Ken Bruen: The Devil

And then there was Stewart.

You want to talk enigmatic?

He’d been a highly successful dope dealer, looked and dressed like an accountant, till his sister was murdered and he engaged me.

By pure fluke, I solved the case. Stewart went to prison on dope charges, back when it seemed like the government gave a shite, and emerged a Zen, deadly, totally unreadable ally.

He and Ridge had paid for my ticket to America.

I’d phoned them and Ridge had said,

‘You stupid bollix.’

Stewart went,

‘You can travel without moving.’

I preferred Ridge’s response.

I’d barely got started on the case of the student, had asked round and mostly heard he’d been a nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy.

Sure, he partied at weekends, but seemed to take the idea of getting his degree very seriously.

One girl, a very pretty wee thing, told me,

‘Lately, he got involved in ouija boards and all that occult crap, began reading books about Aleister Crowley and shit.’

I was about to say, thank you very much when she added,

‘Then he met Lord of the frigging Dance.’

I nearly said,

‘Michael Flatley?’

Bit down and waited.

She said,

‘Mr K himself, turned up recently and has like…’

I’d have sworn she was Irish, but she had that half-arsed American idiom gig going, and sure, used the word like .

Like a lot.

I asked,

‘And he is? Mr K, I mean, who is he?’

She gave a world-weary sigh that proved she was indeed Irish, then said,

‘He preaches some weird bullshite about empowering and the energy of the the One .’

I asked,

‘Any idea of where I might find the charismatic Mr K?’

She gave a small laugh, no relation to mirth or joy, said,

‘That’s part of his schtik, he just shows up, begins his tired rap and wallop, a whole bunch of eejits follow.’

I liked her a lot. Women of spirit always appealed to me. I had to know, asked,

‘You were never drawn in?’

She gave me the rolling-eye bit, said,

‘I work in a fast-food joint to keep me afloat and I hear enough horseshite without having to go looking for it.’

She was Irish, no doubt.

I asked,

‘What’s he look like?’

She gave it her full concentration, then said,

‘Tall, great smile and a shaved head. Hard to place where he’s from. He sounds like a German, or maybe French?’

I put out my hand, thanked her profusely and volunteered that she was one bright young lady.

She gave a lovely smile, said,

‘My name is Emma, I enjoyed talking with you.’

I spent the best part of a week with students and frequenting student hangouts.

Was even offered some Ecstasy.

The song remained the same.

Noel had been liked, had friends, and then out of the blue – or black – he became a total devotee of this Mr K.

I found no sign of the enigmatic Mr K.

I’d always just missed him.

Or he was due at the Quays and I’d show up.

He didn’t.

They found Noel down near the rowing club, hanging by his feet from the flagpole, an inverted cross not so much carved as literally gouged into the skin.

When I called his mother, I left out the above details but had to say it looked like somebody had harmed him.

Fuck, talk about understatement.

Her wails of grief, the sheer torment of her agony made me just want to hang up.

Like I could.

I said the trite shite you do and offered to refund her money.

A silence.

Then,

‘Mr Taylor, you use that money to find the scum who robbed me of my precious golden boy.’

I swore I would.

I even sounded like I meant it.

In the local pubs, the murder was on the menu and I heard faint whisperings of the head of a dog being enmeshed in the poor boy’s entrails.

I didn’t inquire.

Would you?

Fuck, it was sick enough.

While the country went nuts, I went to the cemetery.

Phew-oh.

I sure had a long line of people to pay my respects to.

Cody, my surrogate son, and the others, it grieves me to name them. So many of them in their graves because of my stupidity.

I left my dad till last.

He wasn’t buried with my mother.

She’d torn him asunder in life, so at least in eternity, he truly would have some peace.

I did lay a red rose on my mother’s grave and tried to think of something nice to say to her.

Nothing.

Not a blessed thing.

Then I walked along the narrow path to my father, and at first, I couldn’t register what my eyes were seeing.

Faeces, rubbish, condoms, were scattered over his plot.

Too late to blame my mother.

I was in shock for about five minutes, then began to clear away the debris, and it was then I saw it above my dad’s name.

An inverted cross.

You come out of the cemetery and it’s but a spit to the nearest pub.

Naturally.

We take our burials almost as seriously as our drinking.

I took a place at the counter and realized I was actually shaking.

The barman, my age, probably used to shook-up mourners, asked quietly,

‘What would you like?’

‘Jameson, large, pint of Guinness.’

He withdrew discreetly.

Afraid he’d wake the dead?

Once I got on the other side of the drinks, I began to, as the young people say, chill .

My anger was at its usual simmering slot and God, I wished I still smoked.

So someone knew I’d been investigating the student’s death. Not hard as I’d been all over the campus for a week.

And had sent me a message.

To frighten me off.

By Jaysus.

Made me more determined than ever to find Mr K. Whoever this bollix was, he was a key factor.

There was a blazing log fire in the bar and the temptation to curl up there, get a line of hot toddies going was powerful.

But I turned up the collar of me Garda all-weather coat and headed out.

The barman said,

‘God mind how you go.’

My limp was acting up, a legacy of a beating with a hurley.

My heart was going like the hammers and I debated if taking a Xanax would be the wisest course of action.

I took two.

Back in Nun’s Island, I thanked Christ that the heating was working and had settled into an armchair when the phone rang.

Ridge.

She made chitchat for a while.

She was even worse at that than me and that’s really saying something.

I said,

‘What’s on your mind?’

She didn’t bite my face off, so I guessed she wanted something.

She did.

Her beloved husband was having a soiree on Friday evening, nothing too formal, just sports jacket, tie, slacks!

I was just born for soirees.

I snapped,

‘Why?’

She told the truth, I think. Said,

‘There are a lot of well-to-do people coming and it would be nice to have an ally.’

I nearly laughed.

We’d been down many roads together, most of them dark, but she’d never used the word ‘ally’ before.

I could have said,

‘You’re gay, from a shite poor background and you marry the nearest thing to a fucking lord there is. What did you expect, bliss?’

Instead, I said,

‘OK.’

Like I said,

Two Xanax.

I had nearly dozed off when my doorbell rang. I went,

‘For fuck’s sake.’

Pulled open the door to Stewart. He had some bags in his hands, said,

‘I come bearing gifts for your new home.’

Beware of geeks bearing gifts.

He looked wonderful.

The guy I’d once visited in prison was long gone.

At least on the surface.