Ken Bruen - Priest

I thought about Malachy, about the price I’d paid for previous investigations. Did I have what it required to return? I didn’t know. A feeling was building in my system and I realized it was shock.

Shock at the prospect of getting back into the game. The adrenalin rush was massive.

The woman put her paper aside, asked,

‘Are you on holiday?’

‘No, I’m from Galway.’

She thought about that, then,

‘A real native, somewhat of a rare species.’

We had indeed become a city where being a native was unusual. My coffee came and I sipped it, wondering if I suddenly told this stranger I was fresh out of the laughing academy how cordial she would be. She stood, said,

‘You have a good day.’

And was gone.

Should I have made a move on her? The old question, and the answer was, too late.

Later, I went to Merchant’s Road to see my new home. The building appealed immediately. Granite front, windows opening out to small balconies. I went in, climbed the stairs and found my door, my place! It consisted of bedroom, sitting room, kitchen, all on the small scale. High ceiling, which adds the illusion of space. There was furniture, old but solid, a bed, and in the presses, crockery. It felt like it had never been inhabited, as if it was simply waiting. I opened the windows and gave silent benediction to Mrs Bailey.

I had been to the cinema to see Goodbye, Berlin, got a takeaway kebab and had turned into the alleyway leading to the Granary. My mind was see-sawing twixt joy from the magical movie and the loneliness of buying one ticket. Few things emphasize aloneness like the cinema. It’s designed for company — they even have love seats. . fuck.

The cashier had asked,

‘How many?’

The sad refrain,

‘One.’

My answer seemed to echo in the foyer, bounce against the coming attractions and highlight the groups of people in animated conversation. At the next desk, the assistant was selling tickets as fast as he could punch them. Terminator 3. . maybe Arnie’s declaration that he’d run for Governor of California was swelling the appeal. The refreshment kiosk was jammed — mega buckets of popcorn and huge cokes. I walked by.

So when the guy came out of the darkened doorway of my apartment, I nearly dropped my kebab. He said,

‘Gimme money.’

I muttered,

‘Sure.’

Moved the kebab to my left hand, shot out with the right. The second guy would have taken me easily — I’d never considered two. Before he could strike, someone came running down the alley, hit him with a shoulder. I turned, trying to get a handle on what the hell was happening. A man in his early twenties, dressed in a tracksuit, stood over the guy he’d knocked down. He asked,

‘Should I kick him in the gut?’

‘I would.’

He did.

I asked,

‘Who the blazes are you?’

The would-be muggers were moaning and I suddenly noticed their shoes — the heavy black jobs. Only one gang in the world wore those. The Guards. The man said,

‘I’m Cody.’

I shook my head. This was supposed to mean something? I asked,

‘Want to share a kebab?’

His smile revealed glittering white teeth as he said,

‘Man, I love to eat.’

And all the time, I was asking meself,

‘Why would the Guards want to rough me up except to warn me off?’

When we got to the flat, he whistled in appreciation, said,

‘What a pad.’

He had an American accent, but I’m Irish, I could hear the lilt beneath. His delivery was good but bogus. I got some plates, cut the kebab in two, asked,

‘What to drink?’

He was standing at the window, staring at that view, went,

‘Bourbon, rocks, beer chaser.’

I smiled, he sounded so close to the real thing. I said,

‘I’ve got tea, water, coffee.’

‘Tea’s cool.’

While the kettle boiled, I appraised him. Tall with an athlete’s build. When he turned towards me his face was solid: brown eyes, straight nose, but the mouth let the picture sag. Thin lips that seemed like an afterthought. Blond hair in the mocked style of the eighties known as a Mullet. He obviously hadn’t heard the jokes and derision, or maybe he had, didn’t care. I put the plates down and he sat, went,

‘You handle yourself well for an old guy.’

I let that slide. What was I going to do, argue the toss? What it did, apart from depress the shit out of me, was make me conscious of my limp. The guy probably figured I had a walking stick, but he’d saved my ass, no question — the second mugger I’d never even considered. He’d have had me, as the English say, ‘Bang to rights.’ I owed him, said,

‘I owe you.’

He grabbed his portion of the kebab, took a hefty bite, chewed with his mouth open — not a pretty sight but, like I said, I was in his debt. He waved his hand, answered,

‘No biggie, dude.’

Dude. . Jesus.

I sat opposite him, felt a tremor along my spine, knew my hands would shake. He noticed, said,

‘All shook up, yeah?’

I didn’t think it required a reply. He nodded, said,

‘A shot of something, get you squared away.’

It would certainly get me put away. Man, I’d have sold my soul for a Bushmills, Jameson, get that fake warmth to light my guts. He added,

‘You can’t, huh?’

The old anger surfaced. I went,

‘What’s that mean?’

He was unfazed, still chewing, raised his left hand in the drinking motion then rolled his eyes, said,

‘One’s not enough, eh. . is that how it goes?’

The sheer insanity of alcoholism. If there’d been a bottle in the apartment, I’d have had a large one then put him through the window. I reined in, tried,

‘Lucky for me you were passing.’

He raised his eyebrows, echoed,

‘Lucky? Luck had nothing to do with it.’

I didn’t understand, said,

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I was following you, Jack.’

My name. Did I give it? No, definitely not. He indicated my half of the kebab, asked,

‘You gonna chow down?. . like, I’d hate to see it go begging.’

I stood, pushed the food to him, asked,

‘You skip breakfast, that it?’

Then aiming for calm, keeping it low, asked,

‘Why are you following me?’

He’d launched into the food and, startling us both, I shouted,

‘Leave the fucking food alone.’

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, said,

‘Whoah! Take it easy, big guy, take a chill pill. You don’t want to get a heart attack. Jeez, bring it down a notch.’

While he was saying this, I considered launching myself across the table, ramming the bloody kebab down his throat. I leaned on the table, said,

‘Cody or whatever the hell your name is, listen up. Who the hell are you, why are you following me and how do you know my name? Think you can answer those?’

My cigs were on the table. He flipped open the pack, took out a Zippo, fired up, said,

‘I’m trying to cut back, but after vittles you just gotta have that nicotine buzz.’

Saw my expression, grinned, went,

‘Okey dokey, ’fess-up time. Hombre, I’m your biggest fan, been reading up on you.’ Paused, as if searching for the right words. ‘How does it go. . “I like the cut of your gib”? In other words, Jack, I want to be a private eye. I want to be your partner. What do you say, want to buddy up?’

I stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Cody didn’t like being laughed at, protested,

‘I’m serious, dude. I’ve been following your career. We hook up, we’d clean up.’

Nice pithy slogan, we could put it on a T-shirt. I asked,

‘Tell me who you are, and tell me now.’

My tone implied the violence that lingered barely under the surface of every waking hour.