Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

I was.

We headed for Quay Street, Vinny expertly sidestepping every

Howyah?

Can you spare us a few euro?

You owe me a pint

You owe me a moment

You look great.

The usual music of a Galway street. He responded to all with affection, never once giving offence, even stopping to put some notes in a busker’s cap. The guy shouted, ‘I’ll buy you a pint later, Vinny.’

He smiled, said to me, ‘And that will be the day.’

I envied him, the way he could manoeuvre all this street life and still be loved. Me, I’d have been getting the hurley to half of them.

We went into Café du Journal. How Irish is that? It was packed, but he found a table amid the chaos, said, ‘This will do grand.’

And before you could blink, the waitress, a gorgeous non-national, had put an expresso, a slice of Danish and — get this — a folded copy of The Irish Times in front of him. She said, ‘I’ll be back for friend’s order.’

He gave that smile that is the reason you get that kind of treatment.

Me, I get barred.

I mention meeting Vinny and this whole brief encounter as it was such an oasis of normalcy in my out-of-control life.

What is it they say? A trainwreck waiting to happen. Fuck, I was already flattened by the train and waiting for the express to finish me off.

I asked him, pun intended, I suppose, ‘Vinny, you ever get. . you know. . derailed?’

He put aside the paper and considered my question. One of the things I loved about him, he never took a query lightly. He sipped at his expresso, then said, ‘I watch the signals.’

Does it get any deeper?

And yet stays within the Irish male boundaries of never being too serious, least on the surface.

The waitress returned, again all smiles for Vinny, and asked what I would like. I said a latte would be just great.

Moving on from our moment of seriousness, I said, ‘I need to order some books, mate.’

He beamed. ‘Music to my ears. The usual blend of crime, poetry and philosophy?’

I said that would do the job and we chatted about nothing and everything, staying light, staying Irish.

He told me he’d been to a concert by Philip Fogarty and Anna Lardi in Saint Nicholas’s Church and I feigned horror. ‘A Protestant Church? You’re fucked.’

He laughed, a real deep-down-in-the-stomach, heart-warming one. ‘Well, I had me rosary beads with me.’

I smiled, a strange feeling, said, ‘Naw, you’re screwed.’

We’d finished the coffee. Time to go.

Outside, he warded off the usual well-wishers and I said, ‘So the concert, you heathen, was it good?’

He gave a few euro to a wino. ‘It was brilliant. That Philip, he sure can work the crowd, and Anna. . poetry in song.’ Then he added, ‘If I say ’twas a guilty pleasure, will I earn back some points from the man above?’

I acted like I was thinking about it, then said, ‘Actually makes it worse. Better climb Croagh Patrick.’

‘Barefoot?’

‘Is there any other way?’

He laughed again and was gone.

The pilgrims climb Croagh Patrick in Mayo every year and it’s a steep rocky haul. The rescue services always have to airlift some poor bastard who’s had a heart attack, or suffered dehydration, and on top of the mountain is the Statue of Saint Patrick. I wondered whether, with all the snakes we had in our society at the moment, he was as alert as he once was. Losing his grip, like all the other icons, heroes we once adored.

They should get real honest and put the euro sign up there and then they wouldn’t climb the mountain, they’d fucking gallop. Barefoot or not.

28

Dark Proposal

I was en route to meet Stewart when my mobile rang. I dreaded and hoped it might be the psycho nun.

I heard a cultured male voice. ‘Mr Taylor, I do pray I haven’t caught you at a bad time?’

The Anglo-Irish prick. As I tried to resurrect his name, he supplied it: ‘Anthony Bradford-Hemple here. I trust you remember me?’

‘Sure, Hemple, I remember.’

A slight intake of breath at my obvious rudeness. What did he expect? Mr? Sir?

He composed himself and said, ‘One tends to forget the somewhat acidic nature of your tongue, Mr Taylor. I have been rather remiss in not expressing my gratitude for your colleague’s splendid work on behalf of my daughter.’

Colleague?

Ridge.

I said, with the same edge in my voice, ‘Glad to be of help.’

‘I wanted to tell you how happy I am, and really, it’s all down to you. I’d never have had the sheer audacity to hope again, and now with Cathleen I’m rather dizzy with delight.’

Who the fuck was Cathleen? Without thinking, I echoed meself with ‘Who the fuck is Cathleen?’

He gave what the Brits call a ‘hearty chuckle’ and said, ‘Oh, do forgive me. She is probably more formal with you. I mean, of course, Ban Garda Ridge.’

What the hell was he talking about? Was he hitting the port big time? I asked, ‘What are you on about?

He gave a milder form of the previous chuckle, just as annoying. ‘Oh dear, I fear I may have jumped the gun. I presumed she’d have told you.’

‘Told me what?’

I swear, a triumphant note in his tone now. ‘I daresay I’d better let Cathleen spill the beans. . Not really my place. Anyway, on Friday we’re having a little soirée to celebrate at my modest pile and would dearly love to have you in attendance. Nothing too formal, tie and blazer would be more than adequate.’

And he hung up.

I was standing in the middle of Shop Street by this stage, buskers to the right of me, mimers to the left, and I felt I’d wandered into a circus. The phone rang again. I was ready for him this time and was about to launch when I heard a woman’s voice.

‘You were so kind to give me the feather.’

I was too stunned to answer.

She continued, ‘I have the child and soon it will be your turn, Mr Taylor — or should I call you Jack?’

There was no malice or rage in her voice, which made it all the more chilling. More like she was telling me the shopping list was nigh done.

I said, ‘You psycho bitch, I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do.’

She made a sound — a laugh, a sigh, I don’t know. ‘No truer words, Mr Taylor. It will be the last thing you do. Alas, I had to smite my sinner brother for yet one more betrayal. It’s on your head, Mr Taylor, as is so much. But you have so very little time left in which to be a plague on what was once holy ground.’

And she was gone.

What the hell did she mean?

I felt a shock of fear to my whole system. She had taken a child. Which child? Jesus, I had to find out and quickly. Which meant I needed to get round to see her brother without delay.

?

As I ran to meet Stewart, the skies darkened. Who was it — Eliot? — who wrote something about what the thunder said. In Galway it said, ‘You’re fucked.’

Stewart was all settled in for a chat and tea. I grabbed his arm. ‘We have to move and fast.’

Probably didn’t fit in with his Zen gig but I wasn’t in the mood for any laid-back bullshit and as I steered him towards Ben’s house — I couldn’t call him Benedict — I told him all the stuff that had gone down. Meeting with the psycho nun’s brother, then her giving me the feather, her call. . and her ominous final warning about what had happened to her brother for his ‘betrayal’.

We’d reached the Fair Green by now, not a spit away from the church where the priest had been decapitated. This had been the case where Father Malachy had enlisted my help to try and find whoever had killed the priest. I’d like to say it had turned out well. It hadn’t.