Кен Бруен - Galway Girl

Heavy snow altered the city landscape in a sort of beautiful, flawed fashion.

Supermarkets ran out of all supplies and for two days there was an actual curfew because of the velocity of the winds.

Horror of all, even the pubs shut.

Grim days.

TV news rolled out weather experts who doled out increasingly dour doom-ridden forecasts. I holed up in my apartment, watching the ocean at its fiercest, at its finest.

Had to ration my booze lest the storm continued longer.

Eerie to see the streets so deserted.

On the Saturday, knock on my door, opened it to a young man. Took me a moment to recognize him.

Stapleton’s son.

Fuck.

I asked,

“How did you know where I live?”

He gave an odd smile, asked,

“May I come in? I brought supplies.”

He did indeed have many bags, bulging with food, booze, so

I let him in.

Asked,

“How’d you get all this when the town is literally shut?”

He said,

“My job.”

“Yeah, what do you do?”

“I burgle.”

Not many sane replies to this, so I went with,

“Oh.”

He grabbed a bottle from one of the many bags, said,

“Let’s brew up some hot ones.”

I held up my hand, said,

“Whoa, I don’t even know your name.”

He looked at me, went with,

“The fuck does that matter?”

Said,

“Terry. Mundane, eh?”

I took the bottle from him, shoved it back into the bag, said,

“Okay, Terry, thanks for the thought.”

I gathered up the bags, pushed them at him, opened the door, said,

“You take care now.”

His face turned in an instant, the laid-back guy gone and now a hard stone chill. He said,

“You fucking owe me, Taylor.”

I nearly laughed, said,

“Don’t think so, pal, now on your way.”

“You murdered my old man.”

I near stammered,

“That is ridiculous.”

He smirked, said,

“Not according to the people I talked to.”

I tried to stay cool, asked,

“Any of them offer proof, evidence, even motive?”

He weighed his words, then,

“Apparently you believed he was responsible for the death of a friend of yours.”

I shook my head, said,

“This is Galway. What they don’t know, they invent. Go live your life, leave the past be.”

He gave me a long look, said,

“Keep looking over your shoulder, Taylor, I’ll be around.”

I shut the door in his face.

Did I consider him a threat?

These days, just about everything seemed threatening. He was just one more dark line in a story embedded in darkness.

I thought a lot about Amy Fadden and the alleged murder of her daughter.

If, and major if, she had been drowned by the mayor’s son, then a full-scale clusterfuck was in the cards.

Mayor Sean Tern, not a popular guy and very much of the old school type of politics, the

Nod and wink,

Slap your back,

Don’t tell and never show gig.

But he had the juice, meaning money and friends of influence.

What the hell, I felt in the mood for a scrap.

Dressed in white shirt, loose tie, my Garda coat, 501s, Doc Martens. Very much a mixed metaphor, a blend of tough and yet one of the guys.

Headed for town, checking over my shoulder for Stapleton’s son. No doubt he was off preparing a new burglary.

The ferocious beast of a storm had ended after a week of dire conditions and now came the burst pipes, power cuts, and the government assuring us that we’d be back in business soon.

Really.

The receptionist at City Hall was ice in clipped speech.

Like this,

“His lordship doesn’t see walk-ins.”

Fine.

I asked,

“He’s a lord now?”

Didn’t merit her reply, so I said,

“It’s regarding an allegation about his son.”

Still no move, so I pushed.

“Guess it’s the newspapers, then.”

Immediate reaction and a hurried,

“Wait here.”

She fucked off down a long corridor, all bristling anger.

Five minutes and she returned with a thin guy, wispy hair, tight suit, tighter face, and an air of

“I deal with assholes, fast.”

I said,

“You’re not the mayor.”

He allowed a thin smile to leak sideways from his curled lip. He was going to enjoy this.

Or so he thought.

He said in a withering tone,

“I deal with the more trivial of the mayor’s businesses.”

I asked,

“They allow you a name?”

He sighed, said,

“Mr. Cahill.”

I said,

“You have lovely manners.”

He made a show of checking his watch, important business waiting, demanded,

“Who are you?”

I held out my hand, which I knew he’d ignore, said,

“Jack Taylor.”

A dim light ran across his eyes, then,

“Oh, Lord, yes. Some kind of raggedy-arsed private eye.”

I said,

“A serious allegation has been made against the mayor’s son.”

He chuckled, made a face of deep annoyance, said,

“The alleged accuser has withdrawn her ridiculous charge.”

Fuck.

I waited.

He turned on his heel, not even a word of dismissal. I shouted,

“God bless.”

I found Jimmy Tern at the canal, the last place you’d think he’d be.

Accused of drowning a girl, why would he return there of all places?

I knew him from Instagram. He was all over social media, and if his posts were any indication he was a cocky little bollix.

Tall for his age, dark hair in what was once a Beatle cut, dressed in an expensive navy tracksuit, and the latest trainers — the ones that went for upwards of 250 euros.

How would I know that?

Mainly from utter astonishment for what we in our naïveté still called sand shoes.

Jimmy was obviously leader of the pack, and a motley bunch they were: two boys who were the followers and three girls drawn to the bad boy vibe.

Jimmy was in his element, uttering directives to the gang.

He spotted me and a vague hostile bravado drew him near. He demanded,

“Wotcha want, pedo?”

I liked him already.

I said,

“I’m here to make you famous.”

The new irresistible lure for the young.

Fame.

Didn’t matter how and talent wasn’t even in the neighborhood, just be a YouTube viral star.

He moved closer, asked,

“How?”

No question as to why.

Just get me there, fast.

I said,

“Child killers are hot now.”

Rocked the little bastard.

He faltered for a moment, looked to his gang who, as one, were staring at their feet, then,

“Fuck you, my dad will have you for slander.”

I said,

“But then we’ll get you to a court and, who knows, a lot can happen there. Least the world will see your face.”

He spat at me.

I said,

“You really are a nasty little prick, aren’t you?”

Truth to tell, I wanted to wallop him, a lot, went with,

“Can you swim?”

The gang were slowly slithering away. He snarled,

“Of course I can swim, you moron.”

I made a fast move toward him and he backed away, lost his balance, into the water. One of the girls laughed. He struggled for a moment then swam to the bank. I said,

“Nice stroke but you need to work on your dive.”