Кен Бруен: American Skin

Glossary of Irish Words, Expressions and Irish-English Usage. Irish-English is as different from The Queen’s English as a pint of Guinness is to a pint of Bitter. The former is as dark as the latter is weak.

Agus a mhathair: And His mother

Agus bheannacht: And blessings

Airgead: Money

Bangers: Sausage/secondhand car

Banjaxed: Fucked

Bhi curamach: Be careful/mind yourself

Bollocks: See bowsie

Boreen: Small unpaved road

Bowsie: Thug/shithead/accountant

Bringlodi: Dreams

Ceili: Irish music festival

Crack: Fun... party time

Culchie: Anyone not from Dublin (not flattering)

Currachs: Boats used by the Aran slanders

Cute hoor. Smart-ass

Dia leat. God be with you

Dubh: Black

Ejit: See bollix

Feck: The polite form of fuck

Filum: Movie

Fuaraigh: Chill (out)

Gobshite: A bollix with notions

Gra go mor: Mega love

Gunna: Gun

Gurrier: Thug

Kybosh: Jinx

Leat fein: You, too

Mobile: Cell phone

Notion: Ego inflation

Och ocon: Woe is me

Oul wan: Old woman

Pg mo thoin: Kiss my ass

Pishrog: Belief or expression based on superstition

Ride and a rasher: Sex followed by breakfast

Shebeens: Illegal drinking clubs

Sin sceal eile: That’s a whole other story

Slainte: Cheers

Slainte amach: Cheers with feeling

Smashing: Terrific

Sneachta: Snow

Ta tu aras: You’re back... couldn’t cut it, huh?

The Boyos: The IRA

Wan/yer wan: A woman, derogatory term in heavy Galway accent

The tribes of Galway were fourteen merchant families who settled in the town between the 1230s and the 1540s and who held power and prestige until the early decades of the twentieth century. They were not tribes in the usual sense. The term was apparently adopted by the townspeople themselves or used as a derisive term by Cromwellian soldiers.

Among the most ferocious of the tribes were the Blakes... famed as soldiers.

The Browns — no mean fighters, either — are sometimes known as Bruen.

One of the first casualties at Gettysburg was a D. Bruen. A Richard Bruen is reputed to have skinned his enemies. Richard respected and feared a local warlord and eventually killed him. Donning the skin, he tried to literally become the man he’d admired.

Glen tried to keep the SUV steady. It was the oldest model, lacked the safety features of the newer ones; not even the seat belts were secure and Karen had been on Glen’s case about how unsafe it was, but with his drinking, he’d let it slide, like everything else.

He’d sworn to get it adjusted now he was sober but they had to run... right now.

The needle was hitting 100 and Karen was screaming, “He’s right on us.”

Glen, sweat pouring into his eyes, shouted,

“Goddamn it, Kar, I can’t risk going off the road.”

The vehicle on their rear was blinding them with mega lights. Behind Karen, Rosie, their four-year-old daughter, was staring saucer eyed at her parents; she’d never heard them cuss each other. Beside her was Ben, ten years old, wearing a Jet shirt, his father’s old catcher’s mitt in his lap. He pulled at it, as if it might end the terror. Glen felt the chassis sway dangerously, — if a car came from the other direction, they were fucked. He was hogging the middle of the road as it was. Karen, near hysteria, howled,

“Glen...”

Rosie tried to cover her ears; her mother’s fear frightened her more than the bogey man behind. The man behind popped a Juicy Fruit, hit the volume on the stereo, The Clash with “London’s Burning.”

He was in his late forties, wearing tooled cowboy boots, faded 501s, and a Lakers shirt. A jagged scar on his left cheek resembled a lightning strike. A whore in Philly, whom he’d tried to cheat out of her fee, had come at him with a broken bottle, attempting to gouge his eye out. He’d beaten her to an inch of her life then fucked her again, all the time, the blood pouring from the slash she’d inflicted. He was proud of it now, told folk it happened in the First Desert Storm, a raghead had tried to take him out. On his left arm was a tattoo with the name “Dade”... a souvenir of a time he’d been incarcerated down in Dade County, of all his jail time, it was the most fun, he got to kick the shit out of a drag queen and the food was fine, hash browns, gravy, grits, and mashed potatoes, with pecan pie to follow. On the seat was a Walther PPK. He fastened his foot on the accelerator, the grill on his truck jolting the tail of the SUV. He reached on the dash for his Kools, one fluid motion, working the cig into his mouth and flicking a Zippo, bearing the logo “1 stAirborne.”

He’d bought it off a guy in Tijuana.

He glanced at the weapon, the butt was custom fitted and he touched it, muttered,

“Lock and load.”

A snapshot of Tammy Wynette hung from the mirror, tied with an Indian braid. He grinned at her, pedal to the metal, having more fun than hunting bear in god’s own country.

Karen, terror soaking her top, knew who was behind. When she first met him, he was the soul of charm. She and Glen were having a trial separation, see if the 12 Step program would work for him. Even now, she couldn’t quite figure how the man had become so quickly part of their lives, as if he’d planned it. He was so good with her son, played ball with him, treated her like a princess, never raised his voice and, if anything, he was almost too good to be true.

He’d even offered to fix up the SUV, saying that old model was a real hazard.

As the pursuit intensified, she wished now she’d let him do that.

Then Glen returned, sober, quiet, and attentive, asking for one more chance. The kids were delighted and she’d agreed. Told Dade, and watched in astonishment as he said,

“Ain’t gonna happen, lady.”

The change in his voice, the change in his face, like a demon had been revealed.

Unnerved, she’d said,

“I never promised you this was going to develop into something.”

Keeping her voice reasonable, though a fierce sense of dread was building, she just wanted him to go away. They’d been sitting in her kitchen, coffee mugs on the table and without any warning, he’d lifted a mug, hurled it through the window. The effortless power he’s summoned without exerting himself. Her little girl had come running in and he said,

“Nothing to worry about sweet thing, Mom and Dad just having a little disagreement.”

The little girl, who’d never taken to him, near spat,

“You’re not my Daddy.”

He tut-tutted, Karen had never in her life heard anyone actually make that sound. Turning his eyes full on Karen, he said,

“You’ve turned our little girl against me, her own Dad.”

He managed to sound hurt and lethal. She realised he was completely crazy, that brand of insanity that is so extreme that it almost passes for normal. She said, trying for a firm tone,

“I think you better leave now.”

He was on his feet, one fluid motion, towering over her, the Juicy Fruit’s aroma all over her, asked,