Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

He stopped polishing a glass, looked up, asked,

“What does that mean?”

“I’m biting a bullet, and I’m sick of the taste of metal in my mouth.”

He put down the glass, leaned on the counter, said,

“Very poetic if a little ominous.”

“Whoever said the clean life would help you live longer was right. They neglected to add you’d feel every boring minute.”

“It’ll get easier, Jack.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

Jeff had been sober for twenty years. Then, riding on a low after the baby’s birth, he’d gone on the batter. A one-night rampage. I’d been the one to rein him in. A drunk for the defence, he’d been back on track since. I asked,

“Ever feel the need to blow again?”

“Sure.”

“That’s it... sure?”

“No point in dwelling on it, Jack. I can’t drink, end of story.”

I sort of hated him then. Not in a ferocious fashion but the dull ache that sickness feels for recovery. I pushed the water away and got up to leave. Jeff said,

“Cathy’s been surfing the net, trying to track down that information you wanted. She hasn’t had any luck yet.”

“OK, take it easy.” I was leaving when the sentry spoke to me; I nearly dropped from surprise, as he almost never did. He said,

“You’re investigating the Magdalen? Well, I remember it well. When we were kids, we’d pass by there and see them working in the gardens. God forgive me, but we called them names and jeered them. The nuns were standing over the poor bitches like wardens. I remember they had leather straps, and we got our kicks thinking about them walloping the girls. Did you know that when the public finally knew what was going on, the outcry was so great that in the middle of the night, the bodies of dead Maggies were exhumed and whisked off to the cemetery to be buried? There’s a mass grave there with all the nameless girls below.”

He took a deep breath, and I offered to buy him a pint. He said yes but not to expect any more talk; that was his week’s ration. I left, visualising the dead girls that were never claimed.

I was heading towards the hotel when a BMW pulled up. A man got out, said,

“Jack Taylor?”

He was definitely the largest man I’d ever seen. At garda training at Templemore, I’d seen some of the biggest the country can produce. The midlands in particular yielded men who’d give new meaning to the term massive. Oddly enough, they made lousy cops. This guy towered above me. His head was bald, adding to his menace. Dressed in a white tracksuit, he eyed me with derision. What else could I reply but,

“Who’s asking?”

He stretched out his hand and literally flung me into the car, then crowded in beside me. Said,

“Bill would like a word.”

With his bulk, there wasn’t a whole lot of room. I was jammed up against him, said,

“I hope you showered.”

“Shut your mouth.”

I did.

They took me to Sweeney’s. Ominously, not a customer in the pub. The giant pushed me ahead, said,

“Bill’s in the cellar.”

Bill was wearing a boiler suit, said,

“Don’t want to get my clothes dirty.”

A single hard chair in the middle, surrounded by barrels; the smell of yeast was overpowering. I must have made a face, as Bill said,

“I’d have thought it was mother’s milk to you.”

“You’d have thought wrong.”

He gave a tight smile, said,

“Always the mouth, Jack; maybe we can do something about that. Sit down.”

“No, thanks.”

The giant grabbed my shoulders, shoved me down, tied my hands and put a blindfold on me. Bill said,

“Casey doesn’t like you, Jack.”

“Gee... that’s worrying.”

I got a wallop to my left ear. It hurt like a bastard. Bill said,

“Excuse the dramatics, but you don’t want to actually see Nev. He’s kind of shy. He’s a huge fan of The Deer Hunter and he likes to play, so I’ll talk you through this.”

I could smell Juicy Fruit, and the strength of the scent made me want to gag. I heard a gun being cocked, and Bill said,

“You owe me twice,Jack.”

“I thought we were working on that.”

“But you need to focus, Jack. You’re not paying attention. Nev is holding an old revolver ‘cause he’s an old fashioned guy, and he’s put two bullets in there and yes, that sound you hear is him spinning the barrel. OK, folks, here we go; let’s play.”

The sound of the hammer hitting an empty chamber put the fear of God into me, and I thought I’d pass out. Bill said,

“Gee, lucky.”

Sweat rolled into my eyes. I realised I’d bitten my tongue, could taste blood in my mouth. The gun was withdrawn, and Bill said,

“Halfway there, but to hell or salvation? How you doing, Jack?”

I wasn’t doing too good.

I said,

“Fuck you, Bill.”

“You want me to spin or just go for it?”

The muzzle against my head again, the giant sniggering. I swear he was grinning. Nev thumbed the hammer, fired.

Click on empty.

A tremor shook my whole body. I hadn’t vented my bowels but it was close. My teeth were chattering. Bill said,

“Jeez, talk about luck.”

I couldn’t find my voice and he added,

“I think we’ve got you focused. Get results real soon, Jack.”

And I heard him walk away, Nev talking quietly with him as they went. The giant tilted my chair, and I went face down on the stone floor. Water, beer and God knows what else had pooled together. He untied my hands, pulled the blindfold roughly and spat; then he, too, walked to the stairs.

I pushed myself up and another spasm hit. I leaned against a keg, trying to still my hammering heart. Finally, I moved and I slowly climbed up the stairs. The bar was hopping, almost all the space occupied. No sign of Bill, Nev or the giant. Black dots danced before my eyes and I pushed forward, shouted,

“Large Jameson.”

No response. I edged in past a docker who gave me the look. Whatever he saw in my face, he decided to give me room. The barman continued to ignore me. I shouted,

“Gimme a bloody Jameson.”

He stopped, grinned, said,

“You had your shots; now you’re barred.”

Guffaws from the crowd. I slunk out of there with my soul in ribbons. Wouldn’t you know, the weather had picked up, an almost bright sun, high in the sky. A man passing, said,

“Isn’t it great to be alive?”

I had no answer. Least none that didn’t require fisticuffs.

Pure rage can operate on either of two levels. There’s the hot, smouldering, all-encompassing kind that instantly lashes out. Seeking immediate annihilation. There’s the second that comes from a colder place. Fermented in ice, it withdraws upon itself, feeding on quiet ferocity for a suitable occasion. This is the deadliest.

Most of my battered life, I’d been afflicted with the second, and with dire consequences. As I watched the sun bounce off the water, I submerged in this. The claws of patience sucking deep into my psyche felt as dangerous as I’d ever felt.

Such times, to stir the cauldron, my mind seizes on a mantra to keep the madness corralled. A mental front to help me function as the fires are built within. There is never rhyme or reason to the chant. My subconscious throws up some non-related barrier to maintain my mobility. When I’d been discharged from the guards, I’d had one session with a psychiatrist and outlined the above.

He said,

“You’re bordering on pathological psychosis.”

I’d stared at him for full five minutes, then answered,

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

He’d offered a course of tranquillizers, and to that I’d given him my police smile. The one that says,

“Watch your back.”