Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

Harley wanted to cry, just straight out bawl. He said,

“You were mentioning an opportunity?”

Allen smiled, asked,

“An exclusive, a hook to get the U.S. in on the project, an interview with the sicko who snatched the boy.”

Harley saw the lure of that but,

“Will the Guards permit an interview?”

Allen continued the weird smile, said,

“The Guards don’t currently have him.”

Harley worked the angles, didn’t see it, asked,

“Is he out on bail?”

Allen waited a beat, then,

“Peter Boyne is presently staying with me.”

Harley echoed,

“Peter?”

“Indeed, Peter Boyne, and, if I say so, very keen to, how do you say, spill the beans .”

A good summer in Galway is as rare as integrity. That July

The arts festival

The Galway races

And the black swan.

She appeared in the Claddagh Basin, and speculation was she’d come from South Africa. Not so much credence given there. She drew massive crowds and seemed content to accept food from the onlookers. Even walked on the shore to the delight and apprehension of children.

The other swans ignored her, not big on prima donnas. I watched her glide along the water and a tinker woman said,

“ Nil rud maith ag teacht ” (Nothing good is coming).

I thought,

So what else is new?

Asked her,

“Why’s that?”

She looked at me, stated,

“ Ta tusa an mac Taylor” (You’re the Taylor boy).

I nodded, she said,

“A black swan is black luck.”

I stared at her, asked,

“Really?”

More than a hint of disbelief lining my tone.

She took my hand. Spat in the palm, said,

“ Anois ta tu bheannacht ” (Now you are blessed).

I knew that gig, reached for my wallet, but she was gone. I looked ’round for her but she’d glided away as silent as the swan. I looked at my palm but it was dry. I said,

“I need a drink.”

Pierre Renaud, the father of the murdered twins, was found hanging from a tree in his fine garden.

No note.

The belief was he’d been overcome by grief. I was in Garavan’s on my first pint when Tevis arrived. Dressed in a good suit, linen lightweight, with a very sporty straw boater.

I said,

“Very Gatsby.”

He ordered a small vodka, slimline tonic, said,

“Another sad bastard.”

“Fitzgerald?”

He took a tentative sip. Then,

“No, I meant Renaud. You might say he had a bad heir day.”

I’d heard about the death, said,

“Guilt?”

He gave a nasty chuckle, said,

“More a case of qualms.”

Looked at him, got the nasty smile. He said,

“Ol’ Pierre decided he couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he was going to confess.”

“Did he?”

Tevis finished his drink, contemplated another, said,

“Well, Allen felt there was another option.”

I wasn’t sure where this was going but didn’t like the sense of it, asked,

“You mean he hung him?”

He recoiled in mock horror, said,

“What a nasty chain of thought you have.”

Then he changed tack, asked,

“How is that Sophie’s choice gig going for you?”

I had a fair idea of what he meant but feigned ignorance, asked,

“What are you on about?”

“Your wives? Or wife and concubine? Who’d you choose, the one with the kid? Oh, no, they both have those.”

He gave an evil chuckle, said,

“One of those kids is, how do you say, shop-soiled.”

I hit him fast and dirty, so fast he didn’t actually fall down but it rocked his head like a seizure. No one in the pub seemed to have noticed. I leaned in, steadied him, and whispered,

“You have a real shitty mouth.”

It took him a few moments to orient himself, then,

“Cheap shot, Jack. I thought you were better than that.”

I got to smile, said,

“You thought wrong.”

He glanced around the pub, said,

“Gee, not any of those fuckers realize I was just assaulted.”

I said,

“Oh, they realize. They just don’t give a fuck.”

Harley and Raoul were waiting for Michael Allen outside Jurys hotel, at the bottom of Quay Street. Raoul was wary of the whole gig, said,

“What if this guy just offs us both?”

Harley, determined to be upbeat, said,

“Long as you get it on film.”

Raoul went,

“Huh?”

Harley pointed to the swans, said,

“Instead of moaning, you could be over there getting some footage of the black swan.”

Raoul, vaguely interested, asked,

“As a noir metaphor?”

Harley snapped,

“How many times have I explained to you the difference between an indie and a cult director?”

Raoul asked,

“Does either of those guys ever pay the camera crew?”

A white van rolled up, stopped. Allen leaned out, said,

“All aboard the magic bus.”

Harley muttered,

“White van. What a cliché.”

They piled in. Allen burned rubber.

As Harley and Raoul tried to find a seat in the rear of the van, Allen shouted,

“Mind what you touch, that’s a crime scene.”

As they sped up Grattan Road, the van braked suddenly, a group of hippie / monk-clothed people snaked across the road. Harley asked,

“Who the fuck are they?”

Allen sneered,

“The apostles of apocalypse.”

Harley nudged Raoul to begin filming. Allen added,

“Euro trash, their trust funds crashed, so now they chant doom and end of days.”

As Allen revved up, he said,

“Soon as I get some free time, I’m going to give them a taste of Armageddon.”

Harley noticed there was no humor in that statement. The van continued out beyond Spiddal, turned into a small lane, pulled up outside a bungalow.

Allen jumped out, displaying the controlled force of his fitness. Harley followed him into the house. In the front room, bare save for two hard back chairs, a fat man in only his underpants was tied to one chair, sweating heavily. A fading bruise under one eye was the only sign of violence.

He stared at Harley.

Allen said,

“Meet Peter Boyne, child molester and failed kidnapper.”

Boyne said nothing.

Allen indicated the other chair, said,

“You sit there, ask anything you want, and your camera guy can set up as he likes.”

They did so. Raoul whispered to Harlow,

“This is like seriously fucked up.”

Allen said,

“I’ll be outside milking the cows.”

To the baffled looks of all three, he added,

“Come on guys, cows? Really?”

But he did leave.

Harley got himself in interview mood, channeling what he thought of as his Cronkite tone. Boyne stared at him with dull curiosity.

Harley asked,

“State your name, please.”

“Peter Boyne.”

“Occupation?”

Raoul whispered,

“Kiddie hawk.”

Boyne said,

“Lollipop man.”

Harley nearly guffawed. It was like the title of a Stephen King short story. He went,

“What?”

“I help the children cross the road safely.”

He said this without a trace of irony. Harley was delighted, and he pushed.

“And do you abduct them after they are safely across?”

Boyne looked offended, near shouted,

“I don’t abduct children.”

There was a silence as all digested this. Allen appeared behind Boyne, said to Harley,

“Don’t adjust your set. This is a temporary glitch.”

He walloped Boyne twice across the head, said,

“Play nice or you don’t walk out of here.”