Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

A second helicopter was lost.

Unbelievable.

Based in the UK, it contained a family flying to Ireland for a confirmation.

Unlike those from the first helicopter, the bodies were recovered quickly.

R 117, the search-and-rescue helicopter, still had two of the crew missing despite a massive search.

To see the families waiting reminded me of the widows in the Claddagh back in the harsh days as they awaited news of their husbands and sons.

Ochre ochon (woe is me indeed).

I was in my apartment, staring out at the bay and thinking how much the very ocean played such a part in our collective history.

The doorbell rang, a quiet ring as if the caller hoped I wasn’t home. I opened the door to Tevis, the man whose life I saved and who was now becoming a fucking nuisance. He offered a bottle, said,

“Old Kentucky sipping bourbon.”

And,

“Six genuine longnecks. If you read your crime fiction as much as you pretend to, you’ll know it’s the preferred tipple of Craig McDonald.”

I said,

“That is one long sentence.”

He laughed, moved past me, said,

“Like life.”

I followed him in, put the beers in the fridge, and turned to him. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels, said,

“Eddie Bunker’s favorite.”

I asked,

“You came to educate me on the tastes of crime writers?”

He stood before the bay window, asked,

“Like glasses?”

Marion had given me a set of Galway crystal to spruce up the apartment, said,

“Taylor, you need some style.”

She used my surname when she was being playful. Jack when I was in deep shit. Alas, she was using my Christian name a lot more frequently. I took out two of those heavy babes, poured the bourbon, admired the way the light caught the glass, like a tiny whispered prayer.

Truth is, though, I’d have drunk out of a wellington if my need was great.

He said,

“Nice glasses.”

“My mother’s,”

I lied.

He said,

“Ah, Irish lads and the mammie.”

As fucking if.

He knocked back the drink in jig time. I went,

“Whoa, like what happened to the sipping bit?”

He gave me what he probably figured was a roguish smile, said,

“Partner, we’re a long ways from Kentucky.”

I took a sip, asked,

“What do you want?”

He did the mock-offended gig, said,

“You don’t like me.”

True.

I said,

“True.”

He asked,

“Is it because I’m gay?”

I said,

“I didn’t know that. I don’t care if you like sheep.”

A silence.

Then he asked,

“Sheep?”

Enough with the sipping, I walloped back the drink, gasped, muttered,

“Phew-oh.”

Gathered my thoughts somewhat, tried,

“What’s the deal with the chess piece and the message on the base, the

Two for Justice ?”

He applauded, literally, said,

“Well done, you figured it out, smarter than you act, methinks.”

His accent was now channeling Barry Fitzgerald via Dublin 4. Not an appealing tone. He put down his glass, said,

“Fill her up and I’ll fill you in.”

Managed to insert a certain mild menace into the sound.

I poured us both fresh ones, waited.

He launched.

“I had a decent living as an accountant. I work out, as is evident.”

Here, he flexed his upper body, did a small pirouette, continued,

“At the gym, as you do, I met my lover, a rather splendid fellow.”

Now he was aping Cumberbatch.

“We settled into a jolly old existence until...”

His face darkened.

“Until the twins, the Renaud twins, decided to engage in a little light gay bashing.”

He looked at me, asked,

“You know what the brain looks like after repeated kicks?”

How the fuck would I know that?

I stayed in low gear, shook my head.

He said,

“Like mushy peas.”

He shook a cig out of the Camel pack, so expertly that it had to have been rehearsed. Never no mind, it’s impressive.

He continued but now in a flat monotone.

“So, when a man contacted me, asked if I wanted justice, I said, You betcha.”

I poured us more sipping well-being, delaying any comment until I could get my head ’round this, then asked,

“You killed no twins?”

“No, of course not.”

“Who did?”

He drew out a tense silence, said,

“Pierre Renaud, their dad.”

I tried to take in what Tevis had said, asked,

“You’re claiming the twins’ own father killed his sons?”

He let out a tolerant sigh, said,

“I’m not claiming anything, I’m telling you what happened.”

Fuck.

I said,

“God almighty, to murder his family.”

He corrected me,

“Just two of them.”

I poured a drink but it didn’t seem to be having much effect. Maybe the sipping wasn’t really my style. I asked,

“Did he say why?”

He shook his head, said,

“I didn’t ask.”

Fuck that.

I demanded,

“Come on, seriously?”

He lit another Camel, said,

“I was in a blizzard of grief, rage, madness. I would have paid for revenge.”

That I grasped, having recently visited such territory my own self. I said,

“I’m trying to picture him actually doing that.”

Tevis said,

“He didn’t.”

I wanted to fling him across the room, shouted,

“You’re changing the story?”

He stood up, tired of the narrative, said,

“He had help.”

“Someone else?”

He shrugged, said,

“You hardly think a father would drown his own sons? I mean, get with the program, buddy.”

Enough.

I was across the room, grabbed him by the shirt collar, pushed him fast and hard against the wall, snarled,

“ Stop fucking with me and answer the question without any more mind-fucking, got it?”

I was so enraged I could have beaten him to a pulp. I wanted it so badly I could taste metal in my mouth.

He nodded and I let him go.

Pulled himself together, tried to light a cig but tremors in his hands betrayed him. Instead, he gulped his booze, then,

“There is a man, served three tours in Iraq and had the distinction of surviving three bomb attacks. He understandably developed a phobia about noise. He now specializes in what the Americans term wet work . More prosaically, he kills people. They call him the Silence. ”

I asked,

“And you met him?”

“Only once, and it was enough. He is the most nondescript man you’d ever see or, as the case may be, not see. He looks like every bad photo fit. He doesn’t turn up at the time you’d arranged and, just as you give up, prepare to leave, he is standing behind you.”

I was intrigued, tried to keep my tone skeptical, asked,

“What did he say to you?”

Tevis looked around as if he expected the man to be behind him, then,

“He asked me if I knew the value of silence.”

My mind was alight with so much craziness. I asked,

“And this mystery man, how does one find him?”