Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

The barman brought him a tall glass of sparkling water.

Unheard of.

To receive table service here... I was fucked if I’d ask him how. He said, holding the glass up to the light,

“Vodka and sparkling water, a surprisingly refreshing if, alas, somewhat gay beverage.”

I said, very slowly,

“You need to think carefully how much it is you want to annoy me.”

He leaned over, gave me a playful punch to my shoulder. I asked myself,

“Is he stone fucking mad?”

He said,

“You’re thinking, am I mad? But let me ask you this. How much would you like to be the guy who saves the boy?”

I stared at him in complete astonishment.

He said,

“Impressive, huh? How much would your intended be grateful if you brought back that snotty little fuck of hers?”

All I had was,

“How?”

He stood up, said,

“It’s a biggie but you mull it over for, like, two minutes.”

He went to the bar, got drinks and an armful of Tayto. Came back, mega-smile in place, dumped the lot on the table, muttered,

“Who’s the daddy?”

Raised his glass, clinked mine, said,

“Here’s the heroes.”

My turn to lean. I did, put my index finger bang in the middle of his forehead, said very quietly,

“Who has the boy?”

He pulled back, a fleeting dance of fear across his face, said,

“A pedophile, and Two for Justice has the location.”

I was outraged, wanted to spit with anger, asked,

“That fucking lunatic, the ex-soldier or who the fuck ever he calls himself, the Quietness?”

He put up his hand, to shush me.

“The Silence . It’s important to get the terms right, especially if you want his um... assistance.”

I tried to dial it down, asked,

“This... guy... knows where the child is, even after four days and is, what, negotiating with me?”

Tevis tut-tutted. I mean he actually made the sound, said,

“You need to tone it down, fella, else I walk and kiss the boy good-bye.”

Later, I’d kill the fuck, asked,

“What does he want?”

He gave a conciliatory smile, said,

“Better. Now to give yourself some breath to chill, hop on up there, get me another one of these refreshing drinks.”

Was he serious?

I asked,

“You want me to ask for that punkish drink?”

He nodded, then,

“Time is a-running, lad.”

The barman responded with a huge smile, said,

“Gay rights, eh?”

I brought the drink back, sat, waited.

Tevis rummaged among the bags of crisps on the table, selected Shamrock with cheese and onion, pulled the bag open, put a fistful in his mouth, then, between noisy chews, managed,

“Call them there crisps chips in America.”

I said,

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save the boy.”

He finished the chips & crisps, said,

“That’s the spirit. Two for J is very loyal to its, um, clients , and their protection is vital to the ongoing, so it is felt that even though you are a mess, an alkie mess...”

He paused,

Winked,

Said,

“Not my words or indeed even sentiments,

But

You do tend to somehow get results and so your word is needed that no investigation into their affairs will happen.”

I said,

“I give my word.”

“Bravo. Here is what will happen. The boy will be delivered to your apartment, you will ring the mommy, be the hero.”

“How do I explain the rescue?”

“Lie. Lie big.”

He got up, smiled. I said,

“Your name, I figured it... from Walter Tevis, who wrote perhaps the best novel on chess, The Queen’s Gambit .”

He wasn’t fazed, said,

“You need to learn forks, pins, and skewers .”

And he was gone.

I was sitting in my apartment, not drinking, waiting on the call about the boy.

I’d popped a Xanax but a dread had settled in my stomach, not helped by the cigarette I’d smoked.

Ring .

Put me through the roof. I answered, heard Tevis.

“The lad will be delivered to your front door in minutes. Do not wait outside the door . You will then bring him to the hospital, call his mommy, and, for the Guards, you will say you got a call from a source to go to Eighteen, Water Alley, off Devon Park. You found the door open and the child unconscious on an air mattress. The occupant had fled. You immediately rushed him to the A and E. Got it?”

Silence.

Then, irritated,

“Got it?”

“I’m only partially deaf. Is the boy okay?”

A nasty chuckle, then,

“Okay? He’s fucked is what he is.”

Click.

Five long minutes, I counted every damn second, then my doorbell rang. Opened to find the boy unconscious on a sleeping bag, dressed in a white tracksuit, bruising on his face. I called a cab, then his mother, who was hysterical. I said,

“I found Joffrey, am rushing him to the hospital.”

Deep intakes of breath, then she asked,

“Is he alive?”

“Yes, a bit banged up but he’ll be fine.”

Yeah, right.

I clicked off, picked up the boy, blood congealed on the bottom of the boy’s pants. I daren’t think on that, got him to the cab, managed to ignore the driver’s barrage of questions.

The hospital was pandemonium. A hysterical grateful Marion, suspicious Guards, worried doctors. Within a short time the press arrived and the Guards had to extract me from a babble of reporters.

Whisked to Mill Street, the Guards’ headquarters. Shoved, pushed into the office of the new superintendent.

A woman.

In her late forties, with blond hair tied in one of those severe buns that screams: I am not a sexual being. Her face had the requisite hard edges that cautioned,

“Do not even think about fucking with me.”

She said,

“I am Mary Wilson.”

A thug / sergeant was right behind me, breathing curry chips on my neck. I said,

“I didn’t even know you left the Supremes.”

Bang.

From the thug.

It hurt.

I said,

“If this moron hits me again, I will come across the desk and he’ll have to beat me senseless to subdue me. Then how will the press like that the boy’s rescuer had the shit kicked out of him?”

An eye signal to the ape, who moved to my side.

She asked,

“How did you find the boy?”

“Through the very grace of God.”

I managed to move fast to my side to avoid the intended heavy blow to my ribs.

Wilson said,

“Your story reeks. If I find you are connected in any way you are in deep shit. Now get out.”

As they pushed me to the door, I managed,

“Was Diana Ross really a diva?”

The press surrounded me, a gallon of questions until I managed to get into a cab, told the driver,

“McSwiggans.”

As I got out, reached for my wallet, the driver said,

“No charge. You’re a hero.”

Fuck.

Michael Ian Allen.

They called him the Silence.

Meaning, he was usually the last thing you ever heard.

He was the only child of an Irish mother, American father, grew up in Watertown, Boston.

Quiet

Studious

Religious.