Ken Bruen - The Devil

‘What am I supposed to do?’

Waited, then decided that walking was the only thing I was able to do just now. I blessed myself, then headed on, moved along Grattan Road, glancing to the right at the abandoned lighthouse. Maybe I could rent that and put the isolation in its proper place. I reached the aquarium. I’d never been inside. Perhaps they had displays of the poisoned water.

Beside it was Seapoint ballroom. My mind attempted to recapture those glory days of the showbands:

The Regal,

The Capitol,

The Clipper Carlton,

The Indians,

The Royal,

The Miami.

Dressed in blazers and pants with actual creases, those guys played three-hour sessions, and the crowd loved them. I’m not going into some rap about a more innocent time, but the fact we knew less seemed to suit us better.

Now we know everything and talk to nobody.

A priest would patrol outside to ensure lewd behaviour didn’t occur. If only we knew, we should have been patrolling the priests.

As I hit the promenade proper, I gazed out at the ocean. It never failed to make me yearn. For what?

America,

love,

peace?

I don’t know, but it was like balm to my tired soul. It didn’t quiet the voices in my head that had the same refrain of

reminding,

re-telling,

reprimanding

the trash I was.

Once a cop…

Those instincts never fully leave you.

I’d been aware for the past ten minutes of a sleek black BMW tracking me.

Sawyer’s men?

Payback?

The Sig was to hand. I was ready and be-jaysus, I was willing.

I kept walking, replaying my most recent conversation with Stewart, his anger at my insistence that we were dealing with the Devil. He even asked if I’d checked for the number 666. I’d laughed out loud, said,

‘He’s bald, how hard would it be to look?’

Then I added, venom spilling all over my words,

‘You saw The Omen and bought the glitz version.’

He didn’t know what I meant so I told him.

Hollywood versus Revelation.

And read out the actual passage from Revelation, 13, 16-18:

‘And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred three score and six.’

He was confused and I said,

‘The number 666 is the mark of the beast, not of Satan!’

The BMW stopped, the back door opened and a voice said,

‘Get in.’

Cautiously I bent down and there was Superintendent Clancy. Once my best friend, but my lethal adversary for a long time. In my last case, I had saved the life of his child and he owed me. I knew he hated that, the debt. I got in, closed the door. Sitting in the front were two Guards, plain clothes. One I didn’t know, but the other, he had beaten me to a pulp the year before. He was known as Tom the Thug. It fitted. I said,

‘How’s the hurting biz, Tommy?’

He didn’t reply, but I could see his neck redden from temper.

Clancy said,

‘Always with the mouth, Jack?’

Jack .

For years, it had always been Taylor.

I looked at him. He was in full regalia, the deep-navy Commander’s rig, with medals pinned on the right collar. He’d been carrying a lot of weight the last time we met, but seemed to have grown even larger, his stomach pressed against the tight tunic. His jowls testified to rich dinners with the lads and layers of fat had narrowed his eyes into slits. I asked,

‘Life treating you good?’

He sighed and I knew he was waiting for me to ask about the boy, to remind him.

I didn’t.

He said,

‘I was reliably informed you were going to America.’

I smiled, said,

‘Not that reliable, it seems.’

Usually, at this stage in the proceedings, one of his men would have walloped me, hard. He said,

‘Jack, we have the Volvo racing competition coming to Galway. Out of all the cities in the world, we get to be the base. This means a huge influx of money, prestige, tourists, puts us on the world stage.’

He paused, shot his hand out, adjusted the cufflink on his snow-white shirt.

Who the fuck wears cufflinks any more and more to the point, why?

I swear, they had the Garda crest on them.

I had a real hard time not to burst into Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’, but that would have definitely gotten me a hammering. He continued,

‘Now Jack, how would it sound to the world media if some eejit were running round making wild accusations about Satanic murders and such crazy talk as that?’

I said,

‘I’m guessing the Tourist Board wouldn’t be happy with such an individual.’

He turned his beady eyes on me, said,

‘You’ve got it arseways as usual, Jack. You’re forever bleating about not liking our new Galway but it’s the other way round, Galway doesn’t like you, I don’t like you and the fucking Tourist Board is prepared to ship you out themselves.’

Tom laughed out loud, nudged his mate and they snickered in unison. Clancy said,

‘Get the fuck out of town, and this warning as opposed to other…measures…means our slate is clean, am I clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He made a bone-breaking noise with his fingers, said,

‘Get the hell out of my car and remember, next time I’ll send Tom alone.’

I was not fully out of the car when the driver put it in gear and roared off. I fell on to the pavement, shouted like the show bands always did,

‘Goodnight and God bless.’

I suppose in the interests of truth I’d have to admit that I’d been to see Sawyer but had been holding off on recounting it. I’m not ashamed of it, it needed to be done, but the stuff about his daughters, spoilt or otherwise, made me hesitate to relate the event, the reason why I’d expected Sawyer and not Clancy in that sleek BMW.

In truth, it comes to the same deal.

Thugs and bullies.

Save one wore a uniform.

It was almost too easy to get to him.

Arrogance breeds stupidity and he had both.

In buckets.

He’d played his usual round of golf, seemed mightily pleased with his own self. Had the customary drink with his buddies after, picked up the tab.

Just one of the guys, and generous with it.

Except he kicked the living shite out of a Ban Garda.

My Ban Garda.

Dressed in a cashmere sweater and, I swear to God, a cravat and pleated golfing pants, he was whistling as he headed for his car.

All was hunky fucking dory in this cat’s world.

Looked momentarily puzzled as his driver didn’t bounce to open the car door.

The driver was out cold in the back seat.

I came up behind Sawyer, smashed his face into the door, broke the fingers of his right hand, the gun nuzzled against the base of his neck, and said in a whisper,

‘Once, only once am I going to give you this message.’

Paused.

‘Your three spoilt brats of daughters bully a child again,’

I pushed the barrel of the gun harder into his neck,

‘I will kill you, your wife, and then I’ll take a decent look at your three precious darlings.’

Then I cold-cocked the sucker and got the fuck out of there.

Who says golf chills you out?

The papers reported the Sawyer shooting, the consensus being ‘drug related’.

Ireland today had so many drug shootings, even the old reliable drive-by gig didn’t warrant the front page any more.

The Cheltenham Race Festival had begun and fears of the recession affecting the number of Irish who usually travelled over to it seemed unfounded.