Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

He looked to his left, fleetingly, enough to let me know he was going to lie, so I added, ‘Don’t fuck with me, mate. You know better, so let’s not screw around.’

He smiled, drank some of his pint, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. I took out another twenty, held it on the table under my Jay, waited.

He took a furtive look round, then said, ‘There’s a guy named Gary Blake who has been shouting about ridding the town of heathens and perverts. He says first we take the homos, then we take Berlin, sorry, the child-molesters. GBH is his nickname. He plays golf with lots of the top guards.’

I ignored his lousy attempt at humour, the riff on the Leonard Cohen song, echoed, ‘GBH?’

He loved my ignorance. ‘Grievous bodily harm. He uses homos for harm.’

‘Where does he hang his hate shingle?’

Caz looked worried. ‘Jesus, Jack, leave it alone, the guy is connected.’

I leaned across the table. ‘Did I ask you if he was connected? You hear me ask that?’

He finished his drink, wanting to get away, not to be seen with me. Galway was a cosmopolitan city, but still in the valley of the squinting windows. He whispered, ‘Newcastle Avenue, a new bungalow there.’

I sat back, the Jay stoking the old flames of rage and violence. It felt good, felt alive.

He added, ‘Jack, he’s one of the Blakes. They’re, like, one of the tribes of Galway.’

I said, ‘Time they were extinct, don’t you think?’

He legged it fast.

I finished up. The temptation to stay was nigh on overwhelming, but I dragged me arse out of the comfortable position and thought, Go home .

I went back to my apartment and I dunno, maybe it was the booze but I thought I heard sobbing from behind my neighbour’s door. That combined with the booze only made my resolve more determined. Inside my place, I pulled the small bookcase aside, took out an oilskin cloth, unwrapped it and took out the revolver.

When I’d had to cancel America, waiting on the result of Ridge’s surgery, I’d found it hard to pass the time. A guy had asked me to help him clear out an old house, said, ‘There’ll be the price of a drink in it for you.’

Words to live by.

In the house, I’d found a torn copy of ‘If’ and what looked like an original Proclamation of Irish Independence, and in the oil rag, the old revolver. It was still functional, well cared for, five bullets with it. I imagined a Republican on the run, hiding out there. But what the fuck would he be doing with Kipling? I thought of the line in the poem:

or being hated ,

don’t give way to hating .

Is this what he said to himself at night? While he dreamed of harming his enemies?

Right.

It was why he had the revolver.

I’d put the two declarations on the bathroom wall and as I shaved in the morning would flick back and forth between the two ideologies. It made a sort of Irish sense, i.e. none.

I loaded the revolver with the five bullets, put it in my jacket, said, ‘Let’s rock ’n’ roll.’

Gary Blake’s house was midway along Newcastle Avenue, the original name of the avenue being Cosan an Aifreann . Mass Path. Because the hearses from the morgue drove along this road to the funeral parlours. Newcastle Avenue didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

The house had large wooden gates, but one was open and I went in. The small yard for parking was deserted and no lights were on. I rang the doorbell, and smiled at the nameplate on the door: St Jude’s — the patron saint of hopeless cases.

I waited, then used my tool kit to open the door — a present from Stapelton, a psycho friend, long dead and by my hand.

I found myself in a long hall, with icons and pictures of avenging angels lining the walls and a huge blue banner that proclaimed: ‘Aids is God’s answer.’

I muttered, ‘What’s the question?’

The house was well cleaned and had one upstairs bedroom with a skylight. I opened the cupboard. Apart from a few shirts and jeans, it contained a baseball bat that looked well used — the smudges on the top weren’t red paint — and a set of brass knuckles. Everything the urban vigilante required.

Downstairs again, I noticed a large bookcase with volumes on right-wing propaganda and numerous tomes on the scourge of homosexuality. I found a well-stocked drinks cabinet — I selected a bottle of Black Bushmills, got a heavy tumbler and poured myself a large one, had a sip and said, ‘Now that is real fine.’

Glass in hand, I looked at the framed photos, all of the guy I presumed to be Blake. He had militia gear on in one, another showed him receiving a trophy for service to the community, and the final one showed him on a golf course with a number of men, one of whom I recognized as Superintendent Clancy. I went back to the kitchen and checked the fridge: full of choice meats, wines, lots of delicacies and a fresh salmon. I found a stick of French bread and made myself a thick sandwich. It went real well with the Bush.

I put my mini feast on the kitchen table, placed the revolver alongside and settled in to wait.

The food was so good, I was contemplating a second sandwich when the front door opened. There was a heavy footfall, then he walked into the kitchen, near jumping out of his skin when he saw me.

I asked, ‘How was work, dear?’

He was in his late forties, slim build, pasty complexion with brown furtive eyes. Of course, you come home to find a guy at your kitchen table, eating your grub with a gun alongside, you’re going to look furtive.

He took a moment, then blustered, ‘Who the hell are you?’

I drained my glass, smiled in appreciation at the sheer quality of the booze and said, ‘I’m serious fucking trouble.’ I put my hand on the butt of the gun, said, ‘Sit.’

He did.

I took the revolver in my left hand, swung the chamber out and let the five bullets tumble on to the table. I picked one up, put it in the chamber, smiled at Gary, then spun the chamber.

‘I take it you’ve seen The Deer Hunter ? Shit, macho guy like you, probably know it by heart.’

He had a light line of perspiration on his forehead as he asked, ‘What is this all about?’

‘Thing is, Gary — you don’t mind if I call you Gary? — you’ve a real tidy home here, no sign of, how shall we say, female occupancy , and you’re, lemme guess, in your late forties, not married, and in the fridge it’s all fancy meats, nice wines, none of that Guinness or beer crap for you, so I’m wondering. . are you gay? Got any Barbra Streisand albums, or is it Kylie now?’

His face contorted in rage. I waved the gun and he sat down as he spat, ‘How dare you even utter that word in my house? They are a virus, a modern-day plague.’

I aimed the gun at him. ‘And you’re the cure?’ I clicked the hammer back. ‘I pull the trigger, you’re gone.’

He nearly fell off the chair, stammered, ‘You’re deranged. God almighty, what is the matter with you?’

I said, ‘It’s real simple. I want you to retire from the bashing gig.’ I stood up, added, ‘You now have to decide how serious I am.’

I leveled the revolver, said, ‘They say I’m a drunk, and as you can see. .’ I indicated the dwindling Bushmills in the glass, ‘. . I’m certainly partial to a wee dram. The thing is, how steady is my aim?’

I pulled the trigger and the bullet whizzed past his ear, leaving the tiniest nick on the rim, and lodged in the wall behind him. I was as shocked as he was, but had to appear nonchalant.

Jesus, an inch or so and I’d have blasted him right between the eyes. The tiny abrasion began to pump blood, which ran down the side of his neck.