Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

“We might work something out.”

I didn’t catch her quiet reply and moved closer. She said,

“Fuck off.”

I was standing outside the hospital, debating a pint in the River Inn. A car pulled up, a blue Toyota, the window rolled down to reveal Ridge. She was dressed in casual clothes, her hair tied back in a severe bun, accentuating her no nonsense air. She said,

“Get in.”

I was in no mood for any more shite so asked,

“You asking or ordering?”

She sighed, sounding not unlike my dead mother, a walking bitch. She gritted her teeth, said,

“A request.”

I got in, made a show of settling my own self. She pulled off with a screech of tires. We drove in silence until she asked,

“How is the she-wolf?”

“You mean Emily?”

Gritted teeth, then,

“Yes.”

“She is recovering and good of you to care.”

She near rear-ended a lorry, then,

“I don’t care.”

Well, that killed that topic. I played fake pleasant, asked,

“Day off?”

“Crime doesn’t have days off.”

I laughed, genuinely amused. Asked,

“They teach you that in detective school?”

She pulled up in Woodquay and parked, very badly, mostly from bad temper. I suggested,

“I could show you a real simple method of effortless parking.”

Nope.

She went,

“The day I need you to teach me anything I will shoot myself.”

She got out, indicated the Goal Post, asked,

“Have you been there?”

One of the very few pubs I’d missed, I said I had not. Followed her in and she grabbed a table at the rear, barman came over, asked,

“Get you folks?”

She said,

“Two coffees.”

The guy smiled, then,

“And you, Jack?”

“Pint and chaser.”

She glared at us both, then to the guy,

“That will be just one coffee.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile, said,

“Oh, I think I realized that, officer .”

She rounded on me.

“You said you hadn’t been here and how does he know to call me officer?”

I said with world-weariness,

“Ah, Ridge, so many questions and so precious little time.”

She intensified her glare.

I said,

“I have not been here but I do know my bar guys and bar guys know their cops.”

The drinks came, and if the coffee was meant to revive it didn’t. I asked,

“What’s on your mind, Ridge?”

She considered her options, then,

“There are rumors of a gang of antiestablishment who intend to cause chaos in the city. They have some daft name like spooks .”

“Ghosts,”

I said.

Surprised her. She had not been expecting a result so fast, asked,

“You know them?”

Tiny hint of admiration. I said,

“Heard of them, an urban rumor, supposedly they are the ones dumping animals on the square.”

She had to ease out the next question, hating it.

“Would you let me know of anything else you hear?”

“Why? Why would I help you, Ridge?”

She had no idea but tried,

“Once a Guard?”

Here was an opportunity for some serious payback, for all the years of cold abuse I could simply tell her to go fuck herself. I wanted to, for the instant bullet adrenalized rush of that.

I said,

“On one condition.”

She looked dubious, asked,

“What?”

I gave her my very warmest smile, almost meant it, said,

“You have to be nice to me.”

She looked like she might throw up, said,

“Not really sure I could do that.”

I let that simmer, then,

“I’m kidding, you could no more be nice than me joining the priesthood.”

She managed,

“Thank you, I think.”

I asked,

“Do we hug now?”

Jeremy Cooper was what used to be termed a spoilt priest . It didn’t mean petulant, though there were certainly enough of those about. It was that he had left the priesthood early because of circumstances.

These ranged from

Women

Greed

Arrogance

Or all of the above.

Jeremy left simply because he couldn’t take direction or orders as he read them. Born to lead was how he saw it and the Church did not. A high flier in the Vatican was the very least he had expected. Got a dud parish in darkest Sussex. Uh-oh.

No way.

Reared in London to Irish parents, he was immersed and enamored in all things Celtic. Not the new Ireland but a mythical subdued island where the clergy ruled. He was tall, athletic, played hurling with a viciousness that let his built-up frustrations bleed. He had even features that somehow failed to jell and gave the impression of not being quite finished. Brown eyes that misled to an impression of kindness. He had never been troubled by that weakness. He discovered he had a talent for crooked bookkeeping and used that to set up a financial consultancy first in Dublin and then in Galway.

Galway sang to him. It still had a whiff of republicanism and the Celtic Twilight still glimmered.

There was an atmosphere of unrest that cried out for a strong hand. That would be him. He believed in Ron Hubbard’s dictum that

“If you want to make a million, make a church.”

He wanted to make a massive change so he would make a city. Followers. Essential to get foot soldiers and where better than the ranks of the disenchanted, the chronically unemployed?

A hatchet man.

Vital.

Terry Wood, known as Woody . A former insurgent, as they were now so PC-termed. He had been at a loss since the peace initiative. If he ever had a CV it would list

Thug

Psycho

Maniac

And all-round brute. It wasn’t so much that he embraced violence — he loved it, was never more alive than beating the hell out of somebody. He looked like a small gorilla and knew it. He met JC at a prayer rally. The best venue to find the crazy and the seekers. He was in the midst of kicking a young guy who had bumped into him when he felt his drawn fist held. Turned to see JC who said,

“Would you like to be rich and famous?”

His initial response of

“Fuck you, asshole”

Didn’t emerge, instead,

“Tell me more.”

So it began, the ghosts began to take substance.

JC asked Woody,

“Can you get a dead horse?”

Woody, not noted for his humor, nearly said,

“I have flogged some.”

But knew enough about his leader to keep it serious. He did try,

“Easy to get a live one and just...”

Pause.

“You know, shoot the fucker.”

Got the look from JC, who commanded,

“What do we believe about obscenities?”

Woody thought,

We fucking avoid them.

Said,

“It debases those who resort to them.”

JC appreciated the value of a man like Woody. A guy who seemed to thrive on what the Americans nicely term black ops . The down-and-dirty suite that was so necessary to get a movement off the ground. Woody was the personification of the shit sandwich principle. Pat their head while you kicked their arse. Convince a guy like Woody that only you fully appreciated his unique talents and bolster that fragmented ego, you had a pit bull of undying loyalty. Feed him a crazy notion and then the trick was to let him believe he had thought of it. Plus, there was the added rush of utter mind fucking.

Money.

Hit the rich guys, butter them up with titles they would hold in the new organization, then find their weakness and exploit the hell out of it. It was a hit-and-miss affair at best. The death of the Celtic Tiger made the new money guys cautious but, persuade them that they would be part of the new ruling junta, they bought in.