Кен Бруен - Galway Girl

“What will Sir have?”

Sir.

In fuckin’ Bohermore?

Seriously.

I said, in a measured tone,

“Large hot one, Guinness chaser.”

Pause.

Then,

“Will Sir require cloves?”

Fuck.

I snapped,

“If Sir requires cloves, Sir will be quick to mention it.”

Then dialing it back, I tried,

“Bitter out there.”

He near sneered.

“It is February.”

Gotcha.

I said,

“I didn’t know a reprimand was part of the service.”

Took my drinks, moved to a window, and no sooner than that,

A woman passing did a double take, came in.

Uh-oh.

She had been a showstopper in her day, maybe fifty now but a kind of classical beauty lingered as testament to her former glory. Grief or its neighbor had played hard with her features.

She asked,

“Mr. Taylor?”

“No,”

I said.

“But I am often mistaken for that reprobate.”

She asked,

“May I sit?”

Wouldn’t you fucking know it, the surly bar guy then decides to be affable, goes,

“Need a refill?”

‘Course, he could just have been mind-fuckin’.

The woman said, “You are Mr. Taylor.”

I looked at the woman, smiled, said,

“Busted.”

She allowed a minute smile but fleeting, said,

“I know it’s rude to bother people when they’re having some quiet time.”

“’Tis,”

I said.

“Rude.”

She wrung her hands, a gesture that pains my very heart, despair writ small. I noticed her nails were bitten to the inflamed quick, so fuck it, I asked,

“What’s the story?”

Thinking, Oasis, “Morning Glory.”

She began,

“My name is Amy Fadden. My daughter, Rachel, is ten.”

Sob.

“Was ten.

She was drowned, deliberately.”

Phew.

I asked,

“Who drowned her?”

Long silence.

Then,

“A boy named Jimmy Tern.”

She looked at me in utter horror, said,

“Jimmy Tern is eleven.”

“Tern?”

I echoed.

She nodded, said,

“The mayor’s son.”

Oh, fuck.

I asked, with skepticism leaking all over my tone,

“He drowned your daughter?”

She said that Tern, Rachel, and a girl named Alison were fooling around in a boat on the canal. Rachel fell in and then Tern leaned over the side of the boat and held Rachel’s head below the water until... until...

God in heaven.

I tried,

“Go to the Guards, get what’s-her-name, Alison? To tell them what occurred.”

“She won’t.”

I shook my head, asked,

“What on earth can I do?”

She raked her nails along the table, a screeching sound, said,

“Make him talk.”

I felt for her. God knows I knew the grief of losing a child, and I also knew the price you pay for cold and ruthless revenge. I had taken such a step and, as hell is my dark witness, I was glad and am still glad I killed the fucker who took my child. But would she be able to carry the burden of revenge and, worse, or rather more to the point, would I be able to carry the extra weight of payback on her behalf?

She had said,

“Make him talk.”

But we both knew she wanted the ice-cold rush of retaliation. I stood up, said,

“I will talk to him. That I can do, but anything else and I can’t promise what will ensue.”

She grasped my hand, kissed it, swore,

“I’ll make you glad you did.”

I left her with a pounding in my blood, my heart hammering, and my hand scorched from where she’d kissed it.

I was a little over the limit, truth to tell, and asked my own self,

“Who gives a fuck?”

Looked out across Galway Bay, all the way to the desired U.S., and the ocean rolled back a resounding

“Nobody.”

One of the few lights in my befuddled life was living in an apartment that was opposite the bay. I never ceased to stare and yearn.

I got home after a few fumbled drunken attempts with my key, and was immediately alert.

Somebody had been in again.

My nine-mm was hung in a pea jacket near the door. I slipped it out and ratcheted a round, then, holding it two-fisted like the movie guys, I entered the living room.

What I saw spooked me fast and hard.

In the center of the coffee table a gleaming crystal skull.

I scanned the room. Moonlight cast its beam and gave an eerie glow to the skull. I let the nine rest in one hand, headed for the drinks table, uncorked a bottle of Laphroaig, a present from Johnny Depp.

Kidding.

I got it from the manager of McCambridge’s at Christmas.

It takes a practiced dipso to get the cap off, splash a shot or two into the tumbler, knock it back. It’s a finely tuned act with one hand and even more impressive without taking my eyes off the skull.

Fortified, I approached the table and, fuck me, was I seeing things?

Embedded in the center of the skull was an insignia—

Of the Garda Síochána.

Scott had inherited his father’s house, a rambling mess of overgrown garden, built from old Galway granite, and it had an Edgar Allan Poe vibe.

Suited Scott to a maniac T.

His mother, Valiumed to the hilt, asked.

“Is it okay if I stay in the west wing?”

Scott laughed, a malicious, glee-free sound. He said,

“ West wing! How very fucking Anglo-Irish.”

His mother tut-tutted, scolded,

“Language.”

Scott glared at her. She didn’t have her husband to back her passive-aggressive taunts. He moved right in her face, asked,

“How polite is this? Get the fuck out of the house by close of business, meaning this evening.”

A mournful dirge she began was interrupted by a special delivery package

Addressed to:

Scott,

Son of prominent dead Garda,

Taylor’s Hill,

Galway.

The courier remarked,

“Odd form of address.”

And lingered on the doorstep

For a tip/explanation?

Scott hit his head in mock exaggeration, said,

“Oh, silly me, you’re waiting for a tip.”

The courier gave an attempt at a modest grin. Scott said,

“Here’s a tip: mind your own fucking business.”

Scott bounced the package in his hand, puzzled.

Opened it carefully.

A disc fell out with play me inscribed.

He did.

A shaky video that showed him crossing the street, shooting Nora McEntee, then hurrying away. The camera panned to reveal a man in a top-floor apartment with a shocked expression. There was a short music track to accompany the shooting.

“Galway Girl.”

By Steve Earle.

Scott then noticed a sheet of paper, read,

Scotty,

Yah mad bastard.

The face in the window is an ex-cop, Jack Taylor.

You need to exercise due care.

You my bitch now.

xxxxxx

Ireland stayed in lockdown for five days.