Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

A Catholicism verging on fundamentalism instilled in him a fierce passion. He seemed destined for the priesthood but that other organization the Marines claimed him first.

He was a fine soldier, if not outstanding.

Until

Two patrols in Fallujah.

Both patrols were wiped out. He was the sole survivor — if just still breathing counted as life.

His initials had been almost a foreboding.

Some essential part of him had been MIA.

Chess and a warped sense of assisting those who were unable to help themselves lodged in what had been his soul. On leave, he had

  2

   4

    J

Tattooed on his arm.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his mission was until by chance he read an article about a man who tormented his family, received a slap on the wrist from the court.

“ Pawns .”

He thought.

Victims who had no recourse to justice.

He’d be their advocate. His sense of definition varied from going after a man who beat his son in a supermarket to a bully who taunted a fat girl on the street. A crash of sounds roared in his head, the explosion of the Humvee.

With that first doomed patrol to the shrieks of the second as a mortar fired on them. Such times he physically shook his head to plead for ease.

A brief visit to the West of Ireland, land of his mother’s people, led to a chance encounter with Pierre Renaud, who had come across Allen curled in a terrorized ball on the shores of Lough Corrib. Renaud had sat with him and gently soothed him down to a quiet green platform and whispered to him,

“ Le silence est magnifique .”

A rare confluence of events:

Kindness

The soft words in a soft French

Compassion

Created

A jellying of benevolent quiet in the mind of Michael Allen.

Renaud had gone further... provided a small cottage in the wild of Connemara.

Many weekends the duo spent fishing, hunting, and just finding a solace in each other’s company. One late Sunday evening, the men, tired from a day of hiking along the mountain trails, sat outdoors, sipping pure poteen, a turf fire fresh from the very bog they had traversed, when Allen said,

“You seem troubled, my friend.”

Renaud, prodding the fire into a blaze, said,

“My sons plan to kill me.”

He explained years of rebellion, bad behavior, insufferable attitudes, resulting in the twins’ becoming obsessed with the Menendez brothers. Renaud thought they were just adding another layer of abuse to irk their father.

They had the books, documentaries on the trial and eventual jailing of the two young killers. Mocking their father with comments like

“The difference is we won’t get caught.”

Their mother, a drunk, refused to see or heed anything that was less than one hundred percent proof. He had managed to find a way to live that had him work every hour he could until...

Until.

He was searching the garage for old tax returns when he came across two brand-new shotguns.

Allen had listened with no interruptions.

When Renaud finally wound down, he was weeping softly. Allen asked,

“What do you want to do?”

A sudden wave of anger crossed Renaud’s face. He spat,

“I want them to go away.”

So it was.

Harley, the documentary maker, was frustrated.

He was sitting in the Quays, on his second vodka, staring at Raoul, his camera guy. Raoul was, in fact, the whole crew.

The filming had been going well. He’d hired Jimmy Norman Media to get some very fine aerial shots of Galway at night. Norman Media used drones to huge effect.

Harley had been impressed but hid it from Jimmy lest he wanted payment then. Harley had perfected the fine art of never

Ever

Paying anybody.

He’d told Jimmy,

“Soon as the American money hits, you’re first to be paid.”

Jimmy had smiled, used to Galway shenanigans, said,

“No problem. I’ll hold on to the footage until then.”

Fuck,

Thought Harley.

There was American interest. A film about a broken-down PI in the West of Ireland, what was not to love? Harley had engaged the Galway singer-songwriter to compose a score for the doc. Marc Roberts had been easygoing and didn’t demand cash up front.

Don Stiffe, another in-demand singer, had expressed interest but Don hailed from Bohermore, so he wasn’t writing anything until he had a contract.

Locals had been great, happy to talk about Taylor, and Harley had got a ton of stuff on exploits, mostly false.

The Guards?

Not so much.

Had told Harley in no uncertain terms,

“Fuck off.”

He wished Raoul had caught that on camera.

But best of all, the freaking money hook, Taylor, was now a bona fide hero.

You believe that luck?

Saved a snatched young boy.

Gold.

Pure guaranteed white gold.

Save

Taylor was unavailable.

As

Harley yet again laid out his frustration to Raoul, he noticed Raoul was not listening but watching as a man headed determinedly toward them. He was dressed in black jeans, black sweatshirt, and moved with a sure ease. His blond hair was cut in the buzz style, giving his face a granite look. He reached their table, said to Raoul,

“Get lost.”

Raoul, accustomed to angry creditors, went without a word. The man took his stool, faced Harley, stared directly at him. Harley, uncomfortable, tried some East Brooklyn hard, said,

“Help you, fella?”

The man smiled, said,

“I’m Michael Allen.”

Harlow shrugged, the vodka giving him some artificial spunk, said,

“So what?”

His phone beeped and he reached for it.

Allen’s hand snapped out, gripped Harley’s wrist. Allen said,

“Not now.”

Harley, shaken, tried,

“You know who you’re fucking with, buddy?”

Allen leaned real close, near whispered,

“You are what we used to call back home

A huckster

Flimflam man

Grifter.

But that’s okay. Your Micky Mouse operation could use a major jolt.”

Harley sensed opportunity, so went,

“Tell me more.”

The bar guy, who was already lured by Harley’s claim to celebrity, had watched the proceedings and now moved quickly. Strode over, put a hand on Allen’s shoulder, addressed Harley,

“Everything under control here, Mr. Harlow?”

Letting a nice shade of hard dribble over his tone.

Without a movement, Allen said,

“You have twenty seconds to remove your hand and ten to scuttle back to the bar and get me a sparkling water.”

You work in bars, especially on a hopping street like Quay, you know when to exercise caution. This was such a moment. He withdrew his hand and moved back to the bar. He poured a long glass of water from the tap, added Fairy washing-up liquid to get the bubbles and hopefully poison the bollix.

Walked back, plonked the glass down in front of Allen, winked at Harley.

Allen said,

“Taste it.”

The bar guy was thrown, muttered,

“I don’t do sparkling water.”

Allen said,

“Neither do I, but you will drink that.”

There it was.

Plain as day.

Implied violence. The bar guy stepped back. Allen turned, looked at him, said,

“Hey, just pulling your chain.”

The sound of a cold humor was even more sinister than the outright threat.

As the chastened bar guy retreated, Allen threw,

“Soon as I find out where you live, I’ll drop by, we’ll have us a sparkling old time.”

Then turned to Harley, asked,

“Where was I?”