Ken Bruen: Sanctuary

‘And good to see you too, Super.’

He snapped, ‘Boyo, don’t try any of your lip, I’ll have you out of here in jig time. I thought you’d fucked off to America and we were finally rid of you.’

I gave him my best smile. I have terrific teeth, cost me a bundle after a guy removed my old ones with an iron bar. I said, ‘I got sidetracked.’

He leaned back in his chair, gave me his full inspection, then said, ‘A hearing aid! Doesn’t seem to have improved your ability to listen much. What do you want? And make it brief.’

I told him about the letter, showed it to him.

He laughed, not out of warmth or humour, asked, ‘You write this yourself, Taylor?’

I counted to ten, then said, ‘Garda Flynn was killed, just like it says there.’

He threw the letter back at me. ‘An unfortunate hit and run. Is this what you’ve wasted my time for?’

I tried to remember the time when we’d been friends, but it was too long ago. I asked, ‘Won’t you at least check it out?’

He stood up. Despite his weight, he was still imposing. Oozing hostility, he said, ‘We have serious business to attend to, not this nonsense. Take my advice, Taylor. Get the fuck to America or wherever, there’s nothing for you in this town, in my town.’

I stood up. ‘And if there’s another death, what then?’

He shook his head. ‘Go on, get out of here. Have a drink or something, it’s all you’re fit for.’

At the door I said, ‘God bless you.’

He indicated my book, said, ‘It’s that rubbish that has you the nobody you are.’

Judge M. Healy was the very opposite of a so-called ‘hanging judge’.

He went so far in the other direction that it had become a running joke. Defence lawyers loved him, and the prosecution loathed and despised him. His motivation was one: notoriety, and two: he’d been a defence lawyer and had been slapped down so often, he was out to make his mark another way.

It got him the headlines he craved and inflated his ego. In the previous six months, he’d had before him:

A violent rapist. Sentence: two years suspended.

A paedophile priest. Sentence: counselling.

A wife beater. Sentence: Six months’ community service.

A drunk driver who killed a young woman: Sentence: rehab.

Outrage, of course, but short-lived and soon forgotten.

Removing a judge in Ireland is like trying to stop the Galway rain. Plus, he was a huge supporter of the government and, with elections due, he was secure.

And smug with it.

Very.

He’d reply, when challenged, ‘The jails are overcrowded. I’m giving these people a second chance.’

And it never cost him a moment’s sleep.

He kept a luxury apartment in the city centre and used it to entertain the growing number of women who sought his expertise . Life was good and he knew it was only a matter of time till he got appointed to the supreme court.

That Friday evening, he finished court early. He was the judge, he could finish whenever he wished. He was anticipating an evening of fine food, some vintage cognac, a call from the government chief whip, and a young lady to blow his trumpet later.

He reached the apartment feeling as if he ruled the world, and rubbed his stomach at what the evening promised. He poured himself a cognac, swirled it round in the glass and let out a deep aah of contentment. When the brandy had warmed his stomach, he went into the bedroom to change into something loose and comfortable.

He nearly dropped his snifter when he saw the noose dangling in the middle of the room, and a voice said, ‘You get to be the hanging judge after all.’

I was having a coffee in the Eyre Square Centre, listening to the various conversations round me. The main topic was the poisoning of the water system. Nearly a quarter of the town had been to the hospital with diarrhoea and vomiting, and some of the schools had been closed. The bug lasted up to two weeks and finally the powers that be had announced that the water was contaminated and instructed us not to drink it.

I thought, Now they tell us?

They suspected a parasite in the water. Tests were being carried out and meanwhile, they suggested, we should boil all water or drink bottled water.

In other words, they hadn’t a clue and were covering their arses.

The supermarkets had run out of supplies and were madly scrambling to get bottled water brought in from nearby towns.

I had no idea how it was I’d escaped. Being sober, of course, I wasn’t dehydrated and so had no need of water as such.

A shadow fell across me and I looked up to see Stewart, my former drug-dealer, who’d spent six years in jail. I’d helped solve the murder of his sister and he felt indebted. He’d become a Zen student and tried to enlist me.

Right.

Prison had given him a hard edge but he covered it with the Zen stuff. His eyes had a granite sheen that told otherwise. I don’t know if we were friends but we were connected.

He said, ‘Mr Taylor, might I join you?’

I indicated the empty chair and he sat in one fluid motion. He was wearing a very expensive blazer, knitted tie, blinding white shirt and grey slacks, and looked prosperous. I had no idea what he did now, but it clearly paid well. I asked if he’d like anything and he quoted, ‘“He who is satisfied with his lot is rich.”’

I sighed. ‘I’ll take that as no.’

He was in his early thirties, and yet had the air of someone much older. Prison ages you in ways that aren’t always visible.

I asked, ‘How come you’re not involved with someone? Married, even?’

This amused him, as did most things I said. He answered, ‘“One must know oneself before one can relate.”’

Jesus.

I tried again. ‘You strike me as a bloke who knows himself pretty damn well.’

‘Outward appearance, Jack, and if I may be so forward, always your downfall. I seek to find the inner core.’

I’d had enough of this horseshite, said, ‘Any chance you’ll talk like a normal person?’

He was further amused and asked, ‘How is your friend, the Ban Garda? Ridge.’

I told him she was drinking and he said, ‘Perhaps your own. . er. . life experience may be of help?’

My expression answered that for him.

He leaned in close. ‘I’ve some news that may either be of some comfort or deep distress, and I meditated long and hard before deciding to share it with you.’

I said, ‘Stewart, the only thing that would really surprise me any more is good news, though I’m not sure I’d recognize it.’

Ignoring my flippancy, he said, ‘This is truly lifealtering news and I want you to be sure you can handle it.’ He stared at me, gauging how well or unwell I was, then asked, ‘When the little girl went out the window, Jack, what were you doing?’

It was the central tragedy of my life. I’d been minding my best friend’s little girl, lost focus and she went out the window. My life effectively ended then, as did the lives of her parents, Jeff and Cathy. Jeff had become a street person and Cathy disappeared. She might have been the one who shot my surrogate son, Cody.

Stewart said, ‘I regret having to resurrect such pain for you, Jack, but did you by any chance doze off when you were looking after her?’

It was possible, but I was getting agitated and shouted, ‘What the fuck does it matter? I wasn’t paying attention, and Sere-’

I couldn’t say her name, went with ‘The little one went out the window. What are you implying?’

He took his time, then said, ‘What if someone else pushed her out the window?’