Ken Bruen - The Devil

It certainly shook me.

Much later, I did track down the piece on the internet, titled The Fall of the Angels . Dealing with the real enemy of Catholicism, it read:

Behind the disobedient choice of our first parents lurks a seductive voice, opposed to God, which makes them fall into death out of envy. Scripture and the Church’s tradition see in this the fallen angel called Satan or Lucifer.

All of a sudden I knew I was outgunned, out of my league, and I just gave up. I’d thought I could play, beat this sucker hands down and not even have to exert meself.

The waiter brought entrées.

Prawn cocktails.

After oysters?

He dug into his with gusto, snapping his fingers for more bubbly. He seemed to have a thirst brought on by the fires of hell.

I stayed with the G.

The Devil you know, right?

I wasn’t going to beat him verbally, he had too much sleight of hand for my slower repartee.

The main course arrived.

Steaks.

So rare, the blood was leaking over the edge of the plate. I said to the waiter,

‘Sorry, but I need it well done, please.’

Carl smiled, went,

‘I’d have pegged you as the raw-meat type.’

I let it simmer, then said,

‘You’d have been wrong, mon ami .’

He didn’t so much eat the steak as devour it. Like some jackal who realizes another predator might show.

When mine arrived, cooked to a crisp, I barely touched it.

Pushing his plate aside, pieces of meat lodged in his teeth, he asked,

‘Dessert?’

‘No, thanks.’

He signalled for the bill and I made to reach for my wallet but he was already laying a platinum card on the table.

I don’t do cards.

And I do know when I’ve had me arse well and truly kicked.

As the Americans say, He handed me my ass .

He knew.

I knew.

So I did what you do when you’ve been walloped, especially with champagne as an outrider to your defeat.

I shut the fuck up.

We stood to leave and he put his arm round me.

I shit thee not.

I loved that.

There was a time, when I had some mettle, I’d have taken that arm and broken it over me knee and not a moment’s sleep would it have cost me.

Now, I adjusted me hearing aid.

Felt my limp kick in.

Made a note to meself, Give up, root out your K. C. Constantine novels and become a hermit .

Carl, figuring I was done but to bury me, said,

‘I’m going to help you, Jackie.’

Next he’d be calling me Jackie-o.

I asked, quietly,

‘How’s that?’

He beamed, the cat with all the freaking cream, said,

‘I have some, shall we say, juice?’

OJ?

Continued,

‘I’m aware of your fervent lust to get to the USA.’

Yeah, he leaned on the L word.

Humble as Bono, I near whispered,

‘Really?’

We were on Quay Street now, him literally leading me. He said in a Brit accent, ‘Name your departure date, matey.’

I said,

‘ASAP.’

He let me go, threw out his arms, bellowed,

‘What are you waiting for? Get packing.’

I would.

Next time, I’d be packing the Sig.

We were at the crossroads where Quay Street leads off to three different streets. Carl paused, said,

‘Ah, a crossroads. No doubt you’re familiar with the story of the blues musician who sold his soul at such a junction?’

I asked,

‘Why would I want to sell my soul?’

He slapped my shoulder hard, laughed, said,

‘You already have.’

He turned at Naughton’s pub, near Judy Green’s pottery shop, said,

‘ Quel dommage , but I must bid you adieu.’

A Japanese photo-cluster-fuck was taking snaps of everything and he suddenly bared his teeth, bile in his eyes, said,

‘Jack, I hate photographs.’

I stood there, watching him strut off, the Stones song ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ uncoiling in my head.

I’m paraphrasing here, but it goes something like:

happy to meet you,

did you guess me name?

I know those aren’t the lyrics, but you get the drift.

I had the film developed at a one-hour photo joint.

The swans came out lovely.

The Claddagh church appeared splendid.

Of Carl, I’d taken, I think, thirteen shots.

All blank.

I got back to me apartment.

Down,

depressed,

defeated.

Nietzsche wrote that ‘to shame a man is to kill him’.

No argument from me there.

I opened the door, it was close to nine in the evening. So OK, I stopped in a few places en route.

1. To erase the very chill he’d sunk in me bones.

2. The shock of the developed film had walloped me hard.

The smell hit me first.

Rank,

foul,

dead.

It literally knocked me back into the corridor.

Took a deep breath, gathered me shredded nerves, went in.

The whole apartment was lit up.

Blazing with candles.

Black candles.

Almost fifty at a rough estimate. On every surface.

On the coffee table was a dead dog.

Headless.

Gutted from end to end.

The entrails spilling on to the wooden floor.

Took me a moment to realize there was a note pinned to the poor animal’s hind quarters.

A very bloodied note. Read:

‘Dog-gone.’

And on the bookcase, a red card – and I mean crimson. With more than a little trepidation, I opened it. It seemed to be some kind of invitation. The words in black read:

Missa niger.

Invito te venire ad clandestinum ritum.

And it was signed, ‘The Devil’s Minion’.

The acid-thrower, not hiding the fact that he’d re-decorated my apartment. The bastard had balls, I’d give him that, and I swore,

‘You’ll fucking need them, pal.’

I stood, frozen, as I surveyed my home.

Then rage kicked in. Never underestimate the dark power, the energy of that. It galvanizes you, has you muttering,

‘By Jaysus.’

If there is a better antidote to terror, a sawn-off not being to hand, bring it on.

I grabbed the help that was on site.

Xanax,

Jameson,

and a primed and loaded gun.

Whoever had black candled my place hadn’t found the gun. It was wrapped in oilskin, under a pile of dirty laundry.

Burglars know that old ploy, but this intruder hadn’t come to steal.

Once the weapon was in me hand, I began to feel, if not better, at least less powerless. I gripped it like me first Holy Communion money. Then: double Jameson (neat), double Xanax (neater), and mused on the poor dog’s head.

Where would the sick fucker have put it, going for max effect as he was? Godfather like, in me bed?

I’d check that once the meds hit.

The fridge, of course.

On ice, so to speak.

I added another dollop of the Jay, me gut warming already and a ferocious anger building. The magic of prescription drugs, a frigging song began to roll in me head.

Now?

I’m standing in the centre of my apartment, with a headless dog, its entrails dripping still on to me floor, my system ablaze with whiskey and dope, my temper close to Delcon three, a loaded, primed weapon in my right hand, and I’m humming ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’?

Like on auto, this is followed by ‘Not A Dry Eye In The House’.

Maybe twenty minutes in, I ease my grip on the weapon. The butt is slick from sweat, my fingers aching from the pressure.

I find my mobile, call Stewart.

Takes a time, but eventually,

‘Lo?’

Jesus, now even ‘Hello’ is abbreviated?

‘Stewart, I need your help.’