Ken Bruen: The Devil

Not to be seen.

If there was to be a show time, he’d call the time and place.

Mostly, he worried (if such an entity could worry) about them because, unlike Taylor, or priests, or the other minions, they weren’t afraid.

He thrived on fear.

His raison d’être, perhaps.

And if Taylor did follow through, with the tinkers, he’d lay such a wrath on them that they’d huddle in the fear he had tried so long to instil in them.

Everybody with an beal bocht (the poor mouth).

The economy hadn’t so much melted as

crashed,

burned

and

died.

Dell had just announced they were pulling out of the country and, of course, a shite load of jobs had gone.

But every single day it was the same dirge, another company was moving operations elsewhere.

The banks were now beginning to understand how the clergy had felt for the past few years, that the next knock on the door was the lynching party.

The government were screaming that in two years we’d be maybe, just maybe, a little bit on the road to recovery.

The beast was no longer slouching towards Bethlehem, he was in full possession and even the wondrous bright flicker of Barack’s victory had faded.

I was in Conlon’s Fish Restaurant, best fish in the country.

And how they achieved that with us entering the second year of the water being contaminated was a wonder.

The council was proclaiming that it wasn’t really the water but the lead pipes, and oddly, ’twas little comfort.

You either boiled all water or bought it bottled.

I was waiting on me

cod

with

mushy peas

and drinking a coffee that tasted like coffee!

I’d almost given up on reading the papers, but Ray Conlon had passed me the Irish Times . A photo of a woman killed in a freak accident leaped out at me. A brief paragraph noted how she’d been hit by an unknown car at the car park in Shannon airport.

The photo.

My Aer Lingus woman.

Holy fuck.

I lost me appetite but wouldn’t hurt Ray’s feelings by bolting.

I wanted a large Jameson.

Fast, wet and lethal.

With the Xanax, I was keeping a sort of lid on me drinking.

A woman was standing over me, asked,

‘Jack Taylor?’

Jesus, if I had a Euro for the amount of times this had happened.

And yes, always, always ended in disaster.

My getaway was meant to put all the past horrors of my time as a half-arsed PI behind me.

She was that indeterminate age between forty and fifty, nice face, though looking heavily burdened. Blonde hair pulled tight in a ferocious bun and mild blue eyes that had seen too much of the world.

She fidgeted nervously with her wedding ring, the Claddagh band, and that more than anything else had me say,

‘Yes.’

She looked like she was going to fall down, so I offered her the seat opposite.

She took it and I signalled to Ray, who was over in jig time, and I asked,

‘May I get you something?’

‘Some water would be nice, thank you very much.’

Ray gave me the look and I shrugged.

The fuck did I know?

He brought a bottle of sparkling Galway water, neatly took the top off the bottle and poured half a glass.

She said,

‘I hate to bother you, Mr Taylor.’

‘Jack.’

She nodded and said,

‘I’m Teresa Jordan, a Galwegian too.’

A rare and rarer breed.

I waited.

Spent all my bedraggled life doing that, though for what, I don’t know.

She took a delicate sip of the water, then said,

‘Noel, my eldest lad, is at NUI – one year left of Science – and he’s disappeared. I told the Guards and they said not to worry, students were always up to shenanigans and he’d show up in his own sweet time .’

For perhaps the first time in my whole screwed-up relationship with the Guards, I agreed with them.

Easy as I could, I said,

‘They are probably right. Students, they get up to mischief.’

I couldn’t believe I’d used the word mischief .

Evelyn Waugh would love me.

Her eyes fired, and believe me, I’ve seen it often enough, Irish women do wrath like no other women on the planet.

‘He’s been missing two weeks, and missed my birthday. Noel would never miss my birthday.’

She did scream that last word.

I took out my notebook, it was for the horses and the latest runners and riders at Lingfield and the Curragh. Adopted my biz tone, like I knew what the fuck I was doing.

‘Description, friends, what clothes he might have been wearing, his address, and if possible, a photo.’

A real pro.

Right?

I dutifully took down the data and then she reached in her handbag, took out, like a piece of valued jewellery, a snapshot.

He looked like…

A thousand other young kids.

Dark hair, long, lean face with lots of acne, nothing else to say. He was any face you’d see on the street, just an ordinary young student.

She said,

‘I don’t know what you charge, Mr Taylor, but I have this.’

Handed me a slim envelope. I had the decency or shame not to look inside, said,

‘I’ll get right on it.’

Took her telephone number and was so relieved when she stood up and said,

‘Thank you so much, Mr Taylor.’

I gave her the hollow bullshite about not to worry, I’d get right on it, and finally she was gone.

A new case.

I was working. When the whole country was losing their jobs, I’d just been hired.

Was I delighted?

Was I fuck.

Ray brought my dinner and I’m sure it was up to their usual excellence, but my mind…Jesus, that photo, that woman, Shannon airport and my, dare I say, curt response.

I shrugged it off, shouted,

‘Ray, got any more tartar sauce?’

This seems too crazy to be true, but within two days of my arrival back in Galway, I’d found a place to live.

A guy I knew was emigrating, like so many, and wanted to rent his apartment.

In Nun’s Island!

My previous case had involved nuns and was a bitter and twisted series of events.

I took the apartment.

It overlooked the Salmon Weir Bridge, not that I’d see any of those gorgeous creatures jumping, the poisoned water had killed them off.

It had wood floors, two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen and a large sitting room, crammed with books.

Books.

Always and ever my desperate salvation.

A coffee-maker, washing machine and an internet connection.

What more could you want?

Apart from

love,

care,

purpose,

family,

belonging.

I was so long from any of the above, you think I’d be used to it.

Nope.

Few things as lonely as shopping for one, and eating alone in your own home, aw fuck, that is the pits.

You keep the TV on, the radio in the mornings, just to blank out that awful silence.

As usual, I had me favourite music:

Gretchen Peters,

Johnny Duhan,

Tom Russell.

I had two friends.

Sort of.

Ridge, Ni Iomaire, a gay Guard, who had recently, in a desperate effort for promotion and to belong , married an Anglo-Irish landowner, who’d lost his wife and was merely seeking companionship and a mother for his teenage daughter.

How was that working out for her?

How do you think?

Every case I’d worked, she’d been involved and we had a love/hate relationship of the Irish kind. That is, we tore strips off each other, verbally, every chance we got, and yet had saved each other’s arses more times than we’d believed possible.