Ken Bruen - Headstone

“Torturing and psychologically destroying a young girl. Is this what you’ve slithered your way down to?”

The second:

“The devil drives.”

I clung to this as it elaborated,

“She is a stone killer. Preys on the weak and vulnerable and about to go after a special needs school.”

Her eyes widened as I approached and she spat,

“Taylor.”

I held up my mutilated hand, said,

“Now you get a choice. Tell me what I want to know without any incentives.”

Threw a glance at the ugly shining instruments, as she did, continued,

“Or we can do it your way. Sorry I don’t have a headstone but you’ll find it’s memorable anyway and, trust me, you’ll talk, so why not spare us both the grief?”

I moved back as she roared,

“Fuck you, alkie.”

I took the other kitchen chair, sat cowboy style, my arms resting on the back. She looked at the bindings, spat,

“Into bondage, is that it?”

I said,

“You wanted Stewart, he’ll be back soon.”

She took a fast look at my hand, said,

“Could almost pass for normal. Almost.”

I rose from the chair, took out a bottle of Jameson, poured a measure, knocked it back, asked,

“Thirsty?”

Her eyes pleaded yes but her body held fast. I pushed,

“Why did you pose as Ronan Wall’s sister?”

A snicker, then,

“You dumb arse, he’s my lover.”

I smiled and she instantly realized her error. I said,

“So now we have one name. Just yours and the other two losers to go. Oh, and the special needs school. I’ll need to know where and when?”

Her eyes darted around. Being alone with me was not giving her much confidence but she tried,

“What are you going to do, kill me? You haven’t the balls for that.”

She was right and I was having serious reservations about being able to do this. Truth is, she looked kind of pathetic and vulnerable. But by pure awful chance, the sun chose that exact moment to send a brief ray of light through my kitchen window and it hit on a gold pendant around her neck, just a glimpse of it, but it shone. Oh Jesus, did it ever. The Claddagh jewelry I’d bought for Laura. She was wearing it.

Rage engulfed me. I snapped it from her neck, and she laughed, said,

“Oh, was that for your American floozy?”

My Walther PPK was in her purse. I gritted my teeth, asked,

“Where is the Medugorje relic I was wearing?”

She smiled, said,

“We threw it in the trash. We don’t believe in all that bullshit religious mumbo jumbo.”

I stood, trying to control the ferocious violence her words aroused in me. Said,

“Believe this.”

I moved to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, asked,

“Is sparkling OK?”

We were done a good ten minutes before Stewart returned. I’d released her from her bonds, led her to an armchair where she curled up in the fetal position, whimpering like a savaged puppy.

There wasn’t a mark on her.

That you could see.

She was, in Irish,

“Briste.”

Broken.

I put a mug of Jameson in her hand. She needed both hands to hold it, then gulped it down lest I withdraw it. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Thank Christ.

Back in my early days, I was assigned to the Border. One wet dark Friday, Stapleton and I were sent to Belfast, a few weeks before Bloody Sunday. Told,

“Keep your mouths shut, the sound of your brogues would have the UVF all over ye.”

Civilian clothes, of course. We had no idea why we were going and, to this day, I’m sure the ones who sent us hadn’t a clue either. Those days, it was retaliation and madness. Still is but with a political sheen to gloss over the uglier aspects.

Saturday night, we were taken to a dank dark basement on the outskirts of the city. No idea if we were the ones who might be sacrificed. No one knew anything then, save it was possible the next atrocity was you. We were being taught a lesson. Here’s how it went down.

A cocky, confused lieutenant from the Para’s First Brigade was tied to a chair. Not a whole lot unlike the one in my kitchen.

He was mocking his captors, going,

“Thick as planks, fucking Paddies.”

You had to admire his spunk if not his intuition. The men in that room, silent as mourners, had seen and done things that no man should ever witness. You wanted to scream at the mad bastard in the chair,

“Look, look at the men you’re throwing insults at.”

Their eyes had that granite, dead expression of

“We’ve been to hell and we’ve brought it back.”

And still, the Para continued to lash them with insults about Fenian bastards, papist morons.

The unit leader said to me,

“See that snooty bollix, he’s trained to withstand anything. And the stupid fooker believes his training will help him.”

He was chugging from a silver flask, handed it to me, grimacing as he swallowed his. I drank, near choked, but managed to hide it, and he said,

“The holy trinity, coffee, poitin, and Guinness.”

Lethal.

He asked,

“Got a watch?”

“Sure.”

“Look at it.”

I did.

He said,

“Fifty minutes is my record. I’ve bet the boyos I can get it down to forty-five minutes or all drinks on me tonight.”

He did.

The water gig was only part of it. The Para was freed from his restraints, covered in feces, urine, vomit, and shame. He fell on the floor among the remnants of his once fine teeth, scattered on the wood like bloody nuggets of careless cruelty. He begged, “Shoot me.”

We were then hustled out, fast, to a shebeen, one of the illegal drinking clubs of the Movement. Had us one hell of a night, ceili music and the rousing songs:

“ The Men Behind the Wire,”

“James Connolly,”

“The Girl from the County Down.”

None of it could erase the sound I’d heard as we reached the top step of the basement, on our way out.

A single shot.

You can’t. . take. . down

a

headstone.

— Fervent belief in the west of Ireland

December 8.

I checked the calendar, saw it was Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception’s Feast Day, and hoped to God she might lend a hand. Just in case, I doubled up on the Xanax. Two more in my all-weather Garda coat, nestling beside the Mossberg. A silver flask given to me by Laura, jacked with Jameson, and an amphetamine crushed to powder. Bring me up to speed so to pun. My heart was racing and my hands had a slight tremor. Fuck.

With the cocktail of stuff I had in my system, I’d either

die,

throw up,

or settle.

My stomach was losing the plot, didn’t know did I want to be cranked, mellow, on fire, or what the blazes. Thank Christ. The Xanax won out over the questions that had been plaguing me:

Will Bethany tell? Will they be waiting in ambush for us? The pills whispered,

“Chill.”

I did.

Left the apartment, a freaking one-man army of pharmaceuticals and firepower. A half-arsed version of the American dream. In my mind were uncoiling the words of “Lookaway, Dixie Land.” Elvis hadn’t so much left the building as stormed out with murder aforethought. Limped across the Salmon Weir Bridge, not one salmon jumping, and that was a crying shame. Everything poisoned.

Cut by the Town Hall announcing a forthcoming Marc Roberts evening. I’d go if I was still mobile. Then into Wood Quay, turned into Eyre Square. Paused.

Might be the last time I’d see it. The Xanax said,

“Fuck it, you’ve seen it enough, drive on.”

I did.

Threw a glance at Debenham’s, soon to lay off ninety percent of the staff. Jesus. Came to the Meyrick Hotel and turned into Forster Street. About one hundred yards now from the designated killing zone.