Ken Bruen - The Devil

Saw Carl arrive, strutting along, women turning to watch him.

He knew.

Small smile perched on his handsome face.

He was wearing a light suede jacket that whispered, serious bucks , black shirt with a muted red tie, dark slacks and those Loke shoes, handmade jobs I could never afford.

A little sun had emerged and bounced off his bald head like bad karma.

I began to shoot off a whole range of shots, catching him, if not in his full glory, at least in his smug esteem.

He strolled into the brasserie as if he owned it.

For some odd reason, the beautiful words of Francis de Sales’ Cross crept into my head. I muttered them like some form of incantation.

I knew it by heart. One of the Patrician Brothers had taught me – and I use taught with more than a little bitterness.

He beat it into me with the canes they favoured. Those suckers hurt like a bastard.

I can still hear the swish as it came down

again,

again,

again,

palms of my hands, my bare legs, till the sweat rolled down, staining his cassock.

Did I cry?

Not then.

Some might suggest I’ve been crying ever since.

I used the rest of the roll to shoot the swans in the Claddagh Basin and had a batch of French bread to feed them.

Pocketing the camera and brushing the breadcrumbs off, I headed for the restaurant.

I was thinking about coq au vin , and call it a hunch, but I knew it wasn’t ever going to be on the menu.

And as it turned out, it wasn’t.

During the lunch we had, he never once mentioned it, so did I?

Did I fuck.

I’m not all that sure what it is, except it sounds…lewd.

But then I was raised on spuds and cabbage.

Meat was what the priests had.

Later, we discovered, very young meat.

He had the best table.

Quelle surprise.

Rose to greet me. Was he going to embrace me?

Changed to a handshake.

My imagination?

But his hand felt like a dead person’s. Waving me to the chair opposite, he said,

‘Jack, bienvenu . I took the liberty of ordering for us. Champers to start, n’est-ce pas ?’

Holy fuck.

He clicked his fingers, said,

‘ Garçon .’

The waiter was there in jig time, uncorked the bottle with a flourish, filled our glasses and backed off.

Carl said,

‘Moët.’

Is there a reply?

He suddenly produced a fountain pen – Mont Blanc, of course, to accessorize his slim Rolex, no doubt – and held up a finger, motioning me to be quiet.

Jotted down something on a napkin, folded it, put it beside his glass, then said,

‘Sorry, Jack, just a business inspiration.’

He raised his glass, toasted,

‘Here’s to you, fellah.’

Had he now an Irish lilt?

Another ‘garçon’ arrived, with a tray of oysters. Carl said,

‘Nothing like a petit aphrodisiac.’

I drained my glass, asked,

‘You hoping to get laid?’

And before he could respond, I asked the waiter, with exaggerated politeness,

‘Could I get a pint of Guinness, please ?’

Show at least one of us wasn’t a wanker.

Carl, not skipping a beat, never looking at the waiter, snapped,

‘Make it two and before Tuesday.’

Then grinned at me, said,

‘ Mea culpa, mon ami , oysters without the black would be a sin,’ his eyes mocking me.

I was delighted. In the proper mood for down and dirty with this cock-sucker. A level playing field, so to speak.

I waited till the G arrived, then sank half without preamble, belched, said,

‘Ah, that’s the biz.’

He didn’t touch his, waved his fingers at the poor bastard hovering, indicating his champagne needed to be refilled.

Time to turkey shoot.

I wiped the froth off my upper lip, said,

‘Let’s stop fucking around, pal. I know who you are…’

Paused.

‘And you know I know. So quit the bullshite, what do you want?’

Took a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed out loud, startling the waiters and me.

It was loud. I imagine they could hear him in Purgatory – or Tuam, which amounts to the same thing.

It sounded like a hyena with meat in its mouth.

The hairs on my arms stood up, literally.

Whatever I’d expected -

showdown at noon,

denial,

outrage,

this wasn’t it.

He eased down, wiped his eyes, gasped,

‘You are, as Mrs Anthony Bradford-Hemple says, priceless.

Did he mean Ridge?

He did.

Continued, the accent changing tone like staccato French, German, whatever the fuck,

‘Look at this body of mine, Jack, and you – you broken-down specimen, you poor deluded creature, you seem to believe I’m the Devil incarnate? You are Jack, a one-off, a true original, no wonder she has a certain fondness for you.’

Ridge, I figured.

An almost grey sheen had entered his eyes, like coal that would never light unless…

He leant back, his body language insinuating languor.

The Devil incarnate seemed to amuse him highly. I was about to speak but he held up a finger, said,

‘Shush. I have, as your esteemed trade unionists say, the floor.’

He took a delicate sip of the champagne, then said,

‘Let’s have some fun. Indulge your fanciful delusion for a moment, act as if the Devil wears Armani .’

He leant over, right in my face, whispered,

‘I’m the Devil, Lucifer, the Light-Bringer, Lord of Darkness.’

I said,

‘You forgot the apt one, Lord of Lies.’

No smile, he hissed,

‘Do not provoke me or allow my superficial courtesy to mislead you. I’ve endured a lot of your babble due to your…affliction.’

He waved a beautifully manicured hand at my pint, continued,

‘Be assured of this, my dense disciple. I too have a limited well of patience, and do tell, pray tell, why, if I were the Devil, why in the name of all that’s…’

He cackled, completed,

‘…unholy, would I bother trifling with a wreck such as you? Surely even a moron like you can appreciate that the Devil must have a busy schedule? Swine flu – so sorry, so non PC, Mexican influenza, recession, Iraq, somewhat pressing engagements, don’t you think?’

I said,

‘Very eloquent. Here’s a thought for you, mate. What if you felt that one jaded, over-the-hill, broken-down wretch had somehow managed to fuck up your malevolent plans? What if, whatever schemes you had for our still Catholic town, what if this wretch somehow managed to keep the one element alive that is contrary to all the Light-Bringer hates?’

He emptied his glass, asked in a tone of pure ice,

‘What element might that be, Taylor?’

Taylor? No more Jack?

I smiled, drew out the word, said,

‘Hope.’

He stared at me for a long moment then switched gear, muttered something in German, I think, but I’m guessing, said,

‘Wasn’t that fun? Let me ask you a question, Mr Purveyor of Hope. Have you ever read the Catechism of the Catholic Church, second edition?’

He smiled, added,

‘Not to be confused with the Second Coming.’

I said,

‘Missed that one. Is it on DVD?’

He was done with me for now, said,

‘And you such a vociferous reader? I highly recommend it.’

He paused, licked his lips, said,

‘Specifically, look at Section Two! But enough of all this gravitas. If I’m the Devil and you’re mankind’s hope, the world is even more fucked than one could have dreamed.’

His use of the curse seemed to shake the table.