Ken Bruen - The Devil

I’d hardly sank half the Jay before I’d been offered a batch of shirts.

Nearly bought a light blue as it was so like my old Guard’s one, but passed when the guy said,

‘You can’t just buy one.’

The bollix would probably have his own franchise within the year.

I was sinking the black when a woman – Romanian, I’d guess – offered me some DVDs. Said,

‘All the blockbusters, sir.’

I flicked through them and smiled.

Hellboy?

Hell, yes.

And

The Reader ,

The Wrestler ,

London Boulevard ,

Abba: the Movie ,

Alien vs Predator 2 ,

Appaloosa .

Said I’d take them all save Abba.

She was surprised, asked,

‘You no like Abba?’

Sacrilege?

I asked,

‘It’s a happy, feel-good one, right?’

She nodded.

And I stared into her gypsy eyes, asked,

‘I look to you like a guy who does happy?’

We settled on a price and she was pleased. Then she leant over, said,

‘The boy – don’t look now, but to your right – he no like you, is true?’

I waited till she’d gone, then casually looked to my right and sure enough, there was a young guy – eighteen, maybe? – sipping a pint bottle of cider, the loony juice, giving me what I can only describe as the Evil Eye.

And his body movements, that jerky motion that spoke of speed jag.

I knew it.

Had, alas, been there.

I checked the sports page.

Robbie Keane, captain of our national team, had been sold from Liverpool, his big chance blown.

Before I could see why, the jittery kid was sitting opposite me, said,

‘Taylor.’

Not a question.

I reached for me pint, not knowing what was on this lunatic’s agenda, but at least I’d have something in me hand. I said,

‘Help you?’ Flexing for the violence that was coming in waves off him.

He smiled. His teeth had been filed down, and he had one of those rings through his nose and really serious sniffles.

Coke rag.

He asked,

‘Ever hear of a band named the Devil’s Minions?’

I tried to keep it light, said,

‘Nope, missed that one.’

He had a battered Tesco bag clutched to his side, and he said,

‘Have a look at this.’

Reached into the bag and took out a clear jar of what looked like water. Held it in his right hand. Said,

‘You don’t know how to mind yer own fucking business, do yah?’

Before I could react, he said,

‘But you have an acid tongue, the One says.’

In a moment, he had the top off the jar, said,

‘Here’s some acid. Don’t mess with Our Dark One.’

Threw it in my face.

.

I clawed at my face in total panic and it took me, I dunno, a lifetime?, to realize it was water.

The shock was almost as bad as if it had been acid.

If.

In my days as a Guard, I’d once seen the result of such an attack on a woman. I was one of the first to arrive and her face was like it had melted. One eye had completely dissolved and bones stuck out at horrendous angles in her screaming face.

What had been her face.

Her mouth was gone and the screams were a high-pitched croon of absolute terror.

A jealous boyfriend.

The courts let him off with a stern caution.

My sergeant at the time, true old school, had told me to meet him after work. Said,

‘Bring a hurley.’

I did.

He taught me the lesson of the ash.

And that was how I began to appreciate that true justice is dispensed in alleys.

The boyfriend learned sharp and fast, and what I most remember is that neither the sergeant nor I said one single word.

Just used those hurleys till sweat near blinded us.

He took me for a pint after.

Wasn’t till we were on the other good side of a few that he finally said,

‘You’re one hard bastard, Taylor. Where d’you learn to shut yer gob and do the job?’

I told the truth.

‘Christian Brothers.’

He laughed, enjoyed that and said,

‘Their day is coming. Not even that crowd are above the law.’

Twenty years ago, that seemed unthinkable.

But then, so did X Factor .

Now I wiped my face with my sleeve, my whole body threatening to go into shock.

I got out of there. God knows I even brought the DVDs with me.

Headed for the docks.

What used to be the docks before the luxury-apartments bastards ruined them.

Even Padraigeen’s, one of the great pubs, was now Sheridan’s. With a fucking restaurant.

But no city ever fully goes under.

Drayton’s.

You won’t find it on the tourist map.

It’s not for tourists.

Or

backpackers,

New Agers,

sherry drinkers.

It’s for serious business.

Drink,

dope,

and whatever else you’re willing to pay the freight on.

It’s like the shebeens you used to find up North.

Same feel.

There’s not so much a bouncer on the door as a killer waiting to unleash.

I went to school with him.

He said,

‘Jack.’

I nodded.

Inside it was smoky. The no-smoking edict wasn’t much in effect here. There was one simple rule, apart from down-and-dirty drinking. ‘Mind yer own fucking business.’

I got a corner stool at the counter and waited.

Mrs Drayton – yes, there was an actual Drayton – saw me, and after a few minutes put a pint of the black and a large Jay before me.

I laid some notes on the counter. Asked,

‘How’s himself?’

Her husband.

She ignored the money. No one was going to grab it lest they wanted to lose their arm. She stubbed a hand-rolled on the floor, said,

‘Dead, thank Christ.’

I can’t say she ever liked anybody. She’d been briefly in the Magdalen laundries, so what did you expect? Oprah?

But she had a kind of odd regard for me. Due mainly to some work I’d done on behalf of the tinkers.

So she lingered.

Then,

‘Was there anything else you’d be wanting, Jack?’

I said,

‘Some personal protection.’

She never looked around.

You didn’t eavesdrop on her conversation, at least not twice. She asked,

‘You want people or merchandise?’

‘Something easy to carry.’

She gave what might be interpreted as a smile. Headed back to serving some sailors who’d been stranded in Galway for weeks and were waiting payment for two months’ service.

If their wages ever came, Mrs Drayton already owned it all.

Maybe thirty minutes later, she placed a Supermacs bag before me. Said,

‘Probably smells of chips and vinegar, but I’d say you’d live with that.’

I didn’t touch it.

Flashes of Emma, her heart torn out, jagging across my mind.

I heard her say,

‘Pay Sean on your way out.’

The bouncer.

I let five minutes lapse then headed for the toilet.

Got a stall and pulled out the bag, a Sig Sauer, full clip.

I shoved it in me jacket then pulled it out, pushed the magazine home and felt, if not better, at least ready.

The price had been written in pencil on the outside of the bag.

Not cheap, but could have been worse.

I wouldn’t be paying by credit card.

Back at the counter, I finished my drinks and she approached, held out a bottle cap, said,

‘You believe this?’

A bottle cap?

I knew better than to be a smart Alec, waited and she said,

‘Turn it over.’

I did.

A gleaming miraculous medal on the inside.

I said,

‘ Mhuire an Gras .’ (Mary of Grace).

Handed it back to her, or tried to, and she wrapped her huge work-worn calloused hands round my hand, said,