The Magdalen Martyrs

During the endless sessions of rosaries and prayers at the Magdalen, in the days before it finally closed, the girls thought of but one thing: they thought of a day when they’d be able to have a space to breathe and associate beads with something other than punishment. When they finally left the laundry, the deliverance never truly came as, to a person, for the rest of their days, they’d link the rosary to torture.

His accent was Dublin. I’d done enough duty there to know it. I said,

“Southside?”

“Yes... are you a Dub?”

“No.”

He mopped at his brow, said,

“It’s my first time in Galway.”

“How do you like it so far?”

He smiled, more due to the cure than anything else, said,

“I’m Danny Flynn.”

“So... what did you do, Danny?”

A bewildered light in his eyes, he said,

“I don’t know. I came down for a stag night... in Quay Street... you know?”

“I know it.”

“Jeez, I’m forty-six, I’m too old for stag parties, too old for this.”

I brought out the sandwiches, said,

“Feel up to some food?”

“What you’ve got there... a shop? No thanks. I haven’t eaten for days. I remember going into Freeney’s. I can remember the name and then... zip. I’ve had blackouts before. You know what they are?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve lost some years myself.”

“I’ve tried all the ways to stop. I go for a time on the dry, then bang.”

He said,

“I could manage a cigarette now.”

How could I let it slide, said,

“That’s the beast... accuse it of malice.”

I gave him the cigarette, the lighter, and he said,

“Yeah, fucking right.”

I yawned and said,

“I’m going to see if I can grab a few hours. Why don’t you try, too.”

I passed over the bottle, said,

“Take it slow, maybe sneak up on sleep.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

I lay on my back, fatigue flowing over me. I was about to nod off when,

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“This is going to sound strange.”

“I can do strange.”

He gave a laugh, said,

“I’m not sure I can say it right.”

“Just spit it out. Nobody here keeping score.”

“OK, here goes. I feel safe, isn’t that nuts? I mean, I’m in jail, with a stranger, facing God knows what trouble, but I don’t have the sense of dread that I usually have.”

“Probably the whiskey.”

“No, booze makes me numb. Not numb enough to cancel the fear, alas. Here, the last hour or so, I’m OK.”

“Enjoy it.”

“What?”

“If you have some peace, grab it for all it’s worth. My trouble has always been, if I got some grace, I analysed it to death.”

“I’ll do that. Good night, Jack.”

“Yeah.”

Much more and we’d have sounded like a jailhouse Waltons.

I was woken by the cell door being unlocked by a guard with a tray; took me a minute to orientate. Not that I think you can ever do that in a cell. It’s going to be a constant shock. He said,

“Court at nine.”

I nodded. On the tray were tea, porridge and toast. Could be worse. I tried some, then it dawned on me.

Where was Danny’s tray? Where was Danny?

His bunk was rolled up, no sign of occupancy. How early had they moved him, and why hadn’t he woken me? I looked under my pillow. The whiskey was there and half full. Checked my pockets, found the cigarettes and lighter. I couldn’t figure it, but this was my first jail time, how much could I know?

When the guard came back, I asked,

“What happened to Danny?”

“Who?”

I indicated his bunk, said,

“The other guy... he’s from Dublin.”

He stared at me, asked,

“Are you in the jigs?”

“No, I’m serious. He was here. Maybe you weren’t on duty.”

He continued to stare, then,

“I don’t know what your problem is. You’ve had the cell to yourself. In the book, it’s down as single occupancy.”

Then a bitter laugh.

“If it was the weekend, you’d be jammed to the rafters.”

I let it go. So they were fucking with my head, had to be. I recalled the priest, Fr Tom, at the cathedral. The nun telling me, there was no such person. Was this a similar deal, my mind finally gone? Played it over and over till two guards appeared, said,

“Time to go.”

I didn’t mention Danny.

I’d expected to be brought in the prison van. They used the squad car. The court was busy. Barristers, guards, clerks milling about. I was brought into the court, placed beside a line of subdued men. Ages ranged from late teens to me. Nobody spoke and there was no sense of brothers in adversity. A man detached himself from the other side of the room, strolled over. He had to be a barrister; it leaked from him. He leaned over the rail, asked,

“Jack Taylor?”

I nodded, and he said,

“Brian Casey. I’m representing you.”

Before I could answer, the judge entered and proceedings began. I was number three on the docket. When I was called, the judge listened to the charge.

“Assault and battery. Wilful destruction of public property. Reckless endangerment.”

The guards objected to bail. Hearing that, my stomach churned. The thought of not getting out was terrifying. My barrister squared up, said,

“My client is well known in the community, with deep roots and ties to his home town. He has been mentioned many times in the local press for his service to the city.”

He droned on about my outstanding character. I had no idea who he was talking about.

The judge finally cut him off, set a trial date for three months hence and granted bail on a large warranty. Then he called,

“Next.”

Carey came over, all smiles, said,

“That’s it.”

“But the bail?”

“I’ve been instructed to take care of that. Off you go. I’ll be in touch.”

I had a ton of questions but most wanted to get the hell away from there. I couldn’t believe I was actually free. Outside the courthouse, I lit a cig, my hands trembling. Began to move down the steps, heard,

“Morning, Jack.”

Leaning against one of the pillars was Kirsten. Dressed in a navy blue power suit. Dressed for business. She walked towards me, said,

“Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

All my previous resolutions vanished. A night in jail makes you grab for any warmth, and she sure sounded warm. I said,

“Sure.”

Went to a new place in Woodquay. The owner was Italian, seemed thrilled to see us, went,

“Buon giorno.”

Kirsten grimaced, said,

“Whatever.”

He ushered us to a window table, beamed,

“Watch the world go by.”

Kirsten touched my hand, said,

“You’ll need something substantial.”

“Bail was substantial enough.”

She turned to the man, said,

“Espresso, twice.”

Then she released my hand, asked,

“Was it... what’s the term... hard time?”

“I think I hallucinated.”

“Wonderful. See anything interesting?”

As if I’d been to the movies, I said,

“What it was, was sad.”

“Did you mark the days off on the wall, pin up girlie photos?”

“You arranged the lawyer?”

“And bail.”

“I owe you.”

She ran her hand through her hair, then,

“You owe me big time.”

No denying that.

The coffee came. She took a sip, said,

“Mmmmm, authentic.”

I reached for my cigs, and she said,

“Light two.”

“You’re smoking now?”

“I like to revisit all my vices.”

She took one drag, stubbed it out, said,

“The guy you hit, I know him.”

“Oh.”

“A little pressure and he could be persuaded to drop the charges.”

“I doubt if he will.”

She tilted her head, said,

“You really don’t understand how things work, do you,Jack?”

“Probably not.”

She tapped a fingernail against her cup. Light enamel on the nail caught the reflection from the window. She asked,

“You know what a cluster fuck is, Jack?”

As before, the ease with which she swore took me blindside. I had to wait a moment before I answered.

“I could take a guess.”

“I thought you might. In case you’re not sure, it’s what you get when you piss off a group of powerful people. You seem to have a knack of doing that. Tourism is a vital part of our city’s income, and if you dredge up past shame, you throw a shadow over the whole deal.”

I drank some of the coffee. She was right, it was great. I asked,

“How did you know I was in jail?”

“The grapevine. I thought you’d need help.”

“Let me see if I have it right. If I drop certain investigations... the Magdalen, yours... I’ll be all right.”

She gave her radiant smile.

“Exactly.”

I stood, said,

“Thanks for the coffee.”

As I left the cafe, the owner said,

“Ciao.”

I didn’t answer him. It wasn’t my day for fostering European unity. As I walked up Eyre Street, coming to Roches, I didn’t meet a soul I knew. Not that there weren’t people. The paths were crowded. Galway had become a city. As a child, if I walked down the town, I knew every single person. Not only that, I knew all belonging to them.

Part of me welcomed the new anonymity, but I felt something had been lost. Not so much familiarity, more a comforting intimacy. Finally a man said,

“Jack?”

A guy I’d gone to school with. Jeez, how long ago was that? I guessed,

“Sean?”

It must have been correct, as he shook my hand, said,

“The last time I saw you, you were going to be a guard.”

I was tempted to say,

“And you had hair... teeth.”

But he was friendly, and that was vital right then. I asked,

“How have you been?”

He considered, then,

“I was in hospital.”

“Oh.”

“It’s full of non-nationals.”

“What have they got?”

“Mainly medical cards.”

I smiled at the casual racism. He wasn’t sure which side of a liberal fence I was on, so he ventured,

“Beds are scarce. You leave it, you lose it.”

“And now... how are you?”

“Middling.”

This is a classic Irish answer. It shows they’re not complaining, yet leaves the door open for any sympathy that might be on offer. He studied me, asked,

“What happened to the suit?”

I checked the tear, which seemed to have grown, said,

“A difference of opinion.”

He gave the mandatory expression of pain, said,

“They took out my stomach last year.”

“They” could be... muggers, passers-by, doctors.

I nodded as if it made any sense. He said,

“You know what’s the hardest thing?”

God knows, various answers came, but I decided not to run with them. Instead,

“I don’t.”

“Chips and chocolate. I was a hoor for them.”

“They’re a loss.”

“Fierce. I could murder a plate of chips and vinegar, then the king size bar of milk chocolate.”

He looked totally desolate, then,

“Course I have my prayers.”

“You do?”

“I’d be lost without them.”

He looked toward the Square, said,

“There’s my bus.”

“You take care.”

“I will, Jack. Eat a bag of chips for me.”

As I watched him walk away, I felt a yearning for a simpler era. Not that I’d ever keep it simple. No matter how plain sailing it might have got, I’d manage to complicate it. Alcoholics patented the concept of snatching defeat from any glimmer of victory. Lit a cig, and a passing woman said,

“Them yokes will kill you.”

“They’ll have to stand in line.”

When I got to the hotel, Mrs Dailey came out from reception, said,

“You’ve been in the wars.”

“I have.”

“Give me that jacket, I’ll put a stitch in.”

“There’s no need.”

“And what, you’re going to walk around like a vagrant?”

It was easier to concede. I took the jacket off, handed it over. She examined the cloth, tut-tutted, said,

“They get away with murder.”

I left her muttering. Upstairs, I went straight to my stash, got two heavy duty pills, took them fast. I wanted a shower so bad I could scream. First, I rummaged round, found the ban garda’s number, dialled. A few minutes, then,

“Hello?”

“Ridge, it’s Jack Taylor.”

“Oh, I didn’t expect you to call.”

“Me either. You said you wanted to help.”

“I do.”

“OK. Ru n background on Mrs Kirsten Boyle. Lives in Taylor’s Hill. Her husband died recently.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who she is.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

Click.

Jeez, she was a tough girl to like. I lay back on the bed, thought,

“I’ll grab that shower in a minute.”

Slept until late evening. My dreams were vivid. Saw my father with his head hung in shame. Saw the love of my life, Ann Henderson, walking away and heard Danny Flynn say,

“I’m safe.”

Like I said... vivid.

It took me two days to find Dill Cassell. His usual haunt, Sweeney’s, remained closed. I trawled through Galway’s late night pubs, hearing a word here, a hint there. He was not some-body people were comfortable talking about.

Since Casey, his bodyguard, was shot, he hadn’t been seen either. Now I learnt he was in Belfast, having his knee rebuilt. The experts in such injuries are there. If you want information and fast, pay for it,

I did.

Found lots of information, including a special piece of Bill’s family history that I knew I could use to manipulate him. I never expected to find this; it just turned up in my search.

Tracked down the barman who’d tended Sweeney’s. He was a bouncer at a club in Eglington Street. When I finally caught up with him, he was on his break, having a drink at the bar. I said,

“How you doing?”

“Fuck off.”

“You know me?”

He didn’t even look at me, said,

“I don’t care who you are, fuck off.”

“Want some money?”

Now he looked, said,

“Taylor... yeah, I remember you.”

“So, do you want the money or not?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Tell me where Bill Cassell is.”

I showed him the wad of money. He drained his glass, belched, then massaged his beer gut, said,

“Sure, I can tell you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Bill’s in the hospice. The cancer is in the last stages. Old Bill won’t be coming back.”

I handed over the money, said,

“You don’t sound too sorry.”

“For him? Good fucking riddance. His strong arm guy, he got shot in the knee.”

“Who shot him?”

“Some fuck with a bad aim.”

“Bad?”

“Yeah, he should have blown his head off.”

He stood up, said,

“I have to go back to work, crack some skulls.”

I went to the hospice early in the morning. Had rung first to confirm he was there and to establish visiting hours. You’d expect it to be a dark, depressing place.

It wasn’t.

Full of light, bright colours and warm, cheerful staff. When I asked at reception for Bill, the woman smiled, said,

“You’re here to visit?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

I was carrying flowers, chocolates, fruit and lucozade: all the ingredients of bad karma. We stopped at a bright blue door and she knocked. We heard,

“Come in.”

She said,

“I’ll leave you to surprise him.”

“I intend to.”

I opened the door. At first I couldn’t see him, then realised it was because he’d wasted away to such a degree. His head propped on the pillow was almost transparent. The eyes retained their ferocity.

Wilde said,

“Put a man in a mask, and he’ll tell you the truth.”

I was hoping a hospital bed might have the same effect. I crossed the room, moved the wastebasket with my foot, let the goodies crash into it, said,

“What, you thought that I brought them for you?”

Moved right up to him, caught the front of his pyjamas in my left hand. He weighed nothing. With my right fist, I punched him twice in the side of his head.

Hard solid blows.

The ferocity slipped from his eyes to be replaced by shock. I doubt if any one had ever touched him in his adult life. I let go and he fell back. I pulled up a chair, took out my cigs, said,

“Don’t suppose they like smoking?”

Lit up.

Gradually, his focus returned, and I said,

“Tell me about Rita Monroe.”

His breath came in laboured gasps as he began,

“She was the bitch from hell. Delighted in tormenting the Magdalen girls. Used to make my mother stand outside wrapped in wet sheets. Shaved their hair off, plus the daily beatings and starvation. Her favourite trick was to stand my mother in boiling water to burn the evil out!”

“Who killed her nephews?”

He gave a tight smile,

“How would I know? But if you wanted to torture somebody, really make them suffer, then take away what they love most. She’d no family, but I hear she adored those boys. I had hoped to meet her face to face, ask her how it felt.”

He indicated his situation, said,

“As you can see, I’m otherwise engaged.”

“You turned my room over?”

“Me?... though I hear you’re still at Bailey’s.”

“And the break-ins at her house?”

“Again, I wouldn’t know. I like the suggestion, get her nice and shaky for the main event.”

I pushed the chair back. He didn’t flinch, said,

“What? You’re going to beat me to death. You’d be doing me a favour. Another week, I’ll be dead anyway. You wonder why I employed you? You see, I needed a witness. I could have found that cunt any time. You see how easy it was to locate the nephews, but you had to be convinced it was a genuine search, otherwise what sort of witness would you have made? I wanted her to feel safe, secure, thinking the past was done. But once my own time was measured, it was get the game in motion. I used you to fuck with you. Your room was trashed as a little extra, as I know how precious those bloody books were to you. Did it piss you off, get your motor running? I always hated you, swaggering round as a guard, like you were something special. Getting you involved, how much of a swagger have you now?”

I looked at him, said,

“You hired me because you knew I’d find her, though?”

“Course. It made you an accomplice.”

“Well then, Bill, you won’t be surprised to know I found somebody else.”

He attempted to sit up, apprehension on his face. I said,

“I thought about our schooldays, what I knew about you, then I remembered: you had a sister.”

Spittle forming at the corners of his mouth, he rasped,

“You leave her out of this. It’s nothing to do with her.”

I had his full attention, said,

“Maggie. Quiet girl, never married and...”

I paused, as if I wanted to arrange the information in my head, then,

“Lives alone at 14 Salthill Avenue. No visible means of support. You take care of her, don’t you?”

“So what?”

“So, I’d like you to think over this for the next week.”

“You stay away from her, hear me.”

“Imagine, Bill, a delicate person like that, how they’d react to a campaign of harassment and intimidation. I don’t need to tell you how easy it is to frighten a woman alone.”

Rage tore at his wasted body He asked,

“What do you want?”

“Jeez, Bill, I don’t want anything. I don’t think Maggie’s going to do very well when you’re gone.”

“I’ll tell you who the shooter is.”

“OK.”

He closed his eyes, the struggle not to concede stretched across his forehead, then,

“Michael Neville. He has one of those flats beside the Spanish Arch. On the top floor. There’s something wrong with him, apart from the fact that he endlessly chews Juicy Fruit. He’s not really there; it’s like he’s imitating a person but not making much of an effort.”

I moved to go, and he asked,

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll leave her alone... Maggie... she’s not like us... she...”

“Well, Bill, I’ll think about it.”

I opened the door, and he shouted,

“Jesus, Jack, come back. Give me some guarantee.”

I closed the door, began to walk up the corridor. Met the receptionist, who asked,

“Did the visit go well?”

“It did.”

“He’ll be easier in himself then.”

I d say so.

“You were good to come.”

“He and I go back a long way.”

She digested that, searched for a cliche to fit, said,

“Old friends are the best ones.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

As I came out to the main road, a bus was approaching. It would have taken me all the way to the city centre. I decided to walk. Passed a phone kiosk and thought,

“Two minutes, I could ring the guards, tell them what I know, and Michael Neville would be picked up in no time. Plus, I’d maybe score myself some points with Clancy.”

Kept walking.

Or, I could call the ban garda, let her get the glory.

No, this was something I had to do alone. When I got to the top of Bohermore, I crossed the road. Stood outside the gates of the cemetery. I wanted to enter, visit Brendan’s grave, pay some respect. My feet wouldn’t move.

Took out a cigarette and muttered,

“Come on, it’s no big thing. Walk in, find the grave, say hello, and you’re out of there.”

Couldn’t do it.

Part of it was how he’d have reacted to my treatment of Bill. Could hear him go,

“You did what? Went into a dying man’s room, beat him in the bed?”

As bare as that, sure sounded rough. I’d try to rally with,

“He was a piece of shit, garbage. He had two innocent young men murdered, terrorised a frail old woman.”

He’d shake his head.

“God forgive you, because no one else will.”

And if I were desperate enough, I’d try,

“But I got results, didn’t I? The case is solved.”

“It’s not right, Jack. You know it’s not.”

A gravedigger came out of the gate. Another guy from my schooldays, he was carrying a thermos and sandwiches, said,

“Jack, you’re talking to yourself.”

“Bad sign, isn’t it?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. I talk to myself all the time.”

He saw me eye his lunch, said,

“Most days I eat in there.”

Nodding back towards the cemetery, continued,

“But times, I need to get out, be in the flow of people.”

I could understand that, said,

“I can understand that.”

“No, it’s not like you think. The peace is indescribable, but I’ll be long enough there eventually. So I force myself to circulate.”

I decided not to visit, said,

“Good to talk to you.”

“You know where I am, where we’ll all be. The calendar solves everything.”

I stood outside the apartment building at the Spanish Arch. Dill said Michael Neville lived on the top floor. I checked the names on the outside. Sure enough, there he was, 5A. I rang the number. No answer. If he’d answered, I’m not sure what I’d have said. I kept hoping some sophisticated plan would strike me.

None did.

In the movies, to gain entrance, the hero rings one of the other tenants and they always let him in.

Didn’t work.

I decided to put my garda training to use. I forced the lock. Not easily or even quietly. Pure brute strength. In the hall, I found the stairs and began to climb. On the fifth floor, I stood outside 5A, listened. No sound of activity. Knocked on the door and heard,

“Yeah?”

“ESB.”

“Just a minute.”

Adrenaline was pumping along my veins. Then the rattle of a dead bolt and the locks being turned, and the door opened. A man in a vest and boxer shorts stood there. He was wiping sleep from his eyes. I asked,

“Michael Neville?”

“Yes.”

I punched him in the stomach. Then followed with another to his chin. He fell back inside. I checked the corridor then stepped over him. Dragged him to the living room and shut the door. He was early thirties, thin and not difficult to haul. I quickly checked the other rooms for occupancy.

If he had company, I was fucked. He didn’t. I searched the bedroom, found a Browning automatic and my own gun. In a shoebox were a stash of cocaine and a large amount of money. Put the coke, money and HK in my jacket. Kept the Browning in my hand. Could hear him groaning as he began to regain consciousness.

I went back to the living room, pulled a chair up and sat over him. I let the gun rest lightly on my knee. His eyes opened and he sat up, massaging his jaw. I said,

“Hi.”

He stared at me, said,

“Taylor! I told Bill we should have done you. Get a chance to rent the video of The Deer Hunter?”

He tried to stand, and I said,

“Bad idea unless you want me to shoot your toes off.”

Alongside me, I noticed a book. I was so surprised he’d have one that I picked it up. You just don’t associate hit men with reading. The title was Doting.

I said,

“Hey, nobody reads Henry Green any more.”

He stared at me in confusion, asked,

“What are you talking about?”

I was allowing my concentration to slip. I can’t blame books for the chaos of my life, but they’ve always been there on the journey. I said,

“He’s a famously neglected writer. He gets rediscovered every decade or so.”

He was almost standing now. I continued,

“He wrote nothing for the last twenty years of his life.”

Neville said,

“It isn’t mine. Was in the apartment when I came. Was going to sling it, but you never know. I run out of toilet paper, I’ll use that.”

A sort of madness in myself. I was determined he’d know about this author. I said,

“He never let his photo be taken, used the pseudonym and gave interviews that revealed little. Critics described his work as elusive and enigmatic. In fact, very similar to the characteristics of your own work.”

He was standing now, said,

“Fuck you.”

I moved the book towards him, said,

“His real name was Henry Vincent Yorke. Born in Tewkesbury, England. Served in the Auxiliary Fire Service during the Second World War. After, he returned to his family’s firm in the Midlands, wrote in his spare time.”

Neville had moved closer, said,

“You’re a fucking whacko, you know that? You’ve made a serious mistake, but tell you what: give me the gun, you get to walk out of here.”

I watched him, saw his muscles tense, said,

“You don’t want to know about Henry, do you? That he wrote ten novels. Listen, sometimes you hear about ‘a writer’s writer’. Well, he’s been described as ‘the writer’s writer’s writer’.”

He lunged for me. As I fell backward, the gun went off. Didn’t even sound like a shot, more of a muted pop. I was on the ground, Neville across me. He wasn’t moving. I shoved him and he rolled over, his eyes blank. A small hole in his chest. If I’d been aiming, I’d never have achieved such a result.

I moved to the door, listened, but heard nothing. Went back to Neville, checked his pulse. There was none. I took the coke out, did two lines to steady myself, then systematically began to wipe down anything I’d touched. There was a huge array of Juicy Fruit on the floor and I let it lie. As the coke racked my brain, I went over every surface again. Could feel the ice dribble down the back of my throat, the euphoria and the physical well-being from the drug. I poured the remainder of the white powder over his body. There was an envelope with his name and address, which I put in my pocket. I hoped the cocaine might influence the guards’ investigation.

I looked at his body, thought,

“I know absolutely nothing about you.”

I put the still warm gun in my jacket. Took a glance around, hoped I hadn’t overlooked anything. Opened the door, no one in the corridor. Down the stairs, the coke shooting along my nerves. If I met one person, I was finished. At the front door, I stepped outside, kept my head low. Within minutes I was at Jury’s Hotel and risked a look back. The apartment building seemed the same. No squealing police cars or alarmed citizens.

I tried to tell myself,

“Christ, you’ve been lucky.”

It’s a little hard to mention luck when a man was lying on a floor with a bullet in his heart.

Moved off towards Quay Street. Turned left and walked into Kirwan’s Lane.

Kirwan’s Lane is regarded as Ealway’s most important medieval passage. The Kirwans were one of the twelve tribes who founded the city. There’s a small theatre there where Wolfe Tone appeared. It was begun by a man with the wonderful name Humanity Dick Martin.

I could hear music coming from Busker Brown’s. This pub includes part of the “Slate Nunnery”, a building presented to the Dominican nuns in 1686 by John Kirwan. It was to become the first convent of the Presentation nuns.

I didn’t know what put all that in my head. The only history I obsess with is my own.

Maybe I thought I could use it to erase the present.

Some chance.

I did know I badly needed to talk to someone. Found a phone kiosk that hadn’t been vandalised and rang Nestor’s. Jeff answered. I said,

“It’s Jack, are you busy now?”

“No.”

“Could we meet somewhere?”

“Sure.”

We met in a coffee shop on Quay Street. He said,

“I never get down this side of town.”

“This is where it all happens.”

“That’s why I don’t get down here.”

He looked like a biker. Beat-up Harley jacket, Jethro Tull sweatshirt, black cords and heavy boots. I said,

“That’s retro.”

He gave an easy smile, said,

“I was going to take the Soft Tail out to Clifden, just open her up, feel the surge.”

Clifden had very bad memories for me. Before they could grip, Jeff asked,

“What’s on your mind? You don’t look so good.”

I took a breath, said,

“Recently, two people I met, a priest and... a drinker... Well, I don’t know how to put this, but they seem not to have been real.”

He didn’t appear fazed, thought about it, asked,

“Tell me about them.”

“How do you mean?”

“The kind of people they were, what you felt about them.”

So I described the meeting with Fr Tom and then the encounter with Danny. If he was surprised by my night in jail, he was keeping it under wraps. He said,

“Let me see if I got this right. You were comfortable, could talk easily with them.”

“Yes.”

Then he gave me a studied look, said,

“At a guess, you’re doing ‘hides, beauties, some other heavy downers and still pouring the booze in. Am I right?”

I felt exposed, vulnerable, and couldn’t find an answer. He said,

“Jack, I was in a band, remember? I’ve done all the trips and I sure recognise the signs.”

“You think I’m losing it?”

“I think it’s predicable that usage like yours brings some vivid hallucinations.”

“I’m tripping out?”

“It’s interesting that those people didn’t threaten or condemn you. In a perverse way, they’re like manifestations of your personality.”

“I’m fucked.”

“Jack, pay attention. You’re under some heavy stress, and your unconscious provided friends you could relate to.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Get off the drugs.”

“Jesus.”

We sat in silence for a time, then he asked,

“What’s going to happen with your assault charge?”

“I’ve got a lawyer.”

He smiled, said,

“Sounds like you’re going to need one.”

I gave him the background as to why I’d hit the guy, let him digest it, then asked,

“If you’d been me, Jeff, would you have done any different?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I’d like to think I’d have intervened, but I’d probably have walked by.”

The cafe was beginning to fill up, so we headed out. Walked towards Shop Street. I said,

“I appreciate you taking the time, Jeff.”

“I’m your friend, you should call me more often.”

Back at the hotel, I sat on my bed and wondered if I should just head for London. Toyed with that but couldn’t get it to fly. Laid the guns in the bed, thought,

“I’m armed to the teeth.”

I knew I should ditch the Browning. When the body of Neville was found, they’d have the bullet. How hard was it going to be to tell the type of weapon it came from? If they ever got the gun, it would be game, set and match.

I decided to hold on to it. I held the envelope with Michael Neville’s name and address and wondered why I’d taken that, more incriminating evidence. I put it with the gun and stashed them.

It was three days before they found the body. At first the reports said only that a man had been found dead in a city centre apartment. Then later, that the police were treating it as suspicious.

Bullet holes do that.

Finally, a full-scale murder inquiry was launched. The guards were said to be following a definite line of inquiry. A spokesman said,

“We will not allow drug trafficking to escalate in the city.”

I could breathe, if not easily, at least without constriction.

My barrister summoned me.

His offices were on Mainguard Street. Up two flights of stairs, past a receptionist and into his den. His certificates were framed along the wall. We both admired them for a moment, then he said,

“Right, Mr Taylor, I have some encouraging news.”

“Great.”

“It’s possible the case will be dropped.”

“Why?”

“The... victim... not that we’d ever use such a term outside this office... am I right?”

I had no argument there, said,

“You won’t hear me calling him a victim.”

“Capital, that’s the ticket. You’ve just learnt a whole chunk about the law.”

He was wearing a suit that quietly proclaimed,

“I’m a winner

You... most definitely

Are not.”

He flicked through some pages, said,

“Now, the guards may press ahead on the criminal damages.”

“Oh.”

He waved a hand in dismissal.

“They’re just making noise, letting us know they’re on the job. If you’re willing to pay compensation, I can make it go away.”

He paused, adopted a sterner tone, said,

“You are willing to do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good man. I’ll get that attended to right away. Looks better if you’ve paid before the case gets called. Shows you’re contrite... and you are... aren’t you, Mr Taylor?”

“Completely.”

“Okey-dokey, that covers it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have further information. My nose tells me you won’t have to even appear in court.”

“That’s amazing.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair, said,

“No, it’s expediency.”

“What about your fees?”

“None of your concern you’ll be happy to hear.”

“Why?”

“Let’s say I’m glad to be in a position to accommodate Kirsten.”

We both were aware of his use of her first name. I let that linger, then said,

“Thank you.”

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t depend on expediency in the future. It’s not ongoing.”

I’d reached the door when he added,

“You wouldn’t want to fall foul of the people who’ve helped you.”

“Gee, that sounds a lot like a threat.”

He raised his eyebrows, exclaimed,

“I’m in the legal profession. I don’t make threats.”

“You’re kidding. You never do anything else. The only difference is you have certificates for it.”

I’d cut down on the pills. Instead of the usual two for break-fast, I held out till noon and took one. Called it maintenance. Cold turkey was the last thing I could face. I headed back for the hotel, wondering why I didn’t feel relieved at the solicitor’s news. It looked like I wasn’t going to jail, but I knew I wasn’t off the hook. Somebody was going to expect payback.

In the lobby, Mrs Bailey said,

“There’s a young man to see you.”

“Oh.”

“He’s waiting in the lounge.”

“Right.”

“Mr Taylor, he seems a very angry young man.”

“Aren’t they all?”

It was Terry Boyle. In an expensive suit, not unlike the solicitor’s; definitely in the same price range, a level that remained for-ever beyond me. He was, as they say, spitting iron. I said,

“Terry.”

He was shaking from temper, snarled,

“You’re shagging Kirsten.”

“Whoa... keep your voice down.”

“I will not.”

I raised my hand. He stepped back, and I said,

“OK, now let’s sit down and you can try and cool off.”

We did.

I took out my cigs, fired up. He waved at the smoke, said,

“I hired you, and what do you do? You bloody go to bed with the bitch.”

“Who told you that?”

“She did.”

“And you believed her?”

It was if he’d been waiting for such an answer, asked,

“Do you have a tattoo of an angel on your chest?”

“I...”

“You do... Jesus... let me see.”

Grabbed at my shirt, tore the buttons. I caught his wrist, said,

“Over the past week, I’ve punched out three people. The thing is, I’m developing a taste for it. Here’s what you have to ask yourself. Do you want your wrist broken?”

I bent it towards the floor, and he said,

“All right... God, you’re so physical.”

“Are you going to behave, because you’re all out of warn-mgs?

He pulled back from me, massaged his wrist, moaned,

“That hurt.”

I tried to arrange my ruined shirt, said,

“I liked that shirt. You have no idea how fast I’m getting through wardrobes.”

His lip curled, actually turned up at the right corner, and he said,

“Sartorial is a description that would not readily spring to mind about you. One feels the charity shops have all your requirements.”

He was the kind of guy you’d never tire of beating the bejaysus out of. I said,

“Terry, I’ve checked out Kirsten. No matter how much you detest her, there’s no proof she killed your father.”

“And, of course, you investigated fully, especially in his bed. No clues there I suppose, or were you too preoccupied?”

“Give it up, Terry. It’s a waste of time.”

He jumped to his feet, said,

“I’m meeting her next week. One way or another, I’ll sort the tramp.”

“Come on, Terry.”

“Fuck you, Jack Taylor. You’re a despicable human being.”

And he was gone.

Mrs Bailey came over, asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“No... thank you.”

“The young man, were you able to help him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Taylor, storm clouds appear to be constantly over you.”

“You got that right.”