The Ghosts of Galway

15

I was in Crowe’s pub in Bohermore when a guy burst in, said,

“Two Guards have been shot.”

Mad conversations erupted and Ollie shouted,

“Quiet, I’ll turn on the radio.”

Utter silence as we heard that two Garda had been killed, a massive manhunt was under way. The killer, or killers, were not yet identified and no one had claimed responsibility. The names of the fallen Guards were being withheld until relatives were informed.

All eyes turned to me.

Once a Guard, always a Guard.

Even a disgraced one like me might have some in.

I took out my phone, said,

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Scattered shouts of

“Good man.”

There is a kind of horrified delight in unveiling tragedy and a dark thrill at bearing witness.

I called Owen Daglish, just about the only contact I had remaining in the Guards.

Ridge had been my go-to gal for so long but she wasn’t answering my calls these days.

Owen began,

“Jesus Jack, you can’t be calling me.”

He was a piss artist of epic scale and still managed to stay on the force. He kept his head down and was a hell of a manager of the hurling squad. To manage hurlers, you needed to be ferocious and drink didn’t hurt in adding the layer of aggression.

He took a deep breath, said,

“Seriously Jack, this is not a good time, all hell is breaking loose.”

Time to fake him out.

I said,

“Me heart is broken with the shootings.”

He was taken aback, asked,

“You know, then?”

I gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Superintendent Clancy and I may seem at odds” — to put it fucking mildly — “but we go back a ways.”

He bought it, said,

“I know you were once close to Sergeant Ridge and I am truly sorry for your loss.”

WTF?

I remember mimicking,

“Sergeant Ridge?”

He said,

“Yes, died at the scene, and the young recruit Murphy died en route to hospital.”

The double funeral was held on a bitter cold Thursday. Crowds lined the street.

I have only vague recollections of the whole awful event. Trying to offer my condolences to Superintendent Clancy, who snapped,

“You don’t belong here.”

I indicated Ridge’s coffin, asked,

“Does she?”

Yeah, I know.

Beyond lame.

At the graveside, Father Malachy intoned,

“Man is full of misery.”

And I shouted,

“Aw, don’t say that.”

I got into a minor scuffle with the priest and, phew-oh, they threw me out of the cemetery.

Got to be a first, barred from the graveyard.

Guess it would be cremation then.

My mobile shrilled and in my utter madness I half thought it might be Ridge. It was Emily, who went,

“Wassup?”

Jesus.

I said,

“I’m kind of fucked here, Em.”

“Where are you?”

“At Rahoon Cemetery.”

She laughed, said,

“Don’t let ’em bury you.”

I met her in what used to be the River Inn. That there is not a river within a spit of that pub is neither here nor there. Like so many other pubs, it was now under new management and called

The Sliding Rock.

No, me neither.

There is a sliding rock in Shantalla. A Galway landmark to generations of children but now more in use with the ubiquitous drinking schools.

I was working on a full pint when Emily showed.

Who was she today?

Dressed in black leather, her hair in black synch, I asked,

“A Johnny Cash vibe?”

Got the look and,

“Seriously?”

I said,

“I give up. It’s not like I could really give a fuck.”

She sat, signaled to the guy behind the counter, said,

“Christie Hyde.”

The barman came over and oddly enough? Was actually Irish. He was not accustomed to being summoned. He snapped,

“Yeah?”

Like I said, Irish.

Despite what the Brits had believed, we were not born to serve. Emily didn’t look at him, said,

“Margarita.”

He nearly smiled at me. Translation:

“You poor bastard.”

He said to her,

“Think you’re in the wrong establishment.”

Waited a long beat.

Then added,

“Love.”

Fuck me but women hate that sneered endearment.

She turned the full wattage of those sometimes green through blue eyes, asked,

“You got tequila?”

He was into it, running the bitch, he thought. Said,

“Hello? ’Course we got it.”

She said in a very Texan accent,

“Then y’all put that in a tall glass and my dad here will add the bitterness.”

Phew.

He nodded, turned to go, and she said,

“Yo, Paddy, don’t ever call me love.”

He headed back to the bar, trying to walk like he hadn’t had his arse handed to him.

When the drinks came, she toasted me with

“Good result, eh?”

What?

I stared at her, hoping I wasn’t horrendously correct in what was uncoiling in my fevered mind. I asked softly,

“What do you mean?”

Seemed two bullied lifetimes before she answered.

“The bitch is dead.”

I had my drink mid-lift, stopped.

Asked in real low tone, menace dripping from every slow enunciation.

“Who is the bitch?”

She usually was so on the ball, saw peril before it even finished its coil, but was now on a tequila dance that was blind to nuance, said in jolly voice,

“Sergeant smartass Ridge, fixed her good. She bought the farm and all its equipment.”

I snatched her wrist, as rough as I could, snarled,

“You reckless cunt, what did you do?”

First time in all our multifaceted dealings that I ever saw fear in her eyes. She near whispered,

“I just made a call, told her of a situation that required Garda help.”

Pause.

“I also called Woody, hinted the cops might be en route.”

I took a deep drawn-out breath, asked,

“Who the fuck is Woody?”

She was regaining some control, the usual cockiness reasserting itself, said,

“Christ, you never listen, I have told you, the Ghosts of Galway?”

I sat back, trying to absorb the sheer insanity of it all, managed one question.

“This Woody, he a shooter?”

Smile on her face, said,

“He is now.”

I had so many avenues to respond to this revelation and all,

All,

Of them

Involved violence.

She took my silence as some twisted form of, if not approval, then assent. She said,

“I will admit she was hot in the bed.”

Holy fuck!

How is it possible to be simultaneously shocked, stunned, outraged, and absolutely homicidal? Too, I have rarely been lost for words. I have done silence but only because I was too pissed to talk, but a situation where I actually couldn’t find a response in my muddled mind? I stared at her and she gave me that radiant smile, said,

“Keep your enemies close, right Jack-o?”

Did I lean over the table and punch her in the mouth?

I stood up, said quietly,

“Get a lawyer.”

Confused her. She asked,

“You going to shop me, lover?”

I said,

“To draw up your last will and testament.”

16

Nun, but the brave and the rash.

I went to see a nun, weird as that is.

Me!

With a nun as a friend.

Years ago, I had helped out the Church and a nun, Sister Maeve, believed I did miraculous work.

I didn’t but take it where you can. We developed a curious friendship and she was always available for pup-sitting. Too, the pup loved her. You want to see the measure of a person, see how they behave with a dog. It is as good a litmus test as you could find.

Maeve worked as a conduit between the convent and the public. I really wanted an opportunity to use conduit in a sentence and now I was doing it.

I told the pup,

“Let’s go see your nun.”

Much tail wagging and bouncing off the walls. The death of Ridge, and Emily being the perp, it was more than my mind could bear. A knock at the door. I dunno but for some reason I grabbed my nine millimeter from under the bookcase. I had acquired it from a Russian bouncer.

Swear to God, the pup recoiled from that, as if instinctively he knew guns were bad news.

Lock and load.

Opened the door.

A young man who looked vaguely familiar. He said,

“Mr. Taylor, remember me?”

“No.”

He was disappointed, said,

“I’m a friend of Em, Emily, Emerald.”

The gun was in the waistband of my jeans. I said,

“Don’t mean shit to me fellah.”

He held out a book

... The fucking ubiquitous Red Book

He said,

“Emily feels this will make up for the...”

Stalled.

  Reached

     for

      the

       Least

         Offensive

Description.

Got

“Incident.”

The gun was up. I shouted right in his face.

“Getting my friend killed is not a freaking incident.”

The pup was out, alarmed, and took a lunge at Hayden’s pant leg. Hayden yelled,

“Who let the dog out?”

I was of two minds:

Shoot him

Or

Burp him.

I said,

“Come in and watch your tone.”

He sat near the bookcase, asked,

“You don’t do Kindle?”

Fuck’s sake.

I said,

“How do you know the crazy bitch?”

I could not bring myself to utter her name.

He asked, in that new American lilt that young Irish males have adopted,

“Like, you mean Em?”

I said,

“Use that modifier again and I will shoot you.”

He seemed remarkably unfazed by my threats, asked,

“What’s a modifier?”

I sighed, sounding not unlike my dead mother, who could have sighed for Ireland and, in many ways, did.

I said,

“What’s the deal with you and... her... are you in a relationship or just her messenger boy?”

Didn’t much care for the term, his near constant smile was bruised. He tried,

“She is like a sister to me. We go way back.”

(Way back these days usually means about a year.)

“And we share, like, a bond. We got each other’s back.”

Sounding as if he was from lower Manhattan.

He continued.

“I was caught up in the Ghosts of Galway bullshit and Em, she showed me it was just all crap and, like, you know, showed me the light.”

“So why are you here again?”

He gave me a smile of such dazzling whiteness that I nearly warmed to him.

Nearly.

The pup seemed to have eased too in his response to him and actually lay at his feet. Hayden said,

“Oh, right.”

And then said nothing.

With all the smartphones and technology, young people seemed to lack the ability to pursue a thought. If it wasn’t text, it didn’t count. I said, with a trace of granite in the words,

“Focus, for fuck’s sake.”

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, asked,

“What’s with all the hostility, dude?”

Dude.

I moved right in his face, said,

“Emily? The message. And if you call me dude again I’ll rearrange your face.”

He said,

“Em wants you to know that like, you know, no hard feelings and you can have The Red Book. You don’t even have to grovel for it.”

I stared at him.

I nearly said,

“You’re like a conduit.”

He continued.

“Fat fuck you used to work for?”

I nodded.

“He will pay serious green for it, even though it is, like, bogus.”

“Bogus?”

“Yeah, definitively. Em got some scholar to, like, check it out and at best it is Book of Kells lite.”

Then he reached in his jacket and the pup went on alert. I said,

“Better be a book.”

Got the radiant smile and

“You crack me up, dude.”

Put a very small battered red volume on the table. Stood up, said,

“My work here is done so, like, sayonara.”

He stopped at the door, said,

“Em got one thing slightly wrong, though.”

“Yeah?”

He looked like he might touch my shoulder but wisely didn’t, said,

“You’re not seriously old, like she said.”

17

Jeremy Cooper had been

Quizzed

Interrogated

Bullied

Screamed at

Pushed

By Clancy and his crew of hard arse detectives.

A Guard gets killed, throw the rule book out the window. Allowed one phone call.

Yeah, right.

Clancy got right in Jeremy’s face, asked,

“Why did the call about a shooting name your house?”

Cooper had no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

Clancy head butted him.

The other Guards actually gasped. Jeremy’s chair shot backward, spilling him against the wall with a mighty bang. Clancy said,

“Oops.”

He looked at the assembled Guards, barked,

“The fuck are you standing ’round for? Find me the bollix who killed Ridge.”

Protestants are still fairly thin on the Galway ground. It is believed if you get in legal shit, get a Protestant, a Protestant lawyer. Maybe it’s some echo of colonial times or a harking to the whole landowner shite but the best lawyer in town was Robert Preston.

A Prod.

One of the few remaining Ghosts who hadn’t dispersed called him and, in jig time, he was at the station.

Trailing Brit fire and legal brimstone.

He stormed up to Clancy, snarled,

“My client looks as if he has been beaten.”

Clancy had many previous dealings with Preston, none of them civil. He rasped,

“Suspect fell.”

Preston took his client by the arm, said,

“We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

Cooper was dazed from his fall, said,

“That big bastard attacked me.”

Preston smiled. Of such allegations were careers solidified. He said,

“That big bastard is heading for traffic duty.”

Clancy strode off, muttering darkly.

As no charges were made, Cooper was free to go, one of the Guards whispering to him,

“We never forgot killers of our own.”

Preston was all over him, threatened,

“Would you like to repeat that for my recorder?”

The Guard pushed past Preston, said,

“Check under your car every day, wanker.”

Outside, Preston said,

“We need to have those bruises documented.”

Jeremy stared at him, as if just registering him, said,

“This is a cluster fuck.”

No argument from Preston.

Jeremy continued.

“You know what you need with a cluster fuck?”

He gave a peculiar emphasis to the f-word as if he actually tasted it, said,

“Jack Taylor.”

I was still in shock from the loss of Ridge.

That we had never reconciled just added another nasty layer of guilt and remorse to a mind already in grief overload. I was in my armchair, the pup in my lap, doing his tiny best to console me. They know when you are deeply hurt. I was sipping slowly from the newest awful concoction:

Jameson with... breath it quiet...

Ginger ale.

I know. Heresy.

But I was in that zone where nothing really matters a fuck.

Even besmirching Jameson. The phone rang and the pup’s ears lit up. He hoped it might break my funk. And, more importantly, get him a walk. I answered with a weary

“Yeah?”

Like I gave a good fuck.

Heard

“Mr. Taylor? Mr. Jack Taylor?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Robert Preston of Preston Lynch and Associates?”

I said,

“That don’t mean shit to me pal.”

Nervous laugh, then,

“I have been forewarned you have a somewhat terse form of communication.”

“Terse this. Get to the fucking point.”

Another chuckle.

I hate fucking chuckles.

He said,

“I can tell you’re a card.”

What?

I sighed loud and annoyingly.

He said,

“Sorry, defect of my profession, to prevaricate. Thing is, I have a client who may wish to avail your, um... specialized talent.”

Being in the shitty mood I was, I snapped,

“Will cost them.”

Intake of breath, then recovery.

“Of course, no one eats for free.”

I said,

“Don’t be an asshole.”

A beat,

Then,

“By Jove, Mr. Taylor, I do believe I like the cut of your jib.”

What? Jib?

I said,

“Talk fucking right.”

Laughter.

He asked,

“Might we meet in my modest office on Eglantine Street, noon tomorrow?”

I said,

“Like you legal types do, it will cost you for my time, whether I take the case or not.”

“I would expect no less. Au revoir.”

Did I detect just the tiniest note of sarcasm?

The Red Book?

Meant Jack shit to me. I flipped through it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a patch on The Book of Kells. I put it in my bookcase, not entirely sure what I should do with it.

Sell it?

Most likely.

That evening, I was back from the pup’s walk. He was knackered. We’d done the walk from the Claddagh along Grattan Road, up to Blackrock, kicked the wall there as is the custom, then back along the beach of Salthill.

What the Brits would call bracing.

The pup trotting alongside me, glancing anxiously at me, intuiting that something was badly off. He was right. I walked with a cold fury tightening my heart and strangling my soul.

I would not

Could not

Dwell on Ridge.

I’d settled the pup on his chair, his Galway United scarf wrapped around his neck, poured a large Jay and, with a phew, sank into the armchair. A bang on the door.

Not a knock, a full wallop. If this was Jehovah’s Witnesses, they’d be witnessing sooner than they anticipated.

Father Malachy.

The pup growled.

Malachy barged in, trailing cigarette smoke, said,

“Need to talk to you?”

I went,

“How’d you know where I lived?”

Gave me a look of

“Seriously?”

Said,

“Google Earth.”

The pup glared at him, still low growling. Malachy asked,

“Does he bite?”

“Only priests.”

He looked around the room, not seeing anything that made him happy, asked,

“Where am I supposed to sit?”

The thing with Malachy was, you could just wallop him on a full-time basis. I indicated the armchair and he took that, sighing deeply. Then,

“Are you going to wet a man’s whistle?”

Even the pup had given up on intimidating him and simply went under the table. I got a glass of Jameson, handed it to him, asked,

“Ice?”

He lit up, coughed, looked like he might throw up, said,

“These boys will be the death of me.”

I said,

“We live in hope.”

And he looked deeply offended, said,

“No need for that.”

I asked,

“The purpose of your visit?”

He lit another cig, no ashtray required. He said,

“I’m in need of a fucking miracle.”

This, from a priest.

I asked,

“Have you tried, like, you know, your stock in trade?”

Glared at me, snarled.

“What fierce shite are you suggesting?”

I let that nice turn of phrase hover, then said simply,

“Prayer.”

Looked like he might wallop me, said,

“They’re downsizing in the Church.”

I laughed out loud, said,

“That is such a holy terror.”

He was serious, said,

“Sending me to some place like Bally de fucking nowhere”

I said,

“Like De Niro at the end of True Confessions.”

Wasted.

He said,

“Unless I could, um... pull off something that made them think I was valuable.”

Fuck me, was he playing me?

I asked,

“Anything in mind to, you know, big you up?”

He looked at me, said nothing.

God, everyone had an angle. I said,

“How did you know I had The Red Book?”

He feigned ignorance. What if he was telling the truth, though these days truth and clergy rarely met, but what if? Would one fine unselfish gesture eradicate some of the guilt I felt about the death of Ridge?

But help this asshole, who’d been the bane of my life? Not to mention my mother’s ally.

He was a priest and who in Ireland today would lift a finger for them? Before I could speak, he said,

“People don’t like me, it’s always been that way. I have no friends.”

That kind of fucked with my head. I said,

“My mother?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“She despised me but having a pet priest was a feather in her cap.”

I tried,

“Hey, I don’t have a whole lot of friends my own self.”

Even the dog looked up.

Said,

“Ah, bollocks, when you put your mind to it, people like you well enough. You just don’t take any care of their feelings.”

Phew-oh.

I gave one last try, said,

“You have your faith to sustain you.”

Got the look of utter disdain, he said,

“Yeah, right.”

I went to my bookcase, took out The Red Book, said,

“This might help put you back in favor.”

He took it, put it in his pocket, said,

“I was hoping for money.”

18

I said to the pup,

“I have to go see a lawyer.”

He whined. It meant no walk. I continued,

“Has to be done to pay for your treats.”

He wasn’t convinced, went under the chair and feigned sleep with his back to me. So a good start to the day with the pup pissed off. I wore my all-weather Garda coat, seriously considered arming up. Meeting a lawyer, doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

I headed down Shop Street and noticed two Guards, a black band of mourning on their sleeves. Ridge’s death hit anew. A busker was murdering “She Moved Through the Fair.”

I put some coins in his cap and he scowled at me.

How much better could the day get?

Robert Preston’s office was one of those new all-glass affairs. Said two things:

One, we have no secrets here.

Yeah, right.

Two, put a large brick through this.

A very pretty receptionist was not impressed at my appearance, asked,

“Are you delivering something?”

“Bad news?”

Not amused.

I said,

“The name is Taylor and I was summoned by the head honcho.”

Before she could grill me further, a tall man with one hell of a suit came striding down the corridor, boomed,

“Mr. Taylor.”

His hand extended, and I swear gold cuff links with initials.

Like, seriously?

Weren’t they outlawed apart from Bond movies?

He said,

“So glad you could make it. Let’s step into my office and meet the client.”

I recognized the man standing by the window. We’d met outside the hospital. He turned, said,

“Jack, good to see you.”

The lawyer offered coffee and then said,

“I will withdraw and let you gents get down to business.”

Cooper looked ill, very ill. He said,

“I look fucked, right?” I went very Irish, said,

“God no, you look mighty.”

He sat down and indicated I should do the same, settled himself, said,

“From the time of our encounter, I knew you’d be the man if a chap found himself in a spot of bother.”

His tone oozed authority, a man accustomed to minions.

I don’t do minion well.

I asked,

“This spot of bother. Has it do with the murder of the Guards?”

Granite leaked over my words.

He gave me a searching look, asked,

“You knew them?”

I nodded.

He digested that as he considered his next move, then,

“My second in command, Woody. A good lad if a little impetuous.”

I waited, not going to make this easy, he said,

“Perhaps, I stress the perhaps, he might have been overzealous in his somewhat misguided loyalty to me.”

I said,

“The fuck shot two Guards?”

A fleeting wave of rage in his eyes as the true man peeked out, then it was gone and the sweet affability again, said,

“Good heavens, that would be a leap. My hope is that you, as the resourceful chap you are, might find him before the authorities do.”

I said,

“If he killed those Guards, his chances with the authorities would be better than me finding him.”

He sat back, a building sneer on his face, said,

“I had you figured as a man with a broader canvas.”

I near spat,

“Broader canvas? The fuck are you saying?”

He sighed.

“Your rep led one to believe you were something other than the pathetic wretch you now present.”

I nearly smiled. It’s almost nice to be insulted in literary language; makes a change from the usual bollix.

I said,

“I guess you won’t be needing my services, then?”

He gave me a look of such disdain that his face tilted. He said,

“You are dismissed, Taylor.”

I said,

“Thing is, I will now give all my energy to finding this Woody.”

Just when I figured I had him pegged, he did an about turn and, in a very pleasant tone, asked,

“Have you ever been to the dogs, Mr. Taylor?”

Was it some kind of metaphor? I went,

“Huh?”

“Not difficult, Mr. Taylor. Like horse racing but with...”

Paused.

“Dogs!”

He was, I decided, many shades of crazy. I said,

“No.”

He reached in his jacket, checked a leather-bound notebook, not unlike police issue, said,

“The second race on the card has a dog named, aptly enough, ‘Galway Ghost.’”

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Many reasons, mostly nefarious but bottom line, I have a sneaking regard for you.”

I said,

“Makes me all warm and valued.”

I checked the sports page on my return home. The dog was indeed running and quoted at

14/1.

Phew.

If this were a less bleak narrative, the hero would put the mortgage on the bet, and to the strains of

“Eye of the Tiger.”

The dog would at the very last second come from nowhere and win!

Glad rejoicings.

The dog lost.

I didn’t back him.

Not one cent.

To mix my metaphors, I not only looked that gift horse in the mouth but let it roar, unbridled. My mobile thrilled after the race and I heard Cooper go

“Oh, dear, so sorry.”

I waited.

He continued,

“I truly hope you weren’t too burnt with your wager, Mr. Taylor.”

I laughed into the phone, startling him. He tried,

“I must say you took the loss well.”

I said,

“Didn’t back him.”

A sharp intake of breath, then,

“Why?”

“Because, as they say in parts of the U.S., you are a lying sack of shit.”

I could hear his sharp intake of breath. He said,

“No need for that.”

He was offended?

Good.

I said,

“One last thing. You can bet on something.”

“Yes?”

“Your mate Woody? Kiss him good-bye.”

I clicked off the phone, tired of this bollocks. The pup was at my feet, the leash in his mouth. I asked,

“When did you learn that trick?”

Tail wag.

We went up Prospect Hill, past Crowes pub, then all the way up to the cemetery. Only in Ireland, opposite the graveyard gate, a new shop has opened.

In such a location, you’d think, flowers?

Nope.

Get this:

  Bridal

   Wear!

I kid thee not.

Was it a subliminal message, get hitched and ’twas then but a hop and a skip to the grave?

Just outside the cemetery gates I replayed a call I had made.

I called my friend Owen Daglish and he confirmed the Guards had nothing to pursue. I asked him about the guy Woody, and he sneered, said,

“An idiot, he couldn’t even shoot his mouth off.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Why the fuck would I know that when we’re not looking for him?”

“That’s a no, then?”

“Good-bye Jack.”

Never mind a person of interest. He wasn’t even a person of indifference.

A guy was standing outside the cemetery gates, greeted,

“Jack, how’s it cutting?”

I vaguely recognized him but had no name to go with the recollection so I went the Irish way, said,

“Good to see you.”

He indicated the graveyard, said,

“You’d think I was keen to get it over with.”

The pup was staring at the graves, his body on alert, as if he knew this was not a place to linger.

The guy shook himself, said,

“Prince was found dead.”

I didn’t quite know the response to this, so went,

“Really?”

He asked,

“Were you a fan?”

Shite.

I said,

“The guy had some moves.”

I began to move off myself and he shouted,

“Did you hear about the priest?”

These days that was a multichoice answer.

A. Molester

B. Married his housekeep (of either sex)

C. Robbed the parish funds

D. All of the above.

I went with the cute answer, which covered my ignorance and hinted I knew other stuff, asked,

“Which one?”

“Father Malachy.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, he found some rare old book that the Church was looking for and he’s being called to Rome for some mega honor.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“How did he find it?”

“Oh, he gave all the credit to Anthony.”

“Who?”

“Saint Anthony. The go-to guy for lost things.”

I was truly shocked. The treacherous bastard.

The guy said,

“Good for him, eh?”

I now knew what the expression meant.

It stuck in my craw.

Did it fucking ever.

He continued,

“He’s going to be on The Late Late Show.”

Wonder and enchantment in his tone.

That show was the ultimate Irish accolade. It was said you could do most anything to please your mother (once, by joining the priesthood but now, not so much) but nothing impressed her like being a Late Late guest.

He said,

“I heard him on Jimmy Norman’s radio show and he was so humble.”

I’ll bet he fucking was.

I’d heard enough and waved a vague good-bye. He went,

“You know him pretty well.”

Phew-oh.

I said,

“Seems like I didn’t know him at all.”

19

The pup and I got back to the apartment just as the heavens opened. I reached for my keys and the pup began a low growling.

Someone was inside.

I pushed the door slowly open, my keys held forward as a fairly lame weapon. The pup was trembling and it took me a moment to see.

A hundred-pound rottweiler was sitting near the bookcase. I said,

“Fuck.”

Then heard,

“Don’t be shy, Jack, join us.”

Emily

  Emerald

     Em.

      Trouble.

She said,

“Meet Satan.”

Of course.

I said,

“I already met the devil.”

The pup went under his own chair, peeking warily at Satan. He knew what that dog was:

A killer.

Em pushed a book at me, said,

“In gratitude.”

I asked,

“You’re thanking me?”

Snap of her head and

“Silly, it’s the title, by Jenny Diski, about her relationship with Doris Lessing.”

I said,

“That means Jack shit to me.”

She loved that, her dog not so much. She said,

“Satan responds to just two commands.”

I guessed,

“Kill and kill better.”

She laughed.

“How very Sam Beckett.”

I should have hated her. She was the reason Ridge was dead but hating her was like blaming the weather; it was just elemental. I asked,

“Aren’t you at least a little wary of being here? You had my friend murdered.”

She sat forward, the dog gave a low rumble. She said,

“Why I have this lovable beast.”

I said,

“Keep him close, you’ll need him.”

She giggled.

“Threats. I love it. How very alpha of you.”

I went to the bedroom, rummaged in the closet, and heard her shout,

“You must be the only person in Ireland going into the closet.”

Found the gun, racked the slide, and heard her mutter,

“We know that sound and it tolls for us.”

She was right.

I came back, aimed the weapon, said,

“Get that damn monster out of here now or I will shoot him.”

Sounding not unlike Liam Neeson in Taken.

She scoffed.

“You’d never hurt a dog.”

I racked the slide and she was on her feet, going,

“Jesus, all right already. You need to cut back on the caffeine, fellah. I really came to help you.”

I kept the gun trained on the dog who watched me with what can only be called malevolent interest. My pup was whimpering quietly beneath the chair. I asked,

“Help?”

“The shooter? Woody? But you need to track him fast. He has a plan.”

“What plan?”

She gave a smile of such malign slyness, said,

“To blow the living shit out of Galway Cathedral.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Why?”

She headed for the door, dragging a reluctant Satan, said,

“Because it’s there.”

20

Terry Wood was on a high from his murderous acts. Muttered,

“I offed two cops, count ’em, two.”

He was in a small apartment on Merchants Road. Owned by the Ghosts, it had been purchased in the far too brief days when it seemed like their organization might actually amount to something. Jeremy Cooper had been on a high as money and contributions

Were flowing in.

For a shining moment they believed they could be a contender. Then the gradual dissolution. Cooper had no real policy or plan. He wanted power and, apart from shock value and bullshit, he had nothing.

An Irish Farage, if you will.

Oh, notions.

He had a ton of those.

There was a bookcase along the wall and some bright spark had decided to procure books with ghost in the title. Never mind if they had absolutely no relevance to the actual ghosts aspiring to be a force.

Like this:

The Long Shadow of Small Ghosts,

Laura Tillman.

A Head Full of Ghosts,

Paul Tremblay.

The Ghost in the Machine,

Arthur Koestler.

Thirteen Ghosts.

The last title hit the meanest shade of irony, in that the actual remaining membership of the Ghosts no longer even amounted to that.

Terry Wood, he said his name aloud,

Then

The abbreviation:

“Woody.”

He stared at the gun on the table and knew the smart thing would be to ditch it.

And was he going to do that?

Was he fuck!

He hadn’t yet been in touch with the boss, Jeremy Cooper. But he would be pleased?

Wouldn’t he?

Mmmm?

He was antsy, adrenaline from the shootings still coursing through him, said aloud,

“Gotta move, gotta boogie.”

A knock on the door.

WTF?

Or rather, who the fuck?

Snatched up the gun, pushed it in the back of his jeans, like he’d seen in the movies.

Opened the door, cautiously.

Saw a monster of a dog. And a girl, dressed like some punk wannabe. She did a neat spin, asked,

“Goth or emo?”

He asked,

“Emily?”

Got the wicked smile, and,

“Thelma,” and

Indicated the dog.

“Louise.”

He spluttered.

“That’s not a bitch.”

Mean chuckle with

“Boy, you is looking at the bitch.”

He wondered how she knew where to find him.

She asked,

“You gonna leave all us young ’uns out here in this cold hall?”

He moved aside.

So fucked in the head was he that he didn’t clock her hands. She moved right to the bookcase, the monster dog never taking its dead eyes from Woody. She shrilled,

“Boy, where the drinks be at?”

He didn’t know, said,

“I don’t know.”

She said to Satan,

“Stay.”

Began pulling open cupboards, then voiced,

“Voilà.”

Pulled a bottle of Jameson from the shelf.

Grabbed two mugs, asked, holding the bottle up,

“Shall I be mammy?”

Sloshed nigh lethal amounts then handed one to Woody, said in her best Scarlett tone,

“We’ll always have Tara.”

He drank fast, thinking,

“She is nuttier than a whole sack of young rats.”

Drowning such rodents had been a childhood passion.

Now she asked,

“Back of your pants fellah, that a weapon or...?”

Let the old hacienda line trail off.

Then reached out a hand, demanded,

“Give it here, young pilgrim.”

And he did.

She expertly racked the slide, sang,

Rootin’

Tootin’.

Shot Woody in the side of the head. The shot didn’t frighten the dog. In his streamlined world, he did the frightening. Emily looked at the dead man, said,

“Kept the best shot for last.”

Then adjusted the surgical gloves and rubbed Satan behind the ears, cooed,

“Who’s a good boy?”

21

I was admiring the title for Tom Hanks’s new movie.

Not that I have huge respect for TH, seeing him as Jimmy Stewart lite. Or indeed have read much of Dave Eggers, thinking, perhaps wrongly, that he has that whole smug gig going.

I mean really,

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.

Come on.

Anyway, back to the title I do like:

A Hologram for the King.

“What do you think of that title?”

He didn’t seem to have a whole lot to bark on it either way.

A light knock on the door

And I mean light.

As if they didn’t want to intrude?

I opened the door and there’s a man so good-looking it hurt your eyes. As Woody Allen said,

He took handsome lessons.

Tall of course, not wearing a fedora but had the tone of it. Blond tousled hair, a tan.

Tan!

In Galway.

Age in that bad forty, terrific fifty range. His eyes were a sort of steel gray. He offered a warrant card with a gold badge. Special branch?

He asked,

“Mr. Jack Taylor?”

In that tone the schmucks in Vegas used to introduce

“Mr. Frank Sinatra.”

Yeah, annoying as hell.

His hand was out. I noticed a heavy class ring like they have in the U.S., so American experience?

He said,

“Sheridan. May I come in?”

I asked,

“What, no first name, like Madonna or the late Prince?”

He gave a huge grin and, of course, great teeth, said,

“I heard you were a funny guy.”

Nothing in his quiet tone suggested he thought there was anything even remotely humorous. I asked,

“If I say no?”

Bigger grin and

“Then I’d have to shoot you.”

Waited a beat.

Then,

“And the cute dog.”

I let him in and he strode over to the bookcase, asked,

“You think it’s true you can read somebody by what they read?”

As I said, his tone, his voice was barely above a whisper but it held a ferocity and steel that was damn impressive.

I said,

“Well, nowadays, skels keep the good stuff on Kindle.”

He looked impressed, exclaimed,

“I’m impressed. Skels! You obviously have read Andrew Vachss.”

The pup gave a soft sigh, not much liking the shoot the dog crack, and hid under the sofa. Sheridan indicated a chair, asked,

“May I sit?”

And sat.

Asked,

“Coffee?”

Got to hand it to him, he had some moves, knew how to make an entrance.

I bit down on a slightly dormant aggression, fetched the Jameson, offered.

He laughed, quietly of course, said,

“Tad early but, good Lord, how often does one meet Jack Taylor?”

Bollix.

I poured two bracing measures, said,

“Slainte a match.”

He answered,

“Agus leat fein.”

I was meant to remark on his command of our native tongue.

I didn’t.

Said,

“We have established you know all sorts of shite, but what

Exactly

Are you doing here?”

He assumed a grave expression, said,

“There has been a suicide.”

I didn’t want to know.

I truly did not.

I said,

“Do tell.”

Even sounded like I might care.

He said,

“Terence Wood, alleged killer of two Guards, shot his bad self in his very bad head.”

Pause.

“Good fucking riddance.”

No argument.

I echoed,

“Suicide.”

For absolutely no reason, he observed,

“I have lived my life betwixt suicide and murder.”

Right!

I said,

“Me, I have endured my life between vicious cunts.”

He ran the taste of that ’round his gums, then said,

“I’m not buying in to the suicide scenario.”

“Why?”

He laughed, asked,

“Jesus H, how monosyllabic are you going to be?”

“A lot.”

He suddenly reached down and rubbed the pup’s ears, startling not only me but the pup.

The pup wasn’t buying it.

Sheridan said,

“Here’s the thing. On the ground near the fallen gun was an emerald heart.”

I thought,

Oh, fuck.

He looked at me, asked,

“That mean something, partner?”

I could sink her, just drop the murderous bitch right in it.

I said,

“Not a damn thing.”

He shook his head, then,

“Okeydoke, let’s get to it.”

I stood up, said,

“Naw, it’s time you hopped on your white charger and charged the fuck off.”

He stood too and was about an inch taller than me. That inch gave him a false sense of power, thinking size matters.

He said,

“You need to know I was on loan to Quantico, learned stuff about broken-down ex-cops who hit the sauce. They have a need to be recognized.”

(The Quantico was a lie.)

I said,

“Like I could give a toss, no matter what kind of super cop you think you are. You really need to leave.”

And he sat back down, said,

“I could go another shot of that there sipping whiskey.”

I was torn betwixt beating him to a bloody pulp and a sneaking admiration for his sheer front. I poured him a drink, gave the pup a treat, and, ah fuck it, lit up a Red Marlboro.

He sank the drink, went,

“Ah...”

Said,

“Jack, me lad, we have us here a three-pronged assault.”

Paused.

Asked,

“You do know what a prong is, right?”

“Any relation to a prick?”

He moved along.

Said,

“If this were a crime novel, a character who was introduced at the beginning, then seemed to be discarded, has reentered the narrative. I speak of Alexander Knox-Keaton, with all the hyphens as opposed to the trimmings. You do remember him? He employed you as a security guard though, if you want my ten cents, you couldn’t mind a flaming box of matches.”

I said,

“You talk funny.”

He nearly sighed, said,

“That is education, my son.”

He then looked around, asked,

“Might I cadge a cig?”

I gave him one and he produced a heavy, battered gold Zippo.

Clanked that baby up and I relished the clunk of the shutting motion. Perhaps it’s the pro-American in me but a Zippo has always reached a part of me that is not yet frozen.

But fuck, what does it say of a man to have his heart touched by a goddamn lighter?

I asked,

“No vaping for you?”

He snarled,

“I look like a cocksucker to you?”

“Well, yes.”

I swear the pup wagged his tiny tail. He likes when I take the war to them.

He flicked ash on my worn carpet, said, all business,

“This Knox-Keaton employed you to find the notorious Red Book and you, major fuckhole that you are, botched the job and in walks the Mickey Mouse gang, the so-called Ghosts of Galway.”

Paused.

“Wimps of Galway more like but, hey, they got lucky and found the rogue priest, offed the poor fucker then — who knew? — your bird.”

(Bird. How’d we get back to the sixties?)

Continued.

“Emerald or some such dumb-ass jewel name, fucks the head Ghost honcho and her sidekick.”

He pulled out a black notebook, checked,

“Yeah Hayden. Jesus H, where do they get these names? What happened to Paddy and Mary for chrissakes?”

He snapped his fingers, near spat,

“Gimme another smoke.”

I gave him the look, said,

“Give me the bottom line on what it is you want.”

He made a show of draining his glass, then,

“So Hayden for some bizarre reason gives you the book and what do you do?”

He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands, says,

“You just hand it on over to a nicotine priest.”

With a hint of admiration, I say,

“You are well informed.”

He reached into his jacket. A gun?

No.

Pack of soft-pack Camels, shucked one out, fired up.

I said,

“No thank you.”

He grimaced, began,

“Your hyphened Mr. Knox was using the Ghosts of Galway to hide his real outfit, the Fenians. Like the Internet hides the dark web, these boyos are hidden by the Mickey Mouse Ghosts. These are hard-core, ex-soldiers who served in Jordan, in Syria, and under Knox they aim to launch a second Reformation.”

I said,

“That’s fucked up.”

“No,”

He said.

“That is terrorism.”

He stood up, said,

“You are going to trap Knox for us.”

“Why would I do that?”

He gave a grin of such utter malice, then,

“Because I am going to let your little psycho bitch slide.”

Fuck.

I near whined,

“Why would I want to save her?”

He smirked, said,

“Look at you, elderly drunken fool besotted with a hot young vixen.”

As he went, he threw,

“Sew Knox up ASAP.”

22

I was on my knees, vomiting and cradling the tiny crushed body.

Tears rolled down my battered face and mingled with the blood in his coat.

I screamed,

“I will wreak a fucking biblical vengeance on all of you.”

On the parchment were block capitals:

WE — here they placed his little heart — IRELAND

Later, I was wrapping his small body in his Galway United favorite comfort shirt when the doorbell shrilled. I grabbed my hurley, flung open the door

To

Doc,

My neighbor,

Who said,

“Great news, we have a place for you on the team to Everest.”

Everest!

Before I could reply, he glanced nervously at the hurley, asked,

“Everything all right, Jack?”

I near spat,

“Hunky fucking dory.”

He stepped back,

Wisely, I think.

Tried,

“Perhaps I could take the wee pup for a run?”

The world tilted, and for a second I blanked out, then,

I said,

“Not really. His heart wouldn’t be in it.”

Shut the door with a gentle push, the violence ebbing away.

Later, not sure it was days or hours, I buried the pup in Claddagh. Near the swans. Perhaps he could hear them glide and, in a perverse way, I wanted to believe they would stand vigil for him.

I stood over the tiny grave, laid his favorite Galway United scarf on it and his now never to be eaten

Treats.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

A fellah passing, asked,

“You burying the wife?”

It was too early to kick the living daylights out of him, so I said,

“’Tis a dog.”

Bitterly he said,

“Same thing.”

23

Alexander

    Knox

     -Keaton

My former boss, the man who so badly wanted to procure The Red Book and, according to Sheridan, the power behind the Fenians. His house was truly a mansion with a stunning view of Galway Bay. Usually two bodyguards sat outside in a BMW.

I used whatever juice I had to buy a shotgun. I wanted something

Loud

And

Nasty.

Sawed off the barrel and stashed it inside the shoplifter pocket in my all-weather Garda coat. I also took along a vicious long-bladed knife honed in the Aran Islands. I believe knives are a coward’s choice and require a particular psycho set of reference.

Man, I could do fucking psycho.

As I was leaving my apartment I checked to see if there was water in the pup’s bowl.

No bowl.

No pup.

No cry.

Knox-Keaton’s magnificent house was not unlike a Dalí nightmare. Two built bodyguards sat outside in the BMW. I arrived at the witching hour when they were nodding off. Like a good ex-Guard I had the finest burglar’s kit and was in jig time, saw the huge tapestry of The Book of Kells, and took my knife to it.

Sheer vandalism?

You fucking betcha.

I found the master bedroom on the second floor, mainly by following the aroma of pot and incense.

The room was dark and two people were in a deep sleep, not surprising if you factored in the empty champagne bottles and general air of debauchery. I know that gig. I’ve played it, if not in recent years then certainly in false memory. I cocked the shotgun, saw the woman, who appeared to be Thai, a relatively new feature on the Irish rich scene: buy yourself a girl from the poorer countries.

I nudged her with the gun, said,

“Lock yourself in the bathroom.”

No argument.

Smart girl.

He was coming around with many a groan and fart. He started to rise and I said,

“Don’t get up on my account.”

Shoved the barrel right in his enormous gut, said,

“While you fucked, my pup burned.”

No denial.

This, in semi-whine:

“I told them not to, said it was a bad idea.”

I said,

“Very bad fucking idea.”

He said, like a caricature of all the bad guys in bad movies,

“I have money.”

I asked very, very quietly,

“Will you buy me a new pup?”

The eagerness.

“Of course, a whole litter if you want.”

I smashed his nose with the butt of the shotgun.

Asked,

“Give me the names of the top Fenian guys.”

He did.

Frank Cass.

Joe Tyrone.

Said they hung out at the Green Harp pub.

How fucking Fenian could you get?

I said,

“I so desperately want to kill you.”

He was throwing up, so not so sure he heard me. For form’s sake, I cracked his skull with the gun barrel.

Before I left I pissed long and powerfully on his Persian rug as he had pissed all over my small life.

I moved away from the area fast and was just crossing the road at Nile Lodge when a car came out of nowhere and bounced me to the far curb.

As I tumbled in the dirt, I managed to catch a glimpse of the car.

The color!

24

A combination of concussion,

Shock,

Trauma

Left me in a semi-coma

For weeks.

I missed

Brexit,

Ireland’s superb performance in the Euros, even beating Italy and giving us a new football hero

Robbie Brady,

And the unique sight of Roy Keane with a smile.

Wales nearly made it to the semis.

England crashed out of both Europe in football and membership in one week.

The instigators of Brexit,

The nasty duo of Johnson and Farage, did the unthinkable:

Fucked off.

Yup, resigned.

My unconscious reeled in the maelstrom of madness.

... dark hounds of heaven snarling at my limping feet, to David Bowie ascending to heaven through Ridge being shot in slow motion and the faceless Woody crooning “Send in the Ghosts,” to water charges in red dripping neon leading to me screaming out the names of

Cass

And

Tyrone,

The Fenian leaders.

Finally roaring out of it all with a gasp and a whimper.

Em was sitting by the bed, humming.

Was it

“Stairway to Heaven”?

Never no fucking mind.

She was dressed all in black.

Mourning?

Not if leather trousers,

Black Harley T-shirt,

And black Doc Martens

Are a new trend for grief.

She said,

“You had us a wee bit worried my bairn.”

Scottish accent?

Then, in down-home Louisiana,

“Chet, you done gone cause us all a whole heap of worrying.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Why am I in a private room?”

Odd question?

Not in Ireland where lying on a trolley for three days is considered fortunate.

She said,

“Last time you were here I had to blow a doctor, remember?”

My head hurt.

I tried,

“This time?”

She displayed a huge ring on her finger, big diamond so authentic it had to be fake, said,

“Me and Dr. Ray Crosby are engaged.”

She managed to inject engaged with a lurid overtone.

I asked,

“You drive an emerald-colored car?”

Giggles.

And fuck again.

She said,

“I figured you’d come after me because of the dyke cop.”

I snapped,

“Sergeant Ridge was her name.”

She shrugged and, I have to admit, despite my very precarious state, I couldn’t help but admire the radiance, however blighted, that emanated from her. Said,

“That cunt, yeah, so I felt, despite my love for you, that I might have to, um retaliate first.”

I sank back in the bed.

And she was over, brushed my cheek with her hand, cooed,

“Ah, heart mine, I didn’t drive the car. Does that help at all?”

I snarled,

“Give me a cigarette.”

I knew she’d have some. She always had the things that hurt. She lit me up.

I blew smoke at her.

She continued.

“Me and Hayden... you remember the kid who brought you The Red Book?

Stopped.

Mimed a flashbulb over her head, said,

“Don’t recall a whole lot of gratitude for that hombre!”

And punched me on the arm.

“We asked the dice, Kill the Jackster or no?”

I looked for a place to extinguish the cig, dropped it in a glass of water, the sort of thing that annoys the shit out of me in truth.

I said,

“Lemme guess? The dice said yes.”

She made a sad face, said,

“Hayden insisted he do the deed but, you know, fucked it up.”

I sneered,

“Because I lived?”

She looked like she would play punch me again and I moved away from her, not easy when an IV is trailing you like bad news. She said,

“Silly you! Because the car was dented. Don’t you just hate that?”

I said,

“Go away, just fuck off and disappear.”

She was about to reply when a nurse came bustling in.

All starched uniform and biz, immediately began fluffing the pillows. They do that as a mere act of irritation, especially when you just got them nice and comfy. Em said,

“I want to be you when I’m old enough.”

The nurse looked at her with a mix of incredulity and scorn, said,

“Ah, you’re already too old and aren’t you a teensy bit past it?”

Pause.

“For trying to rock that whole biker chick gig?”

Emily was silent as she considered her position, then asked,

“Is it difficult being gay and a nurse or do people not give a shit anymore?”

The nurse smiled, then looked at her watch, said,

“Time to go child, surely the asylum has strict curfew?”

Emily walked right over to me and, in a snap, French kissed me with a lot of heavy noise then turned, headed for the door, slapped the nurse on the bum, said,

“Keep it buttoned, Ratched.”

25

The day of my release from the hospital I was sitting by the bed when the nurse came in, handed over a large bag, said,

“Your daughter left fresh clothes for you.”

Emily.

I opened the bag carefully. She was quite capable of planting an incendiary there.

Nope.

Just clothes.

Very expensive ones.

A shirt handmade on the Aran Islands. Those suckers last for a hundred years. I, on the other hand, might be good for six months. Armani jeans, I shit thee not. But not those horrors, skinny jeans. The greatest codswallop ever apart from Irish sunglasses.

Doc Marten boots, and don’t ask me how but nicely scuffed. And a pea jacket from Gap.

There was a note.

With Emily, there is always a note.

Read,

“Darlin’

Here be some clobber for the life you should have led. Cost me 1,500 euros so I went on shoplifting spree.”

Then in blatant capitals:

“WHY

Did you not tell me they killed that beautiful pup?

I will spread a wrath of fucking epic dimension on the cunts who did it.”

Then, in italics,

“I swear Rhett that I will rebuild Tara.”

She signed off with many hearts and dancing ponies.

I guess she liked them.

Least the ones who dance.

A doctor came in, clipboard at the ready and a brisk attitude they instill in med school that translates as

“You, the patient, know sweet fuck all. I, the doctor, am omnipotent.”

He said,

“I am Doctor Singh.”

Waited.

I looked at him; he seemed about twelve. I said,

“You inject that with a certain amount of gravitas, as if I should go, Dr. Singh!”

I let the length of a bad cigarette pass, then added,

“Don’t mean shit to me pal.”

When you have been declared at death’s door and given a limited time to live by doctors, it tends to obliterate any lingering genetic fear you may have had.

He was stunned, mustered,

“I don’t think there is any call for that.”

I gave him my rabid smile, said,

“No call for Brexit, either, but here we are.”

He shook his head, began to consult his file, said,

“Mr. Taylor, you have a rather colorful, checkered medical history and—”

I held up my hand, said,

“If you have a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers then we can chat but, otherwise, sayonara.”

I was outside the hospital and cadged a cig from a poor creature trailing an IV.

He gave me a Major, the heavy-duty Irish cigs that would fell an ox. He looked so bad, I had to look away. I wondered if he would last the time it took me to smoke the cig. He rasped,

“We are not allowed to smoke here.”

As we both fumed away.

I said,

“What will they do? Kill us?”

And, oh, fuck, instantly could have bit my tongue off. He caught it, said,

“They’ve already done for me in there.”

Indicating the hospital. A security guard did make a brief appearance but something in my face turned him in another direction. The man said, peering at me closely,

“You’re the young Taylor lad.”

Lad!

We both smiled at that and he said,

“They call me Oats.”

I asked,

“As in the sowing of?”

He seemed confused, then said,

“I was the clerk for the commissioner of oaths.”

Before I could comment on this he pointed a shaking finger toward the gate, said,

“I think that young girl is waving at you.”

Indeed.

Dressed in what appeared to be a school uniform, she was gesturing wildly. I stubbed out the cig, said,

“Take care.”

He gripped my arm, nigh pleaded,

“Will you say a few words at my funeral?”

Fuck.

“I am... Sure. Anything special you’d like mentioned?”

“Say about my love of hurling.”

I asked,

“Love it, do you?”

He spat to his right, muttered,

“I fucking loathe it.”

The girl looked familiar. She was in a school uniform but pinked up, as in chains along the blazer and a ripped seam to the side of the skirt. Then I recalled her, with a sinking feeling.

Lorna Dunphy, who had tried to employ me to find her non-existent brother. I had tracked down her dad and, oh, fuck, bad.

A broken man whose wife had committed suicide, I had drunk some Jay with him, smoked some cigs, and provided him with comfort not at all.

And suddenly I was enraged.

All these lunatics in my life. She began,

“Why haven’t you found my brother? I paid you.”

I took a deep breath, said,

“You don’t have a brother. Stop this mad talk and...”

I paused,

Trying to rein in my bile,

Continued.

“And for God’s sake, take the crazy pills and stop annoying people.”

Like I said,

Reining it in.

She reeled back as if I had slapped her.

Did I relent?

Did I fuck.

Shouted,

“Go back to school and give up bothering people with your silly nonsense.”

She turned and fled.

I muttered,

“Thank God for tact.”

While this shameful episode was ensuing, Em was putting a bullet in a man’s head. Two, actually, but who’s counting?

26

Frank Cass, one of the Fenians, was shot dead outside his home in Mervue. Among his possessions, the Guards found a letter threatening his life and signed by Jeremy Cooper.

The gun used in the shooting was found in Cooper’s bedroom.

Slam dunk.

I heard about this and knew it was a frame and the most likely person was Emily. It was the kind of neat package she specialized in. I got a call from his solicitor, asking if I would come and see Cooper. I said,

“Seeing as how it went so well on our last meeting?”

The solicitor chuckled, said,

“Despite everything, he has a certain respect for you.”

I went, mostly out of curiosity. The Guards were jubilant, told me,

“He is fucked.”

I asked,

“That a legal term?”

Got the look.

Cooper seemed to have shriveled, his whole frame sunk in on itself. Too, he looked ill. Very.

He raised a limp hand, said,

“Thank you for coming.”

I nodded, took the chair opposite where he was perched. I said,

“You seem to be rightly screwed this time.”

He smiled and it seemed as if the very act hurt his face. He asked,

“Did you set me up?”

I said,

“No.”

He continued to stare at me, then,

“I believe you, it seems a little too clever for your limited abilities.”

I said,

“You seem remarkably calm for a guy in your position.”

He shrugged, said,

“My health is so walloped that I won’t be around for a trial.”

I made to leave, he asked,

“Aren’t you curious as to who did this to me?”

Now I got to do the shrug, said,

“All you psychos getting rid of each other is actually a blessing.”

He savored this, then,

“The whole deal smacks of your deranged lady friend, the lovely Emily.”

Now I got to smile, said,

“Like I said, all you psychos.”

He wasn’t letting go, tried,

“She tried to do for you once. She won’t stop.”

This was beginning to get on my wick, so I said,

“Have a nice life, what remains of it.”

He said,

“Hayden, her little helper, he lives at 18, Mansfield Road.”

When I didn’t answer, he added,

“You do know he drove that green car?”

Outside, I lit a cig and his solicitor came out, said,

“Poor bastard is done for.”

A young Guard came rushing out of the station, said,

“Mr. Taylor, if you have a moment, the super would like a word?”

Good heavens.

In the past if Clancy wanted a word, I’d be hauled in by the scruff of my neck. I said,

“Yeah, okay.”

Followed him to Clancy’s office.

Seated behind a massive desk, he was in full regalia, dress uniform and three Guards ranged behind his back. They almost appeared welcoming.

He stood up, extended his hand, greeted,

“Jack, good to see you.”

I tried,

“Um...”

And had nothing. He nodded to one of the three, snapped,

“Get the man a chair.”

They did.

I sat.

The air of welcome, of camaraderie, threw me completely. Worse, Clancy beamed at me, a huge smile encompassing whatever passed as warmth in his chilly nature.

Creepy.

“Now, Jack, I don’t know if you are aware but the new minister of justice...”

He paused.

To see if I knew what that was?

Continued.

“Has introduced new legislation allowing ex-Guards, retired Guards, to act as consultants, advisers to the force.”

Waited

Then,

“I know you have always regretted having to leave the force.”

To leave!

Right.

As they say in the U.S., I had my arse handed to me, kicked me the fuck out, is what happened.

Now, my heart lurched. Oh, my God, was it possible I would be a Guard again? I felt dizzy with hope. I tried to speak but felt choked. Clancy looked around at the Guards, smiled, said,

“I think we may well have made Mr. Taylor’s day.”

The Mr. should have tipped me off.

Clancy began to unfold a large sheet of parchment, said,

“Have a gander at this, see how you like it.”

I moved toward the desk, my legs weak, looked down at the document, read,

As

  If.

27

Do you ever recover the one great love of your life?

Me, not really.

Anne Henderson, way back, but the intensity clung to me still. Booze eased the ache but, ofttimes, intensified it. ’Tis madness for sure. She made me feel like there might be a better version of my own self.

There wasn’t.

More’s the Galway pity.

Past my humiliation, my deep shame at the hands of Clancy, I was walking along the beach, dogless and lost. The beach near the army barracks is usually deserted, why I chose it. The sea was a wild thing and I debated the merits of death by water.

Clean,

Said the utter mad part of my mind.

I simply stood by the water, my mind in turmoil, when I heard,

“Jack?”

Tentative.

A woman walking toward me, carefully, as if I might be dangerous. I was but not to her.

Not then.

Do you half hope the love of your life will be old and battered like your own bitter soul?

That the years have mangled and chewed the very thing you cherished?

Yes, in the realm of rage, you half desire their ruin.

She wasn’t ruined.

Not a bit.

Au contraire, as they say in literary novels.

She looked gorgeous.

Anne Henderson, once the very beat of my beating heart.

We stared at each other for a moment. The would we,

Wouldn’t we,

Hug?

It hung there like a shy reprimand. Then she held out her hand, asked,

“Jack, how are you?”

Men and women just are not built for handshakes. I took her hand, it felt like torn hope.

I said,

“Not too bad.”

Jesus. Lame or what?

I mean, what if I spit it out,

Like,

They cut the heart out of my beloved pup.

The Guards reduced me to a level of shame I didn’t even know I still possess.

Oh,

And a young lady I am intrigued by tried to murder me.

And

  And

    And

How’s that sound?

She lied, said,

“You look...”

Pause.

“Well.”

The moment when Clancy humiliated me burned anew in my mind.

To paraphrase Macbeth,

Who knew I had so much shame in me!

She examined with that close scrutiny that Irish women excel in. Said,

“I forgive you, Jack.”

Fuck me.

I wanted to scream

“Oh, really? How magnanimous of you, how have I survived all these hard years without that vital act?”

I said,

“Thank you.”

Then I did that thing that people do when they are completely out of the next thought. I said,

“Nippy for the time of year.”

Oh, sweet God, like a stranded Brit.

And,

She laughed.

Asked,

“I wonder if I might enlist your help?”

Christ, sure, there wasn’t anything on the planet I wouldn’t do for her. More’s the Irished dumb ass. I said,

“Depends.”

Thought,

Seriously, I said that?

Her face changed, the briefest flash of annoyance, then,

“I will pay you. I didn’t expect you to work for nothing.”

Before I could stop myself I blurted,

“One time I would have done it for free.”

Fuck.

She shook her head as if she knew such nonsense was inevitable. I asked,

“What do you need done?”

I’d swear a slight blush rose to her face but probably the wind. In Galway, we blame the wind for most things we’d prefer to not name. She said,

“It is difficult to put into words.”

I said with more than a little edge,

“Think of me as a priest.”

She gave a sudden abrupt laugh, startling us both, and said,

“Good God! That is the very last thing I could think of you.”

Given the toxic air that priests inhabited these days, that might even have been a compliment. She asked,

“Might we meet next Monday?”

I said,

“Sure.”

Set the time for six in the evening at the Meyrick Hotel.

That time, it sneers loudly,

“This is not a date.”

Eight o’clock is a date and anytime in the day is just banal. But,

Six?

Six sucks.

Not

A

(Galwayed)

   Hope

     Of

       A

       Chance.

I needed to find the remaining Fenian.

After the other Fenian had been killed he’d gone to ground. But before I could even begin the search, he found me.

I’d been to the pub and, in truth, had way more than I intended. Least I think I had the intention but, as they say, it got away from me. I had bought a drink for a very attractive woman in Garavans, amazed when she smiled at me and, fueled by drink, I had sat next to her. She was in either late forties or a very battered thirties.

I was expounding on the lack of recognition for the writer Patrick Hamilton and she said,

“I don’t read.”

Now, I don’t, God forgive me, remember her name but, alas, I do remember my reply:

“You don’t read? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And she was gone.

I staggered home, wondering if I would fry up a big batch of sausages, then thought,

“And put two down for the pup.”

To instantly realize there was no pup, no more. I had that drunken moment of utter self-pity, leaning against a wall. Managed to get it together to find my way home, opened the door, and felt a gun barrel into the back of my skull.

A voice.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

My whole life I had done just that. I managed,

“Shoot me now.”

Heard an intake of breath and,

“What?”

“Save me a biblical hangover.”

Heard a slight chuckle.

I asked,

“Let me sit down.”

And moved to the armchair.

My hangover had vanished. Guns might be the new hangover cure. The man facing me was mid-height, dark curly hair, a boxer’s bruised face, and eyes so brown they verged on black.

I asked,

“You here about my TV license? I heard they were getting more proactive.”

The gun was lowered to rest against his right leg. He tapped it gently against that, said,

“You’re a cool one.”

I stared at him. He had an ease in his bearing acquired from long experience of conflict.

He said,

“I’m Joe Tyrone.”

Took me a moment, then I spat,

“The other Fenian fuck.”

He said,

“Just Joe would be fine.”

He had a trace of an English accent and I sneered,

“You’re not even Irish.”

The gun came up and he took a deep breath, said,

“You need to mind your mouth. And many of the greatest Irish patriots...”

Paused, then,

He intoned,

“Roger Casement

Wolfe Tone

Were

Of English birth but their very souls were Fenian.”

I said,

“I don’t think they were into gutting dogs.”

He sighed, said,

“I have a deal to offer.”

I gave him the look that said,

“Dream on sucker.”

He pushed on.

“We declare a truce and I give you Clancy.”

Clancy!

I said,

“Clancy?”

He allowed a small smile, said,

“He is in line to be the new police commissioner, the big prize for a cop, but he needs to be...”

Paused.

“Squeaky clean.”

“Is he?”

Tyrone said,

“Clancy likes to portray family values, and his strong moral code will be much praised.”

He took a large envelope out of his jacket, mused,

“What if it were shown such is not the case?”

I said,

“He’d be fucked.”

“Indeed.”

I stared at him, let a silence build. He was one of those who could ride a silence, so I said,

“I’m thinking you want to trade.”

He made a hammer of his hand, said,

“Bingo.”

My shredded hangover fought with my desire to beat the living daylights out of him but I drew a deep breath, waited. He said,

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I give you these...”

Indicating the envelope.

“And we call it quits.”

I said,

“You must believe I had very little regard for my pup.”

He was about to respond then rearranged that, said,

“Wasn’t me did the deed. In fact I vetoed the idea.”

I gave him the look that says,

“Like, seriously?”

Even in my head, it echoed of the U.S. He asked,

“Have we a deal?”

I considered my choices and went for the brazen lie, said,

“Sure, we have a deal.”

The gun was slowly eased into his jacket. He moved toward the door, said,

“I won’t be seeing you, then.”

I nodded.

I waited a beat until he was well gone. I circled the envelope with my fingers, wondering what revelations awaited.

There were four black-and-white prints, A4 size so there was no mistaking the players.

I felt I’d been gut punched, let out a wail of

“Oh, God, no.”

Never made it to the bathroom before I threw up.

Violently.

I sank down on the carpet, muttering,

“Sweet Jesus.”

A pity plea or a prayer?

Does it even matter?

28

To come cap in hand!

In Ireland, that translates as

Begging,

With a suitable amount of groveling and humiliation.

As a nation, we know it all too well.

I said the words aloud as I prepared to meet Anne Henderson.

At the mediocre time of six o’clock.

The time that says,

“You don’t really count.”

In many ways, it was always six o’clock in my life.

’Tis sad but true.

I wore a crisp white shirt with a tie I nicked off a Rotary bollix. My newish 501s, and the scuffed Doc Martens. You never knew when you might need to kick someone in the face.

My Garda jacket, and if I had any cologne I’d have splashed that liberally but, lacking it, I would just have to rely on my old-school charm.

Emphasis on old.

I headed to the Meryck Hotel to meet the former love of my life and is there a sadder sentence than that? There was no rain but the air was heavy, oppressive. The doorman at the hotel, greeted,

“Well, well, the bold Jack Taylor!”

I said,

“At least you didn’t say you heard I was dead.”

Which was more than a frequent greeting. He looked slightly abashed, said,

“I did hear that but I didn’t like to say for fear it isn’t true.”

If that statement makes sense to you, you officially have an Irish mentality.

I took a seat at the rear of the hotel and waited. She arrived suitably late, dressed, if not to impress, then at least to warrant notice. Light navy raincoat over white sweater and blue jeans, flat-soled shoes.

I didn’t merit heels.

She went to bestow one of those air kisses on me and I snapped,

“Seriously?”

She sat with a very small sigh. Like,

“If I had a euro for every cranky man.”

She said,

“You look well, Jack.”

I didn’t return the compliment, asked,

“Are you familiar with the expression cap in hand?”

Stopped her.

Then her face got that peevish expression that screams,

“The fuck is it now?”

She said,

“Jack, I never understood half of what you were muttering about.”

Muttering!

Nice.

I said,

“Thanks for feeling you could share that but, back to the topic, it means to beg.”

She threw her hands up, said,

“Whatever.”

I gave her my second best smile, the one that is driven by malice.

I said,

“You never thought much of my work as an investigator.”

She didn’t leap in, protesting, in fact she said nothing.

The old silent assention.

Never no mind.

I continued in a very quiet, almost soothing tone,

“But what if I know what you want to tell me and...”

Big dramatic pause.

“Might even have the actual help you wish to get?”

She was stunned but disbelieving.

Said,

“I think that would be highly unlikely.”

The waitress came, adding to the nice air of tension, building mightily.

I ordered a Jameson, and Anne, almost desperately, a vodka and slimline tonic.

She went to ask me something and, very annoyingly, I made the shush gesture, let the drinks arrive.

They did.

And she gulped down the vodka without the tonic, slimline or otherwise. I said, sipping at my Jay,

“The rehab centers say more and more women are showing up. They call it the wine factor or indeed perhaps the whine factor.”

She was not amused, snapped,

“Get to it.”

I said,

“You were sleeping with Superintendent Clancy, photos were taken, and said photos now jeopardize his chance to become the police commissioner.”

She was stunned.

I asked,

“Did I miss anything? He sure has a fat arse.”

She did that new gig, crying without tears. You see it on reality TV. She whispered something I couldn’t decipher but I guess it wasn’t So sorry, Jack.

I asked,

“Is that you saying amazing job?”

She sniffled some more, then,

“What do I have to do?”

I could have been nasty, said,

“A blow job for openers.”

I did say,

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

She grasped at this tiny straw, said,

“Oh, Jack, thank you.”

I let that false gratitude hover a wee while, then,

“But Clancy, he has to do something.”

Suspicious,

And more than a little angry, she asked,

“What had you in mind?”

I said,

“To come to me, cap in hand.”

I prompted,

“You do recall at the beginning of our tête-à-tête I explained that expression?”

She gave a deep sigh, eerily reminiscent of my late mother and, God knows, that bitch could sigh for Ireland. She said,

“What does that actually mean in this case?”

I gave her a warm smile, no real warmth but lots of patience. I said,

“He puts on his dress uniform, comes to my door, knocks...”

I paused and, very annoyingly, made the gesture of knocking. Continued.

“Then he whips off his ceremonial hat and, bingo, done deal.”

She stood up, adjusted her coat, gave me a tight cold smile, asked,

“Anything else?”

I acted like I gave it some serious consideration, said,

“Tell him to grovel a little.”

29

Clancy waited two days before he showed up. Early evening, a short knock at my door.

Solid, authoritative.

I let him simmer then opened the door. He wasn’t in uniform. I gave him a look of perplexity, asked,

“Help you?”

He gave a grunt of barely suppressed rage, said,

“Not a time for your usual bullshit.”

And brushed past me.

I weighed my options:

Scream obscenities,

Throw him out,

Shoot him?

Much as I liked the third one, I closed the door, said,

“How have you been?”

Let a beat pass, then,

“Tom?”

He was checking out the room, seeing nothing to impress him. He said, gritted teeth,

“I, um, appreciate you doing this, Jack.”

I shut the door, walked carefully to the chair, sat opposite him, the coffee table between us, and thirty years of bile. I said, with great warmth,

“Glad to be of help.”

And I sat still.

He glanced around, definitely on edge, tried,

“If ever there is anything you need, some special assistance with?”

I let that hum, then asked,

“Like if I hadn’t paid my TV license?”

He gave a tight smile, said,

“Always the smart mouth but, really, if you get in a bind?”

Bind!

I said,

“Bind? Hell of a word.”

Enough fencing.

I reached behind me, produced a large brown envelope, laid it flat on the table. He stared at it, tried,

“Thing between me and Anne, it was simply a fuck and run.”

I bit my lip, managed not to smash his face, said,

“There you go and... off you go.”

He stood, contemplated a hand shake, settled for

“Thanks again.”

And was gone.

Clancy was in his office, the envelope before him. He had shut his door, barked at his secretary,

“No calls.”

He let out a sigh of relief, couldn’t believe it had been so easy. He picked up a gold letter opener, presented to him by the Rotary Club, sliced the top of the package.

Went,

“Huh?”

As he pulled out large blank sheets of paper.

In the middle was a page with black capital letters.

Took him a moment then he read

For once, I did the right thing.

I mailed the photos to Anne. I didn’t want to. In truth I wanted to wound her but I ignored the base instinct and sent them. There was the bonus of Clancy not sending his thugs to collect them from me. After I left the post office I paused to take a moment. A bedraggled busker was hammering

“Galway Girl”

So badly, as if he had a mission to ruin Steve Earle’s song. I walked past him and he muttered,

“Call yerself a patron of the arts?”

I couldn’t think of a witty rejoinder so I gave him ten euros. He looked at it, said,

“Great, I can now retire.”

When buskers on the street abuse you, after you gave them money, something is seriously fucked.

I got back to the apartment and immediately knew there was someone inside. Not that I am psychic but loud music was playing. Sounded like Status Quo. I eased the door open and saw Emily dancing in the middle of the room, singing along with Quo. Trust me, to sing along with them is a feat of dark madness. I found the source, a small player on the bookshelf, turned it off. Emily stood mid — dance step, went,

“You’re not down with the headbangers?”

I didn’t even know what that meant, asked,

“Why are people constantly breaking into my home?”

She giggled, yeah, giggled! Said,

“Because we love you, Jack-o.”

She was dressed in black jeans, white T, and her hair was brightest blond. The whole outfit gave her an almost waif appearance, which might have been appealing if she wasn’t so flat-out crazy. She flopped into a chair, drew a silver flask from her bag, drank deep, did a mock shudder, gasped.

“Fuck, that is good.”

Then looked at me, offered the flask, which I declined. She said,

“Jack me boy, we have us a

    Quandary,

    Quagmire.

Laughed.

Added,

“Well, all sorts of shite beginning with a Q.”

I waited.

She let out a deep dramatic sigh, said,

“One of us has to go.”

I asked,

“I’m thinking it’s not you?”

She did a tiny two-step shuffle, said,

“Exactly. And, logically, I’m prettier and younger, well, just about everyone is younger than you now, save for Bruce Springsteen.”

I asked,

“Where might you suggest I go?”

She seemed to give it some serious thought, then,

“I’m hearing Honduras is lovely this time of year.”

I nearly laughed.

I gave her a long hard stare but she merely smiled back. I asked,

“And if I don’t?”

She did a little jig, spun ’round to face me, said,

“Then, it’s party time.”

I said,

“There is a super cop, some kind of Special Branch guy named

Sheridan, who is gunning for you.”

She echoed,

“Gunning?”

Then,

“How very you.”

She stretched and, I think but I’m not sure, yawned, said,

“I’m off and will see you on...”

Searched for a description, got

“The road to happy destiny!”

As she reached the door, I said,

“I have one major advantage.”

She asked,

“Pray tell?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

30

Doc.

I hadn’t seen him since the pup was killed. I knew his climb of Everest was due very soon. We had once been fairly tight but Emily got in the middle and screwed that.

When he did knock on my door, I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. He asked,

“May I come in?”

I nearly said no. He looked like a down-and-out and his eyes had that bleak despair I had sometimes witnessed in the mirror. I said,

“Okay.”

He had an air of being dazed and his clothes were shabby. This was a guy who always turned out neat and polished. He glanced around the room, asked,

“Where’s the pup?”

Fuck.

I said,

“He ran off.”

He had no reply to this bare statement. Asked,

“Could I get a drink?”

I made him work for it, asked,

“Tea, coffee, or a cool bottle of Galway water?”

I could see the pain in his face and thought,

“Yeah, payback’s a bitch.”

He near cried,

“Something with a kick?”

The temptation to snap,

“Like a twelve-gauge?”

Instead I got the Jameson, poured him a fine wallop, handed it to him. His hand shook like a withered prayer. He asked,

“You not having one?”

Twenty years I waited to say this,

“Bit early for me.”

Oh, the jolt of self-righteousness.

Divine.

He tried not to gulp it but failed and stared into the bottom of the now empty glass. I could have told him there was nothing there even if I still looked into that emptiness every empty day. He said,

“Whoever took my laptop got into my online banking and cleaned me out.”

I said, trying not to inject too much granite in my tone,

“If I recall you told the Guards it was me.”

It was like a lash in his face and his head dipped but I was far from finished, I added,

“Least we both know that level of expertise is beyond me.”

He said,

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

Bit late.

I asked,

“So what do you want?”

In as harsh a sound as that echoes.

He stood up, as if that would help, asked,

“I hate to do this but could you lend me some money?”

Before I could answer, he added,

“I’d pay you back, even add interest.”

I said,

“I could maybe go a hundred.”

He stared at me for a long minute then gave a harsh bitter laugh, said,

“A hundred? A fucking hundred? Are you kidding me? What the fuck would that do? Wouldn’t pay for one fucking day.”

I felt a vague string of rage, not spitting but there. I asked,

“What sort of figure had you in mind?”

He was near trembling with,

With,

Indignation?

He said,

“About ten grand.”

I took a deep breath, said,

“Maybe I should be flattered that you believe I have that kind of dough.”

Dough.

Well, I was a bit thrown. I tried,

“Sorry.”

He looked at me like sorry was the last fucking thing he wanted to hear, said,

“You know people.”

What did that even mean?

I asked,

“What does that even mean?”

He snarled.

“Don’t play fucking coy.”

I tried,

“You think some of the hotshots I have dealt with would give me the bloody time of day?”

He gave a slightly sinister grin, said,

“You have information on a lot of them.”

The whole experience was so bizarre that it took me a moment to grasp the implication, then I near shouted,

“Blackmail?”

For the very first time his English accent emerged fully as he said,

“You Paddies like to soft soap things, so let’s say persuade.”

Before I could savage him, he was on his feet, said,

“Don’t go anywhere, I have something.”

He rushed from my place, across the corridor, and spent about five minutes in his apartment, then back, clutching a large ornate box, put it on the table, opened it, and said,

“Voilà.”

Not sure what I expected but dueling pistols?

I asked,

“You’re challenging me to a duel?”

He nearly smiled, said,

“Those date back to the Crimean War and have been in our family for generations. Not only are they oiled and clean but...”

He paused for the final flourish.

“Fully loaded.”

Seeing my look of utter confusion, he said,

“Pull back the hammer and boom.”

That was clear enough but what wasn’t was why he had them on my coffee table. He said,

“Sell them.”

For fuck’s sake.

“To who, whom?”

He hadn’t completely thought it through but tried,

“Collectors.”

“In Galway, seriously?”

He checked his watch, asked,

“Do you have a train timetable?”

I was way out of patience, said,

“Check your phone.”

“That’s gone, like everything.”

Then he turned and was gone.

31

Sometimes, for no rhyme or reason, we get a beautiful fine day, the sun just splitting the Galway rocks. It made us quite silly. We threw coats and caution to the West of Ireland wind.

Ice cream trucks rushed out of storage and made a rapid killing. Men in shorts, sandals with thick socks paraded their booty with élan. The shocking events of Syria, the Irish Olympic ticket scandal, the 13 billion that Apple owed us in tax all took a breather. Were we bathing in one day of delusion?

You fucking betcha.

I was sitting outside Garavans, a pint before me and my mind in a state of blank verse. I heard something whistle at turbo speed through my hair and then the large window behind me shattered. Way too late to duck, I muttered,

“God almighty.”

My phone buzzed, put it to my ear, heard Em say,

“Shite, missed.”

A beat, then,

“Your turn.”

A man behind me said,

“Freak accident.”

I didn’t say what I knew. A high-velocity bullet.

So she was indeed deadly serious about a duel and then I thought,

“Well, I do have dueling pistols.”

The world was in some dire strait. Trump seemed within an insult of the White House. Aleppo was being bombed mercilessly and a presidential candidate asked,

“What’s Aleppo?”

At home, a respected [sic] father of three children murdered them and his wife

With

A hammer

And

His hands.

Then the piece of shit left a letter arranging how the Guards were to be contacted.

Think that’s bad?

Many papers eulogized him as a

Great

Teacher,

Father,

Community organizer,

Sportsman,

And a guard of honor lined up as his coffin was brought in to the church.

Words fail me.

Mayo and Dublin were in the All-Ireland hurling final. Mayo hoped to finally lay its curse to rest.

What curse?

In 1951, Mayo won the All-Ireland and, returning home to the West in a victorious coach, they did not stop to allow a funeral to pass. The priest (them being the still glory days for the clergy) cursed them, uttering,

“Ye will never win another All-Ireland.”

Only in Ireland.

Nor had they won since.

As I approached my apartment, I wondered what fresh hell awaited me there. Of course my heart sank each time I realized the pup would not be greeting me with his wild and fierce welcome. I swallowed hard as I forced that image from my mind. I opened the door carefully and very slowly, of all the sights I could have envisaged, I never would have hit on what I now saw.

A dragon.

A green carving in balsam wood.

How do I know balsam? It said so on the dragon’s tail. It was about three feet in height and two in length. Truth to tell, it was a stunning piece of work. More impressive, a nigh perfect depiction of a girl on the creature’s back. Beside it was a green envelope. I opened it to find many pages of a letter.

I put the letter down, rage and disbelief fighting for ascendancy. I moved over to the cupboard, took out the Jay, and fast hammered a double shot. Felt it hit like worry and then

The artificial calm. Breathe in and out, then resumed the letter of insanity.

“Did you have to go and grab a drink, Jack-o?”

It was eerie and downright spooky how she could predict my responses.

I read on.

Search la femme and I will admit, the nun, Maeve? She was the very soul of hospitality but, truly, a silly bitch. She bought every line of bullshit I trotted out. I nearly offed her there and then and, get this, you’ll laugh (if not yer actual ha ha), she gave me a rosary. You think it would be ironically religious if I strangled her with them there beads (South Carolina accent here; pay attention!)?

Would killing a nun merit a special fire in hell and, make no mistake, mister, you and me are hell-bent. I love you Jack, moi coeur, but you have become a distraction and, let’s be honest, a tiny bit boring and, while we’re deep sharing here, fellah, what is the fucking deal with the dogs? I mean seriously? To lose one, okay, no harm, no foul, and tragic and all that good shite, but two, c’mon, what’s that about?

Deep sigh here my alky friend, can you hear it, like a cry dredged up from the pit of an emerald soul. I gotta fly so get your fucking act together and do something. Don’t be a whiny arse all your wasted life. One last memo afore I go. You look at the green dragon and listen up! It’s Emerald you stupid bollix.

Yours in infamy,

Em.

Xxxxxxxxxx

P.S. Did you get the lit references to

Joyce,

Kafka,

Rilke,

South Park?

32

Sister Maeve had been in my life for over a decade. And, oddly enough, we hadn’t become enemies. She had once enlisted my help in Church matters and per usual I muddled through, not doing a whole lot but not really causing a whole lot of damage, either. She was the outreach for the Poor Clares and if she were the face of a new church, it might yet survive. She had a sweet tooth and loved few things more than Black Forest gâteau. I liked her a lot.

En route to warn her about Emily, I stopped at Griffin’s Bakery, which specialized in a wonderful bread called the grinder. Sounds like a euphemism for Trump, who had been mercilessly skewed by the brilliant Alec Baldwin on SNL. A line had already formed for grinders.

Such was their word-of-mouth fame.

I thought about the perfect pint:

Hold the glass at 45-degree angle

     Pour slowly

To halfway

Stop

Go for a smoke

Return and fill

Let sit

For the head to form

Voilà!

The papers screamed not of

Aleppo,

Or

Trump,

Or even

The looming Guards strike.

No.

Kim flaming Kardashian.

You believe it?

Robbed, bound and gagged, in her exclusive Paris apartment.

Of ten million in jewels.

Her bodyguard was away in a nightclub. Whatever else you thought about clan Kardashian and, God knows, one tried to think nothing at all, you had to admit to Kim’s ability to make money. Okay, so she made it by showing every bit of her bod in every possible way but, fuck, last year she made sixty-five million.

Yeah, read that and freaking weep.

If you want to know what God thinks of money, look at who he gave it to. Young girls didn’t want to be Hillary Clinton (God forbid) or Katie Hopkins; they wanted the Twitter/Instagram fame of a vacuous Kardashian.

Woe is indeed fucking us.

Big time.

And I was going to visit a nun.

From

  A

   Kardashian

    To

     A

      Nun.

From

  A

   Jack

    To

     A

      King.

Big hit when I was a kid.

Like a bad title for a bad Lifetime Channel movie.

I walked the William Joyce route.

Infamous during the Second World War as the voice of Nazi propaganda.

Known as Lord Haw-Haw.

The night before the British hanged him, he wrote,

My Dear Margaret

I am anxious that you should

Go to Galway and see the docks,

Long Walk,

O’Brien’s Bridge,

Nile Lodge,

Taylor’s Hill,

Lenaboy Castle on the Corrib,

But, above all,

The stretch from Salthill to Blackrock

The promenade where we used to live behind.

As I reached Sister Maeve’s small house I didn’t realize that over the years I had

Dangerously

Recklessly

Missed the point.

But now

I had missed the play.

Mystery writers like to utilize misdirection. I had not only

Been misled but played, as British novelists say,

Like a sap.

Sister Maeve opened her door with

“Oh, the Lord sent you.”

I thought,

Probably not the Lord.

She wrapped me in a warm Galway hug and, take my battered word, you have never really been hugged until a nun grabs you. Then she stood back, surveyed me, said,

“Come in and have tea.”

I went into her spotless living room, and she indicated the comfortable chair. I handed over a box of Black Forest and a bottle of Baileys and she literally cooed with delight, though protesting,

“You shouldn’t have, you lovely man.”

Me and lovely have rarely inhabited the same sentence. She opened the Black Forest box and swooned.

“These are a wicked temptation.”

She made tea and put the treats on a dainty plate. Then sat, looked right at me, said,

“You have a gorgeous daughter.”

Fuck

  Sweet

   Fuck

    Again.

I had come to warn her of the danger of Emily and now what?

“Oh, by the way, my daughter is going to kill you!”

Yeah, that would fly.

Maeve put her cup down, rose and went to the cupboard, took out a heavy large crucifix, said,

“Your girl gave me this.”

There was a question lurking in there so I waited as she handed me the cross. She said,

“It is a beautiful piece but odd.”

I echoed,

“Odd?”

“Yes, see how the figure of Christ is huddled to the left, leaving a space almost vacant to the right.”

Indeed, the figure seemed to be almost cowering away to the left. I said,

“It is certainly...”

Searched for a less threatening description and gave

“Different.”

Maeve had a tiny smile in play, as if she shouldn’t be amused, then,

“Your girl said she wanted to leave room for you on the cross.”

I had to say it, said,

“Please don’t allow that girl...”

Pause.

“Into your home again.”

Maeve was pouring more tea. I was sick of tea and wanted to wallop a large Jameson. Wouldn’t even need the black pint as outrider. She sat down, folded her hands in that quiet manner that nuns learn at nun school, said,

“Emily has professed a wish to pursue a vocation.”

Fuck.

I nearly shouted,

“As what, a clerical hit person?”

I said,

“She is seriously disturbed. She needs locking up but not in a convent.”

Another thin smile, then,

“Emily said you would not react well as your love and over-protection would manifest itself.”

I shook my head, stood up, said,

“Just be careful.”

Maeve stood and gave me a tight hug, said,

“I have a sister.”

WTF?

How was this relevant to friggin’ anything?

I said, hard leaking over my tone,

“How nice!”

She tut-tutted, a pretty annoying sound in truth, then,

“She has been living in America and is now coming home.”

Again, like how absolutely fucking fascinating.

I tried,

“Great.”

Maeve still had me in a half hug, said,

“Would you like to meet her?”

Couldn’t help myself, blurted

“Like, a date?”

I swear, she blushed, said,

“It’s not good for you to be alone.”

I said,

“Sure, let’s do that.”

Thinking hell would freeze over many Irish times before that.

As I finally made my escape, she touched my arm, said,

“There are ghosts all over this city, Jack.”

What?

I said,

“What?”

She looked real sad, said,

“You have the air of a haunted man and the ghosts of the past seem to dog your steps. Please look to the light.”

I nearly laughed, asked,

“The light? And where exactly would that be?”

“Oh, Jack, the light is all about you. Just ask for God’s hand.”

I was in Garavans in jig time, double Jay and black before me. I warned the barman,

“Don’t even think of talking to me.”

He muttered something like,

“Who the fuck ate your cake?”

I could have said,

“I don’t do cake.”

But I said nothing.

Nothing at all.

33

I went to a little-frequented pub off the docks. Not the one where I go to purchase guns but the one you go for solitude. I had a lot to be solitary about.

Emily’s friend Hayden, the young kid who literally ran me over. I had his address so did I go and punch his ticket?

And when,

Fucking when?

Did I take Emily off the board my own self?

What was it that prevented me from dealing with her? It was as if she was the one friend/enemy/ally who kept me tenuously connected to life.

Makes no sense, Christ above, I know that.

As I downed my first Black pint and Jay chaser, I muttered to myself and, oh, sweet Lord, as if invoking the wrath of the fates, said this,

“What does she have to do that finally stirs me to action?”

Be real careful what you mutter. It’s not always the force of light that is listening.

The pub was so far under the radar that you could light a cig and nobody gave a good fuck.

Too, this pub was infamous for its reputation for ghosts.

Yup, ghosts.

It was said the souls of the despaired linger on here after closing time.

To my left, wreathed in smoke, was a dark figure, putting back single brandies like time had run out.

Maybe it had.

Years ago, I had encountered an ex-exorcist in this very place and he had affected me to my very core. Peering closer, I realized with a jolt that it was the same man.

Jesus wept, and the man was staring at me, so I raised the Jameson, said,

“Slainte a match.”

His face was so lined, you could plant spuds there. Not so much lived in as squatted in.

He gave a rueful smile, asked,

“Care to join me, Jack?”

I did.

Saw he had his own bottle of booze under the table, he saw me glance at it, asked,

“You ever eat Kettle crisps?”

WTF?

I said,

“I’m old school. It’s Tayto for me.”

That seemed to trigger a memory for him and he gave a wide smile. The change made him look like a warm, compassionate human being. He said,

“Reason I ask is the owner of said crisps sold the company for a zillion dollars and then he produced his own vodka, made purely from the humble spud, and it won the best vodka of the year 2015. It is so pure you don’t get a hangover.”

I seriously doubted that but what the hell, if it worked for him!

He said,

“Called Chase.”

I said, without thinking,

“As in, cut to the?”

Again that smile.

I said,

“I’m sorry but I forgot your name.”

Dark cloud danced across his eyes. He near spat,

“Legion.”

Then he not so much smiled as grimaced. There was something way off about him. Previously, though I remembered him as deeply wounded, truly damaged, there was a warmth in him, made all the more appealing by his very shattered heart.

Now, he reeked of a sly maliciousness, a meanness that lit his mouth like a nasty knife gash.

He said,

“Here, they call me Jacob or...”

And here he tittered.

(If you have ever heard tittering, then you know it is really appalling.)

Continued,

“They call me Father Jacob when they want to borrow money or even when...”

Pause.

Then snigger.

“They want a blessing.”

The idea of blessing seemed to cause him huge mirth. What the fuck ever, I had enough, and said,

“Bhi curamach”— Be careful.

He stared right at me, said,

“I switched sides.”

I didn’t want to know, said,

“Right, good luck with that.”

He suddenly trembled, intoned,

“You have the death of the young girls on your dirty soul.”

Uttered with such ferocity that I reeled back, managed,

“One. One little girl, Serena May.”

He cackled.

I got the fuck away from him. At the door I felt a whoosh of wind and turned back to see him hold up two fingers and mouth

“Two.”

Months later, I watched the TV series based on The Exorcist. There is a scene where the embattled priest Marcus shouts at the demon in an old crone’s body,

“I compel you in the name of Our Lord to leave this woman’s body.”

There is a moment as the woman is silent then the eyes flash open and a deep voice sneers,

“Do I seem compelled?”

The voice sounded eerily like Jacob.

Or, indeed, Father Jacob.

If

You are in need of a dark blessing.

34

I took the decision to rest up.

Had Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s load me with books:

The Hermit, Thomas Rydahl,

The Drifter by Nicholas Petrie,

Anything by Jason Starr and Hilary Davidson.

For viewing,

I had

HBO, The Night of,

The Australian series,

Glitch,

The brilliant Spotless,

Final episode of The Fall for the shocking violence, which sang to the seething menace of my heart.

And of course the heresy of bottled stout,

And bottles of Jay.

Pack of Red Marlboro if the nicotine raises its alluring head,

And was all set when the doorbell rang.

Fuck

  And sweet

     Fuck again.

Sheridan, the super cop.

Bearing all kinds of biblical bad news.

Like this.

He was dressed in a brown duster like Kevin Costner in Tombstone.

Had the stones to pull it off. Black 501s in way better shape than mine, a “Granddad” sparkling white T-shirt, and those fine boots he’d sported before. Around his neck was a Cimino scarf.

Somehow I seriously doubted he walked the spiritual path. He pushed past me, said,

“Get us some booze, partner. We sure as shit are gonna need it.”

I was mildly amused as opposed to homicidal, which is always a relief. I asked,

“You channeling the Old West?”

He asked,

“Like it?”

I think he meant the outfit, so I said,

“A shade Village People.”

He laughed and I remembered he did that a lot yet never seemed amused. He said,

“And you, my friend, are still doing the homeless attire.”

Touché.

I poured us two healthy Jays and waited.

He launched,

“Your neighbor, Doc? Took the express train from Dublin.”

From?

I asked,

“From?”

He downed the Jay, gulped, said,

“Sorry, under.”

WTF?

He saw my shocked face, put up his hand, cautioned,

“Whoa, don’t get into the drama just yet, there’s more.”

I sat, shock lashing at my heart, nodded.

He said,

“That old girlfriend of yours.”

Paused.

Took out a notebook, read,

“Anne Henderson?”

I hung my head in horror and he continued,

“Yeah, Annie took the long swim on the small beach beside Renmore Barracks. Renmore? That’s how you guys pronounce it, am I right?”

He lit a cig from a soft pack of Camels, blew a near perfect ring, then said as he removed a tobacco bit from his lip,

“Here’s the weird thing, Jackie. She left her clothes neatly folded on the sand with a green emerald on top.”

Drew long on the cig, then,

“Probably fake. The stone I mean, you think?”

35

I went to the Protestant church and, feeling alien there, I pondered revenge.

I thought of

Anne

The pup

Doc

Ridge.

Especially Ridge.

And all the grief lashed upon my life.

I could as the Yanks say

Suck it up.

Turn the other cheek and thus be a humble and better person.

Fuck that.

I could embrace the darkness and wreak havoc on them all.

Later in the day, I met with a notorious psycho/arms dealer who owed me for a serious favor I had done for him years ago. I handed him two names:

Alexander Knox-Keaton,

Joe Tyrone.

I told him,

“Make them suffer first.”

The others?

Oh, they required a personal touch.

I shot Hayden in the back of the head.

I went to his address at 18, Mansfield Road.

Piece of shit lock on the door and any noise I made was drowned by a crashing din from his front living room. He was sprawled on a sofa, a bong in his hand and numerous cans of special brew strewn on the floor. He was watching the video game

Mafia 3.

How’d an old goat like me know that?

I read the cover.

I stood behind him, visions of the love of my life, Anne, dead in the cold water of the Renmore inlet. I put the gun right against his skull,

Pulled the trigger.

Said

“Game over.”

I used my phone to take his picture with the gem showing clearly, sent it to Emily with the text

“Game on.”

Emily was waiting in my apartment, dressed like Cat Woman, a cig trailing smoke in her left hand and one of the dueling pistols in her right. She for the first time said not one word.

I picked up the other pistol, said,

“Here are the rules of the duel.”

Shot her in the face.

Said,

“I lied.

  There

   Are

    No

     Rules.”

36

You’d think I would have sunk into a sodden mire of depression and guilt.

Right?

Nope.

I hit a time of utter joy and near love.

Sister Maeve’s sister, home from America, contacted me,

And,

Lo and fucking behold,

She was gorgeous and lovely and all sorts of unbelievable things.

Sweet Lord above.

I was near delirious with anticipation and expectancy and the endless possibilities.

Two weeks into this,

We were having dinner in the Galleon, the sound of the Atlantic Ocean right outside the window. We were toasting our crazy new love when a man approached.

Picked up my lady’s glass of red wine,

And threw it in my face.

Snarled,

“You piece of shit, what did you say to my daughter?”

I realized he was the father of Lorna Dunphy, the unbalanced girl who had harassed me to find her nonexistent brother.

He saw the recognition cross my face and then he spat in my eyes, roared,

“Yeah, my beloved angel hung herself from that tree in Barna Woods.”

Call it shock but in my peripheral vision, through the plate glass window, I saw them come as if from the ocean itself.

Line

On

Line,

Silent

And accusing,

The Ghosts of...

I recalled the ex-exorcist priest Father Jacob, saying,

“Two girls.”

His fingers held up when I looked back. His sneer above two raised fingers.

His satanic laughter echoing from Barna Woods to

The shore of Salthill.

A fitting end.