Ken Bruen - The Devil

‘You’re…?’

Meaning,

‘Irish you ain’t.’

And words failed me.

If I had to guess, he sounded French, sort of, but with a complete mastery of English that was amazing.

He let that hover, that damn smile in place, then,

‘I’m of mixed ancestry, far too boring for a man like you to have to bear, but I carry a German passport.’

I decided to stay on the vague interrogatory track, asked,

‘You on holiday, business? Leaving or arriving?’

He loved that.

I could literally see his eyes dance with merriment, or as my late mother might have said,

‘With devilment.’

He said,

‘Business, always working, so many tasks awaiting my attention. I’m currently headed for a city called Galway. Are you familiar with this place?’

He wanted to head fuck, I’d oblige, said,

‘No.’

Nothing else.

Almost a Zen response, as my sidekick Stewart would appreciate.

He gave me a long look, impossible to decipher, halfway bemusement, the rest, I think, was anger.

Then he said in that so polished accent,

‘A shame, I’ve rented a rather lovely vehicle and if you’d been going to Galway…’

And all of a sudden I was tired of him. Checked my watch, the bus…yeah, the bus was about ready to leave. I drained my shot glass, the Guinness following fast.

I stood up and he asked,

‘Leaving already?’

I gave him my best look, full of empty promise, said,

‘It’s been a blast.’

Gave it an American twang to shove it home.

He extended that languid hand again and his grip was fierce. He said,

‘I feel we’ll meet again.’

Not if I could fucking help it. I left him with,

‘Then the jar is on me.’

As I walked away, I could feel his eyes boring into me. Jesus, one creepy guy.

I got outside the terminal and noticed an Aer Lingus lady watching me.

Since our national airline, like the rest of the country, was to hell and gone, it was rare to actually see the green uniform, not to mention an Irish person.

She said,

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but are you a friend of the man you were having a drink with?’

The fuck was this?

She read my face, understanding exactly what I was thinking, and continued,

‘Since the difficulties with our company, some of us are assigned to just being on site and helping where we can.’

Unless she could get me to America, she was shite out of luck.

I asked,

‘Is there a point to this?’

She looked mortified in the way only an Irish woman can, that is, shamed yet defiant.

She said,

‘I’ve been monitoring the departures hall for over a year and I can pretty well read faces now, it passes the time, and earlier I noticed that man due to his striking appearance, and then, I hope this doesn’t seem too far fetched, he seemed to zone in on you.’

The bitch was mad, time to get another line of work.

I said, sarcasm all over me words,

‘Stalking me?’

She stared at her feet in pure agony for a moment, then the head came up, jaw strong.

‘And when you passed through Customs, he actually smiled. As if he knew you’d be…re-emerging.’

I gave a bitter laugh, said,

‘He was right.’

She was into it now, a whole conspiracy living in front of her, said,

‘And he tracked you till you went to the bar, then he’s sitting with you.’

I saw the bus approach, tried to keep the irritation to a low, asked,

‘Spit it out, what is it you think is going on?’

She ignored my shot, said,

‘I’d be very careful of people like that, sir. I grew up in West Cork, the old people believed -’

She was seriously mortified now, but soldiered on,

‘- that malevolence is a living, breathing thing and it hovers, waiting for a target, then it latches on, won’t let go till it owns you, and usually it targets people who are sad or disappointed. I know this sounds crazy, but that man seemed delighted to see you so…despondent.’

Christ, no wonder the national airline had gone down the toilet.

I asked, a mocking tone evident,

‘So, the Devil is hanging out in airports, looking for poor bastards who get refused entry to America? And he’s what, going to scoop them up? Jesus, lady, you need to get a grip or some serious medication.’

I hurt her badly, wounded her in fact, but for fuck’s sake, I was doing her a favour. Wasn’t I?

Jesus wept.

I began to move away and she shouted,

‘I just thought I should make you aware of the situation. I’m sorry if I sounded odd.’

I gave her a slight smile, nothing too fancy – you can never encourage lunatics – and said,

‘Odd? Least you’re in the best country for it.’

And oh sweet Jesus, added,

‘You need to get out more, take a walk round the car park. You know, get a different perspective.’

I got on the bus, leaving her looking forlorn and lost.

Beyond redemption?

Oddest thing, as the bus swung round to take the turn for Galway, maybe it was a trick of the light, but I thought I saw Kurt pressed up against the glass entry door, not watching me.

Watching her.

Lucifer.

The Light Bringer.

He was the Angel of light.

He believed that man had seriously fucked up.

So, like a good cop, he collected his evidence, brought it to His Lord.

The Lord, being God, like all governments, was highly sceptical and laughed at his bearer of light.

Truly pissed off, like all good cops, Lucifer began to falsify the evidence.

An early fan of The Wire , if you will.

Not so much Serpico as Satan.

And yeah, got fucked over.

So he did what you do when you get caught, you rally the guys.

Set up his own shit.

Not quite Mugabe, but he was getting there. His coup failed.

No wonder the Irish have such belief in him.

Failed rebellions.

What we do best.

He was, as they put it, thrown into hell.

And like all former zealots, he swore,

‘The fuck I’m going down alone.’

And you kinda have to admire the cojones of the guy. Not only was he taking his motley crew of failed cohorts to hell and beyond, he’d go after God’s supposedly mega love.

The Human Race.

He’d enlist:

Idi,

Adolph,

Maggie Thatcher,

And for a pure Trivial Pursuit (even arch demons need recreation) somewhere on the list of crazed cronies he added the name of

Taylor, Jack.

Just for a spot of diversion.

The guy went around with guilt,

fear,

anger,

spite,

arrogance.

And best of all, he was a half-assed recovering Catholic.

Not only would it give Luc some R and R, he’d get to drink some Jameson, sink a few pints of Guinness and, primarily, watch the stupid bollix try to figure it out.

Where was the downside?

Most diabolical of all, Taylor would look for motivation. That made the Devil laugh out loud. He loved the game most when humans sought explanations and motivation.

Reminded him of wondrous times, like that idiot Aleister Crowley.

And if he knew Taylor, and he sure knew a sitting target, sooner or later, Taylor would do two really stupid acts.

Apart, of course, from trying to understand it.

Taylor would do two incredibly dumb acts.

One: he’d go to a priest.

And by all that is unholy, the priest would feel the wrath of meddling with the Anti-Christ.

And then the tinkers.

Luc had a special hatred for them as the weird clan could see things.

He didn’t like that.