Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

The Irish women’s rugby team was beaten by France in the World Cup series, and Galway’s hurling team geared up for the All-Ireland final; tickets were like gold dust.

Pat Hickey, the erstwhile head of the Irish Olympic Council, enmeshed in a ticket scandal, briefly jailed in Brazil, was now back in Ireland and declaring his aim to be reelected. You had to kind of whistle at the sheer nerve of the guy. Pictures of him in the papers told you everything you needed to understand about smugness and utter entitlement.

Our new leader, Leo Varadkar, fronted up to the UK about borders in the forthcoming Brexit negotiations. The Tories screamed,

“How dare he?”

The country said,

“Way to go, Leo.”

Well, the Church, which was keeping quiet on just about every topic, reckoned a low profile might be wise, especially as one of the pope’s top cardinals in Australia was arrested on child molestation allegations. His face on TV had a lot in common with the one worn by Hickey.

A book of short stories on my table had the title

How to Be a Goth in the Country .

How to resist that?

Netflix had a terrific new series, Ozark .

I revisited

Witnesses

The Divide

Nobel

The kind of TV that had little exposure but was true gold.

Tevis was true to his word and simply disappeared, which left me versus Michael Allen. My previous case I had with malice afterthought immersed in utter darkness, embraced revenge with total focus. If, as they say, for revenge dig two graves, then I nigh Olympic dug.

Resolved after to be done with violence, so far I hadn’t as much as raised a mutilated finger in aggression.

Would it last?

Fuck knew.

When / if Michael Allen came for me, I’d react on the day and, bizarre as it seems, I didn’t lose a whole lot of sleep over the prospect.

Not so much fatalistic as deep fatigued, I only knew that me and plans never met with anything like joy.

Then, life as it goes on its muddled path decided to switch from the murderous to the ridiculous. The first manifestation of this was, of course, a priest.

A very young priest.

He found me sitting on the square, watching the various encampments that sprang up overnight with a blend of refugees and homeless and stranded tourists.

The priest looked barely out of his teens and his clerical collar was blinding in its whiteness. He approached me with,

“Mr. Taylor?”

I stared at him with a mild contempt, born of years of clerical debacle. I said,

“Yeah?”

He asked,

“May I sit?”

“Kneeling would be better.”

That shocked and bewildered him. He tried,

“I beg your pardon?”

I said,

“Kidding. You guys need to lighten up but, then, you don’t really have a whole lot of stuff to laugh about.”

He stood in a cloud of unknowing, so I said,

“Spit it out.”

He composed himself as if he was about to recite a rosary, said,

“I come on behalf of the bishop-elect, Father Malachi.”

I laughed, said,

“Jeez, what a mouthful.”

He ventured on.

“As a mark of respect to your late mother, he would like to grace you with some assistance.”

I asked,

“Money would be good, I don’t have any scruples.”

He faltered, then,

“His eminence would be open to offer you the position of general groundsman.”

I marveled at the sheer audacity, said,

“Like the janitor.”

He searched for a description, said,

“Groundskeeper would be the title.”

I asked,

“Shouldn’t you be saying, His preeminence ? I mean, he hasn’t got the gig yet.”

He made a show of checking his watch, an impressive slim gold job, said,

“I presume you do not wish to avail yourself of this opportunity.”

A hint of hard seeped into his tone and I could picture him in later years, lording it over some lofty parish. I said,

“You’re in the right job, fella.”

He turned to go, said,

“I shall convey your best wishes to his eminence.”

I went,

“Whoa, don’t do that. I didn’t ask you to say it so... don’t .”

He shook his head in frustration, said,

“You’re a very disagreeable man.”

And I liked him a little better, said,

“Go preach the good word, lad.”

As I watched him stride away, not a single person greeted him. In my youth, a priest took a walk, everybody saluted him.

So much had changed and utterly. I wondered how much had been lost in the new brash Ireland. A homeless guy approached and before he could ask I handed him a few notes. He was taken aback, muttered,

“You should have been a priest.”

I was feeding the swans, trying not to think of my beloved dog who would always accompany me. The memory still burned hot and blistered.

The black swan glided across the basin like a sleek ballerina. I sat on the bench, which gave a view clear across the bay. You could imagine you saw the Aran Islands resting on the horizon. As America to the west wondered who Trump would rant at this day, my own day was now about to move into the realm of the absurd.

A woman in her forties sat beside me, well dressed and with a fragrance of patchouli. Not unpleasant.

She asked,

“Mr. Taylor?”

“Jack.”

Got a lovely smile for that and it’s amazing how such a tiny gesture can lift your deadened heart. She said,

“I’ve been told you have a great fondness for dogs.”

What the fuck?

I said,

“I do, I did.”

She pursed her lips, took a breath, said,

“Someone has been poisoning the dogs in our street.”

I said,

“We can safely rule me out.”

Not what she was expecting but she continued.

“I’d like to engage your services to catch the culprit.”

I felt tired. A psycho was out there who waited to see if I’d kill Tevis, the two women in my life were seriously pissed at me, and now I could be a pet detective. When I didn’t answer, she said,

“I can pay.”

I said,

“Tell me what’s been happening.”

She explained how she lived in the small residential street just off Newcastle Avenue. Three of the neighbors’ dogs had been poisoned, and now only four dogs remained in the neighborhood. The dogs had all been in their gardens late evening when they were hit.

I thought about that, asked,

“Any suspicions on who might be responsible?”

“No, no one has complained about dogs or anything like that.”

Her name was Rita Coyne, a widow, her children grown, which was one reason her dog was so vital to her. She said,

“It’s hard to be lonely when a little dog is with you.”

I suggested I use her home as a base for a few days to see if I could figure out the culprit. She clapped her hands in glee, said,

“Oh, perfect. I want to visit my sister and was worried about leaving the house. Here, a spare key. I’ll leave provisions for you.”

I said,

“I won’t need much. A chair by the window really is all.”

She laughed, said,

“I think I can get you a chair.”

Then gave me that look, an Irishwoman one, of What’s up with you ?”

She said,

“You strike me as a man who has simple needs.”

I could have said,

Apart from

Supply of Xanax

Coke

Booze

Cigs.

But I went with,

“I’ll take real good care of your home.”

I asked,

“I presume you told the Guards?”

She gave a fleeting smile, said,

“They said they had more to be doing than worrying about dogs.”

I nodded, not surprised, said,

“I’ll see what I can do.”