Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

Tears rolled down my battered face and mingled with the blood in his coat.

I screamed,

“I will wreak a fucking biblical vengeance on all of you.”

On the parchment were block capitals:

WE — here they placed his little heart — IRELAND

Later, I was wrapping his small body in his Galway United favorite comfort shirt when the doorbell shrilled. I grabbed my hurley, flung open the door

To

Doc,

My neighbor,

Who said,

“Great news, we have a place for you on the team to Everest.”

Everest!

Before I could reply, he glanced nervously at the hurley, asked,

“Everything all right, Jack?”

I near spat,

“Hunky fucking dory.”

He stepped back,

Wisely, I think.

Tried,

“Perhaps I could take the wee pup for a run?”

The world tilted, and for a second I blanked out, then,

I said,

“Not really. His heart wouldn’t be in it.”

Shut the door with a gentle push, the violence ebbing away.

Later, not sure it was days or hours, I buried the pup in Claddagh. Near the swans. Perhaps he could hear them glide and, in a perverse way, I wanted to believe they would stand vigil for him.

I stood over the tiny grave, laid his favorite Galway United scarf on it and his now never to be eaten

Treats.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

A fellah passing, asked,

“You burying the wife?”

It was too early to kick the living daylights out of him, so I said,

“’Tis a dog.”

Bitterly he said,

“Same thing.”

Alexander

    Knox

     -Keaton

My former boss, the man who so badly wanted to procure The Red Book and, according to Sheridan, the power behind the Fenians. His house was truly a mansion with a stunning view of Galway Bay. Usually two bodyguards sat outside in a BMW.

I used whatever juice I had to buy a shotgun. I wanted something

Loud

And

Nasty.

Sawed off the barrel and stashed it inside the shoplifter pocket in my all-weather Garda coat. I also took along a vicious long-bladed knife honed in the Aran Islands. I believe knives are a coward’s choice and require a particular psycho set of reference.

Man, I could do fucking psycho.

As I was leaving my apartment I checked to see if there was water in the pup’s bowl.

No bowl.

No pup.

No cry.

Knox-Keaton’s magnificent house was not unlike a Dalí nightmare. Two built bodyguards sat outside in the BMW. I arrived at the witching hour when they were nodding off. Like a good ex-Guard I had the finest burglar’s kit and was in jig time, saw the huge tapestry of The Book of Kells , and took my knife to it.

Sheer vandalism?

You fucking betcha.

I found the master bedroom on the second floor, mainly by following the aroma of pot and incense.

The room was dark and two people were in a deep sleep, not surprising if you factored in the empty champagne bottles and general air of debauchery. I know that gig. I’ve played it, if not in recent years then certainly in false memory. I cocked the shotgun, saw the woman, who appeared to be Thai, a relatively new feature on the Irish rich scene: buy yourself a girl from the poorer countries.

I nudged her with the gun, said,

“Lock yourself in the bathroom.”

No argument.

Smart girl.

He was coming around with many a groan and fart. He started to rise and I said,

“Don’t get up on my account.”

Shoved the barrel right in his enormous gut, said,

“While you fucked, my pup burned.”

No denial.

This, in semi-whine:

“I told them not to, said it was a bad idea.”

I said,

“Very bad fucking idea.”

He said, like a caricature of all the bad guys in bad movies,

“I have money.”

I asked very, very quietly,

“Will you buy me a new pup?”

The eagerness.

“Of course, a whole litter if you want.”

I smashed his nose with the butt of the shotgun.

Asked,

“Give me the names of the top Fenian guys.”

He did.

Frank Cass.

Joe Tyrone.

Said they hung out at the Green Harp pub.

How fucking Fenian could you get?

I said,

“I so desperately want to kill you.”

He was throwing up, so not so sure he heard me. For form’s sake, I cracked his skull with the gun barrel.

Before I left I pissed long and powerfully on his Persian rug as he had pissed all over my small life.

I moved away from the area fast and was just crossing the road at Nile Lodge when a car came out of nowhere and bounced me to the far curb.

As I tumbled in the dirt, I managed to catch a glimpse of the car.

The color!

A combination of concussion,

Shock,

Trauma

Left me in a semi-coma

For weeks.

I missed

Brexit,

Ireland’s superb performance in the Euros, even beating Italy and giving us a new football hero

Robbie Brady,

And the unique sight of Roy Keane with a smile.

Wales nearly made it to the semis.

England crashed out of both Europe in football and membership in one week.

The instigators of Brexit,

The nasty duo of Johnson and Farage, did the unthinkable:

Fucked off.

Yup, resigned.

My unconscious reeled in the maelstrom of madness.

... dark hounds of heaven snarling at my limping feet, to David Bowie ascending to heaven through Ridge being shot in slow motion and the faceless Woody crooning “Send in the Ghosts,” to water charges in red dripping neon leading to me screaming out the names of

Cass

And

Tyrone ,

The Fenian leaders .

Finally roaring out of it all with a gasp and a whimper.

Em was sitting by the bed, humming.

Was it

“Stairway to Heaven”?

Never no fucking mind.

She was dressed all in black.

Mourning?

Not if leather trousers,

Black Harley T-shirt,

And black Doc Martens

Are a new trend for grief.

She said,

“You had us a wee bit worried my bairn.”

Scottish accent?

Then, in down-home Louisiana,

“Chet, you done gone cause us all a whole heap of worrying.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Why am I in a private room?”

Odd question?

Not in Ireland where lying on a trolley for three days is considered fortunate.

She said,

“Last time you were here I had to blow a doctor, remember?”

My head hurt.

I tried,

“This time?”

She displayed a huge ring on her finger, big diamond so authentic it had to be fake, said,

“Me and Dr. Ray Crosby are engaged.”

She managed to inject engaged with a lurid overtone.

I asked,

“You drive an emerald-colored car?”

Giggles.

And fuck again.

She said,

“I figured you’d come after me because of the dyke cop.”

I snapped,

“Sergeant Ridge was her name.”

She shrugged and, I have to admit, despite my very precarious state, I couldn’t help but admire the radiance, however blighted, that emanated from her. Said,

“That cunt, yeah, so I felt, despite my love for you, that I might have to, um retaliate first.”