Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

Em was in ICU and thus not allowed visitors. Standing outside was Bean NI Iomaire, Sergeant Ridge. Once a great friend but now a cross between an enemy and an ally but a very precarious ally. Since the death of our mutual friend Stewart, she had become outright hostile. I tried,

“Comas ata tu?”

(How are you?)

She scoffed.

“Your attempt at Irish is like your friendship.”

Pause.

“Woesome.”

I reached out my hand, said,

“But good to see you, Ridge.”

She slapped my hand away, said,

“Your girlfriend is in a bad way.”

Fuck.

I said,

“She is not my girlfriend .”

Ridge smiled, not with any warmth but with a mean edge, said,

“Of course, you don’t do friends.”

I gave up, asked,

“Any notion of what happened to her?”

“Yes, she did what she does best, pissed someone off. In this case, the wrong person, apparently.”

“Got any person of interest?”

She didn’t even deign to answer, just smirked and strode off in that Garda way of

“ Fuck you, civilian! ”

Did I care?

Only a wee bit.

I managed to grab a doctor, tell him I was an uncle. He did the doctor gig of telling me,

“We will have to wait and see.”

Which was very closely related to Ridge’s response if somewhat more refined.

As I passed Ridge on my way out, I handed the grapes to her. She was caught, dare I say, off Guard , and asked,

“What do I do with these?”

I said,

“Thing is, they’re slightly bitter so just add them to your reservoir.”

I hit the pubs, not drinking but asking about the assault on Em. Took a while and I very nearly said,

“Aw, fuck this.”

But persisted,

And

In the Kings Head, a guy asked,

“Is there a few quid in this?”

There was.

And got,

Em had been giving it large the previous night and an apprentice thug named Corley had made a pass. She had very loudly dissed him and he waited outside... with a baseball bat.

He was apparently a minor dealer in GHB, the new form of deadly ecstasy that was hitting the streets. Some further inquiries to ensure he was not deeply connected. I didn’t want to step on some kingpin’s runner but, no, he was a bottom feeder. He liked to hang out near the Claddagh Basin and throw rocks at the swans. An all-round winner.

I went home, took the dog for a joyous run in Eyre Square. A number of people attempted to rub or chat to him but he was having none of it. He gave that canine look of

“ I already got family .”

Worked for me.

Home to set out his dinner and water, then took down my holdall and shoved my hurley in there. Had still some coke from a previous encounter so did some lines to get cranked.

Be doped to beat a dope.

At the basin the sky was clear blue, a pretense of good weather that fooled nobody; we knew shit was coming and called it winter.

Wasn’t hard to find young Corley. You heard him before you saw him, one of those yahoos who shout at passing old people.

I got a good look at him. Built like a rugby player but a lot of flab in there and, from his movements, you knew he let his appearance do his intimidation; it was bulk without strength. He suffered, too, from that huge disadvantage of never receiving a serious puck in the mouth. That makes you not only vulnerable but downright careless. I put the holdall down and took out the hurley, gave it a trial swing, and got that reassuring whoosh . All good to go. He had noticed me now and his small ferret eyes told him,

“Victim.”

Told him wrong.

He said,

“Bit old for that, aren’t you?”

I gave him my best smile, asked,

“You want to try it?”

Held out the handle of the hurley to him. Something in my manner alerted the serpent in him to be wary but his overriding arrogance couldn’t discern a threat. He reached for it, said,

“Stupid old fuck.”

As he took the handle I pushed with all my might and it rammed into his stomach. He staggered back, managed,

“What the fuck?”

I said in the same even tone,

“Oh, did I startle you?”

Stood back, whistled, then said,

“What is it you kids say? My bad ?”

Then pushed forward, driving him back, and he lost his balance, tumbled into the water. I went to the edge and swung again, catching him on the side of the head. I said,

“Now that is a score that the referee will not contest.”

An elderly man who had been on the receiving end of the idiot’s shouting, gave me a beatific smile, said,

“I’m not sure that young...”

Pause.

“ Man can swim.”

Looked over at the fool in the water who was obviously struggling then added,

“Let me amend that. I sincerely hope he cannot swim.”

Father M called that evening and gave me the address of the rogue priest.

I said,

“Thank you.”

And got,

“Don’t bloody thank me, pay me.”

The blessings of the priesthood are a mystery to behold.

I told the pup about the thug I put in the water and, by the way he wagged his tail, I think he approved.

I watched Everest and was suitably impressed by Jason Clarke as Rob Hall. I ate some Irish stew with a tiny hint of Jay added and gave the pup some in his dish. He preferred a hint of Smithwick’s in his. When the storm hit on the mountain, he hid under the sofa, and if there had been room I might have joined him.

Frank Miller, the rogue priest, was staying in a hotel on Dominic Street, one of those new anonymous buildings that allowed short-term stays. And didn’t require a whole lot of ID. Money did the talking. There was a reception desk with a hostile guy reading a book, Spanish for Dummies . He had the book up high to discourage inquiries.

I was not discouraged, greeted,

“Hola, señor.”

He was not amused. I said,

“Basic greetings are at the very beginning of the book.”

He put the book aside and looked like he might punch me, snarled,

“What do you want, asshole?”

I said,

“Little manners would be good.”

I produced a wad of notes, said,

“Donde esta Frank Miller.”

He hesitated and I laid the notes on the counter, said,

“Mucho dinero.”

He grabbed them, said,

“Room 201.”

Up shabby stairs then knocked on 201. It opened almost immediately. Not sure what I was expecting, probably a whiskey refugee and old.

Neither.

Young guy, in his early thirties, long brown hair, bland face, dressed in gray tracksuit. Then I was falling backward from a punch. He was about to follow through with a kick but I grabbed that and flipped him, then, getting up, I dragged him by his hair into the room, kicked the door shut, said,

“Stay down or I will break your fucking neck.”

The introductions out of the way, I looked round the room.

Bare.

Thomas Merton would have been comfortable with it. I asked,

“Where is the book?”

Up close he didn’t seem as young though maybe being dragged by the hair ages you. He picked himself up, slowly, watching my boots carefully, asked,

“Are you working for the Church?”

I nearly laughed but went,

“I represent the private sector.”

He measured me, definitely found me wanting, but decided further tussle was wasted. Said,

“The book is gone.”

So I did what you do with a stubborn priest. I walloped him.

Twice.

Once to get his attention and the second because it plain felt good. He staggered back, moaned.

“I think you broke my nose.”

I said,

“Oh, it’s broken, all right. I can tell by the tilt but, you know, gives a touch of character to what is, let’s face it, a weak face.”