Ken Bruen: Sanctuary

I was still staring at the water and a guy passing said, ‘Jesus, jump or get off the frigging path.’

He wasn’t working with the Samaritans, I guessed.

I decided I’d better do something about the letter, and the action I thought of filled me with dread.

My best friend, way back in my early days as a young guard, had been Clancy. I got bounced and he went all the way to the top and was now Superintendent. We shared a history. Over the years, my involvement in some cases had made him look bad and he had been determined to even the score. His early friendship with me had become a bitter enmity. He loathed me with a ferocious passion, saw me as a drunk, a loser — you get the picture. And the fact that I’d solved some cases he’d abandoned made it worse.

I was now renting a small place in Dominic Street. It was only temporary, I told myself. When Ridge got back on her feet I’d head for America. It was tiny, just a living room and a bedroom, and cost a fortune, like everything in our new rich city. Someone had cooked a lot of curry in it at one time and the smell still lingered. I had a single bed, ten books, yeah, ten, one sofa, one kettle, and what passed for a shower, behind a cardboard alcove.

Oh, lest I forget, and a portable television, black and white, that flickered constantly, like my bloody life.

Next morning, I was sneezing. I suppose if you stand on a bridge for a few hours in the driving rain, you’re not going to be the picture of health.

I dressed in my one suit, a shirt that was more grey than white, a Galway tie and a pair of Timberland boots I’d bought for my trip to America. I’m sure they would have been real useful in Mexico. I had a coffee — black, as I’d forgotten to buy milk. It tasted as bitter as I felt. I took a deep breath and headed out.

At least the rain had stopped and something that might have been the sun was trying to make an appearance.

It failed.

My building had six apartments and I’d only met one of the neighbours, a very camp gay who liked to play. His name, or so he said, was Albert. ‘Or you can call me Hon if you like, big guy.’

How the fuck do I find them or they me? It’s like there’s a neon sign above my head that reads: ‘Gather here, you crazies of all creeds.’

They did.

He was in his very bad late thirties, emaciated to the point of anorexia, always dressed in black and with the worst comb-over I’ve ever seen.

He was coming out of his apartment and was, of course, dressed in black. On seeing my black suit, he screamed in mock horror, ‘Oh my God! One of us will have to change.’

I tried to get past him as quickly as I could, said, ‘It’s a little late for me to become gay.’

Took him a moment, then he playfully punched my arm.

I loved that.

And he said, ‘Oh you, you are wicked.’

Is there a reply to this? I mean, seriously.

He continued, ‘Jack. Is it OK to call you Jack? I’m having a little soirée on Friday and I’d love you to come. Nothing fancy, just bring yourself and a lot of alcohol or drugs. Just kidding — but do bring drugs.’

I gave him the look. His accent was that new trend, quasi-American and very fucking annoying. I asked, ‘Where are you from?’

Paused a second then said, ‘Aren’t we all citizens of le monde , dear heart? But if you must know and you swear never to tell a soul, I’m from Cork.’

I was pretty sure they didn’t use soirée a whole lot in Cork, but Ireland was changing so fast, maybe they did. I asked, ‘And did you play hurling?’

The finest hurlers come from Cork. They are born with a hurley in their fist.

He was not amused. ‘Hardly.’

I said, ‘Well, here’s the deal. In my shitty room there, I’ve got a hurley and if you ever call me any of those endearments again, I’ll give you a real fast lesson in the game.’

He faltered for a moment before recovering. ‘You brute, you. Must dash. Don’t forget Good Friday.’

I shouted, ‘I don’t do parties.’

He threw back, ‘Never too late to start, even for a man of your senior years.’

Touché.

The killer was staring at the montage on the wall.

There were photos of two guards, a nun, a judge, a young child and, heading them, a large photo of Jack Taylor. Posted above this in gothic letters was the word Benediction. A small table beneath the display held six candles. One had been blown out.

‘The first shall be last,’ said the killer, addressing the photo of Taylor. The killer had left out that little detail from the letter, wanted it to be a surprise.

‘Sanctus.’

Kill Taylor.

The killer took a long carving knife from the table and began to cut a deep wedge along the right arm. The pain was a moment in arriving and when it did, the killer let out a deep aah of agonized pleasure, whispered, ‘The blood of the innocents.’

I hadn’t phoned ahead for an appointment with Superintendent Clancy — he’d have blown me off so I was going cold. I didn’t have far to go. The Guards station was at the top of Dominic Street, and a sign across from it, mounted over the river, proclaimed, ‘Call the Samaritans first!’

And what?

If they didn’t help, you could jump in the river?

The station was relatively quiet, and thank Christ, the young guard behind the counter didn’t know me. I asked if I might see the super. He inquired as to the nature of my business and asked for my name. I gave that then said, ‘Personal.’

He told me to take a seat and picked up the phone.

His face changed as he listened and I knew he was getting an earful on who I was. He summoned me and now he’d a hard edge. ‘He’s in a meeting. Won’t be free for at least two hours.’

I said I’d wait.

I’d been expecting this shite and had brought along a book, The Secular Journal of Thomas Merton .

Merton and a pint had been my staple diet for years until I lost faith in him and the pints lost faith in me. Fair trade off, I guess. Now I was trying to reconnect with him. I cracked open the book and hit on this:

‘I read William Saroyan when I was too tired to read the hard stuff.’

Jesus, I was too tired for the hard stuff.

I became engrossed in Merton’s account of Harlem and almost didn’t feel the three hours go by.

Almost.

The station was getting busy, a line of non-nationals seeking driving licences, passports, help. They were cowed and defeated in their demeanour.

Welcome to the land of a thousand welcomes.

A drunk was dragged in by two burly cops, shouting, ‘Kerry will win the All Ireland!’ As they tried to drag him to the cells, he spotted me, screamed, ‘I know you. You’re a drunk.’

I didn’t answer.

One of the guards gave him a wallop on the side of the head and he shut up. The non-nationals pretended not to see it; they were learning the game.

Finally, the young guard called me, said, ‘He’ll see you now.’ Then added with a smirk, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Right.

I was buzzed through to Clancy’s office. It was even larger than I remembered and alight with awards, citations, honours. He was dressed in his full regalia, the dress blues, the stripes. He’d put on a ton of weight, he looked like a fat Buddha in a uniform, without the serenity. On his massive desk was a sheaf of files and a framed photo of him, his wife, I presume and a young boy. There was a hard chair in front of the desk and I looked at it.

‘Don’t bother, you won’t be here long enough to warm yer arse,’ he said.