Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

Tevis smiled, a hint of smugness there, said,

“You place a chess quote in the Irish Times .”

Then he gave a soft tap to his head, exclaimed,

“Oh my gawd, how could I forget?”

And ran to the door.

Then back a moment later, carrying a large parcel, said,

“As a wee token of my deep gratitude.”

Suspicious, I pulled the paper off to reveal my all-weather Garda coat, and like new!

He said,

“I took the liberty of having it dry-cleaned and, trust me fella, an expensive job.”

Not sure what to say, I asked,

“How did you? I mean...”

He shrugged, said,

“I made the young Guard who took it an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

I was impressed, I think, said,

“Thank you.”

He made a dismissive wave, said,

“You saved my life, I saved your coat. Seems fair.”

I pushed then.

“You felt guilty about those twins, and that’s why you were going in the water?”

He gave me a long look.

“Fuck no. I was depressed about my lover. But the twins? I was delighted they got theirs.”

Jimmy Reagan was a close friend of my father. They went to the dogs together. Greyhound racing, in College Road. Were the races fixed?

Let me say this.

One evening as my dad headed into the track, a man stopped him, asked for his race card, and then marked every single race. Said,

“We mind our own.”

All six dogs won.

After my dad died, Jimmy really went to the dogs.

The demon drink was mentioned.

I met him a few years back. He stood in a doorway, wearing what was once a very fine suit. I gave him a few quid. He said,

“Jackie boy, see this suit? I bought it from the winnings me and yer dad had.”

His face got a wistful look and he added,

“Ah, sweet Lord, that was the best night of me lousy life.”

Such men were not built for rehabs. They slipped through the cracks of society, like sad ghosts of what might have been.

He was found dead in an alley, wearing the suit. I was told he had no one to bury him so I took care of it. Brought the one suit to the dry cleaner. The guy there said,

“In its day, this was really something.”

I said,

“Weren’t we all?”

He asked,

“Going somewhere special?”

“The cemetery.”

Odd, he didn’t ask me anything after that.

The funeral was bare, like the poor bastard’s life. Me, the priest, and two gravediggers. It rained.

I phoned Pierre Renaud but he was unavailable. I even went to his home but the house looked dead, like his sons, I guess. I wasn’t sure what exactly to do about him. Crossed my mind to set the Silence on him. How poetic would that be? If I did find him, how to begin?

“Did you have your sons killed?”

There’s a showstopper.

Tell the Guards?

Oh, yeah, like they had such a high opinion of me to begin with.

But

I could tell one Guard.

Arranged to meet Owen Daglish. He was not happy, asked,

“What do you want now?”

Not encouraging.

I said,

“In fact, I might have some information that would further your career.”

“Yeah, that will be the day.”

We met in Garavan’s. He yet again looked the very worst for wear, said,

“I can’t talk until I get behind two drinks.”

So we did that.

The change was near miraculous. Years seemed to drop from his face, his eyes opened, and his whole physical stature improved. He grinned, said,

“That is the biz.”

Looked at me, asked,

“How is that new lady of yours?”

“In America.”

He seemed to think about that, then,

“Will she come back?”

I acted like I was offended, which I was a little, asked,

“Why wouldn’t she?”

He gave a low whistle, said,

“Because you’re Jack!”

Not really an area I wished to pursue so I laid out the whole story of the guy named Silence and the murder of the twins.

He asked,

“The father had his sons killed?”

I nodded.

He took a long swig of his drink, then,

“That is bollocks.”

I pushed.

“But what if it’s not?”

He took a long hard look at me, said,

“Whatever it is, you need to leave it alone. The Guards think you’re the worst kind of trouble. If you tell them one of the town’s alumni is a killer, a guy who golfs with the superintendent, I mean, they’re going to kick your arse.”

I went to protest but he said,

“Leave it alone, Jack, and leave me alone.”

He stood up, a look of resignation on his face. I asked,

“Don’t you want another drink?”

He said,

“Oh, yeah, just not with you.”

I was sitting in Eyre Square, on a bench close to the garden plaque for JFK.

As a child, I’d sat on my father’s shoulders watching the presidential car

Go by.

We sure loved JFK.

Not a whole lot of heroes since.

The Guards were in a whole load of shite. It was alleged they had tried to smear and destroy the career of a noted whistle-blower. Now, it seemed that over half a million breath tests had the figures inflated. The Garda commissioner refused to explain or resign.

Theresa May in the UK called a snap election.

I wondered how I got out of bed and, indeed, how the commissioner got out.

Trump was trying to cut the income tax rate for multinationals by fifteen percent to lure companies back to America.

I was watching the Meyrick Hotel when a slew of black SUVs pulled up.

Rock stars, I wondered?

Out hopped Father Malachy.

A longtime enemy, he had been my mother’s lapdog back in the days when vitreous women had a tame priest in tow to demonstrate their piety. Noting my mother was one cold bitch, you can guess what her priest was like.

Time back, I came into possession of The Red Book , a book of heresy that the Church was anxious to suppress. Bad publicity was the last thing it wanted.

Malachy inveigled me into parting with the book.

He had instantly become the Church darling. Of course, any attempts to reach him after were shunned. I headed for the hotel. The doorman was about to block me when he recognized me, said,

“Howyah, Jack?”

I asked,

“What’s the occasion?”

He raised his eyes to heaven, said,

“The Rotary Club are honoring some priest.”

Some priest indeed.

I spotted Malachy in the midst of a group of people. Least, I thought it was him but changed — changed utterly. A stunning new black suit, tiny hint of purple at the neck collar. I’d seen that on trainee bishops.

Bishop?

Surely not.

But then, in a Trump world, who knew? His hair was what I can only call coiffed. I’m not entirely sure what that means save that it’s not on the card of any barber I ever frequented.

More, he wasn’t smoking.

Him, the ultimate diehard nicotine fiend. I approached and two young priests with, I swear, earpieces like sub — special agents blocked my path. Malachy saw me, said,

“Allow.”

Imperious.

I asked,

“What the fuck happened?”

One of the young priests pushed me, warned,

“Watch the tone.”

Malachy smiled, benevolently, as in suffer the little children. He said,