Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

I tested my legs and tried to stand.

Clancy spat, ‘Did I tell you to get up?’

My mouth, always my downfall, came out with ‘No, I’m a mind-reader.’

I received a ferocious lash of the baton across the bridge of my nose.

Clancy had a bottle of Jameson by his chair. No glass, which was a bad sign. The boyos, in the bad old days, when they intended serious damage always brought a bottle, no glasses. You saw that, you were in for a long night.

Clancy and I, in our young days when we served on the border, had seen the results of just such evenings and pretty it wasn’t.

He took a hefty swig of it now, and his cheeks were almost instantly inflamed. I’d have given my whole cache of Xanax for it.

‘Like a shot of this, would you, Jack? Tell you what, you tell me where to find my son and you can have a whole bottle to yourself.’

I said, ‘I’m not drinking.’

The two guards were highly amused at that, and Clancy said, ‘By Christ, you’ll wish you were.’

He nodded at Scar Face. ‘This is Tom, hails from Kilkenny, and as you know, they sure produce some fine hurlers. And Old Tom here, he hates guards gone bad. And is there any guard who ever went as rogue as you, Jack?’

I’d have been happier with him addressing me as Taylor. I’d witnessed enough vicious beatings to know that when your Christian name is used, you’re seriously fucked. It’s part of the psychology, keeps it nice and brutal and, above all, keeps it real personal.

Clancy, indicating with the bottle, said, ‘Tom, he’s a specialist in — I think you might recall the term, “softening up” a witness and I have to say, he’s especially keen to soften up a hard case like your good self.’

I put up a hand, and to my shame it was shaking. I said, ‘You can call him off, there’s no need, I’ll tell you everything I know. I want to help, and I can.’

Clancy smiled malevolently. ‘Jack, you’re not paying attention. But then, you never did. See, thing is, I’ve promised Tom a crack at you and trust me — will you trust me, Jack? — after he has his little way with you, you’ll sing like a fucking canary.’

Before I could mutter another word, Tom kicked me in the mouth, then proceeded to soften me up. Didn’t take long — with a pro it never does. Finally, breathing deeply, he stepped back, sweat on his face, and Clancy said, ‘Good man, Tom. That will do for the moment.’

For the moment? Few scarier threats in the whole session.

I’ve had beatings with hammers, hurleys, boots, fists, and one memorable time with an iron bar, but this particular one took the Oscar. I hurt in ways it didn’t seem possible to hurt.

Clancy said, ‘This is where the heavy usually says, “I take no pleasure in this.”’ Then he laughed, a bitter low sound. ‘Bollocks, I haven’t enjoyed anything as much since Galway won the All Ireland. Think it calls for a minor celebration.’

He reached in his jacket, took out a fat cigar and asked, ‘Mind if I smoke, Jack?’ He bit the end off and spat it on the floor. ‘Whoops.’ Then he lit it slowly, savouring the moment, and blew a perfect ring at the ceiling. ‘You take a second there, Jack, compose yourself, and then we’ll talk. Or should I say, you’ll talk.’

Five minutes passed and I heard a church bell ring, probably from the Claddagh. I remembered in my youth when a church bell rang, people would stop and say the Angelus. I couldn’t even recall the words any more, and I must have recited it every day for years.

Clancy, half the cigar gone, put the rest under his shoe and ground it to shreds, his vehemence apparent in the force of the gesture. He looked at me and said, ‘Talk.’

I did.

With a great deal of effort. Every part of me was howling in agony, as if each word cut a fresh pain in my being. I told him about the letter at the very beginning and didn’t say, I tried to tell you twice before about this . I just continued on. The only thing I left out was the death of the psycho nun’s brother. He’d discover that soon enough. I did say she had a brother but said I believed she had no love for him either.

When I was done, he said, ‘Describe her.’

I gave it my best shot.

He considered that, then asked, ‘So why, Mr Amazing Private Dick, haven’t you been able to find her?’

‘I don’t know.’

For a moment it looked like he was going to unleash Tom again. Then he said, ‘I’ll tell you why. Because you’re a fuck up. Now I’m putting every available man on this, but you, Taylor, are going to get your fucking act together and find her. If any harm comes to my son. .’

And here he had to pause, as if something was lodged in his throat. Then he shook it off and continued, ‘If one bloody hair on his head is harmed, you’re going in the river, and that’s a promise.’

He stood up, straightened his clothes, looked round and said, ‘And clean this place up. It’s a fucking pigsty.’

When they were gone, I crawled over to the bureau, pulled out the drawer and swallowed two Xanax. The bottle of Jameson was lying on the floor beside the chair Clancy had been sitting in, and there was perhaps one decent glassful remaining. I turned away, got my mobile out of my jacket. I was surprised it still worked after Tom’s efforts. I tried to hit the buttons but my eyes kept blurring. Finally I heard it ring and a voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘Stewart, I need your help. Could you come to my place?’

‘Are you hurt?’

I’d have laughed but knew it would hurt too much. I said, ‘I’ve been better.’

And passed out.

I don’t remember much about the next forty-eight hours. Stewart had brought a concoction of Chinese remedies and medications and I think I said, ‘I’m not drinking any fucking herbal tea.’

He may have laughed.

I do know he applied various lotions to my body and I said, ‘Hope you’re not getting off on this.’

His smiled grimly. ‘Jack, you seen your body lately? Trust me, not even medical science would have an interest.’

I drifted in and out of consciousness, Stewart feeding me soup and potions. As he coerced me to drink some foul liquid he said, ‘This will knock you out.’

I might be able to pass it on to the guard, Tom, to save him kicking the shite out of people. I thought I kept hearing bells, though maybe they were just ringing in my head from the beating. But something was lurking on the edge of my mind and I couldn’t quite grasp hold of it.

When I was finally able to sit up, feel the beating receding, Stewart said, ‘You’re looking better. How do you feel?’

‘Hungry.’

He was about to reach into his bag of tricks and I said, ‘Fuck, no. Enough with the eastern stuff. I need some real food, like a fry-up.’

He sighed. ‘That crap will clog your arteries.’

I laughed and it didn’t hurt too much. ‘Stewart, look at me. You really think a few sausages and fried eggs are going to make a whole lot of difference to my general well-being?’

He nodded then asked, ‘What’s with the Ave Marias?’

‘What?’

He was laying out some clean clothes and I was afraid to ask if he’d done me laundry. He said, ‘You kept crying out “Its sweet tones announcing the sacred ave ” and other variations along those lines.’

The Angelus.

I said, ‘Oh fuck.’

He shook his head. ‘Sounds more like the Jack we know.’

I stood up. Despite a slight dizziness, I was OK. ‘The Angelus — it’s been obsessing me all this time. Don’t you see what it means?’

He didn’t. ‘You’re getting religious?’

My mind was clearing and I said, ‘Where would a nun feel safe, seek shelter — seek sanctuary, so to speak — apart from a convent? Where would she be warm and, best of all, familiar?’