Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

I’d swear a slight blush rose to her face but probably the wind. In Galway, we blame the wind for most things we’d prefer to not name. She said,

“It is difficult to put into words.”

I said with more than a little edge,

“Think of me as a priest.”

She gave a sudden abrupt laugh, startling us both, and said,

“Good God! That is the very last thing I could think of you.”

Given the toxic air that priests inhabited these days, that might even have been a compliment. She asked,

“Might we meet next Monday?”

I said,

“Sure.”

Set the time for six in the evening at the Meyrick Hotel.

That time, it sneers loudly,

“This is not a date.”

Eight o’clock is a date and anytime in the day is just banal. But,

Six?

Six sucks.

Not

A

(Galwayed)

   Hope

     Of

       A

       Chance.

I needed to find the remaining Fenian.

After the other Fenian had been killed he’d gone to ground. But before I could even begin the search, he found me.

I’d been to the pub and, in truth, had way more than I intended. Least I think I had the intention but, as they say, it got away from me. I had bought a drink for a very attractive woman in Garavans, amazed when she smiled at me and, fueled by drink, I had sat next to her. She was in either late forties or a very battered thirties.

I was expounding on the lack of recognition for the writer Patrick Hamilton and she said,

“I don’t read.”

Now, I don’t, God forgive me, remember her name but, alas, I do remember my reply:

“You don’t read? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And she was gone.

I staggered home, wondering if I would fry up a big batch of sausages, then thought,

“And put two down for the pup.”

To instantly realize there was no pup, no more. I had that drunken moment of utter self-pity, leaning against a wall. Managed to get it together to find my way home, opened the door, and felt a gun barrel into the back of my skull.

A voice.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

My whole life I had done just that. I managed,

“Shoot me now.”

Heard an intake of breath and,

“What?”

“Save me a biblical hangover.”

Heard a slight chuckle.

I asked,

“Let me sit down.”

And moved to the armchair.

My hangover had vanished. Guns might be the new hangover cure. The man facing me was mid-height, dark curly hair, a boxer’s bruised face, and eyes so brown they verged on black.

I asked,

“You here about my TV license? I heard they were getting more proactive.”

The gun was lowered to rest against his right leg. He tapped it gently against that, said,

“You’re a cool one.”

I stared at him. He had an ease in his bearing acquired from long experience of conflict.

He said,

“I’m Joe Tyrone.”

Took me a moment, then I spat,

“The other Fenian fuck.”

He said,

“Just Joe would be fine.”

He had a trace of an English accent and I sneered,

“You’re not even Irish.”

The gun came up and he took a deep breath, said,

“You need to mind your mouth. And many of the greatest Irish patriots...”

Paused, then,

He intoned,

“Roger Casement

Wolfe Tone

Were

Of English birth but their very souls were Fenian.”

I said,

“I don’t think they were into gutting dogs.”

He sighed, said,

“I have a deal to offer.”

I gave him the look that said,

“Dream on sucker.”

He pushed on.

“We declare a truce and I give you Clancy.”

Clancy!

I said,

“Clancy?”

He allowed a small smile, said,

“He is in line to be the new police commissioner, the big prize for a cop, but he needs to be...”

Paused.

“Squeaky clean.”

“Is he?”

Tyrone said,

“Clancy likes to portray family values, and his strong moral code will be much praised.”

He took a large envelope out of his jacket, mused,

“What if it were shown such is not the case?”

I said,

“He’d be fucked.”

“Indeed.”

I stared at him, let a silence build. He was one of those who could ride a silence, so I said,

“I’m thinking you want to trade.”

He made a hammer of his hand, said,

“Bingo.”

My shredded hangover fought with my desire to beat the living daylights out of him but I drew a deep breath, waited. He said,

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I give you these...”

Indicating the envelope.

“And we call it quits.”

I said,

“You must believe I had very little regard for my pup.”

He was about to respond then rearranged that, said,

“Wasn’t me did the deed. In fact I vetoed the idea.”

I gave him the look that says,

“Like, seriously?”

Even in my head, it echoed of the U.S. He asked,

“Have we a deal?”

I considered my choices and went for the brazen lie, said,

“Sure, we have a deal.”

The gun was slowly eased into his jacket. He moved toward the door, said,

“I won’t be seeing you, then.”

I nodded.

I waited a beat until he was well gone. I circled the envelope with my fingers, wondering what revelations awaited.

There were four black-and-white prints, A4 size so there was no mistaking the players.

I felt I’d been gut punched, let out a wail of

“Oh, God, no.”

Never made it to the bathroom before I threw up.

Violently.

I sank down on the carpet, muttering,

“Sweet Jesus.”

A pity plea or a prayer?

Does it even matter?

To come cap in hand!

In Ireland, that translates as

Begging,

With a suitable amount of groveling and humiliation.

As a nation, we know it all too well.

I said the words aloud as I prepared to meet Anne Henderson.

At the mediocre time of six o’clock.

The time that says,

“You don’t really count.”

In many ways, it was always six o’clock in my life.

’Tis sad but true.

I wore a crisp white shirt with a tie I nicked off a Rotary bollix. My newish 501s, and the scuffed Doc Martens. You never knew when you might need to kick someone in the face.

My Garda jacket, and if I had any cologne I’d have splashed that liberally but, lacking it, I would just have to rely on my old-school charm.

Emphasis on old .

I headed to the Meryck Hotel to meet the former love of my life and is there a sadder sentence than that? There was no rain but the air was heavy, oppressive. The doorman at the hotel, greeted,

“Well, well, the bold Jack Taylor!”

I said,

“At least you didn’t say you heard I was dead.”

Which was more than a frequent greeting. He looked slightly abashed, said,

“I did hear that but I didn’t like to say for fear it isn’t true.”

If that statement makes sense to you, you officially have an Irish mentality.

I took a seat at the rear of the hotel and waited. She arrived suitably late, dressed, if not to impress, then at least to warrant notice. Light navy raincoat over white sweater and blue jeans, flat-soled shoes.

I didn’t merit heels.

She went to bestow one of those air kisses on me and I snapped,

“Seriously?”

She sat with a very small sigh. Like,

“If I had a euro for every cranky man.”

She said,

“You look well, Jack.”

I didn’t return the compliment, asked,