Ken Bruen - The Devil

I said,

‘Sergeant, how are you?’

He glanced back at the scene in the park, said,

‘Tis a holy awful business.’

‘I hear it’s a young student.’

He nodded, still vigilant, lest he be seen talking to me.

That truly saddened me.

Then he composed himself, said,

‘Jack, you shouldn’t be here. If Clancy knew, well…’

I knew.

Then he said,

‘I’ve two years to go to retirement, and to tell you the truth, Jack, I’m just filling in the time. This new violence, the awful savagery, I don’t understand it.’

Who did?

I don’t know if it’s a particular Irish trait or what, but we can only dwell in the darkness for so long without trying to pull something warm out of the inferno. I said,

‘Liam Sammon is doing a mighty job with the team.’

And he smiled.

Football, hurling, our last barricades against the tide that is about to engulf us. But it only lasted a brief moment.

He gave me a serious look, asked,

‘Jack, you’re not involved in any of this? I mean, I heard you gave up all that PI stuff. This is way out of your league.’

Then, almost to himself,

‘Way out of ours, too.’

I gave him the old punch on the shoulder we used to use after a fine goal against the likes of Dublin, lied,

‘Are yah codding me? I’m getting ready to go to America.’

He stared at my coat, and with a tiny smile said,

‘They’ll be wanting that back.’

I said with fake levity,

‘Good luck with that.’

He adjusted his cap, turned to head back to the carnage, said,

‘ A cara, bhi curamach .’ (My friend, be careful.)

I replied,

‘A gus leat fein .’ (You too.)

And more’s the Irish pity, neither of us heeded that benign blessing.

A year after that encounter, he was found hanging in his garage, one year short of his retirement.

But a lot of other malevolence was coming down the Galway pike before then.

Somewhere I’d read:

Good which is unused is prone to turn to evil.

I’d gone back to my apartment; the snow had started falling heavily again.

We don’t do snow here. It’s so rare, we’re almost enchanted at the novelty.

Till it starts fucking up transport, heating, our daily lives.

Then we react.

Badly.

And as is our way, we blame somebody.

I turned on the news, almost my penance at this stage.

Banks failing.

The Euro fucked.

And I nearly laughed. In the midst of all this they went local, showing how a new hotel was to be built on the site of the Connacht laundry.

And how wonderful. It would have saunas, hot tubs, tanning booths.

Oh Mother. Mo croi .

I went to see how much was left of the Jameson.

I had a real bad feeling it wasn’t going to be enough.

Next morning, I was all over the frigging place.

Me nerves were shot to ribbons.

I wanted to get right on the Sawyer case, the girls bullying the Down syndrome child. But I knew I was too frazzled to do that with any refinement.

Beating the be-jaysus out of three children wouldn’t exactly look good on me next American application.

I had some coffee, real smart I know when yer nerves are dancing jigs along the ceiling.

Did a Xanax, muttered,

‘Do some kind of fecking magic, will ye?’

It did.

Took a time, but it got me there.

The snow had eased and there even seemed to be a ray of bright sunshine on the horizon.

As I got me all-weather gear on, I was even able to listen to some music.

Counting Crows.

Johnny Duhan, of course, me beacon always.

And the truly angelic Gretchen Peters.

Song on her album, ‘Breakfast At Our House’, about the agony of divorce and it was too acute, too accurate, I had to stop it.

The bells for the Angelus tolled.

I stopped, blessed myself.

I was probably one of the last people on the whole damn island who still took the time to say it.

‘ The Angel of the Lord …’

And like the song goes, took some comfort there.

Not from childhood, fuck no. But maybe from that vanished Ireland where people stopped in the streets, blessed themselves and said the prayer.

We’d come a long way.

And gained?

Sweet fuck all.

I tried not to think of that gorgeous girl Emma and her heart torn from her body. The anger and rage literally steamed off me.

I said aloud,

‘Get a bloody grip, son.’

Then without another thought, headed out to the pub.

Answers there?

Course not. But at least I could be numb enough not to ask questions.

My mobile rang.

Ridge.

All warmth.

Thanking me for my fine behaviour at the drinks party.

Through gritted teeth, I asked,

‘How is Carl?’

Like I gave a fuck.

She gushed. God forgive us both, but she did. Went,

‘He is very taken with you. Who’d have guessed you had such charm?’

Who indeed?

She prattled on.

Ridge!

I reined in me animosity, not easy but got there, and she said,

‘I hope you don’t mind, Jack, but he asked for your mobile number. Was that OK to give it to him? I think he has plans for you.’

I nearly laughed, said,

‘You’re right, I do believe he has plans for me.’

Then she changed her tune, asked,

‘Are you all right, Jack? You sound a bit strained.’

Surely not.

I said,

‘Must be a bad connection. But I wonder if I might ask you a wee favour, you being a newly appointed sergeant and all?’

She was still high on the party’s success and agreed to do whatever I needed.

Dumb bitch.

I told her about the Sawyers, the little girl Kelli and the bullying.

No problem.

She’d be delighted to straighten them out, and in fact was in town the next day and would appear in full uniform to have a chat with the bullying girls. She said,

‘Who knows better than you, Jack, the effect of a uniform?’

I felt a pang.

True, me days in uniform, you had a certain presence. Said,

‘Thank you so much, I owe you.’

She laughed, said,

‘Tis nothing.’

She was so wrong. And ended the call with,

‘Jack, I think you’ve really turned your life around. I’m so proud of you.’

I hung up before she got more ridiculous.

Garavan’s, on Shop Street, one of the last remaining old Galway pubs, with an Irish barman.

Wouldn’t last.

But I’d appreciate it while it did.

A busker outside was singing ‘It’s Raining In Baltimore’.

I dropped a ten in his wet tweed cap and he said, in a German accent,

‘Zank you.’

The barman thankfully hadn’t known of me travel plans, so no need for all the fandango of bullshite. He said,

‘Usual?’

I nodded and headed for the snug, a portioned little corner where you can see but not be seen.

The Brits would love it.

The Irish Independent was on the table. I scanned the headlines:

1,177 workers lost their jobs every day during January.

327,861 are now out of work.

132,263 posts have been axed since the new Taoiseach came to power.

And the editorial screamed,

‘It’s going to get worse.’

The barman came over, put down the Jameson first, then the pint of Guinness, nodded at the paper and said,

‘I’ve applied to go to Australia.’

The young people were all heading out again. Like the awful eighties, when our best and our brightest left the dying economy, and never came back.

But tough times bring out the street entrepreneurs.