The Killing of the Tinkers

Another day of hibernation. On the radio for some reason they’re playing an interview with Muhammad Ali. I’m only half listening till,

“The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.”

I’m turning that sucker over.

Jesus.

Figuring it’s time to return to crime, bookwise anyway. I get stuck into Lawerence Block; have to speed-read him as Matt Scudder, his hero, speaks at length about recovery from alcoholism. Thin ice at its thinnest. Worse, at one stage, he describes the difference between an alcoholic and a junkie. With the cloud of speed, coke over me and a bottle of poitín in the cupboard, I’m between that rock and a hard place. Am I ever? Phew-oh. He writes:

“Show a stone junkie the Garden of Eden and he’ll say he wants it dark and cold and miserable. And he wants to be the only one there.”

I stood up, got a cig, I was not enjoying this passage. Put on Johnny Duhan’s Flame. The perfect album for my fragmented state. By the third track, I’m easing down, said,

“OK.”

And went back to Block.

“The difference between the drunk and the junkie is the drunk will steal your wallet. So will the junkie, but then he’ll help you look for it.”

I put the book aside, said,

“Enough, time to go out.”

And out I went, more’s the Irish pity.

Passing the GBC I thought of my last meeting there with Keegan. On that whim, I went in, got a double cappuccino and an almond croissant. Asked the assistant,

“Don’t put sprinkle on.”

She was amazed, said,

“How can you drink it without that?”

“With great relish, OK?”

Took a window seat, let the world cruise by. Cut a wedge of the croissant and began to chew. Good? It was heaven. Helped distance the coke craving. A woman approached, said,

“You’re Jack Taylor.”

Mid bite, I managed,

“Yes.”

“Might I have a minute?”

“OK.”

She was late fifties but well-preserved. Wearing the sort of suit popularised by Maggie Thatcher. Which told me one thing: “Pay attention.” She sat, fixed me with a steady gaze, asked,

“Do you know me?”

“No, no, I don’t.”

“Mrs Nealon, Laura’s mother.”

I put out my hand and she gave it a scornful glance, said,

“We’re in the same age bracket, wouldn’t you say?”

The froth on my coffee was disappearing. I tried for the light touch, said,

“Give or take ten years.”

Bad idea. She launched,

“I hardly think Laura’s in your range, do you?”

“Mrs Nealon, it isn’t a serious thing.”

Her eyes flashed.

“How dare you? My daughter is besotted.”

“I think you’re overstating it.”

She stood up, her voice loud.

“Leave her alone, you dirty lecher.”

And stormed out.

All eyes in the place on me, high with recrimination. I looked at the pastry, curling in on itself, thought,

“Too sweet really.”

The cappuccino had wasted away entirely.

As I slunk out of there, I remembered a line of Borges that Kiki was fond of quoting:

“Waking up, if only morning meant oblivion.”

Tried to tell myself the old Galwegian line:

“The GBC is for country people. Them and commercial travellers.”

Would it fly? Would it fuck.

Rang Laura, who exclaimed,

“You’re better.”

“What?”

“Your flu, it’s gone.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m so happy. I bought you a get-well card, it has Snoopy on the front, and I don’t even know if you like him. Oh Jack, there’s so much I’m dying to know about you. I’ll come over right now.”

“Laura…I…um…listen…I won’t be seeing you.”

“You mean today?”

“Today and…every other day.”

“Why, Jack? Did I do something wrong? Did I…”

I had to cut this, said,

“I’ve met someone else.”

“Oh God, is she lovely?”

“She’s older.”

And I hung up.

Lord knows, feeling bad is the skin I’ve worn almost all my life. Standing there, the dead phone in my hand, I plunged new depths. Walked to the cupboard, took out the poitín and the doorbell went. I said,

“Fuck.”

Stomped out and tore the door open. It was Brendan Flood, ex-garda, religious nut, information grand master. Through gritted teeth, I said,

“I gave at the office.”

Took him a minute, then,

“I’m not begging.”

I moved past him, examined the door. He looked at me questioningly. I said,

“Thought maybe there was a sign here that read ‘Assholes Convention’.”

Went inside, showed him into the living room. The poitín was neon lit in the kitchen. I gestured to the sofa and he sat. He had a battered briefcase which he placed on his knees. He said,

“You look better, Jack.”

“Clean living.”

“Our prayers are working, alleluia.”

“What do you want?”

He opened the briefcase, began to sort through papers, said,

“You’ll know about forensic psychology.”

“Not much.”

“Despite the guards’ lack of interest in the killing of those young men, a forensics man was sufficiently intrigued to make his own study.”

“On all the bodies?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s writing a book.”

“And you know him…how?”

“He’s in our prayer group.”

“Of course.”

“Here’s what he found.”

The killer is male, early thirties. A batchelor, only child. Very high IQ. A craftsman. Drives a van that’s been refitted. As a child, he’d have killed or tortured animals. Learnt early to cover himself. Growing up, he’d have had minor skirmishes with the law but learn from each mistake. At some stage, he’d have attempted a serious assault on another male. You meet him, he’s polite, speaks well, educated but he feels nothing. He’s simply not there. Remorse is alien to him. His characteristics are grandiosity and hidden hostility. The psychiatric heading is a narcissistic personality disorder and poor impulse control. Violence is inevitable. Sexual gratification comes with the first kill. He will then be unable to stop.

Flood stopped, asked,

“Could I have a glass of water, please?”

For all the world like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws. I got the water, toyed with the idea of a poitín spike, but let it go. As I handed him the water, his hand shook. I said,

“Jeez, this shit really gets to you.”

“Please don’t swear. Yes, evil deeply disturbs me.”

I sat, lit a cig, said,

“Highly impressive, but it amounts to what? I already know who the killer is.”

He drank deep of the water, gulped, said,

“Ah, Mr Bryson. That’s why I’m here. I’m not sure he fits the profile.”

“Profile, bollocks. Where do you think you are? Quantico? Wake up. You’re an ex-guard with no future, playing at detection. Believe me, I know how sad it gets. You pray, I drink, and may someone have mercy on our miserable souls.”

He was stunned by my outburst. Sat back in the sofa as if I’d hit him. In a sense, I had. A few moments before he spoke, then,

“I didn’t realise the depth of your bitterness. I am sorry for your despair.”

“Whoa, Flood, back up. I don’t want your sorrow.”

He took a deep breath, said,

“Jack, these assessments are uncanny in their accuracy.”

“So?”

“If it’s Bryson, he wouldn’t have run.”

I stood, said,

“It’s him.”

He stood, pleaded,

“Jack, listen please. You have that friend, the English policeman, get him to check the background on Bryson, see if it matches the profile.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Jack!”

I showed him the door, said,

“Tell your friend I’ll buy the book.”

“You have a hard heart, Jack Taylor.”

“So they tell me.”

And I shut the door.

The phone rang continuously that afternoon. I could care. I was the other side of Roscommon’s finest.