Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

He took a deep breath, said,

“Seriously Jack, this is not a good time, all hell is breaking loose.”

Time to fake him out.

I said,

“Me heart is broken with the shootings.”

He was taken aback, asked,

“You know, then?”

I gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Superintendent Clancy and I may seem at odds” — to put it fucking mildly — “but we go back a ways.”

He bought it, said,

“I know you were once close to Sergeant Ridge and I am truly sorry for your loss.”

WTF?

I remember mimicking,

“Sergeant Ridge?”

He said,

“Yes, died at the scene, and the young recruit Murphy died en route to hospital.”

The double funeral was held on a bitter cold Thursday. Crowds lined the street.

I have only vague recollections of the whole awful event. Trying to offer my condolences to Superintendent Clancy, who snapped,

“You don’t belong here.”

I indicated Ridge’s coffin, asked,

“Does she?”

Yeah, I know.

Beyond lame.

At the graveside, Father Malachy intoned,

“Man is full of misery.”

And I shouted,

“Aw, don’t say that.”

I got into a minor scuffle with the priest and, phew-oh, they threw me out of the cemetery.

Got to be a first, barred from the graveyard.

Guess it would be cremation then.

My mobile shrilled and in my utter madness I half thought it might be Ridge. It was Emily, who went,

“Wassup?”

Jesus.

I said,

“I’m kind of fucked here, Em.”

“Where are you?”

“At Rahoon Cemetery.”

She laughed, said,

“Don’t let ’em bury you.”

I met her in what used to be the River Inn. That there is not a river within a spit of that pub is neither here nor there. Like so many other pubs, it was now under new management and called

The Sliding Rock.

No, me neither.

There is a sliding rock in Shantalla. A Galway landmark to generations of children but now more in use with the ubiquitous drinking schools.

I was working on a full pint when Emily showed.

Who was she today?

Dressed in black leather, her hair in black synch, I asked,

“A Johnny Cash vibe?”

Got the look and,

“Seriously?”

I said,

“I give up. It’s not like I could really give a fuck.”

She sat, signaled to the guy behind the counter, said,

“Christie Hyde.”

The barman came over and oddly enough? Was actually Irish. He was not accustomed to being summoned. He snapped,

“Yeah?”

Like I said, Irish.

Despite what the Brits had believed, we were not born to serve. Emily didn’t look at him, said,

“Margarita.”

He nearly smiled at me. Translation:

“You poor bastard.”

He said to her,

“Think you’re in the wrong establishment.”

Waited a long beat.

Then added,

“ Love .”

Fuck me but women hate that sneered endearment.

She turned the full wattage of those sometimes green through blue eyes, asked,

“You got tequila?”

He was into it, running the bitch, he thought. Said,

“Hello? ’Course we got it.”

She said in a very Texan accent,

“Then y’all put that in a tall glass and my dad here will add the bitterness.”

Phew.

He nodded, turned to go, and she said,

“Yo, Paddy, don’t ever call me love .”

He headed back to the bar, trying to walk like he hadn’t had his arse handed to him.

When the drinks came, she toasted me with

“Good result, eh?”

What?

I stared at her, hoping I wasn’t horrendously correct in what was uncoiling in my fevered mind. I asked softly,

“What do you mean?”

Seemed two bullied lifetimes before she answered.

“The bitch is dead.”

I had my drink mid-lift, stopped.

Asked in real low tone, menace dripping from every slow enunciation.

“Who is the bitch ?”

She usually was so on the ball, saw peril before it even finished its coil, but was now on a tequila dance that was blind to nuance, said in jolly voice,

“ Sergeant smartass Ridge, fixed her good. She bought the farm and all its equipment.”

I snatched her wrist, as rough as I could, snarled,

“You reckless cunt, what did you do?”

First time in all our multifaceted dealings that I ever saw fear in her eyes. She near whispered,

“I just made a call, told her of a situation that required Garda help.”

Pause.

“I also called Woody, hinted the cops might be en route.”

I took a deep drawn-out breath, asked,

“Who the fuck is Woody?”

She was regaining some control, the usual cockiness reasserting itself, said,

“Christ, you never listen, I have told you, the Ghosts of Galway?”

I sat back, trying to absorb the sheer insanity of it all, managed one question.

“This Woody , he a shooter?”

Smile on her face, said,

“He is now.”

I had so many avenues to respond to this revelation and all,

All,

Of them

Involved violence.

She took my silence as some twisted form of, if not approval, then assent. She said,

“I will admit she was hot in the bed.”

Holy fuck!

How is it possible to be simultaneously shocked, stunned, outraged, and absolutely homicidal? Too, I have rarely been lost for words. I have done silence but only because I was too pissed to talk, but a situation where I actually couldn’t find a response in my muddled mind? I stared at her and she gave me that radiant smile, said,

“Keep your enemies close, right Jack-o?”

Did I lean over the table and punch her in the mouth?

I stood up, said quietly,

“Get a lawyer.”

Confused her. She asked,

“You going to shop me, lover?”

I said,

“To draw up your last will and testament.”

Nun, but the brave and the rash .

I went to see a nun, weird as that is.

Me!

With a nun as a friend.

Years ago, I had helped out the Church and a nun, Sister Maeve, believed I did miraculous work.

I didn’t but take it where you can. We developed a curious friendship and she was always available for pup-sitting. Too, the pup loved her. You want to see the measure of a person, see how they behave with a dog. It is as good a litmus test as you could find.

Maeve worked as a conduit between the convent and the public. I really wanted an opportunity to use conduit in a sentence and now I was doing it.

I told the pup,

“Let’s go see your nun.”

Much tail wagging and bouncing off the walls. The death of Ridge, and Emily being the perp, it was more than my mind could bear. A knock at the door. I dunno but for some reason I grabbed my nine millimeter from under the bookcase. I had acquired it from a Russian bouncer.

Swear to God, the pup recoiled from that, as if instinctively he knew guns were bad news.

Lock and load.

Opened the door.

A young man who looked vaguely familiar. He said,

“Mr. Taylor, remember me?”

“No.”

He was disappointed, said,

“I’m a friend of Em, Emily, Emerald.”

The gun was in the waistband of my jeans. I said,

“Don’t mean shit to me fellah.”

He held out a book

... The fucking ubiquitous Red Book

He said,

“Emily feels this will make up for the...”

Stalled.

  Reached

     for

      the

       Least