Ken Bruen - The Devil

Does that sound cold?

Hello, it’s fucking unreal, is what it felt.

Murder and sex.

Pure noir.

The last time I got sex, the Titanic was a viable option.

Instead of being wired, I was out of it, like this happened in a bad B-movie.

I did some X to chill.

Put on the TV, Living channel, and no, the title wasn’t wasted on me.

They were showing series two of Supernatural .

The two brothers, they killed the demon in the three episodes I watched.

Maybe in series three, they’d get it right.

I hoped to fuck I got it right in the only series I’d get.

*

I waited the next morning to be arrested.

Even dressed for it.

No watch.

Just jeans and a T-shirt.

When the Guards came crashing through my door, macho shite at the fore, I’d be ready.

The Sig, unloaded, sitting on the table.

Me on the other side of the room, so they wouldn’t have to shoot me.

I wouldn’t even plead, just go, take the shite. Whatever sentence they imposed, I’d been serving it for years anyway.

I could at least read in relative peace.

Bottom line, as love was out of the question, it was all I ever really wanted.

They didn’t come.

And I waited.

They didn’t come.

Drank some strong black coffee, smoked more cigs than I intended, but then you always do, and finally grabbed the phone, rang the Meyrick.

An Irish receptionist.

The recession was truly biting.

A year ago, an Irish person working in a hotel? Nope.

I asked for Carl and was told,

‘He checked out.’

I wanted to scream,

‘I know, I fucking checked him out permanently.’

Kept it together, asked,

‘You checked him out personally?’

Keeping it light.

She said patiently,

‘No, automatic checkout, the bill is put under the door and all the client needs to do is drop off the key.’

I clicked off.

What the fuck was going on?

Did his minions sneak him away?

I did a few lines of his coke, the Rolex sliding nicely along my wrist.

The coke was primo.

Christ, that ice drizzle down the back of your throat, the world literally crystallizes and you can do what-the-fuck-ever you ever dreamed.

Like the God-awful song, ‘I Can See Clearly Now’.

I rang Stewart, didn’t bother with the ‘How yah doing’ shite, launched,

‘Carl checked out this morning.’

His relief was evident. He said,

‘Jack, I’m so glad you saw sense, didn’t do…you know.’

Holy fuck.

I said,

‘Listen up, you Zen-besotted eejit, he checked out this morning but I checked him out at two a.m.’

Long silence, then,

‘Jack, you need help, you have seriously lost the plot. I know some people…’

I cut in,

‘I shot him three times, and right now I’m sampling his coke, wearing his Rolex…’

He hung up.

I paced.

A lot.

Coke zig, fear, exhilaration, disbelief, Xanax, touch of the Jay.

Didn’t help.

I switched on the TV. Moved quickly past the Jerry Springer show, stopped for a brief moment at the sitcom Rules of Engagement as the guys outlined the specifics for a real guy weekend.

The one I liked, or the coke loved, was ‘Never, never admit to having seen Brokeback Mountain .’

If ever a sentence nailed the Irish male psyche, there it was.

Moved on to the news.

Liam Neeson’s wife had been tragically killed.

I couldn’t handle that.

Moved on.

More awful tidings.

‘The Real IRA claimed responsibility for murdering two young British soldiers.’

And I thought I’d killed the Devil.

Two young engineers were heading for Iraq.

I dreaded the retaliation this would bring.

And local news: more jobs being lost, redundancies daily.

I muttered,

‘The eighties are back.’

Duran Duran were highly successful all over again.

Oh fuck.

U2 were pissed as they’d hit Number One in every country save Finland.

Those Finns, eh?

I sat at the kitchen table, the Zippo clicking in my hand, the Sig, I swear still warm to the touch, close by.

There was a tree right outside the window, almost overlooking the nuns’ convent, and I watched a tiny bird flit from branch to branch.

Saint Martin’s little bird, they called him.

I was, I know, deferring.

Great word, means you’re trying like the be-jaysus not to dwell on the topic that is dominating your every thought.

I got out an A4 pad, tried to list all the stuff that had gone down since my first meeting with Kurt/Carl.

Took me close to an hour.

I timed it on the flash Rolex.

That was real.

Right?

Had me some pit stops, as opposed to pitfalls.

One double espresso,

a Xanax,

three cigs,

and what had I got?

Not a whole lot.

Was he the Devil?

Did I kill the Devil?

I know, it’s as crazy as it sounds and looks.

So…what to do?

The sun came blasting through the window.

Lit up the whole apartment, and right then I knew.

Let

it

go.

Here is what you might term the aftermath.

Stewart got engaged to his lawyer.

Bought her a rock the size of Gibraltar.

The killings stopped.

Ridge stayed married and the business deal evaporated.

Guess they’ll have to sell another horse.

Anthony is Anglo-Irish, they don’t do poverty, not in my sense.

And me, on a whim I just went to London, on an internet all-inclusive package. I sold the Rolex in Camden Lock, the guy screwed me and I said,

‘Devil of a price.’

I met a woman.

An American, in her forties, she liked the sound of me voice and she liked to drink Jay.

She liked nothing better than to breeze about books, movies and music.

She is coming over to stay with me at Easter.

We had us a real fine time.

Prowled the second-hand bookstores and music shops.

I bought

Sexy Beast ,

Home for the Holidays (directed by Jodie Foster),

Mad Men , series one.

In the bookstores, I found a rare Aleister Crowley tome. First edition, too.

I’d had enough of the beast.

Sunday, at Heathrow, I was glowing from the night before with my new lady. Thinking,

‘How the fuck did that happen?’

But grateful.

Waiting for my flight to be called, I found a tabloid on the table as I finished my black coffee. Flicking through to see if Chelsea had won, I spotted – almost missed – on page six:

A student at LSE has been found murdered. The details of his death have been withheld. The Metropolitan Police are anxious to interview a Mr K, who was the last person seen with the deceased.

My flight was called.

I put the paper aside, wondered how the UK would deal with the Devil.

Probably figure he was Irish.

A week later, I’d just settled into my sleep when the phone rang.

It was the lady in my life and I was delighted to hear her. Outlined the things we’d be doing in Galway till she said,

‘Jack, strange thing, can I share?’

God bless America, they sure do know how to share. I said,

‘Hon, course you can.’

She said,

‘This is going to sound like I’m a whack job, but I woke late last night and there was a black candle burning on my bedside table. What should I do?’

I took a deep breath, checked where the Sig was, said,

‘Sweetheart, blow it out.’