Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

I waited.

She let out a deep dramatic sigh, said,

“One of us has to go.”

I asked,

“I’m thinking it’s not you?”

She did a tiny two-step shuffle, said,

“Exactly. And, logically, I’m prettier and younger, well, just about everyone is younger than you now, save for Bruce Springsteen.”

I asked,

“Where might you suggest I go ?”

She seemed to give it some serious thought, then,

“I’m hearing Honduras is lovely this time of year.”

I nearly laughed.

I gave her a long hard stare but she merely smiled back. I asked,

“And if I don’t?”

She did a little jig, spun ’round to face me, said,

“Then, it’s party time.”

I said,

“There is a super cop, some kind of Special Branch guy named

Sheridan, who is gunning for you.”

She echoed,

“ Gunning ?”

Then,

“How very you.”

She stretched and, I think but I’m not sure, yawned, said,

“I’m off and will see you on...”

Searched for a description, got

“The road to happy destiny!”

As she reached the door, I said,

“I have one major advantage.”

She asked,

“Pray tell?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Doc.

I hadn’t seen him since the pup was killed. I knew his climb of Everest was due very soon. We had once been fairly tight but Emily got in the middle and screwed that.

When he did knock on my door, I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. He asked,

“May I come in?”

I nearly said no. He looked like a down-and-out and his eyes had that bleak despair I had sometimes witnessed in the mirror. I said,

“Okay.”

He had an air of being dazed and his clothes were shabby. This was a guy who always turned out neat and polished. He glanced around the room, asked,

“Where’s the pup?”

Fuck.

I said,

“He ran off.”

He had no reply to this bare statement. Asked,

“Could I get a drink?”

I made him work for it, asked,

“Tea, coffee, or a cool bottle of Galway water?”

I could see the pain in his face and thought,

“Yeah, payback’s a bitch.”

He near cried,

“Something with a kick?”

The temptation to snap,

“Like a twelve-gauge?”

Instead I got the Jameson, poured him a fine wallop, handed it to him. His hand shook like a withered prayer. He asked,

“You not having one?”

Twenty years I waited to say this,

“Bit early for me.”

Oh, the jolt of self-righteousness.

Divine.

He tried not to gulp it but failed and stared into the bottom of the now empty glass. I could have told him there was nothing there even if I still looked into that emptiness every empty day. He said,

“Whoever took my laptop got into my online banking and cleaned me out.”

I said, trying not to inject too much granite in my tone,

“If I recall you told the Guards it was me.”

It was like a lash in his face and his head dipped but I was far from finished, I added,

“Least we both know that level of expertise is beyond me.”

He said,

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

Bit late.

I asked,

“So what do you want?”

In as harsh a sound as that echoes.

He stood up, as if that would help, asked,

“I hate to do this but could you lend me some money?”

Before I could answer, he added,

“I’d pay you back, even add interest.”

I said,

“I could maybe go a hundred.”

He stared at me for a long minute then gave a harsh bitter laugh, said,

“A hundred? A fucking hundred? Are you kidding me? What the fuck would that do? Wouldn’t pay for one fucking day.”

I felt a vague string of rage, not spitting but there. I asked,

“What sort of figure had you in mind?”

He was near trembling with,

With,

Indignation?

He said,

“About ten grand.”

I took a deep breath, said,

“Maybe I should be flattered that you believe I have that kind of dough.”

Dough .

Well, I was a bit thrown. I tried,

“Sorry.”

He looked at me like sorry was the last fucking thing he wanted to hear, said,

“You know people.”

What did that even mean?

I asked,

“What does that even mean?”

He snarled.

“Don’t play fucking coy.”

I tried,

“You think some of the hotshots I have dealt with would give me the bloody time of day?”

He gave a slightly sinister grin, said,

“You have information on a lot of them.”

The whole experience was so bizarre that it took me a moment to grasp the implication, then I near shouted,

“Blackmail?”

For the very first time his English accent emerged fully as he said,

“You Paddies like to soft soap things, so let’s say persuade .”

Before I could savage him, he was on his feet, said,

“Don’t go anywhere, I have something.”

He rushed from my place, across the corridor, and spent about five minutes in his apartment, then back, clutching a large ornate box, put it on the table, opened it, and said,

“Voilà.”

Not sure what I expected but dueling pistols?

I asked,

“You’re challenging me to a duel?”

He nearly smiled, said,

“Those date back to the Crimean War and have been in our family for generations. Not only are they oiled and clean but...”

He paused for the final flourish.

“Fully loaded.”

Seeing my look of utter confusion, he said,

“Pull back the hammer and boom.”

That was clear enough but what wasn’t was why he had them on my coffee table. He said,

“Sell them.”

For fuck’s sake.

“To who, whom?”

He hadn’t completely thought it through but tried,

“Collectors.”

“In Galway, seriously?”

He checked his watch, asked,

“Do you have a train timetable?”

I was way out of patience, said,

“Check your phone.”

“That’s gone, like everything.”

Then he turned and was gone.

Sometimes, for no rhyme or reason, we get a beautiful fine day, the sun just splitting the Galway rocks. It made us quite silly. We threw coats and caution to the West of Ireland wind.

Ice cream trucks rushed out of storage and made a rapid killing. Men in shorts, sandals with thick socks paraded their booty with élan. The shocking events of Syria, the Irish Olympic ticket scandal, the 13 billion that Apple owed us in tax all took a breather. Were we bathing in one day of delusion?

You fucking betcha.

I was sitting outside Garavans, a pint before me and my mind in a state of blank verse. I heard something whistle at turbo speed through my hair and then the large window behind me shattered. Way too late to duck, I muttered,

“God almighty.”

My phone buzzed, put it to my ear, heard Em say,

“Shite, missed.”

A beat, then,

“Your turn.”

A man behind me said,

“Freak accident.”

I didn’t say what I knew. A high-velocity bullet.

So she was indeed deadly serious about a duel and then I thought,

“Well, I do have dueling pistols.”

The world was in some dire strait. Trump seemed within an insult of the White House. Aleppo was being bombed mercilessly and a presidential candidate asked,