Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

Blackmail with a velvet touch .

He had it blacklined in his book of ghosts . The journal he was keeping with a view to publication after he was famous. All the greats did that. Made him smile to consider a

Ghostwriter .

Mainly he was a humor-free zone but did appreciate irony if it was delivered with a hammer and intent.

But for serious cash it was hard to beat the old reliables. Women and theft. Combine both. He did.

Julia Finch, an old bird like her very name. She came from old-time money and was old-time with it, that is, mean. He wooed her as if he meant it. Gave her the codswallop she wanted to hear. Too, played on that old adage of bad boy . Well, even more alluring to an Irish woman, bad priest.

Sin

Sacrilege

Sex.

Irresistible.

But fuck, he earned it. Big time. The woman droned on

And on.

While he had to act like he was rapt. Thinking he wanted to wrap his hands ’round her neck. Once she had signed most everything to him, JC asked Woody,

“How do you feel about Julia?”

Woody was wary; was it a trick?

He tried,

“She seems very devout.”

He wanted to add sir but it stuck in his throat. JC said,

“She says you put your hands on her.”

He was speechless. JC gave a rueful smile, said,

“I don’t believe even you are quite that desperate.”

Woody knew he was being deeply insulted but wasn’t sure why, knew enough to know that, when you are cornered, a shot of pious shite might work, said,

“We all have a cross to carry.”

He didn’t believe that for an instant, else why did God give the world au pairs? JC was shaking his head, as if more grief was coming.

It was.

He said,

“She says you are a vile, treacherous, thieving piece of garbage.”

Phew, he had to bite down. JC was watching him closely, said,

“Speak freely.”

He knew he would have to avoid cursing and to tread lightly, spat,

“Cunt.”

How do you track a ghost?

Lightly.

That’s what I did. Innocent questions thrown in to pub conversations, not a driving interrogation but a soft gentle inquiry. Nothing at first but slowly a trace began to emerge.

Unemployed men suddenly having a cause, a purpose. Hints of a new movement that would once and for all deal with the crooked bankers, the sleazy shot callers who had robbed the country blind.

Oh, and the water charges.

Any organization that promised to end the hated tax was a winner. A few times I saw a small burly man buying rounds for everybody. His name I learned was Woody. A Friday evening I managed to maneuver myself next to him at the bar. He was shouting for a large round, I said,

“Great. Make mine a double.”

He was not amused, did that slow turn of someone who anticipates violence, asked,

“I know you, fuckhead?”

My mind clicked to delight. I was in a mood to pound on a thug, said,

“Whoa, no need for that, I thought you were some rich ejit buying for everyone.”

He gauged me, then,

“You thought wrong.”

And went back to ordering the drinks. I grabbed his arm and he went into fight mode. I said,

“Not rich? Just an ejit, then?”

He clenched his face and before I could prepare I was pulled from behind, a voice saying,

“Let’s go.”

And was dragged away by Hayden!

Hayden?

I said,

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

He looked even younger than the last time I saw him. He said,

“Emily told me to watch out for you.”

I was exasperated, asked,

“ You , you are going to protect me?”

He smiled, said,

“I have some moves.”

Jesus.

I said,

“Try this one: fuck off.”

He smiled and I wanted to punch his lights out. He said,

“How about if I told you I had The Red Book .”

WTF.

I went,

“You?”

“Like I said, some moves.”

I only half believed him but, if he hung with Emily, anything was possible. I asked,

“So can I see it?”

He began to turn away, said,

“Not so fast Jack-o. You have to earn that.”

And he was gone before I could grab him.

On Eyre Square, a van pulled up, threw open the doors, and left a clutch of dead swans on the grass. A mother with a young infant gasped, then fainted. A crowd gathered and the overwhelming response was

“Dirty bastards.”

Before, with the cow, horse, a certain sick humor might have been derived, but in Galway there is no humor concerning the swans. They are as sacred as something can be in a city that insists on honoring writers not from the city. Anyone but natives, being the credo.

Superintendent Clancy was beyond rage, gave Sergeant Ridge the

Rant of a decade.

The newspapers went ballistic, crying for Clancy to resign. Like that would happen.

There were many witnesses, describing everyone from

Refugees

Nonnationals

Students

Water protesters.

Then storm Desmond hit and the swans were forgotten as the city was blinded, blasted, and battered. Overnight it was estimated the cleanup would cost twenty million euros. Plus, the EU had decreed we owed close to a billion for not conserving energy. The people were so exhausted with bills, taxes, and levies, the general feeling was

“ The check is in the mail, assholes .”

In the midst of chaos there is always a level of utter ridiculousness, which went to the Water Authority, which, in addition to sending out bills, sent everyone who registered with it a bonus of a hundred euros whether they had paid their water bill or not. One man wrote to the papers asking,

“If the U.S. doesn’t want Trump, could we have him?”

Almost as an aside, the sacking of Mourinho by Chelsea went largely ignored. Rory McIlroy bought a 50,000 euro engagement ring for his newest financée and it was generally asked,

“But did he pay the water charges?”

My neighbor Doc was finalizing his plans for an attempt to climb Everest. His plans did not include me. I ran into him as the pup and I returned from a walk. In a moment of madness, I had volunteered my services for the trip.

Right.

Me, a sodden drunk with mutilated fingers. A hearing aid, a limp, an on/off affair with prescription pills. Just the ticket for Everest. I asked,

“You give any thought to me tagging along on the adventure?”

He bent down to rub the pup’s ear, then,

“You were serious?”

Fuck.

I said,

“I may not be in the best of condition.”

He gave one of those short laughs, immersed in bitterness, snapped,

“And what exactly could you bring to the table?”

... bring to the table?

For fuck’s sake.

I said,

“Attitude?”

He brushed past me, said,

“Try sobering up first.”

Phew-oh.

Such assholes I had to consider friends. Because most all I knew were in the graveyard. Outliving your enemies may be noteworthy but your friends? It is sadness on wheels.

I said,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

He shook his head in that manner of

Lord, give me patience with fools .

He said,

“When I first met you, your drinking was almost fun and I admit I did enjoy some sessions with you, but when it is 24/7 it wears a little thin.”

Fuck me pink.

I wanted to get my hurly and beat him six ways to Bloody Sunday, but maybe it wasn’t too late to earn some air miles with God, so I went,

“Go with God, my friend.”