Кен Бруен - The Ghosts of Galway

Over and over I had been replaying a conversation with my

Once friend ,

Former ally ,

Now bitter enemy

Sergeant Ridge .

Not for the first time, I was in a very dark place. A failed attempt at suicide, a deadly diagnosis on my health, and the continuing forward March of Trump .

I figured I would mend some fences, try to get my friendship with Ridge back on track .

And I mean if your health is fucked, surely your friends/enemies might cut you some slack .

Right?

Nope .

I phoned Ridge. The doctor had gotten in touch with me again and implied that maybe... just perhaps ...

His diagnosis was off the mark a tad .

Now did I go and tear his fucking head off?

Or

Buy him a crate of Jameson?

No. I rolled the dice and stayed hopeful .

Ridge was curt on the phone, a real cold cunt .

Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch, I asked to meet her .

Met her in Garavans and, completely out of character, she ordered a large vodka, slimline tonic. I went with the Jay. She was dressed in a soft green sweater; you might even stretch and suggest: emerald?

White jeans that dazzled in their brightness but there the shine ended .

She looked fatigued .

Well, fucked actually .

I said ,

“You look terrific.”

Got the stare .

She said ,

“This Emily, nothing about her is kosher.”

(Emily/Emerald/Em, a psycho punk storm of murderous intent who had taken a weird shine to me and was a continuous thorn in Ridge’s sense of justice.)

I laughed, mimicked ,

“Kosher? Seriously? From a West of Ireland woman?”

She slammed her glass on the table, her very empty glass, said ,

“One way or another, I will get her, and if you are any part of that it will be a joy to do you too.”

I considered telling her my fifty/fifty chance of being out of the game. Would I get a break, some sympathy, maybe even a shot at repairing our tattered friendship?

I said ,

“I have not been feeling well.”

She was on her feet, spittle leaking from her mouth. She fumed ,

“Well? Are you kidding me? You haven’t been well for twenty years and what on earth are you telling me for?”

I tried ,

“Because of our, um, you know, history?”

She gave a short bitter laugh, moved to the door, then, as parting ,

“You could die tomorrow, I could give a fucking toss.”

I sat completely still, then muttered ,

“All in all, I think it went okay.”

Later, a tinker woman I gave a few euros to asked me ,

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

I said ,

“Only the ones provided by Jameson.”

She chided me .

“Don’t mock. Ghosts are swirling all ’round you and soon will flood your life.”

A failed suicide is a sad, sad fucker.

The final chapter of Alvarez’s The Savage God , perhaps the best account of suicide, details the author’s own attempt at the desperate act.

For me, the years of fuckups, pain, mutilation, grievous loss would, you think,

... Lead to wisdom?

Like fuck.

Led me

To

A

Job as a security guard.

Suicide by boredom.

If I was to continue aboveground, I needed money. My last outing, adventure, case left me not only spiritually bereft but broke.

The ad for security guards sought those with a military background or police force experience. Some fancy dancing with my CV and I actually looked if not respectable at least not outright criminal.

The guy who interviewed me said,

“If you can walk and don’t have an outstanding warrant you’re in.”

My first assignment was protecting a warehouse on the docks. I had a torch and phone which, I guess, if thieves attacked, I could resort to foul language. Mostly the job was dull but that suited me just fine as I had more than enough action in past years to satisfy the most jaded adrenalized junkie. Plus, I could read and be paid for doing so. The ideal job. A guy I knew back from the States who had worked security in New York and who was armed told me,

“Jesus Jack, first I thought, gifted . I need never fear assholes no more, but then I’d get home and play the sad whining music, you know, the why did she leave me dirge stuff? They give you a free razor blade when you purchase it . Then I’d get depressed and want to kill myself and had the gun in my lap!

“But what if I missed? And was lying wounded for days?”

The first month, I was on nights and liking it, no need to talk to anyone, I was all out of conversation. Clocking out the Friday, end of my shift, a supervisor was waiting and said,

“Taylor.”

I nodded and he said,

“The head honcho wants you to meet him.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, said,

“No idea. He only this week went through the employee files and seeing your name asked for you.”

“Who is he?”

He took a deep breath, then,

“Alexander Knox-Keaton, from some, somewhere in Ukraine.”

Ukraine!

With all the waves of migrants literally throwing themselves into the ocean to flee Syria and other deadly regimes, Ukraine seemed to have momentarily dropped from the headlines, but it was nice to know one of their people was living it large.

I said,

“Not exactly your expected Ukraine name. I’d have expected something more

... Slavic?”

He sneered.

“Fucking get you, Mr. Knowledge. Shame you are wasted on this piss poor excuse of a job.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. Oddly, since my failed suicide, I felt less inclined to kick the living shit out of assholes.

He said,

“Here is his address and you are to report to his mansion tomorrow at noon.”

I echoed,

“Mansion?”

He gave me the look, the one that cries,

“Dumb shit”

Said,

“You will see and be sure to wear a suit.”

“I only have my funeral one.”

He sneered.

“Might well be just that.”

Early on the morning of October 1 a reveler, staggering home, went,

“What the fuck?”

He was standing or rather swaying at the top of Eyre Square. If he had been of a literary bent,

He might have intoned,

“Doth mine eyes deceive me?”

But being hungover and a moron, he uttered,

“WTF.”

In the middle of the square was the body of a horse. A bright chestnut already showing extreme rigor mortis. The drunk added,