Jack.”

Great, just fucking great. I asked,

“How are you?”

Got the withering look, then,

“I’m hurting Jack, in so many ways, but hey, I have the key to recovery.”

“Determination?”

She scoffed.

“Drugs, heavy-duty ones.”

I tried,

“I dealt with the guy who hurt you.”

Was I expecting gratitude?

A little.

She sneered.

“He was just one of the disposable ones.”

Did she mean it literally or was she getting philosophical? I asked,

“What does that mean?”

She said,

“The ghosts of Galway.”

A tiny shudder crossed my spine and lodged. It was like she could read my mind but I asked,

“Who?”

She adjusted her position then reached in the nightstand and took out an e-cig, flicked it, blew large clouds of vapor, said,

“Same dudes who are dropping animals in Eyre Square.”

I thought that was ridiculous, said,

“That is ridiculous.”

She settled down in the bed, some of the bluster gone, then,

“They are a combination of Old Testament, ferocity, fundamentalism, and your plain run-of-the-mill violence.”

I wasn’t buying this, asked,

“Why?”

“They want to return to the Latin Mass, parental authority, the Ireland of the fifties. No fun, just bleakness and darkness.”

I said,

“Like an Irish ISIS.”

She said,

“Pretty much.”

A thought hit and I asked,

“How come you know so much about them?”

She smiled in a knowing way, said,

“I was fucking their head honcho.”

Like most everything she said, it was designed to shock. Finding the truth among her chaos was a challenge. I didn’t feel like traveling that mad road again. I said, sarcasm leaking all over my tone,

“How nice for you.”

She said,

“You don’t believe me.”

I asked in all sincerity,

“Does it matter?”

She looked like she might leap from the bed, spat,

“It is going to be a little difficult to help me if you think I’m making it up.”

I could engage a bit, asked,

“What is it you think I or we can do?”

She eased back in the bed, let out a long sigh, conceded,

“You might not be up to it after all.”

Here’s the crazy thing, my pride took a wee hit, and I asked,

“Why?”

She turned to the wall, said very quietly,

“It’s not just you’re old. You’re weak.”

I wish she was the type you could give a reassuring hug to. Fuck, I wish I was the type who could give one. I said,

“We might work something out.”

I didn’t catch her quiet reply and moved closer. She said,

“Fuck off.”

I was standing outside the hospital, debating a pint in the River Inn. A car pulled up, a blue Toyota, the window rolled down to reveal Ridge. She was dressed in casual clothes, her hair tied back in a severe bun, accentuating her no nonsense air. She said,

“Get in.”

I was in no mood for any more shite so asked,

“You asking or ordering?”

She sighed, sounding not unlike my dead mother, a walking bitch. She gritted her teeth, said,

“A request.”

I got in, made a show of settling my own self. She pulled off with a screech of tires. We drove in silence until she asked,

“How is the she-wolf?”

“You mean Emily?”

Gritted teeth, then,

“Yes.”

“She is recovering and good of you to care.”

She near rear-ended a lorry, then,

“I don’t care.”

Well, that killed that topic. I played fake pleasant, asked,

“Day off?”

“Crime doesn’t have days off.”

I laughed, genuinely amused. Asked,

“They teach you that in detective school?”

She pulled up in Woodquay and parked, very badly, mostly from bad temper. I suggested,

“I could show you a real simple method of effortless parking.”

Nope.

She went,

“The day I need you to teach me anything I will shoot myself.”

She got out, indicated the Goal Post, asked,

“Have you been there?”

One of the very few pubs I’d missed, I said I had not. Followed her in and she grabbed a table at the rear, barman came over, asked,

“Get you folks?”

She said,

“Two coffees.”

The guy smiled, then,

“And you, Jack?”

“Pint and chaser.”

She glared at us both, then to the guy,

“That will be just one coffee.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile, said,

“Oh, I think I realized that, officer.”

She rounded on me.

“You said you hadn’t been here and how does he know to call me officer?”

I said with world-weariness,

“Ah, Ridge, so many questions and so precious little time.”

She intensified her glare.

I said,

“I have not been here but I do know my bar guys and bar guys know their cops.”

The drinks came, and if the coffee was meant to revive it didn’t. I asked,

“What’s on your mind, Ridge?”

She considered her options, then,

“There are rumors of a gang of antiestablishment who intend to cause chaos in the city. They have some daft name like spooks.”

“Ghosts,”

I said.

Surprised her. She had not been expecting a result so fast, asked,

“You know them?”

Tiny hint of admiration. I said,

“Heard of them, an urban rumor, supposedly they are the ones dumping animals on the square.”

She had to ease out the next question, hating it.

“Would you let me know of anything else you hear?”

“Why? Why would I help you, Ridge?”

She had no idea but tried,

“Once a Guard?”

Here was an opportunity for some serious payback, for all the years of cold abuse I could simply tell her to go fuck herself. I wanted to, for the instant bullet adrenalized rush of that.

I said,

“On one condition.”

She looked dubious, asked,

“What?”

I gave her my very warmest smile, almost meant it, said,

“You have to be nice to me.”

She looked like she might throw up, said,

“Not really sure I could do that.”

I let that simmer, then,

“I’m kidding, you could no more be nice than me joining the priesthood.”

She managed,

“Thank you, I think.”

I asked,

“Do we hug now?”

9

Jeremy Cooper was what used to be termed a spoilt priest. It didn’t mean petulant, though there were certainly enough of those about. It was that he had left the priesthood early because of circumstances.

These ranged from

Women

Greed

Arrogance

Or all of the above.

Jeremy left simply because he couldn’t take direction or orders as he read them. Born to lead was how he saw it and the Church did not. A high flier in the Vatican was the very least he had expected. Got a dud parish in darkest Sussex. Uh-oh.

No way.

Reared in London to Irish parents, he was immersed and enamored in all things Celtic. Not the new Ireland but a mythical subdued island where the clergy ruled. He was tall, athletic, played hurling with a viciousness that let his built-up frustrations bleed. He had even features that somehow failed to jell and gave the impression of not being quite finished. Brown eyes that misled to an impression of kindness. He had never been troubled by that weakness. He discovered he had a talent for crooked bookkeeping and used that to set up a financial consultancy first in Dublin and then in Galway.

Galway sang to him. It still had a whiff of republicanism and the Celtic Twilight still glimmered.

There was an atmosphere of unrest that cried out for a strong hand. That would be him. He believed in Ron Hubbard’s dictum that

“If you want to make a million, make a church.”

He wanted to make a massive change so he would make a city. Followers. Essential to get foot soldiers and where better than the ranks of the disenchanted, the chronically unemployed?

A hatchet man.

Vital.

Terry Wood, known as Woody. A former insurgent, as they were now so PC-termed. He had been at a loss since the peace initiative. If he ever had a CV it would list

Thug

Psycho

Maniac

And all-round brute. It wasn’t so much that he embraced violence — he loved it, was never more alive than beating the hell out of somebody. He looked like a small gorilla and knew it. He met JC at a prayer rally. The best venue to find the crazy and the seekers. He was in the midst of kicking a young guy who had bumped into him when he felt his drawn fist held. Turned to see JC who said,

“Would you like to be rich and famous?”

His initial response of

“Fuck you, asshole”

Didn’t emerge, instead,

“Tell me more.”

So it began, the ghosts began to take substance.

JC asked Woody,

“Can you get a dead horse?”

Woody, not noted for his humor, nearly said,

“I have flogged some.”

But knew enough about his leader to keep it serious. He did try,

“Easy to get a live one and just...”

Pause.

“You know, shoot the fucker.”

Got the look from JC, who commanded,

“What do we believe about obscenities?”

Woody thought,

We fucking avoid them.

Said,

“It debases those who resort to them.”

JC appreciated the value of a man like Woody. A guy who seemed to thrive on what the Americans nicely term black ops. The down-and-dirty suite that was so necessary to get a movement off the ground. Woody was the personification of the shit sandwich principle. Pat their head while you kicked their arse. Convince a guy like Woody that only you fully appreciated his unique talents and bolster that fragmented ego, you had a pit bull of undying loyalty. Feed him a crazy notion and then the trick was to let him believe he had thought of it. Plus, there was the added rush of utter mind fucking.

Money.

Hit the rich guys, butter them up with titles they would hold in the new organization, then find their weakness and exploit the hell out of it. It was a hit-and-miss affair at best. The death of the Celtic Tiger made the new money guys cautious but, persuade them that they would be part of the new ruling junta, they bought in.

Blackmail with a velvet touch.

He had it blacklined in his book of ghosts. The journal he was keeping with a view to publication after he was famous. All the greats did that. Made him smile to consider a

Ghostwriter.

Mainly he was a humor-free zone but did appreciate irony if it was delivered with a hammer and intent.

But for serious cash it was hard to beat the old reliables. Women and theft. Combine both. He did.

Julia Finch, an old bird like her very name. She came from old-time money and was old-time with it, that is, mean. He wooed her as if he meant it. Gave her the codswallop she wanted to hear. Too, played on that old adage of bad boy. Well, even more alluring to an Irish woman, bad priest.

Sin

Sacrilege

Sex.

Irresistible.

But fuck, he earned it. Big time. The woman droned on

And on.

While he had to act like he was rapt. Thinking he wanted to wrap his hands ’round her neck. Once she had signed most everything to him, JC asked Woody,

“How do you feel about Julia?”

Woody was wary; was it a trick?

He tried,

“She seems very devout.”

He wanted to add sir but it stuck in his throat. JC said,

“She says you put your hands on her.”

He was speechless. JC gave a rueful smile, said,

“I don’t believe even you are quite that desperate.”

Woody knew he was being deeply insulted but wasn’t sure why, knew enough to know that, when you are cornered, a shot of pious shite might work, said,

“We all have a cross to carry.”

He didn’t believe that for an instant, else why did God give the world au pairs? JC was shaking his head, as if more grief was coming.

It was.

He said,

“She says you are a vile, treacherous, thieving piece of garbage.”

Phew, he had to bite down. JC was watching him closely, said,

“Speak freely.”

He knew he would have to avoid cursing and to tread lightly, spat,

“Cunt.”

How do you track a ghost?

Lightly.

That’s what I did. Innocent questions thrown in to pub conversations, not a driving interrogation but a soft gentle inquiry. Nothing at first but slowly a trace began to emerge.

Unemployed men suddenly having a cause, a purpose. Hints of a new movement that would once and for all deal with the crooked bankers, the sleazy shot callers who had robbed the country blind.

Oh, and the water charges.

Any organization that promised to end the hated tax was a winner. A few times I saw a small burly man buying rounds for everybody. His name I learned was Woody. A Friday evening I managed to maneuver myself next to him at the bar. He was shouting for a large round, I said,

“Great. Make mine a double.”

He was not amused, did that slow turn of someone who anticipates violence, asked,

“I know you, fuckhead?”

My mind clicked to delight. I was in a mood to pound on a thug, said,

“Whoa, no need for that, I thought you were some rich ejit buying for everyone.”

He gauged me, then,

“You thought wrong.”

And went back to ordering the drinks. I grabbed his arm and he went into fight mode. I said,

“Not rich? Just an ejit, then?”

He clenched his face and before I could prepare I was pulled from behind, a voice saying,

“Let’s go.”

And was dragged away by Hayden!

Hayden?

I said,

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

He looked even younger than the last time I saw him. He said,

“Emily told me to watch out for you.”

I was exasperated, asked,

“You, you are going to protect me?”

He smiled, said,

“I have some moves.”

Jesus.

I said,

“Try this one: fuck off.”

He smiled and I wanted to punch his lights out. He said,

“How about if I told you I had The Red Book.”

WTF.

I went,

“You?”

“Like I said, some moves.”

I only half believed him but, if he hung with Emily, anything was possible. I asked,

“So can I see it?”

He began to turn away, said,

“Not so fast Jack-o. You have to earn that.”

And he was gone before I could grab him.

On Eyre Square, a van pulled up, threw open the doors, and left a clutch of dead swans on the grass. A mother with a young infant gasped, then fainted. A crowd gathered and the overwhelming response was

“Dirty bastards.”

Before, with the cow, horse, a certain sick humor might have been derived, but in Galway there is no humor concerning the swans. They are as sacred as something can be in a city that insists on honoring writers not from the city. Anyone but natives, being the credo.

Superintendent Clancy was beyond rage, gave Sergeant Ridge the

Rant of a decade.

The newspapers went ballistic, crying for Clancy to resign. Like that would happen.

There were many witnesses, describing everyone from

Refugees

Nonnationals

Students

Water protesters.

Then storm Desmond hit and the swans were forgotten as the city was blinded, blasted, and battered. Overnight it was estimated the cleanup would cost twenty million euros. Plus, the EU had decreed we owed close to a billion for not conserving energy. The people were so exhausted with bills, taxes, and levies, the general feeling was

“The check is in the mail, assholes.”

In the midst of chaos there is always a level of utter ridiculousness, which went to the Water Authority, which, in addition to sending out bills, sent everyone who registered with it a bonus of a hundred euros whether they had paid their water bill or not. One man wrote to the papers asking,

“If the U.S. doesn’t want Trump, could we have him?”

Almost as an aside, the sacking of Mourinho by Chelsea went largely ignored. Rory McIlroy bought a 50,000 euro engagement ring for his newest financée and it was generally asked,

“But did he pay the water charges?”

10

My neighbor Doc was finalizing his plans for an attempt to climb Everest. His plans did not include me. I ran into him as the pup and I returned from a walk. In a moment of madness, I had volunteered my services for the trip.

Right.

Me, a sodden drunk with mutilated fingers. A hearing aid, a limp, an on/off affair with prescription pills. Just the ticket for Everest. I asked,

“You give any thought to me tagging along on the adventure?”

He bent down to rub the pup’s ear, then,

“You were serious?”

Fuck.

I said,

“I may not be in the best of condition.”

He gave one of those short laughs, immersed in bitterness, snapped,

“And what exactly could you bring to the table?”

... bring to the table?

For fuck’s sake.

I said,

“Attitude?”

He brushed past me, said,

“Try sobering up first.”

Phew-oh.

Such assholes I had to consider friends. Because most all I knew were in the graveyard. Outliving your enemies may be noteworthy but your friends? It is sadness on wheels.

I said,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

He shook his head in that manner of

Lord, give me patience with fools.

He said,

“When I first met you, your drinking was almost fun and I admit I did enjoy some sessions with you, but when it is 24/7 it wears a little thin.”

Fuck me pink.

I wanted to get my hurly and beat him six ways to Bloody Sunday, but maybe it wasn’t too late to earn some air miles with God, so I went,

“Go with God, my friend.”

He muttered something garbled and left. The pup looked at me and I swear he seemed to say,

“Another one bites the dust.”

Christmas came and one miserable affair it was. Storms and violent wind and that was just the politics. Emily was released from the hospital and promptly disappeared. She did send me a gift. The complete Tom Russell album collection.

With a terse note:

“Sing as if you wanted to.”

Plus a check for a serious amount, note pinned on it:

“I stole this.”

Probably.

I laid low, lots of box sets, treats for the pup and fifty-year-old Jameson. The highlight was a small brilliant concert by Johnny Duhan. I was being careful, kind of, with my health. The previous scare had made me very conscious of time. The city half expected reindeer to be thrown on Eyre Square but the perpetrators had decided to take a break from leaving dead animals there.

The new year brought the death of Lemmy and then David Bowie. Could there be a worse way to begin the wretched year?

I had been to the doctor and got told,

“You are somewhat of a miracle!”

The fuck is that?

I asked,

“Meaning?”

The doctor did that peering at me over the rim of his glasses, the look that sees nothing, absolutely nothing worth saving. He said,

“Last year, you seemed...”

He searched for a term that didn’t include litigation.

Got,

“You seemed very weak.”

Then he peered some more at a chart, probably his golf scores, and said that jingle they live by,

“We would like to do some further tests.”

’Course they would with an MRI kicking off at a thousand euros a pop. I said,

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He gasped,

“I beg your pardon?”

In that prissy tone that warrants a serious puck in the mouth. Outside, I deep breathed and looked at my hand, shaking like the last gasp of a wino.

A distinguished-looking guy in a dressing gown was looking lost and trailing an IV. Hard to look impressive in that gear but he managed. He asked,

“Is there an area for smoking?”

Not anymore.

I said,

“Not anymore.”

He said,

“Life is full of irony. I had not smoked for years then, with this health scare, I started again and now there is nowhere you can actually practice the foul deed.”

I said,

“Go ahead, I’ll deal with the fallout.”

He looked at me anew, said,

“That is awfully generous of you. This world needs more of your thinking.”

I seriously doubted that.

He lit up, dragged deep like only a former smoker can, guilt and relief dancing that waltz of addiction. He gasped,

“My word, that is good.”

Then reveled in the hit, said,

“Inherent vice.”

Quick as a first-year lit wanker, I said,

“Thomas Pynchon.”

He was impressed, said,

“Erudite too.”

I gave an enigmatic smile as if I knew what that even meant. Then a shout and a galloping security guard appeared, all puff and indignation, shouted,

“Hoi, smoking is forbidden.”

He looked at me. I said,

“Verboten.”

He went,

“What?”

“German,”

I said.

He looked at the smoker, snarled.

“I don’t give a toss where you’re from but no smoking here.”

I got right in his face, hissed,

“I know you and wonder does your employer know you used to have a thing for wee kiddies?”

He stepped back, said,

“That was never proven.”

I smiled.

He weighed his options, then,

“I’ll let it slide this time but don’t let me catch you here again.”

I had full respect for the man who continued to smoke, watching the exchange with almost disinterest. I said to the security guy,

“Run along now. Must be a car or two needs clamping.”

He sized me up, said,

“I’ll remember you.”

And slunk off.

The man dropped his cig, said,

“You have a way with you.”

I held out my hand, said,

“Jack Taylor.”

He shook it warmly, said,

“Jeremy Cooper.”

The Late Sixties in every sense of the word seemed to be dying.

Glenn Frey (67)

Lemmy (70)

David Bowie (69)

Alan Rickman (69)

It was either a very dangerous age or

Extremely fortunate to have reached that decade.

Trump was leading the polls in the U.S. and it seemed as if he were giving vent to all the voiceless and then he got the endorsement of Sarah Palin.

Phew.

To see them embrace in Iowa was to see ignorance and prejudice entwined. Their smiles of glee sent a shiver along every line of reason you ever had. The water cooler moment in Ireland was the screening of the documentary series Making a Murderer.

With

The Jinx.

Podcast of Serial.

The public was transfixed with true crime. Then, to add ridicule to disbelief, Sean Penn literally led the authorities to capture Chappie.

He wrote an article in Rolling Stoma that was a crash course in a little knowledge being so dangerous.

No wonder I drank.

Ghost No. 1, Jeremy Cooper, was back from his unexpected trip to the hospital. He had been stunned when the doctors told him his prognosis was bad, well... dire.

People react to such news in so many different ways.

Anger

Disbelief

Fear

All of the above.

Cooper wanted a cigarette.

His whole dream of ruling the city with his army of ghosts was just smoke in the Galway wind. Woody, his second in command, could see something was seriously wrong. His boss, his messiah, was weakened and, Christ, he looked sick. Cooper said,

“Our grand schemes are fucked.”

Obscenities from the master!

Cooper sighed, then,

“Get me a cigarette.”

That in itself was the sign of how things were. Previously, cigarettes were part of the list Cooper had banned. Not that Woody had stopped smoking; he’d stopped only in front of the boss. So he had to make a show of going to fetch some. He asked his own self,

“Fuck, now what?”

The ghosts were going to be famous and powerful and...

He tore open a pack of cigarettes, lit one, fumed in every sense.

He had managed to recruit ten followers, and what would he tell them now?

“Sorry guys, Armageddon is deferred.”

Traipsed back to Cooper, depression laying heavy on his mind. Cooper took a cig, fired up, then,

“Change of plan, if we’re going out, let us go out in style.”

Woody had no idea what this meant so said nothing. Cooper chucked the cig, said,

“Something major, have them gasp and exclaim, There be ghosts.”

Then Copper paused, thought. Said,

“At the hospital, I met a man who might be suitable for our plans. His name is Jack Taylor and, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you would find him in a pub.”

Woody felt a tinge of resentment, as if he was being considered less vital. Cooper caught the

Sense, soothed,

“I am blessed with you my man.”

Neither of them felt it carried much conviction.

Woody was in a quandary. He had so fervently believed the ghosts were the answer to everything but now Cooper was sounding very much like a guy who was quitting. Rage was simmering in every pore. He needed some fix to put him back on some meaningful track.

Confession.

His mother had gone faithfully every Saturday to be absolved for her sins. It didn’t seem to make her life a whole lot better but for a brief time she would be light and even singing. Fuck, he thought, a brief respite would be just fine.

Rang around the churches to see what times confessions were being held. Riled to find a tone of suspicion not to mention downright hostility from most of the churches. First lesson, it was no longer called confession but, get this,

“The sacrament of reconciliation.”

“But,”

He pleaded,

“Is it the same gig?”

Meaning,

“Will I be forgiven?”

The voice on the other end was beyond supercilious, sneered,

“I am hardly in a position to judge that.”

The sarcasm was loud and meant. Woody was enraged, said,

“Before I get forgiven, I’ll add you to my list of wrongdoing.”

Slammed down the phone. Eventually got times for the Cathedral. Headed up there.

Nervous now so stopped at the pub off Mary Street. A place where if you knew even one name of the Kardashians you were barred. Sunk two large Jamesons and, thus fortified, headed for reconciliation.

At the church, business was brisk. Post-Christmas blues providing a steady stream of folk keen to get something free, like forgiveness. Saw a young priest head into the confessional and thought,

Young is more likely to be accessible. The old codgers were holy terrors.

Got in there and began,

“Forgive me Father.”

Which was a bad start as he was at least twenty years older than the priest.

Then the booze hit and he amended.

“Whoa, hold the bloody phones, I forgive God.”

The young priest had been schooled in most situations but not this, he tried,

“I beg your pardon?”

Woody was having none of it, the Jameson flowing mad through his system. He echoed and mimicked.

“You beg my pardon? Too bloody right, mate, and you know what, I ain’t giving it.”

And then stormed out of the confessional, banged the door in as far as is possible in a church, ranted at the assembled penitents,

“Get up off your knees, have some fucking backbone.”

He was gone by the time the Guards arrived.

11

Back she came.

Emily.

Waiting in my apartment when I returned from walking the pup. The pup went apeshit with delight on seeing her so, no matter how I felt about her, it would always be tempered by the affection he felt for her. She was dressed like Jennifer Lawrence in American Hustle, all bad-ass grunge. I said,

“Nice to see you have no compunction about breaking into my place.”

Was she fazed?

Was she fuck.

Said,

“Mi cassia es su cassia”

She delighted in mangling language, any language. Then,

“Your neighbor is climbing Everest?”

She and Doc had had a brief, insane fling, which was a touchy subject for all of us. I asked,

“You guys are talking again?”

“Fuck no, I broke into his place.”

The last thing you ever did was ask her why, ever. She said,

“He might have to change them plans of glory.”

Now I had to ask,

“Why?”

She gave that smile of utter mischief, said,

“His tickets, itinerary?”

Made a whoosh with her hands, said in child’s voice,

“All gone.”

I shook my head, said,

“But you have to know he will have everything backed up on his laptop?”

The smile widened.

“No laptop, not no more, things we lost in the fire.”

“You set a fire?”

Wonderment now on her face, she said,

“No, you think I should?”

Man, she would exhaust a pope, and an infallible one at that. She said,

“The ghosts of Galway?”

“What?”

“Would be political shakers, tossers and losers really, I fucked one of ’em.”

“Where the hell is this going?”

Ignoring my question, she continued,

“That red book they think is some sort of magical oracle, I borrowed it from them.”

I said,

“I have not been so completely lost since the last episode of The Sopranos.”

She sighed dramatically, asked,

“You want the short version?”

“Please.”

The pup had given up and was snoring not so quietly in her lap. She said,

“The Red Book is supposed to be some sort of ecclesial time bomb. It isn’t, just a rip-off version of The Book of Kells. So a rogue cleric steals it, gets snuffed by the ghosts, and I relieve those idiots of it but they now have a new plan.”

I said,

“Let’s pretend I follow this. What is the ghost plan?”

She gave me the look that says

“For fuck’s sake.”

Then very patiently,

“They tried to get the attention of people by dumping animals in the square. Not a whole amount of interest so now they have devised a grand scheme.”

She rooted in her Marc Jacobs bag. I knew the bag as it said in bold letters Marc Jacobs. Produced a pack of Gauloises (they still made those?), then a chunky Zippo and fired up. In seconds we were on a Parisian boulevard and I asked,

“Thought you were into that whole new e-cig, vaping gig?”

Shook her head amid the cloud of French nicotine, said,

“That’s when I was a poseur.”

“And now?”

“I’m just a gal who got real.”

12

I was in the GBC, the old-style café off Eyre Square. Old-style in that they still treat you like you might matter. Frank Casserly is chef there for going on twenty years. If it is true that

Men cook to show off

And

Women cook so that people can eat

Then Frank is the exception to that. He cooks because it is his job. I had once rather foolishly asked him,

“Is it your vocation?”

Got the look and

“Don’t be a stupid bollix, Jack.”

Meaning I might be able to alter the stupidity but not the other.

I had just finished the neon nightmare of

Two fried eggs

Black pudding

Three rashers

Two fat sausages

Fried mushrooms

Thick white toast.

The carbs mutiny.

And supposedly the only real cure for a hangover. The thinking being that, if you can face that, how much were you hurting to begin with?

I came out and an outlaw shard of sunshine led me to beach on the square. Was lighting a cig, feeling if not optimistic, at least not suicidal. A young girl, fourteen at most, approached. She had that urchin look, like an escapee from a Dickens movie. The Orphan Annie vibe. Maybe Emily could adopt that for her next guise?

She marched right up to me, stated,

“Mr. Taylor.”

God only knew what she would want, so I snapped,

“Whatever it is you want or are proposing the answer is no.”

I felt almost righteous in my determination. She rocked back on her heels, said,

“How terribly rude.”

I waved her away, said,

“Whatever.”

She got right in my face, smelt vaguely of baby powder and good toothpaste, said,

“My teachers say I am advanced beyond my years and you, you, will do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”

I sighed, asked,

“And will you fuck the way off then?”

Stuck a finger in my face, said,

“Do not use that foul language to a young girl.”

Short of walloping her, she wasn’t going away. I said with deep resignation,

“Let’s hear your sad story.”

Now, hands on hips, she declared,

“Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Taylor. I had heard you retain a shred of decency.”

She’d heard wrong but I gave her my look of rapt attention. She took a deep breath, said,

“My little brother, Eamon, he is twelve, ran away from home, and I want you to bring him back.”

I shook my head, said,

“Go to the Guards.”

She gave me a look of scrutiny that only utter innocence can bestow and she saw nothing that promised the world would cut her any slack. She produced a battered purse, I think it might have had Our Lady of Perpetual Help on it, rooted in it, and came up with a handful of notes, said,

“I’ve been saving up for a bike but here, you take it.”

There are very few times I have much regard for my own self but right there I was verging on complete disgust. I asked,

“How much is there?”

She rolled her eyes, said,

“Hello, maybe nineteen euros.”

My cup finally overfloweth.

She added,

“I will need a receipt for that.”

Of course.

I asked,

“And your name?”

“Lorna.”

I muttered,

“Lorna Doone.”

Exasperated, she snapped,

“No, silly. Dunphy.”

I asked,

“Have you a photo?”

She produced a thick envelope, said,

“Everything is in there.

School

Age

Description

And my contact details.”

Paused

As if she heard something.

Then,

“I have to run.”

And run she did.

When I got back to the apartment I opened the package.

It was reams of blank paper.

I got on Google search and did indeed find her.

She was an only child.

I was walking the pup up the town and he didn’t much take to the mime artists. They spooked him.

Me too.

Heard,

“By the holy, Taylor.”

Father Malachy. My nemesis. The bane of my life in so many ways. We had a varied history and most of it bad. He stopped, cloud of nicotine over him, stared at the dog. Asked,

“Did you steal that poor creature?”

Low growl from the pup. He could sense my feelings instinctively. Not that he saw Malachy as a threat but rather a nuisance, like a bedraggled cat. Not to chase but to chastise.

Worked for me.

I said,

“Still smoking, eh?”

Ignored that, said,

“I’ve been thinking of your poor mother.”

Fuck, here we go.

I said,

“We all have our crosses.”

Looked like he wanted to wallop me, said,

“I think the poor woman was bipolar.”

Oh, man, I fucking laughed out loud, mimicked,

“Bipolar! Fucking beautiful, the greatest bitch to walk the earth and now it’s, like, oh, she couldn’t help it.”

He gave me a look bordering almost on pity, said,

“You are a bitter man.”

Just then, the girl Lorna Dunphy passed by, stopped, asked, no, demanded,

“Did you find my brother?”

Before I could answer, Malachy said,

“Lorna, run along now.”

And she did!

I stared at him and he rounded on me, near spat,

“Hope you haven’t been putting notions in that girl’s head?”

Jesus wept.

I said,

“She hired me to find her nonexistent brother.”

His eyes were on fire from rage and he accused,

“You took money from that poor creature?”

“Yeah, all of nineteen euros.”

He blessed himself, said,

“There is no end to your wickedness. That child suffers.”

I was all out of patience with the craziness that seemed to have infected the whole city, snarled,

“Let me guess, bipolar?”

He dismissed that with a wave of his hand, said,

“You are a heartless excuse for a man.”

I ignored that, persisted.

“What is it with that girl, eh?”

He sighed, said,

“Like everyone else who has had dealings with you, she simply wanted one simple thing.”

I had to ask.

“What might that be?”

Like I could give a full fuck.

He said,

“To get your attention.”

Back at the apartment, I drew up a list of all the bizarre threads of my current life.

Who, what, were the ghosts of Galway?

What was the deal with the girl and the imaginary brother?

The Red Book.

Emily... Always Emily and her diffuse weirdness.

My former boss.

The dead ex-priest.

Sat back, looked at it.

Made no sense.

Tried to think how a thriller writer would throw out all these strands and then, presto, wrap them all up with a rugged hero, battered but unbowed, heading into an award-winning future.

I looked at the pup, asked,

“Got any ideas?”

He stared at the leash.

A pounding at the door put the heart sideways in me. The pup went into attack mode. I pulled the door open to a young Guard. I mean so young he seemed like a child in dress-up but what was old was his attitude. Already bitter and malignant, he near shouted,

“Are you...”

Consulted his notes.

“John Trainor?”

“No.”

Rattled him.

If it was in the notebook, it had to be true. He tried,

“Name?”

I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

Again with the notebook, then,

“Your neighbor was burgled, you know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Mind if I have a look inside?”

“Got a warrant?”

He had obviously watched lots of cop shows, asked in a tough tone,

“Wanna play hardball?”

“I want to know if you have a warrant. If not, fuck off.”

Kinda hardball.

He reeled back, lost for a moment. I said,

“Get Sergeant Ridge.”

“She know you?”

“She’d know where to look.”

And I shut the door. Heard him mutter about dog license. The pup didn’t seem too concerned.

Over the years, I’ve made one hell of a lot of bad decisions. If there was a bad way to do things, I was your guy. Whatever about the road less traveled, I always took the road to despair. Be nice to think I’d learned from experience.

Nope.

Now, as I surveyed the list of bafflements, I thought I really needed to know what the deal was with the girl who claimed to have a missing brother.

Lorna Dunphy.

Found where she lived easily. Or where her home was. Off Merchants Road. A small beleaguered section of old Galway that still hadn’t fallen to the developers. Put on my Garda allweather, black 501s, my Doc Martens with the steel toe caps, and figured I was ready for just about anything.

Figured wrong.

Met my neighbor Doc outside my door, asked,

“You think I stole your laptop?”

Gave me a look of utter derision, said,

“Who else?”

I’d been obviously watching too much Sherlock as I said,

“Succinct.”

Well, beats the ubiquitous whatever.

13

I stood for a moment outside Lorna Dunphy’s home, took a deep breath. Then knocked and waited. Door opened and a man appeared, maybe in his battered forties. Something had beaten the hell out of him and, when he was on his knees, life had kicked him in the balls. He was wearing old cord Levi’s, a faded sweatshirt with the logo for the Saw Doctors, though it was a long time since this man heard any music. Does anyone remember desert boots? This man did and was wearing them. He had a tangle of dark curly hair, long from not caring and not fashion. He asked,

“Is this about Lorna?”

A soft voice, laden with foreboding, he knew most calls were about Lorna.

I nodded, said,

“I’m truly sorry to bother you.”

For once I truly meant it.

He waved me in, not even asking who I was. Led into a sitting room that was so tidy it seemed unlived in. A single framed photo of a woman, with her head back, laughing. He motioned me to a chair, asked,

“Would you like a drink?”

Not tea or coffee?

I know the inflection so well, my whole life constructed around it.

I said,

“That would be good.”

Even fucking vital.

He got a bottle of Redbreast; they even make that anymore? Two heavy Galway crystal tumblers, poured nigh lethal measures, handed me one. The glass felt almost reassuring. I didn’t think a toast was in order. He sat opposite, his glass placed carefully on a small table beside him.

I said,

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

Then, oh fuck, he got up, held out his hand, said,

“Tom.”

I took a mega hit of the drink and it walloped my stomach, both bitter and comforting. I said,

“Your daughter, um...”

He sighed, with a resignation that no one should have, asked,

“What she do now?”

I wanted a cig, took out the pack, offered one.

He took it, leaned over, picked up one of those family-size boxes of matches, and lit it, the sound like a pistol shot. I lit my own quietly. We fumed for a bit then I said,

“It’s just she is telling people she has a brother and he is missing.”

He groaned.

I tried,

“I’m sure it’s just a phase.”

Lame, huh?

He pointed at the framed photo, said,

“Her mother, Ann.”

Nothing more.

But his face was ruin, sadness and despair battling for supremacy.

Then he asked,

“You know Barna Woods?”

I knew of it.

I just nodded.

He said,

“There’s a tree there that they supposedly favor.”

I didn’t have to ask

Who they were.

Suicides.

He continued, a story he had to recount over and over and never understand.

“Used a rope I had for a camping trip we had planned.”

Stopped, asked,

“You like camping?”

WTF?

I tried,

“Not really.”

He sighed, said,

“Me neither, but Ann...”

Gulped.

“Ann said it would be fun to do as a family.”

Aw, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I said,

“I’m very sorry.”

He stood up, said,

“Please excuse me. I have to do some serious drinking.”

At the door, he asked,

“What will become of Lorna?”

I lied fast.

“She will be fine.”

We both smiled at that piss weak lie.

God knows, whatever else would happen to the girl, fine wouldn’t be part of it.

I thought about mothers.

Freud said that if a child was deeply encouraged, loved, praised, the adult would always be chock-a-block with confidence and self-belief.

Okay, Freud probably didn’t actually say chock-a-block. I mean, who the fuck does apart from debutantes, but you get the drift.

My mother was the bitch from many versions of hell. Her gig was to sneer, ridicule, and belittle.

Signs on.

I mean,

Look at me!

Was there a tree in Barna that lured suicides? Kind of a chilling thought and why the fuck didn’t someone chop that fucker down? On a completely different horror note, the elections were announced. The government was finally going to hear how the people felt about the water levies and all the other issues like housing and health they had so blithely dismissed addressing. Of course, we had the sneering jackal face of the leader threatening he would be back and, get this, in his own constituency of Mayo, he called people who dared to question

“Whimpers.”

And worse? In Irish terms anyway,

“Whiners!”

I walked to Shop Street and a busker/mime was massacring “Delilah.”

Yeah, the awful song by Tom Jones, the guy was wailing,

“Why,

  Why,

  Why?”

I implored,

“Jeez, give it a bloody rest.”

He did stop, then,

“You can’t handle real talent.”

I had no answer for that so I put twenty euros in his box. He looked at it, said,

“You call that fair wage?”

You can’t really take back the money but by Christ I was tempted. I got a newspaper. It was all election fever. Polls predicted annihilation for the Labour party. Their leader Joan Burton was detested on a national level not seen since Henry’s hand ball knocked us out of the World Cup. Families who had been Labour folk for generations were simply disgusted. Rarely had a politician so misjudged the mood of the people.

Trump continued his blitzkrieg of hate and bullying. And he continued to lead.

Sean O’Casey wrote

“The world is in a state o’ chassis.”

Was that ever the truth.

On a wall I saw,

“The ghosts are coming.”

I didn’t think it was a rock group.

14

There is a line from Carousel, the gist of which is, As

As

Long

 As

  One

   Person

    Remembers

      You

      It

       Isn’t

        Over.

Now you might wonder about the state of mind of someone who knows the lyrics to that musical but Jeremy Cooper, the proclaimed ghost of Galway, had a mind clutter fucked with trivia.

Dressed now in a black Hugo Boss leather jacket, black combat jacket, Doc Martens, he was about one hour away from a murder occurring. He reminded his own self of an Irish version of Mosley but, hey, he muttered,

“Who even knew of Mosley anymore?”

Or,

Utilizing his Trinity education, Mosley’s connection to the Mitford sisters? He’d said that to Woody, his second in command, and Woody asked,

“They like, um, the Spice Girls?”

Help was indeed hard to get, but to ask for intelligent help?

Yeah, right.

He considered the doctor’s verdict, perhaps only months to live.

Fuck.

Still, the painkillers were mega and enveloped him a warm fuzzy cloud. The doctor intoning,

“Use them sparingly as they are very potent.”

Oh, yeah, sure thing.

He’d gone back to smoking. Why the fuck not?

Thought back to the past year, phew-oh. Had started with a jewel.

Emerald.

The treacherous Emily. So, okay, he had wondered why a young and, yes,

Hot

Babe would be interested in him.

She wasn’t.

She loved to mind fuck and by God she’d sure fucked his. He had told her of his dream to lead a new religion, Ghosts, of the Irish fundamental past. Like she gave a toss. Told her of the elusive Red Book and how a rogue cleric, hiding in Galway, had it in his possession.

She said,

“Dan Brown lite.”

That should have warned him.

It didn’t.

When you think with your dick, you get shafted. Then Woody, the mad bollix, not only found the book but stuffed pages of it in the mouth of the rogue priest.

Zealous?

You betcha.

She then stole it from him.

Unleashed Woody on her who had a local crew beat her half to death.

What a freaking mess.

Deep in his heart, Cooper knew The Red Book was shite. A book that had gained a rep purely because no one had actually read it (see current bestseller literary lists).

Truth to tell, though, it was Emerald who had listened to him rant.

“I want to start a movement that will have people talking about it.”

She had stared at him with those odd eyes; times you’d swear they were truly green. Then she asked,

“And then, what will you do when you have a following.”

He told the truth.

“Abuse them.”

She laughed.

“Truly a church, then.”

Then added,

“First you have to get their attention.”

True.

So he asked,

“And the best way to do that is?”

“Dump dead animals in Eyre Square.”

“Why?”

She sighed,

“If you want to be noticed these days, you have to be outrageous.”

He nodded.

Made sense.

She had introduced him to the Chinese game of Go. Said,

“Needs more skill than chess.”

He focused all his attention when they played, while she affected to be bored shitless.

Said,

“I’m bored shitless.”

And beat him every time. He once found her playing her own self. She said,

“I have enough personalities to play five times myself.”

Whatever that meant.

Nothing good.

She loathed Woody, told him,

“You make Trump seem intelligent.”

Woody was in awe of her, said,

“Pity the cunt is so gorgeous.”

Words to live by.

The temptation to have Woody finish the job and kill Emerald had its attraction.

Pure and ice cold payback.

But

A world without her in it?

No.

She made him feel that anything was possible. Even the mad notion of starting a Galway clone of Scientology. Was Ghosts even a creditable name?

He looked at his watch. It was just slightly over half an hour until he was a witness to murder.

Emily had watched

Lady Vengeance,

And so this morning she laid out a personality starting with

Envy,

Building through

Resentment

To outright fury.

Picked up her phone, called the Garda station,

Asked,

In a Scottish accent,

“May I speak to Sergeant Ridge?”

No,

They said.

So she screamed,

“There is going to be a killing.”

Got Ridge who spat,

“What is this?”

Emily felt a warm glow, said,

“My dad, Jeremy Cooper, lives in the Mews, Taylor’s Hill, a man named Woody is holding him hostage.”

Then she screamed, primarily to put the heart sideways in Ridge.

It worked.

Not that it is easy to scream in a Scottish accent. Then to gild the rose, she said, almost offstage as it were,

“Oh, mi Gad, the wee man has a gun.”

Then crashed the phone down on the table, near deafening Ridge.

In suitable dramatic fashion the phone went dead or, as they might remark in Glasgow,

“Deed”

Ridge had been having a real bad day. Superintendent Clancy had given her a bollixing about not solving the animals’ dump and roared,

“The fuck is this I hear about Ghosts of Galway?”

She wanted to say,

“Bullshit, urban paranoia.”

But when you are

1. A female Guard

2. Gay

You, as they say in Jane Austen speak,

Demur.

Least she thought they said that but it translated as

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

She did.

Then,

“Sir, there is a report of a shooting in Taylor’s Hill.”

He misheard or maybe it was wishful thinking, barked,

“Someone shot Taylor? Thank Christ.”

She delicately rephrased.

He was not pleased, shouted,

“Why are you still here then?”

Emily then called Jeremy and, as fate would have it, Woody answered. She said,

“Compadre, we have had our differences but we are allies in our respect for Jeremy.”

Pause.

Woody wondered what a compadre was.

She continued, silk voice that never failed to entice.

“There is a woman coming right now to hurt our Jeremy and the sly bitch is posing as a Guard.”

He near shouted,

“Won’t fool me.”

Emily had to bite down, then,

“Of course not, that’s why you are Jeremy’s most trusted confidant.”

Had she overdone it?

Heard a racking sound, Woody asked,

“Hear that?”

“Yes?”

“That is the nine millimeter being racked.”

Emerald had one brief moment of doubt, then, fuck it,

Said,

“Be careful... Woody.”

He gulped, then,

“Bring it on Guard bitch.”

Ridge had difficulty finding backup as most of the force was on duty at yet another water protest. No matter how the public howled, the government sneered.

“You will pay those charges.”

The people said,

“Screw you,”

And, hallelujah, voted them out of power.

Suck that.

She finally secured a young Guard named Murphy and, no, not nicknamed Spud. You have to have a modicum of interest to invest in a nickname and, in Murphy, there was none.

Why?

He didn’t play hurling.

Sacrilege.

He couldn’t care less. Like all the youth, as soon as he got a visa, he was off to Australia. He was what used to be called a callow youth.

It fit.

All the squad cars were at the water protest so Ridge took a battered Corolla, used by the Drug Squad. Murphy asked,

“Will I drive?”

Ridge said,

“Shut the fuck up unless you are spoken to.”

Murphy could already envision his future in Australia: barbecues and Foster’s.

Outside Jeremy Cooper’s home were a riot of bushes, small trees. Once lovingly cared for by the Poles but they had long since fucked on home, the Celtic Tiger but a dead memory.

Woody lay in wait behind a juniper, the nine in his hand like a discarded prayer, there but not yet utilized.

Madness ran wild through his head.

Muttering,

Bloody priest treating me like shite,

Cops always on my case.

Women laughing at him.

At him.

By Jesus.

Ridge parked the car and they got out. Woody watched them, thought,

Can’t be cops driving a Corolla.

They moved to the door and Ridge banged hard on it. Woody stepped out from the bushes, said,

“Don’t knock like that, have some fucking manners.”

Ridge looked at him, saw a scrawny youth with a stupid expression, and spat,

“Get over here.”

To him.

Orders.

From a damn woman.

He didn’t move and Murphy, gung ho, added,

“Get your arse in gear and I mean now.”

Now?

Woody raised the nine and for one frozen moment it could have been averted if Ridge hadn’t moved toward him.

He shot her in the face.

Murphy, in disbelief, muttered,

“What?”

Woody shot him twice in the stomach.

Woody stood over them and fired one more shot in Murphy’s head, said,

“Ghosts two,

Assholes nil.”