Кен Бруен: The Ghosts of Galway

I swear, he nearly smiled but the pain in his face told him this was not wise. He said,

“From your accent and your whole black Irish face, you are probably Catholic. Didn’t they teach you it’s a sin to touch a priest?”

I laughed, said,

“Whoa, the clergy and touch? You really want to go there? Plus, the new teaching is that it’s a sin not to touch a priest.”

I gestured for him to stand and he moved to a hard back chair, settled with a sigh, said,

“There is no book. There were remnants of a manuscript but I burned it.”

I said,

“Now, that is not going to fly, padre. Why would you burn it if you went to the trouble of stealing it?”

He gave me the look that says,

“ Lord, give me patience .”

Said,

“I was a high flier in the Vatican and the likes of you...”

Here, he gave me a look of such disdain,

Continued,

“Couldn’t even begin to imagine the power I had.”

I let the sheer arrogance of that hover, then,

“ Had is the operative word. Now you are just a punk hiding out in a third-rate hotel.”

He nearly spat, said,

“You know nothing, you are... nothing .”

I said,

“Know this. There is a very powerful man who wants the book and I am, let’s say, the good cop .”

He wasn’t buying this, said,

“Run back to your employer and tell him to forget the whole thing.”

I stood, said,

“I could wallop you some more and, in truth, I would be glad to do so but I’ll pass along your message and,”

I headed for the door, added,

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

If this was supposed to intimidate him he hid it well.

A few months back, I had been given a deadly medical diagnosis. Then, like so many cases in the country, they found it was mistaken and urged me to be reexamined.

Like,

Fucking right!

The governor calls and you get off death row, you’re going to go back, and ask,

“Please, may I have my death cell back?”

The Health Department was paying out small fortunes in compensation and the minister on TV daily saying,

“We deeply regret.”

Not a person in the whole country who believed the regret bit. You hear of people who get a second chance who proclaim,

“I could smell the roses.”

As the kids go,

“Like, really ?”

In truth, Jameson never smelled so compelling.

A morning in late October, I was in Crowes in Bohermore, and telling Ollie, the owner, about the misdiagnosis. He went the very Irish route of

“Well, you look well on it.”

The double well implies they couldn’t really give a fuck... but appearances’ sake. A guy on the stool next to me, reading the Daily Mirror , said,

“You should sue.”

The new Irish pastime:

Litigation.

He was reading the sports section and added,

“Ferguson has a new book out.”

I nodded. Ferguson’s autobiography was the bestselling book in Ireland followed by One Direction , and I was interested, asked,

“More about Man U?”

He shook his head in disgust, said,

“It’s about how to succeed in life.”

We all shook our heads in unison, thinking Fergie had gone American.

Happens, even to the gifted. He said,

“Says that the two most powerful words in the English language are...”

Waited.

Ollie said,

“Love you.”

I tried,

“Pay me!”

He said,

“Well done.”

I finished my drink, headed out, was near assaulted by a woman collecting for a basketball court for the youth of Salthill.

Jesus wept.

With refugees dying in the ocean every day and the number of homeless reaching shocking proportions, we needed the Salthill yuppies to have a basketball court?

She said,

“Anything would be of great benefit.”

I gave her my most earnest look, which is part compassion and most ways menace, leaned in, said,

“Well done.”

The following morning, a dead sheep was left on Eyre Sq. This time they left a note, or rather a large placard with this:

HFAS

Everybody seemed to get this meaning.

Hanged

   For

     A

      Sheep

The dead horse had evoked horrors, the poor sheep less so. People were now just curious and indeed intrigued. It was generally agreed that it was some antigovernment protest. And just about anything that stuck it to them bastards was approved by most of the country. Our political leader claimed he sat on a bench with a homeless person and...

Get this!

He spoke to the poor bastard for all of twenty minutes.

And to think they gave a Nobel Prize to that deadbeat Gandhi.

The All Blacks defeated the Wallabies in a crushing match and Mourinho was due to be fired from Chelsea. After Liverpool fired the great Brendan Rodgers, it was open season on all, especially sheep.

The culprits certainly had balls. A large van was seen at the end of the square, backed up on the grass and in no apparent rush, then they flung open the back doors and dumped the animal, then, again with no haste, drove back into traffic and disappeared.

Were there witnesses?

Were there fuck!

Hundreds.

And thus a hundred descriptions.

The Guards said, with conviction if little certainty, that a definite line of inquiry was being followed.

Right.

They were looking for a truck in a city with twenty thousand registered vehicles alone.

I could imagine Ridge’s face

— and relieved I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while.

I was wrong about that of course.

I didn’t realize it but I was about to get hold of a dream, albeit a mad one, but still... I do believe that a dream, however insane, will get you out of bed on many a dire cold wet November morning.

My neighbor Doc was slowly renewing his friendship with me. We had fallen out over Em and it was nasty and British. Like life.

I liked him a lot, principally because he had a great affection for the pup. He was English but kept that subdued. He had served with some distinction and darkness with the British army and he sure kept that tight wrapped. This was still the Republican West of Ireland no matter how far we might have traveled since the Peace Initiative.

We shared a love of fine whiskey

Bad whiskey

And box sets.

Too, he read voraciously and, like me, in a sort of controlled fever. Meaning he would follow a theme like say true crime, then read all and everything on that. Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop was on his speed dial. In his varied career, what most impressed me was his attempt with his army buddies on Everest. They had turned back at Hillary Step. Just below the death zone.

This resonated in me in so many ways that it was almost preordained. Currently he had lent me

Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer,

The Death Zone by Matt Dickinson,

No Way Down by Graham Bowley.

And probably my favorite, Matt Hail’s account of the 1996 disaster.