Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

The third spoke in our unlikely alliance was a former drug dealer turned Zen master who made a living as a property developer. He was much closer to Ridge than I was and they both tried to, if not stop, at least regulate my drinking.

They failed.

Stewart was the first to die.

Shotgun blast to the face.

That was the beginning of the ruin of my relationship with Ridge. She reckoned I was to blame for Stewart’s death and she might well have been correct but fuck if I was going to fess up. I had a list of deaths at my door as long as a Vatican rosary.

Then Ridge got killed.

Very nearly finished me off. I found myself at the end of Nimmo’s Pier, mulling what the American cops describe as

“Eating my gun.”

Ridge at one low point in her personal life and career decided that a straight marriage might if not improve at least enhance both.

And what a beau she chose.

Anthony Hyphen Hemple.

I put the hyphen in there for badness.

His actual name was

Anthony Bradford-Hemple.

He was the essence of Anglo-Irish, had inherited a seat in the House of Lords,

And I think actually sat there on two occasions.

Two!

Count ’em.

Needless to say, I gave Ridge a ferocious time about all of this, calling her Lady Ridge. Fuck, she hated that and, in time, of course, hated me. He liked to play to the image:

Old cords, very very battered Barbour wax jacket, unkempt hair, a cloth cap, and tweeds of everything else, even his undies I’d say.

He loved the hunt.

Vicious fuckers on horseback chasing a poor fox.

His favorite tipple was the old G and T, Gordon’s by divine right.

He’d said,

“When one is going to hounds, one fortifies with port and brandy.”

Despite the above, I didn’t mind him.

How Irish is that?

I tear him to shreds (much like his lot did the fox) then say I quite liked him.

He was bemused by me, utterly.

Called me

“A surprisingly well-read peasant.”

For a wedding present I’d given him the collected works of Siegfried Sassoon.

Including,

Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man .

The one time I’d been to his manor — and I mean that in the literal sense,

Manor—

Like those of so many of the former landlords, the old house was a crumbling ruin with more ruins than people. And cold.

Perishing.

The Anglo-Irish have a thing about heating, probably due to rising costs but they seem to believe one big motherfucking log and turf fire is sufficient.

Anthony had inspected me at the door and I said,

“No butler?”

He ran with it as opposed to against me, quipped,

“When we have the poor folk over, we give the staff the night off.”

Ridge had the grace to cringe.

I’d given her the full James Lee Burke set, signed first editions.

It was a time when I’d been dipping her dainty foot in the world of mystery fiction. JLB was her favorite.

Anthony took my all-weather Garda coat, sniffed at it, asked,

“Isn’t this government issue?”

I gave him the look, said,

“Don’t tell your wife, she’s one of them.”

He gave me a shocked look, thinking I meant the verboten lesbian.

Whisper.

I quickly added,

“One of the Guards.”

Relief flooded his face, spattered with rosacea. He offered,

“Bushmills okay?”

My turn to quip.

“That’s the Protestant one, give us a Jay.”

I’d made a small effort, put on a Rotary tie I’d stolen from a drunk, and Anthony, surprised, asked,

“You’re a Rotarian?”

Disbelief leaked all over his tone. I said,

“’Twas that or the Masons.”

He let that slide, raised his glass, toasted,

“Tootle pip.”

At least I think that was it, or in the neighborhood. He asked,

“You shoot?”

Like seriously?

I said,

“Only when the hurley isn’t enough.”

He grimaced more than smiled, said,

“Let me show you the gun cabinet.”

And cabinet it was.

Stocked with enough to quell a minor peasant revolt. He picked one out, said,

“This is a beauty.”

It was.

Made by Winchester, with the old bolt action. You pull that back as the bullet slides into the breech, the bolt action making a satisfying sound like the comforting clunk of your favorite old Zippo.

It smelled of oil and much usage.

I liked it a lot.

He said,

“You can fit a scope but I think that is a tad unfair to the game.”

There is no answer to this that even approaches civility so I made the indifferent,

“Uh-huh.”

I remember clearly holding the rifle and that freakish sense of power it falsely imparts. No wonder they talk of

“ Gun nuts .”

Anthony was impressed, said,

“Looks good on you, my man.”

I reluctantly handed it back. He said,

“We must spend a day shooting pheasant.”

Later, I was outside, staring at the hill opposite the house. Ridge joined me, bummed a cig, asked,

“Don’t tell Anthony.”

As I lit her up, I asked,

“He’d disapprove?”

I should have paid more heed to her answer. She said,

“He disapproves of me.”

She pointed at the hill, said,

“There’s a fairy mound on that.”

I near sneered, went,

“You believe in fairies?”

Crushing her cig underfoot, she snarled,

“I am a fucking fairy.”

I needed transport if I was going to burgle Anthony’s gaff.

Gaff!

Christ, I had been watching too much Brit TV. I knew he had the Masonic lodge on Wednesday, and the staff (diminished as they were due to the economy) had the night off.

So it had to be a Wednesday.

I could hardly take a cab or risk stealing a vehicle. I still had plenty of cash due to Emily’s legacy and the fee Pierre Renaud had given me. I went to a car rental and, fuck it, got a stuck-up gobshite in attendance who began,

“How may we be of service to sir this fine morning?”

Fuck, I was tired already. I said,

“For openers, don’t call me sir.”

That softened his cough.

A bit.

He pulled out a load of forms, said,

“If s ... you would be kind enough to fill out these.”

A rake of them.

I said,

“I’m here for a damn car, not a job application.”

He smirked, said,

“Data protection.”

Since the banks robbed us blind, data protection was the excuse of choice for laziness. But I did fill out the bloody things. Handed them over.

He scrutinized them as if they were WikiLeaks, said,

“No bank details?”

I said, tersely,

“I’m not looking for a loan, just a car.”

The smirk again.

He asked, with total incredulity,

“You want to pay cash?”

His face registered that I seemed a tad old for a drug dealer. He asked,

“What size and model did sir ...”

Pause.

“Have in mind?”

All my battered life I wanted one time to drive a big fucking Jeep, let out all my macho bullshit in one dizzy flourish. I said,

“Something big, like a Land Rover.”

Cross my unholy heart but he actually tittered, did risk,

“You know what they say about men and big cars?”

God on a bike.

I leaned over the counter, got right up in his shit, as they say in the hood , snarled,