Ken Bruen - Headstone

“Columbine. The fucker who took my fingers, they called him Bine.”

And with the awful understanding then of what my mind had been edging about, I said,

“Jesus, they’re going to hit a school, be the first Irish event.” He nodded, could see I was coming fast up to speed. Christ, I needed to chill, went to the bedroom, drew down two Xanax from my stash. Dry-swallowed them, my mind ablaze. I came back to Stewart who was about to say something but I cut him off with,

“Drink more tea, let me think, don’t talk, do some Zen shite or something.”

He did. Leant back in the chair, curled his body up into a ball of relaxation, closed his eyes, went. . away.

I scanned the notes I’d made, let all the data saturate, pumped the Mossberg to keep me hyped, then after fifteen, twenty minutes, I said,

“Stewart, they’re going to hit a special needs school.”

He was appalled, hadn’t got that far in his own musings, asked,

“What are we going to do?”

I knew, beyond a shadow, said,

“Keep with the bait gig.”

Course, he had to ask, sooner or later, ever since I’d suggested he establish a routine,

“You think of me as bait?”

Had to defuse it a bit, said,

“Truth to tell, I rarely think of you at all.”

To soften it, I added,

“I’ll be there in the shadows, and if. . if we can just grab one of the bastards. .”

My whole history of, let’s say, reliability was not a great recommendation, and I could see it flit across his face, so he had to ask, “What if you’re not. . not able to intervene effectively?”

I told the truth, said,

“Then you’re seriously fucked.”

When he was leaving, he’d admitted,

“I’m a little spooked Jack.”

I lied, said,

“Spooked is good, keeps you alert.”

I sat on the sofa, drenching myself in all that had happened, thought, a Judas goat? Is that what I was doing to Stewart?

Fucked if I could deny it.

Then told myself, I’d better get in the routine my own self. Start shadowing Stewart as I’d promised.

I got my coat and the Mossberg, and headed out.

Checked my watch. Stewart wouldn’t be at the head shop yet so I figured on a fast pint.

No.

I owed it to him to at least appear to be together. I went to the tiny café at the bottom of Quay Street. It was quiet and I ordered a double espresso. Was on the first sip when a stunning woman came in, looked round, and caught me looking at her.

She walked over, asked,

“Mr. Taylor?”

“Jack, but yes.”

“May I sit?”

Was she kidding? She could sit forever and I wouldn’t stir. The truly beautiful are almost painful to see. You know that such a gift has to bring a price of some kind, if only age alone. Sure enough, she seemed to carry an aura of sadness. She had that French elegance, effortless, compelling, and utterly fascinating.

And she knew it and was not at ease with the knowledge. Before I could catch my breath or offer a coffee, she said,

“I’m Irini.”

And I knew, deep down, with a sense of dread, this was not going to make me feel good. I said,

“Kosta.”

She nodded and began to speak.

One meeting, can it change your life? Maybe. It can certainly twist and forge your whole previous way of thinking.

When she left, I knew what I’d have to do and hated it. No ducking this bullet. It had my name on it, in neon.

Stewart and I had met again after the first day of his laying down his routine, going over our respective roles and what would go down after-if there was an after. Finally, when all had been gone over so many times, he reached in his jacket, handed me over a syringe. I said,

“You think we need this?”

He was edgy, snapped,

“You’ll need it. This is your half-arsed plan.”

I took it and was about to enquire what it contained but he was way ahead, said,

“You don’t want to know. Try to jab it in the neck. Works faster and I’m thinking we won’t have a whole lot of time.”

I’d set up my kitchen, in the optimistic wish that we would actually grab one of them and could haul the crazy body back here.

Day four, I was beginning to think I was as nuts as Stewart implied. Standing across the street from the head shop, the syringe in my right pocket, way back in the shadow of a doorway, and forcing the talk with Irini out of my mind. I nearly missed the movement.

Then

Jesus, the girl, Bethany, setting up camp in the alley next to the shop. I fumbled for the mobile, got Stewart, rushed,

“She’s here, right next to you.”

A sharp intake of breath from him, neither of us really prepared for the fact of my prediction working. I added, trying to keep the panic at least one sentence away,

“Come out of the shop real fast, don’t give her time to think about it, cross the street. When you get to your car, drop your keys and bend down to retrieve them.”

He said,

“Jack, you ready for this? You really don’t want to fuck this up.

Tell me you know what you’re doing.”

I clicked off.

Best to keep him on high alert.

A minute later, he emerged, looking for all the world like a young harassed entrepreneur, and did exactly as I said. Nearly got run over as he pushed across the street. It worked, took her by complete surprise, but she rallied.

Went after him.

I moved.

She was looming over the bending Stewart when I hit her with the needle. She never sensed me, so sure was she of her prey. I plunged the needle into her jugular, slapped the Stanley knife easily from her hand, grabbed her as she began to crumble, pulled open the back door, shoved her in. Stewart was right: that concoction was fast. I could hear a slight whimper from her. Now, the rough part. Stewart was in the driver’s seat. I took a deep breath, leant against the door, nonchalance personified, lit a cig, scanned the area, and saw nothing, and heavens blessed, heard no sirens. My nerves only evident in the flicking of the Zippo. I knew Stewart was going crazy and to see me leaning against the car must have upped his anxiety to a whole new level. I risked a glance into the backseat. She was out.

Phew-oh.

I stubbed the cig under my boot, casually slid into the shotgun seat. Stewart was shaking, and, as I watched, he reached in his pocket, took out a pill, dry-swallowed it. I asked,

“Thought you didn’t take dope.”

He waited as he let the pill slide down, said,

“Thought I didn’t abduct people either.”

He let out a breath, put the car in gear, said,

“Your apartment, right?”

I nodded and we got out of there. Our insane luck held and we got to the apartment without any attention or screams of outrage. Carried the girl to the apartment. Inside, we faced the hard kitchen chair, lined with tarpaulin. For show, on the counter, were a range of what looked like surgical instruments, gleaming like terror. If she was like most young people, she’d have seen:

Saw,

Hostel,

The Ring,

and all the other gruesome torture flicks doing the biz. Her imagination would do the rest.

Convinced Stewart, who croaked,

“You’re not seriously going to use……………….those?”

I didn’t look at him, said,

“I seriously don’t know.”

We put her in the chair and I produced the rope. Stewart went pale, said,

“Jesus, Jack, are we going too far?”

I lost it, ranted,

“We? The fuck is the we shite? You’re going to fuck off for an hour, have some Zen time, and when you return, I’ll have the answers.”

He left reluctantly, reiterated,

“One hour?”

“Yeah, fucking time me if you like.”

Slammed the door. Maybe that, or the drug wearing off, but I heard Bethany stir. I turned back into the apartment. The next hour is not something I ever want to think about, ever. Two voices running rabid in my head. The first: