Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

Jesus wept.

Here’s the horrendous deal: an alcoholic can stay dry under the most trying circumstances. You’ll hear people wonder that he didn’t drink at the wedding/ funeral/when everybody expected him to.

An alkie can stumble drinkless through all these minefields, and then one tiny incident, like a shoelace snapping or a carton of milk spilling, and wallop, he’s off on the most almighty binge.

Ordinary people can’t understand this and even the alkie is baffled.

I was in this zone now.

I was, as it were, nigh exonerated of the ferocious burden that had marked and dogged my every waking moment, and now, free in a sense, I wanted to drink more than during all the days of darkness. I must have been grappling with all of this for hours till, exhausted, I dozed off.

The phone pulled me from my sleep. My neck was stiff from lolling in the armchair. I grabbed the phone, muttering, ‘Better be fucking good.’

Said, ‘Yeah?’

‘Mr Taylor?’

Uh-oh. Mister. Not a promising start. I snarled, ‘So?’

An intake of breath, then a very cultured voice, what we call the West Brit one, went, ‘Mr Taylor, firstly let me apologize for my man’s heavy-handed tactics, He has received a stern reprimand. .’ An amused chuckle, then he continued, ‘But I think it was mild in comparison to your own — shall we say, response. The poor chap is still bent over.’

I wanted a drink, a large one, and now. ‘I get it, you’re the prick who wants to see me. Didn’t you ever consider asking politely? And how did you get my address?’

I’d been worried about the psycho who sent the letter knowing where I lived, and now this guy knew too — the thug had been waiting outside my home.

I asked, more forcibly, ‘How do you know where I live?’

A pause, then he said, ‘Mr Taylor, I know a lot of influential people and trust me, they know where everybody is located, and I mean everybody. And in truth, you are not the hardest man in the city to find.’

Another pause as he let me digest this.

He cleared his throat. ‘I deeply regret the fumbled attempt to make contact with you, but I will compensate you adequately.’

I cut him off. ‘Who the hell are you? And what’s the urgency in meeting me? And OK, my address, you asked around — but how did you get my phone number?’

He gave a slight sigh as if I was slow. ‘I had my man spread around a few euro in your usual haunts and sure enough, a man — a friend of yours, I suppose — gave it up for twenty. Tut tut, Jack. Select your friends more carefully, or at least the ones you give your number to.’

I was very angry. It was that easy to get my number? I felt I already had his. A wanker with money and an over-developed sense of his own importance. He said, ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’

Only much later did I realize how similar to The Stones’ opening line of ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ this sounded.

‘I’m Anthony Bradford-Hemple. No doubt you are familiar with the name?’

I’d like to say he uttered this with smugness or conceit, but no, it was simply a matter of fact. The whole world knew him; his name was a given.

I did know it.

Anglo-Irish landowners, they owned large tracts of land outside Oranmore and were famous for their stables, but like many of these families, the sheer upkeep of their large estates, the cost of heating their old houses, had made them tighten their belts. An Irish irony: as the ordinary people got wealthy from our new prosperity, these old relics of affluent history were feeling, as they’d term it themselves, the pinch .

I hadn’t actually heard a dicky bird about them in a long time as they’d gone off the radar. And OK, I didn’t exactly move in circles where their names came up much.

You’re an ex-guard with a limp, a hearing aid and a drink problem, the goings-on of the rich and famous aren’t your top priority. I wasn’t likely to be applying for a subscription to Hello! magazine, but was I going to admit to knowing him?

Was I fuck.

I said, ‘That name doesn’t mean dick to me, fellah.’

A slight intake of breath as he digested the insult, then, ‘Well, Mr Taylor, they did warn me that you had a caustic tongue, but regardless, I’d like to engage your services.’

I let him hear me sigh, went, ‘Let’s hear it.’

He cleared his throat and I wondered if he wore a cravat — they nearly always did. He said, ‘My only daughter Jennifer was sixteen a few weeks back and, naturally, I got her a pony.’

Naturally .

His voice shook. ‘The pony was stolen and I received its tail in the mail, with a note saying that if I didn’t pay fifty thousand euros, Jennifer would be next.’

Jesus.

I’ve had swans, dogs feature in my battered history, and now ponies. What was I? The alky version of Ace Ventura?

He added, ‘The police claim they are working on it, but so far, nothing, You have a reputation for getting results when the official channels fail. Will you help me? Please, Mr Taylor, I’ll reward you handsomely. My wife died some years ago and Jennifer is all I have.’

Then I had a thought. I wanted to get Ridge back on track and I knew she loved horses, so I said, ‘Give me your address and I’ll have my associate contact you.’

He wasn’t wild about that, but I assured him she’d only be taking notes and I’d be handling the case personally.

He ended with, ‘You won’t regret this, Mr Taylor.’

I already did.

I readied myself for Ridge, not sure how she was going to receive my proposal that she join my firm . Yeah, I know how that sounds — my one and only employee had been my surrogate son, Cody, and as the Americans say, ‘he took a bullet for me’. . literally, and he was now where just about everyone who had contact with me was.

Buried.

I was still reeling from the revelation that I wasn’t responsible for Serena May’s death. It had been the focal point of my whole existence these past years. The guilt, the nightmares — and wallop, I didn’t do it.

I could now finally think about that gorgeous child, the button nose, the cherubic face, and not be devastated. Christ, I loved her more than mere alcohol would allow, and worse, she loved me too. I made her laugh and she had such a wondrous heart-warming one, you could believe in angels. And even as I thought this, the church bell from the Claddagh began to toll. The old people say, ‘When you hear a bell ring, it’s an angel getting her wings.’ Mind you, the old folk believe all kinds of weird shite. Still, I kind of liked the notion, though I knew fuck all about angels. Demons and devils were my crew.

Another pishog, that’s Irish for a story that is not only untrue but superstitious too, is that if you find a white feather, an angel is close by.

Bollocks. . right?

And how it goes, the line from Kristofferson’s song came unbidden, about a bell in loneliness being rung.

I turned on the radio as I dressed, and the nurses were on strike, the swans were dying from some mysterious virus, and the water, always the water these days. Dentists were advertising that they only used bottled water when you rinsed and the priests were using bottled water in the fonts. I don’t know about holy water but it sure was expensive. The poor and the needy were being given free bottled water with their state hand-out. The council, as we headed into Lent, were now saying that it would be September before the water could be declared safe. And we were going to believe them then?

The pubs were swearing that their ice was made from bottled water. The supermarkets were panicbuying all of the supplies of bottled water. A little girl had asked, if you go swimming, will the sea be boiled first?