Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

Boyne tried to turn to look at him, whined,

“You’ll never let me go.”

Allen moved to the front of Boyne, hunkered down, leaned on Boyne’s knees, said,

“Trust, Pete buddy, we got to have trust, else I take out your left eye. How would that be?”

Boyne nodded. Allen stood, did those neck stretches so beloved of deskbound yuppies, said,

“We’re good to go.”

Harley, shaken, began again.

“Um, when did you discover your, um, taste for, um, younger people?”

Allen moved, slapped Harley on the head, shouted,

“Seriously? This is your hard-core style? Ask him why he fucks kids!”

Harley pulled himself together, asked,

“How many children have you molested?”

Boyne just stared at him.

Raoul said,

“God sakes, this is not good.”

Allen said,

“We need some snap, some pizazz.”

He reached to his back, pulled out a Glock, racked the slide, moved to Boyne, asked,

“Snuff movie, anyone?”

Harley was busy. Very.

In anticipation of the coming success, he’d checked into the top floor of the Meyrick, said to the manager,

“Expect the world press to descend on this hotel in the next few days. You, my friend, are going to be very busy.”

Ordered champagne and began phoning top TV outlets in the States, hinting at the explosive material he had. Looked around, shouted,

“Raoul, the fuck are you? Bring me a drink.”

No Raoul.

Harley hung up on a West Coast hotshot, a nagging feeling starting in his gut. He saw Raoul’s knapsack, rummaged through it. No film.

No film!

But there was a note.

   “Dear shithead,

     You like to lecture at length about your art.

The art of cinema.

Here’s real art for you.

The guy with the film is the artist,

The guy holding the bag is

Fucked.”

Harley’s scream could be heard all the way down to the lobby.

The Galway races.

A week of utter madness, the pubs open until two in the morning, like the city went on the piss. Serious drinkers lay low; this was the time of messers. Apprentice drinkers who got loud and obnoxious.

I was in what civilized folk term a quandary.

Marion and / or Kiki.

I had met with Marion who, alas, wasn’t all that grateful for my apparent rescue of her son. I asked,

“How is the little lad doing?”

She said,

“Like you care.”

Jesus.

I wasn’t seeing a whole rosy future here. I tried,

“I was glad to be able to help get him back.”

Low shot, I know, but, hey, we weren’t playing fair here. She said,

“I feel if we had never met you, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Fucking outrageous, right?

I said,

“That is not only untrue but it’s downright offensive.”

She went with the other weapon.

“Were you ever going to mention your wife and...”

Pause.

“ Child ?”

Time to fold.

Did I go dirty and mention her husband?

I asked,

“And your husband?”

Kiki.

I met her for a drink in Garavan’s. I ordered a pint and she said,

“How typical of you, Jack. You know I’m in the program and yet you meet me in a pub.”

Aw, fuck.

I had no energy after Marion. I asked,

“How is my daughter?”

She looked at me with a far distance from affection, asked,

“You even remember her name?”

I could have mustered some defense but, instead, I drained my pint, said,

“Have a great life.”

Got the fuck out of there.

I walked along the canal, wondering if it was deep enough to drown myself. A guy was fishing and I stopped to watch. He was intent on the task, then said,

“Jack Taylor.”

I asked,

“I know you?”

He felt a tug on the line and reeled in a large eel, took the hook out then released it, said,

“Stocks are low.”

Then,

“You helped my old man out some years ago.”

Well, finally some brightness.

He asked,

“You a betting man?”

I said,

“I’m not against it.”

He said,

“There’s a horse running at Galway today, the two forty-five, everything about him

Trainer

Jockey

Owner

Is local.

He’s running against some very fancy horses. Like you, a lone voice against the big boys. His name is Pateen. He’s all heart and endurance.”

“Thank you.”

I went to turn away and he added,

“Put a decent wager. Act like you believe.”

I was on my way when he said,

“You know they say, You learn more from a loss than a win ?”

“ I’ve heard that.”

He gave a very small smile, said,

“That’s horseshit.”

I put an indecent amount on the horse. He was 20–1.

He won.

I was heading down Forster Street with my substantial winnings when a small shop caught my interest. Near to the Puckeen pub, it had a variety of Galway souvenirs displayed. At the very back of the items I saw a black swan.

An omen, I thought.

Of what, I had no idea.

Bound to be a metaphor, at least.

I went in and the owner was a quick study in hostility. Without saying a word, he conveyed the notion I was a shoplifter. I said,

“The black swan, I’d like to buy it.”

He stared at me, said,

“We don’t have any white ones.”

What?

I said,

“I don’t want a white one.”

His body shifted as if “ How much more aggravation can one man endure ?”

He said,

“The Galway swans are white.”

God almighty.

I said,

“There’s a black one there now.”

He muttered,

“Sure.”

But made no sign of moving.

I asked,

“So can I purchase the black one or not?”

He reluctantly got it, blew some dust off it, said,

“Thirty euros.”

I was in some new realm of Monty Python so decided to go with it, asked,

“How much do you charge for the white ones?”

He took a step toward me. Was I going to end up wrestling with a shopkeeper on the floor of his shop?

He snarled,

“You’re a bit of a smart-arse.”

I said,

“As opposed to an actual customer?”

I threw the money on the counter, picked up the now controversial swan, said,

“You’re probably overwhelmed with return shoppers.”

And was out of there.

I headed up toward the square. A wino asked me for a few quid so I handed over some notes. I still had the swan, unwrapped, in my hand. He said,

“Funny, I always thought them birds were white.”

I got back to my flat and, not for the first time, missed how no little pup would be waiting to welcome me. I shook my head to rid myself of the memory of the wonderful dog I had.

Was into the flat when I realized I was not alone. A man was standing against the window, staring out at the ocean. He seemed completely at ease, said,

“Hell of a view.”

Turned to face me.

Tall, with a buzz cut, dressed in fatigues, a face that was nearly remarkable in its blandness. A suppressed energy danced around him. He said,

“I’m Michael Allen.”

I said,

“The psycho.”

He shrugged, said,

“Not an auspicious beginning to our meeting.”

I said,

“It’s not a meeting when you break into my flat.”

He saluted, said,

“I didn’t break anything.”