Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

And, oh, fuck, she hugged me.

As I made my way back to my apartment I met Jimmy Norman, the DJ / pilot, chef extraordinaire, chatted to him about drones, which he used in his media business. Then, as I headed off, he gave me an odd look. I asked,

“What?”

He said, cautiously,

“You smell.”

Very hesitant pause.

“Patchouli?”

I said,

“Old hippies never die.”

He said,

“No, they usually write books about it.”

Michael Allen was sitting outside the cottage he’d been allowed to use by Pierre Renaud. If he were capable of missing anyone, he might have missed the Frenchman. It was with a certain reluctance he’d taken Renaud off the board.

Renaud, more and more, had been plagued by conscience and that wasn’t an option. Allen realized now that his

   2

    4

     J

Had failed.

But he admired his noble enterprise. He was, in truth, a little tired. He considered the choice he’d given to the two T s:

Taylor and Tevis.

Not that he thought for a moment they’d go for that, no way, no balls.

Tevis would run and had indeed already done so. Maybe when Allen felt more energized he’d locate him, but Taylor was a whole different animal. The dude was a drunk, no mistake, but he had something, a spark, and it might be interesting to see how that could be ignited.

He went back inside, looked at his own self in the mirror, saw mostly a blank canvas. An idea was uncurling in his fevered mind, a plan that would be not only fun but a rather beautiful mind-fuck.

Moved to a large wooden table in the center of the room, unsheathed a large knife strapped under the surface, held the blade up to the light, and for a moment was mesmerized by the way it caught the light, then suddenly he struck it firmly into the very center of the table, liked the smooth motion of the action.

Repeated the motion six times and felt his mind formulate a scheme, then stopped, held himself motionless, then said in a light tone,

“A charm offensive.”

Liked the sound of that.

Stood, then dropped to effortlessly do a hundred push-ups, never breaking a sweat.

He moved to the mirror, stared, still but a vague figure, commanded,

“Drop, gimme me a hundred sit-ups.”

Did those with a total lack of expression, counted them off in a dead tone, bounced up, back to the mirror, shouted,

“Charm offensive.”

The plank.

An excruciating exercise much favored by celebrities. He held that grueling stance for a full five minutes, stopped, took a second to orient himself, then stood again.

A local man, renowned to such an extent for making poteen that even the Guards bought their hooch from him. This morning, he had been sampling his latest batch and may have overindulged. He was now staggering close to Michael Allen’s cottage and thought he heard shouting.

Heard,

“Harm offensive”?

Could that be right?

Staggered on.

Allen now moved to the mirror, saw a handsome guy begin to take shape, and allowed himself a small smile, said,

“Charmed, indeed.”

The local stopped, listened, then said,

“Oh, it’s harm is offensive .”

Considered, then said,

“Gets my vote.”

How to prepare for a stakeout. In movies they have

Doughnuts

Thermos of coffee (black)

Empty plastic bottle for pee

Fedora.

The above of course depends on the era, not to mention the ego.

Beat-up inconspicuous vehicle.

Having a house at your disposal alleviates the need for most of the above.

I had a rucksack with

Xanax

Flask of coffee / Jameson

Music

  Johnny Duhan

      Marc Roberts

         Tom Russell/Gretchen Peters

Don Stiffe.

Good to go or, rather, sit.

I dressed in black, of course, and added a hurley as the weapon of choice.

The house was tidy, comfortable. I chose a hard back chair, placed it a bit back from the front window; an armchair would incline dozing and I wanted to be at least semialert.

I thought about who might want to poison dogs, muttered,

“Some sick bollix.”

Surmised an older guy, pissed at the world, too cowardly to confront people, so took it out on dogs.

I looked forward to meeting him.

A lot.

That first evening was quiet beyond belief, not a single suspicious character.

I was humming to myself and thought,

Humming is next to madness.

Not to mention extremely annoying. I took out the hurley, flexed it, took a few practice swings, thought about how Galway had reached the All-Ireland and were meeting Wexford in the final. What I most knew about that city was it produced the fine writer Eoin Colfer.

I played some mental chess, said,

Forks, pins, and skewers are some of the sneakiest tricks you can use against your opponent. These tactics can lead to winning one, maybe more, enemy pieces.

I slept most of the next day, chess pieces in the shape of dogs running riot in my head, my daughter standing at the edge of the chessboard saying,

“You will never hold my hand.”

Woke in a shower of sweat, muttered,

“Sweet Lord.”

The second night, a young couple strolled arm in arm along the street. I thought,

Young love.

They turned at the top of the street and then came back.

Hello?

I watched more closely. The girl was definitely peering into gardens and I knew it wasn’t an interest in flowers. I just knew. A car came into the street and it spooked them. They walked quickly away.

I realized I was gripping the hurley with intent.

Third night, I was bouncing with suppressed energy, waiting.

Midnight came, and I was about to put on my headphones, sink a few Jays, and call it a night when the couple appeared.

Lock and load.

The guy was on the opposite side of the street, the girl on mine, and they were throwing items into every second garden. When the girl reached my garden I was out, fast and shouting.

Scared the living shite out of her. She actually jumped. I grabbed her roughly by the arm, the guy on the other side stared at me, then ran like fuck.

I said,

“How noble.”

The girl, recovering, tried to claw at my face but I elbowed her in the gut, winding her, said,

“Now, now.”

Picked up the slab of meat she’d tossed and dragged her into the house, pushed her onto the sofa, shut the door. Took her a moment, then she screamed. I picked up the hurley, gave her a wallop on the legs, said,

“Next shot is your face.”

Shut her up.

She was maybe sixteen, pretty in a spoiled fashion, dressed in an expensive tracksuit. I thought,

It’s always the rich kids.

I asked, holding the meat up,

“Why are you poisoning the dogs?”

She was rallying, said,

“We’re giving them treats.”

I smiled, said,

“Really?”

She was now gaining in confidence. I figured I’d let her run on that for a bit, asked,

“If I cook up this bad boy, you’ll have no problem taking a bite?”

She gave a crooked evil smile, said,

“I’m vegan.”

I moved to her, reached into her jacket, got her phone. She tried to grab it, shrieked,

“That’s private, that is.”