Ken Bruen - Headstone

She marched, and I mean marched, to the car, said,

“Get in.”

She had to be fucking kidding?

Right?

She of all the people on the planet knew how I responded to orders.

I asked,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

Not exactly PC but then what was anymore? Keys in her hand, she turned, venom jumping from her eyes, said,

“You brought spirits to a man out of a coma?”

I tried for levity, said,

“Better than the usual, drink putting half the country into a coma.”

Didn’t fly, oddly enough. She said,

“Every time I try to cut you some slack you…………”

She paused, fighting for some semblance of control but losing, continued,

“And you just…….just…………piss all over it.”

It was direct, I’ll give her that. She indicated the car, meaning the car, and I said,

“Thanks officer, I’d prefer to walk.”

Was she finished?

Was she fuck.

Near screamed,

“I keep thinking you might change and then you descend to a new level of. . of. . depravity.”

I began to walk away, said,

“Least I raised his spirits.”

I didn’t look back but the screech of tires told me how she liked that.

The walk to town was treacherous, icy paths making a slip almost inevitable. An old woman ahead of me, walking as if her life depended on it (and it probably did), was making slow uneasy progress. I was right behind her as she lost it, caught her just in time and managed to steady her.

She began to weep, said,

“I have to do the shopping, we haven’t a thing in the house.”

I hailed a passing taxi. The driver rolled down the window, said,

“Taylor, I heard you were dead.”

I handed over some notes, said,

“Will you take this lady to the supermarket, wait for her, and then bring her home?”

He shrugged, sure, no biggie.

I helped her into the backseat and she dried her eyes with a spotless white hanky, looked at me, said,

“You’re an angel.”

The driver snorted.

I closed the door, nearly slipped doing it, and the cab eased away, like a gentle ghost into the black city.

Not a story that I’d share with Ridge. She wouldn’t believe it anyway. As I continued my careful walk, I thought,

“What does that buy you?”

And knew.

Nothing, nothing at all.

Pawnshops, under the guise of buying used gold or any item like laptops, musical instruments, or DVDs, had sprung up almost overnight. They had fancy names but they were pawnshops, like the ones of my youth, where women pawned their husband’s suit to put food on the table, and redeemed it if a wedding or funeral arose. Hoping for a funeral-mainly the husband’s. I stopped in the newest one in Mary Street, beside the vegetable outlet, and lo and wondrous, found the whole of the first season of Breaking Bad . For three euros and ninety-nine cents.

I was seriously delighted.

Belief in nothing is at least

a belief.

— Jack Taylor

I finally got to Garavan’s in little under an hour. All along the route, I’d heard people bemoaning the

burst pipes,

homes without water,

government threatening a water rationing scheme.

Just deepened the gloom of a nation already desperately despairing. I stood at the counter, relishing the heat. The barman said,

“’Tis like a biblical plague, wave after wave of chaos.”

He let my pint sit before he topped and creamed it off, asked, “Did you ever see the likes of it, Jack?”

No.

He handed me the Irish Independent and I took a corner table. I was looking at all the sporting fixtures cancelled when he brought over my pint and Jay outrider. I was working on the pint when a large, barrel-chested man approached, sat down on the stool across from me. He had a sparkling water with a slice of lemon, placed it neatly on the table. I asked,

“Help you?”

He gave a bitter smile, said,

“I’m the new sheriff in town.”

I raised my pint, said,

“Good luck with that.”

Didn’t faze him. He said,

“I’m a professional, a fully qualified investigator, so I’m here to tell you that you can officially retire.”

I took a swing of the Jameson, let it warm my gut, asked,

“Do I get a gold watch?”

He leant across the table, said,

“Wise up Taylor, you’re done. The fucking state of you, hearing aid, limp, missing fingers, drinking before lunch. You’re like a mangy alley cat, the nine lives fucked and gone, but no one told the poor bastard.”

I sat back, asked,

“You a Brit?”

Flash of anger, his fists actually bunched, he asked,

“What the fuck does that matter?”

I smiled, said,

“More than you think, Sheriff.”

He shook his head in disgust, said,

“I’m already on all the major cases in the city, so, mister, don’t let me find you staggering around in any of them. Do what you do best-drink yourself stupid.”

I let that hover, seep in, and asked,

“What about Headstone?”

“What?”

I leant over to his face, said,

“Seems you missed one of the major cases. Not exactly a shining start to your professional career.”

He was mystified, asked,

“Tell me about it?”

I said,

“The fucking dogs in the street know about it. Mind you, they are Irish dogs.”

He stood up, weighing the wisdom of walloping me in a pub where I was obviously a regular. Anger was spitting from his eyes, he hissed,

“You’ve been warned Taylor, next time I won’t be so polite.”

I said,

“Be careful.”

He pulled himself up to his full height, looked at me, and I said,

“It’s thin ice.”

He gave a short laugh, said,

“You think I’m worried by the bloody weather?”

I lifted my hands in mock surrender, said,

“Who’s talking about the weather?”

He, dare I say it, stormed out.

Over the next few weeks, as the freeze continued and refused to relinquish its stranglehold, I continued to visit Malachy-without Ridge. One occasion, I left a carrier bag by the bed, a carton of cigs and the now customary bottle of 7-Up. He eyed this, said with a twinkle in his eye,

“Uisce beatha (holy water), I presume.”

I said,

“It’s certainly blessed to a lot of us.”

Saying thanks wasn’t ever in the equation but slowly, painstakingly, I managed to gather, in bits and scraps, his memory of the attack. I usually waited till he had a shot or four of the 7-Up as that lessened the sheer terror in his eyes. I had no love for him, never had, but we had history, bad, yes, but still. . I hated to see a defiant feisty spirit like his cowed. He remembered.

Three young people, one was a girl. The girl he regarded as being especially venomous. Said with a shudder as he clutched his bottle like a prayer he didn’t believe in,

“She was on fire with pure hatred.”

Headstone, I thought.

Then I’d leave as his old head began to droop and sleep claimed him. A nurse stopped me one evening, said,

“You’re a grand man to visit the priest like you do. You must love him very much.”

I had no reply to that, if she only knew.

She added,

“Is he related?”

Now I could answer, said,

“Only through drink.”

My black eye was now in the yellow phase, like having jaundice. I had tried so hard not to think of Loyola and his death in the cold water outside the cottage he loved and regarded as a refuge. Time to do something about it. I dressed to intimidate: black jeans, black T-shirt, heavy black scarf, and my Garda coat. The Mossberg fitting snugly in the pocket. I took a Xanax, a wee drop of Jay, muttered,

“By all that’s holy.”