Ken Bruen - Purgatory

An hour later, unable to get Stewart on the mobile, I found out about Brennan and that Ridge had come around. Bought some flowers and headed for the hospital. Was I sorry about Brennan?

Yes.

Sorry the fuck wasn’t dead.

Laden with white roses, box of Ferrero Rocher, I arrived in Ridge’s room to find Stewart sitting by her bed. He went,

“What kept you?”

I ignored him, put the stuff down, moved to Ridge. Her face was covered with those yellow-blue marks that are a sign of healing. You can only surmise from their ferocity how bad the beating was. Her eyes were clear but something new in there, a wariness.

Fear?

I hoped to fuck not. A frightened Ridge raised a mayhem of biblical shouts in my head. I was saved from hugging her by the IV. She smiled, said,

“Tactile as ever, Jack.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a horse’s arse. I said,

“Good news.”

Ridge looked like that would be impossible. I added,

“The guy they figured did for you, Brennan, someone paid him a visit.”

She sighed.

“Oh, Jack, you didn’t?”

True, I had some mileage in this field, but protested.

“I’m guessing it’s the C33 lunatic.”

Stewart said,

“C33 doesn’t leave the victims alive. You’d remember that if you were paying attention.”

I swung around, snarled,

“The fuck is the matter with you?”

He waved at Ridge, said,

“I’ll be back later, babe.”

Strode out.

I was after him, Ridge calling me back.

Caught up with him outside the hospital, a batch of huddled smokers to the right, like the ones God cast out of heaven and as cowed. Stewart gazed at them, muttered,

“Wish I smoked.”

I grabbed his shoulder, snapped,

“The fuck is with you?”

He stared me down but something was amiss with his focus and for a bizarre moment I thought he was stoned.

Stewart!

No way, ever. He’d been a dealer, did his time in jail, he’d eat a bullet before that. But. .

He said,

“Brennan is at death’s door.”

I read it wrong and, Jesus, not the first time, asked,

“You think I did it?”

He gave a bitter smile.

“If it was you, Jack, the bastard would be dead, right?”

He moved to go, I asked,

“You’re thinking C33, but we didn’t get a letter, like the other times.”

“Jack, I’m working with all me might to think nothing, nothing at all.”

And was gone.

I went back to Ridge and tried to make desultory talk, until she exclaimed,

“Jack, you seem out of sorts.”

I sighed, sounding horrifically like my despised mother, said,

“Certainly out of something.”

Purgatory is what the Americans term. . a plea deal.

Since my evening with Reardon, I’d stayed clear of the booze but wondered what the tipping point would be for the headfirst dive into oblivion. Tried to tell myself I’d done good with the cigs.

“Hey, not smoking, no coke-way to go, fucking Saint Francis.”

I was having the first coffee of the morning, strong, heart-kick gig, using a small hand exerciser to build up the strength in the right hand, try to compensate for the lost fingers. I’d promised Ridge I’d be there to collect her on her release from the hospital. Her husband was hunting with the local hounds club. I kid thee not, fox hunting still being permitted on his lands.

His lands.

How utterly fucking Irish is that?

But like the rest of the country, he was in hock to his balls and, yet, the hunt must. . run.

Fuckers.

The date for the household tax deadline had passed, less than half the population had paid it for the simple reason the others couldn’t. And now, still reeling from the sheer bullying tactics in the empowering of this, they were going to introduce water meters in every home. It was like they figured,

“We’ve broken the spirit of the people, now let’s really kick them in the nuts and then fuck them.”

Only a short time in power and they already had the distinction of being the most hated government of all time.

Some achievement.

The weather was once again doing its peekaboo act, rain to sun to wind to storm and freezing. I wrapped myself in my Garda coat, Galway United scarf, headed out. A man I’d swear I never saw before fell in step beside me, asking,

“You don’t mind if I walk with you, Jack?”

He looked harmless but what does that mean anymore? In his shredded forties, he was short with a very flash leather jacket, as if he expected a slot on The X Factor . I stopped, asked,

“I know you?”

Letting the aggression of no cigs leak over my words. He smiled-good teeth; bad, mean eyes-said,

“Ah, sure, you won’t be remembering me, Jack-o.”

The faux stage-Irish with the frigging O on my name got to me in ways I’d forgotten. Ways that conjured up the flash of a hurley and steel toe caps. That is, my days as a Guard.

He said,

“I used to help your mum, you know, carry the shopping, look after the garden.”

My mum!

Fucksake.

Like she was a slice of Irish whimsy.

She’d been a walking bitch, spat and snarled her way through a sham religiosity, with a tame priest as buffer. I stopped, asked,

“What did you call her?”

His eyes, startled, went,

“What?”

My voice was cold as yesterday’s Mass, asked,

“Did you call her ma’am, Mrs., your ladyship?”

Relief flowed, he said,

“Oh, right, I am. . Mrs. Taylor, you know.”

He wasn’t even worth a wallop for his worthless lie. I asked,

“And you’ll want, how is it? A little something for your. . thoughtfulness ?”

He was unsure now, maybe stories of my erratic behavior had reached him. I shot out my hand, shook his shoulder, said,

“If only we had more of your kind, we’d be a richer country.”

And moved past him, a dumbfounded expression on his face. I got to the hospital, went into the patients’ shop, bought some very expensive flowers, box of flash chocolates, and the daily tabloid. The headline screeched about the new sly tax the government was planning.

A water charge.

In Ireland.

Where we were surrounded at every turn by it, now we were to pay for it, with meters to be installed free of charge. The woman behind the counter said,

“Now I’ll have to give up water, like everything else.”

As I came out of the shop, I saw a woman on the edge of my vision and stopped, frozen. The tilt of the head, the way her body moved, then, no, saw her face and it was not who I thought. Time back, I’d been as close to commitment, a relationship, as it ever gets for a loner like me. An American woman, for a few months, it was bliss. Made me believe I could even feel good about me own self and that’s some leap.

One conversation had leaped into my mind. She’d been listening to my fear,

“It’s the dread of becoming boring, that the gold dust will fade, the glitter evaporate.”

She’d said,

“Jack, you’ll never be boring to me.”

I’d snapped,

“Not talking about you.”

Outside Ridge’s room, I thought about sharing this with her and realized it wouldn’t much improve my standing, walked in, and found an empty bed. Shock at first, thinking,

“Jesus, she’s dead.”

Until a passing nurse told me she’d checked out last night. We both looked at the array of stuff in my hands. I asked,

“Will you give them to the children’s ward?”

She would.

Back at my apartment, I’d done a fevered job of cleaning, not so easy when one hand is missing digits but I’d learned to compensate. Not smoking, drinking, drugging, I sure had the time, and even, part-time, the energy. Lady Antebellum on the radio, singing about being a little drunk after midnight and needing you now.