Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

She didn’t appear unduly concerned, moved to the bar, added a splash of vodka, I took a deep breath, said,

“You got me.”

She gave a tiny smile, asked,

“But who is it I’ve got?”

“Jack Taylor.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something.”

“I’m been paid to check you out.”

A slight raising of her eyebrows and,

“For what?”

“See if you killed your husband.”

“You’re fucking kidding!”

The curse rolling off her tongue easily, then it hit and she said,

“Terry, that little faggot.”

I nodded and she said,

“Jeez, you’re not too big on client confidentiality.”

I stood up, said,

“So, did you do it?”

“Gimme a break.”

“That’s a no.”

I moved towards the door, and she said,

“You have some neck, just call and ask me if I killed my husband.”

“It’s direct.”

She laughed, said,

“You have a phone number, if I decide to confess?”

“Bailey’s Hotel.”

“That’s where you live?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Jack Taylor, you might not be very good at your job, but you have a certain style.”

I’d reached the front door when she added,

“You decide to go back on the booze, give me a call.”

I gave her my best blank look, as if I’d no idea what she meant. She gave a nasty smile, said,

“I know the signs, and believe me, you’ll be back sooner than you think. It’s not really if you’ll drink, only when.”

“Screw you, lady.”

“You wish.”

And she banged the door in my face. I hated that she was right on both counts.

The following Monday, a second year student got a cappuccino from the deli. It was one of those crisp fine days, not a cloud in the sky. You could almost touch hope in the air. People’s spirits lightened and you’d get a howyah, a smile from strangers.

That kind of day.

The student sat on a bench at the Square, sipped at the coffee. A stray wino would approach and ask for

“Price of a cup of tea, sur.”

But it wasn’t a serious beg, more from habit than necessity. No intimidation in it. Two non-Europeans asked for directions to Social Security. At noon, the bells rang for the Angelus. Down near the Great Southern, two workmen stopped their labours and blessed themselves. That is a rare sight. Not that they ceased working but that they observed the Angelus.

Around 12.15 p.m., a man approached, stood for a second behind the student. Then he took out a gun, put it to the base of the student’s head and pulled the trigger. He then turned on his heel and walked towards the top of the Square... and dis-appeared.

As he walked away, he threw the wrapper from his Juicy Fruit on the road.

The guards weren’t appealing for witnesses. They had far too many.

All contradictory.

Descriptions ranged from, tall, short, fat, thin.

He had, variously, long hair, black hair, no hair.

Was wearing, a suit, leather jacket, wax jacket, raincoat.

But definitely, old, young, middle-aged.

A photofit issued fit half the male population and wasn’t dissimilar to a few women.

Superintendent Clancy intoned,

“This is a horrendous, heinous crime. The gardai will not cease until the perpetrator is apprehended.”

He rambled on about lawlessness, a crisis in society, drugs and a range of vaguely related topics.

Concluded with,

“The gardai are pursuing a definite line of inquiry.”

In other words, they had zilch.

I had gone to ground with a book.

Here’s the lengthy title:

Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the media conspire to limit what films we can see.

By Jonathan Rosenbaum.

I was well into it, had almost forgotten how badly I wanted a drink. The phone went. I picked up, said,

“Yeah.”

“Jack, it’s Bill.”

“Hi, Bill.”

“I’m calling for a progress report.”

“Oh.”

“So, what progress?”

“Inquiries are in hand.”

Bitter laugh, then,

“You sound like a guard.”

“Old habits, eh?”

“Except I don’t want to hear that shite.”

“It takes time, Bill.”

“And who told you to involve that religious fuck, Flood?”

“Nobody told me. You want to find someone, he’s the best.”

“I’m telling you, keep him the fuck outa my affairs.”

I was getting tired of this, said,

“What are you going to do, fire me?”

I could hear his intake of breath, then,

“Don’t get fucking smart with me, Jack. You definitely don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t take threats well, Bill.”

“Time you learned.”

Click.

I tried to go back to the book, but the spell was gone. What I most wanted to do was to go down to Sweeney’s and kick the bejaysus out of Bill. I grabbed my jacket and took the hinges off the door. Childish but satisfying.

In St Anthony’s Lane, there is a coffee shop. Invisible to most pedestrians, it’s run by a Basque. I’d intended asking how he washed up in Galway but had never found the energy. Plus, caution said that Basques don’t do probing good. As usual, it was doing a brisk trade. Law clerks from the Courthouse, teachers from the Mercy school, a random student and two Spanish fishermen. The owner said,

“Jacques!”

I don’t have the witty reply to this, nor could I remember his name, so went with,

“How’re you doing?”

Lame, right?

Didn’t faze him. He said,

“Cafe con leche, grande.”

“Grand.”

He lingered, then said,

“I miss Glenroe.”

A Basque who longed for Wesley Burrows; the world was indeed on its axis. I’d been in a few weeks back and a group of students were turning CDs into ashtrays. One of them said,

“Don’t worry, it’s Garth Brooks.”

He had a faded Marilyn Manson badge on his notebook. I knew the two events were connected, but I couldn’t work up the energy to work it out. The coffee came, and the owner asked,

“Food?”

“No, I’m good.”

I stirred the liquid, anticipated the bitter kick. Such times, I’d have killed for a cigarette, then a scotch.

Then a line.

Then oblivion.

Physically, I shook myself, in an effort to dispel the harpies. Loreena McKennitt was playing and I let myself bend to the music. Glanced up to see my mother pass. Old Galwegians always used the lane to reach the abbey.

She was linking Fr Malachy. He, of course, was enveloped in cigarette smoke. Once in Carol O’Connell’s The Judas Child I’d come across

Her child needed a covert source of facts, the help of a dirty, backdoor invader, a professional destroyer of private lives, who well understood the loathsome workings of the world’s worst scum.

So this is motherhood.

I mouthed,

“Amen.”

I was in Nestor’s, on my second glass of sparkling Balway water. That the day would come when an Irish person paid for water and paid dear is astonishing. Jeff said,

“You’re doing well.”

“At what?”

“You know, the drinking... the cigs... the other stuff.”

I shook my head, said,

“I’m flapping against the wind.”