Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

“My little brother, Eamon, he is twelve, ran away from home, and I want you to bring him back.”

I shook my head, said,

“Go to the Guards.”

She gave me a look of scrutiny that only utter innocence can bestow and she saw nothing that promised the world would cut her any slack. She produced a battered purse, I think it might have had Our Lady of Perpetual Help on it, rooted in it, and came up with a handful of notes, said,

“I’ve been saving up for a bike but here, you take it.”

There are very few times I have much regard for my own self but right there I was verging on complete disgust. I asked,

“How much is there?”

She rolled her eyes, said,

“Hello, maybe nineteen euros.”

My cup finally overfloweth.

She added,

“I will need a receipt for that.”

Of course.

I asked,

“And your name?”

“Lorna.”

I muttered,

“Lorna Doone.”

Exasperated, she snapped,

“No, silly. Dunphy.”

I asked,

“Have you a photo?”

She produced a thick envelope, said,

“Everything is in there.

School

Age

Description

And my contact details.”

Paused

As if she heard something.

Then,

“I have to run.”

And run she did.

When I got back to the apartment I opened the package.

It was reams of blank paper.

I got on Google search and did indeed find her.

She was an only child.

I was walking the pup up the town and he didn’t much take to the mime artists. They spooked him.

Me too.

Heard,

“By the holy, Taylor.”

Father Malachy. My nemesis. The bane of my life in so many ways. We had a varied history and most of it bad. He stopped, cloud of nicotine over him, stared at the dog. Asked,

“Did you steal that poor creature?”

Low growl from the pup. He could sense my feelings instinctively. Not that he saw Malachy as a threat but rather a nuisance, like a bedraggled cat. Not to chase but to chastise.

Worked for me.

I said,

“Still smoking, eh?”

Ignored that, said,

“I’ve been thinking of your poor mother.”

Fuck, here we go.

I said,

“We all have our crosses.”

Looked like he wanted to wallop me, said,

“I think the poor woman was bipolar.”

Oh, man, I fucking laughed out loud, mimicked,

“Bipolar! Fucking beautiful, the greatest bitch to walk the earth and now it’s, like, oh, she couldn’t help it .”

He gave me a look bordering almost on pity, said,

“You are a bitter man.”

Just then, the girl Lorna Dunphy passed by, stopped, asked, no, demanded,

“Did you find my brother?”

Before I could answer, Malachy said,

“Lorna, run along now.”

And she did!

I stared at him and he rounded on me, near spat,

“Hope you haven’t been putting notions in that girl’s head?”

Jesus wept.

I said,

“She hired me to find her nonexistent brother.”

His eyes were on fire from rage and he accused,

“You took money from that poor creature?”

“Yeah, all of nineteen euros.”

He blessed himself, said,

“There is no end to your wickedness. That child suffers.”

I was all out of patience with the craziness that seemed to have infected the whole city, snarled,

“Let me guess, bipolar?”

He dismissed that with a wave of his hand, said,

“You are a heartless excuse for a man.”

I ignored that, persisted.

“What is it with that girl, eh?”

He sighed, said,

“Like everyone else who has had dealings with you, she simply wanted one simple thing.”

I had to ask.

“What might that be?”

Like I could give a full fuck.

He said,

“To get your attention.”

Back at the apartment, I drew up a list of all the bizarre threads of my current life.

Who, what, were the ghosts of Galway?

What was the deal with the girl and the imaginary brother?

The Red Book .

Emily... Always Emily and her diffuse weirdness.

My former boss.

The dead ex-priest.

Sat back, looked at it.

Made no sense.

Tried to think how a thriller writer would throw out all these strands and then, presto, wrap them all up with a rugged hero, battered but unbowed, heading into an award-winning future.

I looked at the pup, asked,

“Got any ideas?”

He stared at the leash.

A pounding at the door put the heart sideways in me. The pup went into attack mode. I pulled the door open to a young Guard. I mean so young he seemed like a child in dress-up but what was old was his attitude. Already bitter and malignant, he near shouted,

“Are you...”

Consulted his notes.

“John Trainor?”

“No.”

Rattled him.

If it was in the notebook, it had to be true. He tried,

“Name?”

I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

Again with the notebook, then,

“Your neighbor was burgled, you know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Mind if I have a look inside?”

“Got a warrant?”

He had obviously watched lots of cop shows, asked in a tough tone,

“Wanna play hardball?”

“I want to know if you have a warrant. If not, fuck off.”

Kinda hardball.

He reeled back, lost for a moment. I said,

“Get Sergeant Ridge.”

“She know you?”

“She’d know where to look.”

And I shut the door. Heard him mutter about dog license. The pup didn’t seem too concerned.

Over the years, I’ve made one hell of a lot of bad decisions. If there was a bad way to do things, I was your guy. Whatever about the road less traveled , I always took the road to despair. Be nice to think I’d learned from experience.

Nope.

Now, as I surveyed the list of bafflements, I thought I really needed to know what the deal was with the girl who claimed to have a missing brother.

Lorna Dunphy.

Found where she lived easily. Or where her home was. Off Merchants Road. A small beleaguered section of old Galway that still hadn’t fallen to the developers. Put on my Garda allweather, black 501s, my Doc Martens with the steel toe caps, and figured I was ready for just about anything.

Figured wrong.

Met my neighbor Doc outside my door, asked,

“You think I stole your laptop?”

Gave me a look of utter derision, said,

“Who else?”

I’d been obviously watching too much Sherlock as I said,

“Succinct.”

Well, beats the ubiquitous whatever .

I stood for a moment outside Lorna Dunphy’s home, took a deep breath. Then knocked and waited. Door opened and a man appeared, maybe in his battered forties. Something had beaten the hell out of him and, when he was on his knees, life had kicked him in the balls. He was wearing old cord Levi’s, a faded sweatshirt with the logo for the Saw Doctors, though it was a long time since this man heard any music. Does anyone remember desert boots? This man did and was wearing them. He had a tangle of dark curly hair, long from not caring and not fashion. He asked,

“Is this about Lorna?”

A soft voice, laden with foreboding, he knew most calls were about Lorna .

I nodded, said,

“I’m truly sorry to bother you.”

For once I truly meant it.

He waved me in, not even asking who I was. Led into a sitting room that was so tidy it seemed unlived in. A single framed photo of a woman, with her head back, laughing. He motioned me to a chair, asked,