Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

Too, a gorgeous child, Serena Day, who haunted me every day.

Phew-oh.

A life indeed less ordinary and littered with those I deep mourned and those psychos even deeper despised.

I had lived a small life in a small town with smaller aspirations and yet managed to create havoc and chaos under the guise of assistance.

An echo of the Vatican, really.

I let out a considered breath and watched it dance among the shattered dreams. If there is a meaning to life in the concept of having made some little difference , then I had wrought bedlam and decay.

As Padraig Pearse wrote

And

  I

Went

   Along

     My

       Way

Pause.

Sorrowful.

I was watching the new Marvel series

Jessica Jones .

Netflix had a huge critical and commercial success with Daredevil .

This was the second of a planned four-part series.

Phew-oh. It was amazing, stunning, and moving in equal measure, especially to a guy like me who knew fuck to nothing about comics.

A ring at the door, the pup barked. I switched off the iPad. Took a deep breath, just knowing it was bound to be more shite. A young guy, punk hairstyle, battered combats, an even more worn combat jacket, with a smile and expectant manner.

I snapped,

“What do you want?”

His smile broadened. He asked in a semi-posh accent,

“Might you be Mr. Jack Taylor?”

The pup was low growling, his small head down in the attack mode. The guy said,

“I’m not good with dogs.”

I waited.

Then,

“Oh, right, Emily sent me.”

Then he smiled some more. I asked,

“Was there a message?”

He considered this, then reached in his jacket and both the pup and I went to alert. He pulled a book out of his jacket, said,

“Here.”

It was bound in red leather and for a mad moment I thought,

The Red Book ?

Looked at the title.

Don Quixote .

He said,

“You’re welcome.”

I was baffled, asked,

“Why, does she think I’m Don Quixote?”

He laughed, said,

“She said more like Sancho Panza.”

There was no sign of him leaving, I asked,

“Something else?”

Again with the smile, he said,

“I’m waiting to be invited in.”

Now I smiled, with absolute no warmth, said,

“Never happen son.”

He put out his hand, said,

“I’m Hayden, that is with a capital H.”

The pup had decided he was no threat, just an idiot, and went back into the apartment. I said,

“Time to fuck off, H.”

He lost the smile, edge leaking over the mouth, said,

“Emily said you could be... difficult.”

I said,

“Indeed, and you know what?”

He wasn’t entirely sure this was a question so settled for the ubiquitous,

“Okay?”

The tone rising up like a blend of whine and question. Another vocal our young had adopted from the U.S. I said,

“You need to fuck off with a capital F.”

He said,

“I was hoping to like, you know, hang with you and, like, you know, chill.”

I let out a sigh and decided it was wasted energy. He was definitely the type who had never been punched in the mouth or, at least, not often enough. I said,

“The dog doesn’t like you.”

Now he let the whine full play, whined,

“Like seriously? Is that even a reason?”

I shut the door with

“The only reason that counts.”

The pup wagged his tail. It seemed I still had some moves.

On Eyre Square, a dead cow was found with white paint on its flanks reading

“Not cowed.”

The papers yet again had a wild old time with speculation as to the culprits.

Were they

Water protesters,

Pranksters,

Supporting the nurses,

Animal rights,

Or simply

Pissed off?

Like the whole country.

Superintendent Clancy made a forceful statement with the usual blather,

“ Definite line of inquiry .”

Which meant they had zilch. The culprits were definitely getting our attention but to what?

I opened Don Quixote and was rewarded with the aroma of fine leather and gold binding, a scent of class. I didn’t expect to find a clue in there but what the hell, tilting at windmills seemed like as good an idea as any others.

Next time I went to the hospital I was allowed to see Emily. She was out of Intensive Care and had a private room. Our health service was in such a shambles that most patients had to lie on trollies in corridors before they even caught a glimpse of a doctor. Only Em could have gotten a room. She was sitting up, dressed in a bright kimono-type top, her face heavily bruised and bandages around her head. The eyes, phew, they burned even more fierce than ever. She snarled,

“The fuck kept you, Taylor?”

I said,

“Life, I guess.”

She studied me, then,

“You’re old, Jack.”

Great, just fucking great. I asked,

“How are you?”

Got the withering look, then,

“I’m hurting Jack, in so many ways, but hey, I have the key to recovery.”

“Determination?”

She scoffed.

“Drugs, heavy-duty ones.”

I tried,

“I dealt with the guy who hurt you.”

Was I expecting gratitude?

A little.

She sneered.

“He was just one of the disposable ones.”

Did she mean it literally or was she getting philosophical? I asked,

“What does that mean?”

She said,

“The ghosts of Galway.”

A tiny shudder crossed my spine and lodged. It was like she could read my mind but I asked,

“Who?”

She adjusted her position then reached in the nightstand and took out an e-cig, flicked it, blew large clouds of vapor, said,

“Same dudes who are dropping animals in Eyre Square.”

I thought that was ridiculous, said,

“That is ridiculous.”

She settled down in the bed, some of the bluster gone, then,

“They are a combination of Old Testament, ferocity, fundamentalism, and your plain run-of-the-mill violence.”

I wasn’t buying this, asked,

“Why?”

“They want to return to the Latin Mass, parental authority, the Ireland of the fifties. No fun, just bleakness and darkness.”

I said,

“Like an Irish ISIS.”

She said,

“Pretty much.”

A thought hit and I asked,

“How come you know so much about them?”

She smiled in a knowing way, said,

“I was fucking their head honcho.”

Like most everything she said, it was designed to shock. Finding the truth among her chaos was a challenge. I didn’t feel like traveling that mad road again. I said, sarcasm leaking all over my tone,

“How nice for you.”

She said,

“You don’t believe me.”

I asked in all sincerity,

“Does it matter?”

She looked like she might leap from the bed, spat,

“It is going to be a little difficult to help me if you think I’m making it up.”

I could engage a bit, asked,

“What is it you think I or we can do?”

She eased back in the bed, let out a long sigh, conceded,

“You might not be up to it after all.”

Here’s the crazy thing, my pride took a wee hit, and I asked,

“Why?”

She turned to the wall, said very quietly,

“It’s not just you’re old. You’re weak.”

I wish she was the type you could give a reassuring hug to. Fuck, I wish I was the type who could give one. I said,