Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

A line from his early novel The Punch spooling in my head:

“Different bullets, same gun.”

The Hound of Heaven was no longer simply snapping at my heels but in full sit on my chest, heavy as death. I read a long account of the failed attempt by Andrew O’Hagan to write the bio of Assange, then followed that with a book of the twelve marines who guarded Saddam in his last months before he was hanged.

Nearly laughed in an insane fashion that Saddam had a special liking for Mary J. Blige.

You mutter,

“Like dude, seriously?”

Reread the classic horror by Anne Siddons, The House Next Door.

Then I turned my phone on and hell reared up on its ferocious legs and howled.

I heard hysteria, writ large, the weeping and keening of tears. I was as aforementioned, not in the best set of patience, snarled,

“Cut the drama, I can’t hear you.”

Marion.

A moment as she composed herself, then,

“It’s Joffrey, they’ve taken him.”

WTF?

I took a second to focus, then did the ice gig, asked,

“Who? Who took him?”

“We don’t know. He’s been missing for three days.”

I managed to stay on the cool vibe, asked,

“Where are you?”

“I’m staying with Maeve. I flew home as soon as I heard. Oh, God, Jack, what will I do?”

Like I had a clue but the even tone was working, so I said,

“Come over here. I will get right on it.”

“Oh, thank you, Jack, and I’m sorry the way I spoke to you last time.”

Me, too.

But

“Just get here. I’ll be making calls.”

What, I’d call the Guards?

Gave me time to shower, clean up the debris of my bender, did some lines of coke to fly right, wore a crisp new white shirt, the camouflage of the seasoned drinker. It near blinded me in its brightness and those fucking pins they put in them left my fingers shredded. The shakes, sure, but the coke was kicking its ass.

As I did the mop-up, I saw the cover of the DVD.

Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter .

Yeah.

Shows how nuts I’d been for those lost days. It was brilliantly bonkers and had Dominic Cooper whom recently I’d watched as Preacher,

With Joe Gilgun

Giving a master class in demonic craziness, playing, wait for it,

Irish vampire who was also a dope fiend and boozer.

You don’t need to be way out there to appreciate these dark insane series but it doesn’t hurt.

Maybe I’d watch

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

Finally, a way to watch Jane Austen without being bored shitless.

Then, oh Lord,

A sheet of paper with this in barely legible writing:

    Kiki Taylor

      Room 37

        Meyrick Hotel

         Ph. 577821

Two feelings colliding:

Horror at what I might have said if I did call her.

Kind of fucked-up delight that she still used my name.

How utterly lame was that?

I checked myself in the mirror, the white shirt did help but the eyes...

Seriously fucked. I couldn’t answer the door in shades.

Could I?

She’d think Bono’s dad was staying with me.

I rang Owen, my Guards contact. He was not pleased, growled,

“The fuck, Jack? You can’t ring me every time you have a problem.”

I had to rein in my urge to blast him out of it.

I said,

“You don’t even know why I’m calling. It might be to ask how you doing? ”

He sniggered, went,

“Yeah, like that would ever happen. I’m like the cop Dennis in The Rockford Files , used only for info.”

I was surprised he was familiar with James Garner but then guys of a certain age...

I asked,

“How are you, Owen, how are the family? The children must be big now.”

Deep sigh, then,

“My wife left me and we never had a family.”

Ah.

Before I could work any more insincerity, he said,

“It’s about that kid, right?”

“How’d you know I’d be asking?”

Bitter laugh.

“You’re riding his mother.”

I was nearly shocked at the casual crudity, but I asked,

“Any developments?”

He went quiet, said, after hesitation,

“It’s four days now.”

I tried,

“But you are looking?”

“The boy is dead, Jack.”

Pause.

“Or worse.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Any leads?”

He sighed, said,

“All the usual suspects and some new names the public provided. There are even more crazies out there than you’d imagine.”

I heard him draw a deep breath. He asked,

“What’s up with you, boyo? You’re four days late to the party. What’s that about? Didn’t you give a fuck until now?”

Bollocks.

I tried,

“Um, I was attempting my own inquiries.”

Hoped to God that would fly.

It didn’t.

He laughed without a trace of humor, near spat,

“Jesus wept. You were on the piss. I fucking don’t believe it. Seriously? That’s a new low even for you, Taylor.”

Hung up.

I muttered,

“All in all, I think it went okay.”

The doorbell chimed.

Marion.

Looking like the wreck of many Hesperuses.

She didn’t quite fall into my arms but did wobble in near faint.

I led her into the flat, got her a solid drink.

She took the drink, tears rolled down her cheeks, made a very soft plink against the rim of the glass. What could I say?

The utterly lame,

“It’s going to be all right.”

Yeah, that would fly.

I said,

“It’s going to be all right.”

She gulped the drink, a moment, and then color returned to her cheeks.

When mega-comfort was necessary, the very devil poisoned my soul. I asked,

“How is Sean?”

She was stunned, if more stunning were even possible. She near whimpered,

“Who?”

“Your husband, you know, the guy you forgot to mention.”

Fuck.

It looks bad.

It was. She got to her feet, swayed.

The doorbell rang.

She said very quietly,

“Maybe it’s news of Joffrey.”

It wasn’t.

Kiki.

The women stared at each other, not in friendly fashion.

Marion asked,

“Who’s she?”

She said,

“I’m his wife.”

I found myself in Freeney’s, a quiet pub on Quay Street. The tourists stroll right on by, probably misled by the fishing tackle in the window. You get your pro barmen here.

Not quite surly but definitely not big greeters. You get a nod, that’s it, but the service is excellent and the pint is pure quality. The sort of pint that is so fine it seems a sin to disturb the perfect creamy head.

It stocks Midleton whiskey, a brand but a prayer away from Jameson. The selling point, the clincher for me, is nobody can find you there.

Almost.

I was midway through the black, with just a hint of the whiskey, when Tevis sat in the chair opposite me.

He asked,

“Are you a death metal headbanger?”

I looked at him with suppressed fury, snarled,

“Do I look like I am?”

He smiled, shook his head, then,

“You’re a piece of work, Monsieur Taylor. Two women, count ’em, one a wife and the other... fiancée? Or significant other? What puzzles me is the nature of your game — apologies to the Rolling Stones — how you manage to piss them all off. Is it love ’em and dump ’em?”

I said,

“How you know so freaking much about my life is not only creepy but becoming seriously threatening.”