Ken Bruen - The Emerald Lie

If you want to tear the very heart from your chest. Watch the clip

On YouTube.

I had allowed these words, this image, to sear into my psyche. I almost lived the end of Under the Volcano where they dump a dead dog into the hole after the body of the consul.

On the edge of the Claddagh Basin, I met Cathy. The woman whose daughter, Serena-May, had died on my watch.

In a life-affirming book, the type of shite that would get you on Oprah , Cathy would have embraced me and cooed,

“I love and forgive you.”

Right?

She spat in my face,

Cursed,

“May you never have a day’s peace.”

Got a message from Sister Maeve. She had located the man and boy. They had indeed been on Aran but questions from locals had them depart fast. The man had seemed, in the words of the locals,

... to be a little overaffectionate to the boy.

Yeah, right.

So the fuck legged it.

Now the chances were good he might still be in Galway. I called Owen Daglish, a disgruntled Guard, still on the force but very bitter with the powers that wanted a new type of policeman.

Meaning, not Owen.

He was old school.

Translate, he never had a suspect who didn’t respond to the lesson of the hurley. As in, beat the living shite out of him without leaving the marks. Did I concur with this form of faux vigilantism?

Pretty much.

You wanted something from Owen, you had to buy him drink.

Lots of.

We met in Garavan’s, the barman greeting,

“Jack, I heard you were in jail.”

People heard all sorts of shit about me, never... ever... like

... you joined the Samaritans

Or

Even

... you volunteer at Age Concern.

Nope.

It was always down and dirty.

And,

Whisper it,

Shabby.

Some of it was even based on truth.

Owen was already working on a pint, chaser riding point. He looked

... fucked.

Par for the course for a Guard on the way out and down. He was wearing what had once been euphemistically termed a wax jacket. Now it not only was non-wax but barely resembled a jacket. Some guys, they let three days go unshaven and get that

Don Johnson

Jason Statham

Vibe.

Others

Look

Vagrant.

Guess which Owen was.

He said,

“Stanley Reed? Supposedly he and his son have some history.”

You had to appreciate his straight down to biz attitude. The barman brought a refill for Owen and a pint and chaser for me. No words were exchanged. This is the almost sacred ritual between good bar guys and valued customers.

Valued, as in

They tip.

A lot.

I said,

“Tell me.”

“Mr. Reed has a sheet of sex offenses as long as a tax bill. The boy, Daniel, is actually a nephew but UK cops believe he is indeed, if you’ll pardon my French...”

Pause.

... “Diddling the poor lad.”

Jesus.

He produced a sheet of paper, said,

“This cost, Jack.”

I passed over an envelope, laden with euros. He flicked through the notes, went,

“Humph.”

Signifying nothing, nothing at all. He said,

“I don’t expect them to last long there as the Guards are attempting to get an English warrant.”

Delay and deferral, the name of the bureaucratic game. I asked,

“Can’t they hold him on some pretext?”

He sighed, sank the pint, said,

“See, Jack, the fuckup with the Grammarian, they are not rushing to arrests so much.”

He played with his empty glass and I signaled for a refill. He added,

“That whole clusterfuck, Ridge is for the high jump.”

“What?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Someone has to carry the shit can and she’s the designated driver.”

I said,

“I owe his aunt some money for supposedly trying to prove Wilson was innocent.”

He examined the fresh pint for flaws, found none, said,

“Don’t think she’ll much care by this stage. The mad bastard is no longer an issue.”

He glanced at the paper in my hand, asked,

“What are you planning to do with that, Jack?”

I smiled, malice in my soul, said,

“Something fucking biblical.”

He touched his glass against mine, said,

“We expect nothing less.”

Finally tracked down Em, by using her

... greenhell@gmail.com

Tag.

We met in McSwiggans and she showed up in Chrissie Hynde mode. Jet-black hair, kohl makeup, a tiny gold guitar brooch on her black leather jacket, and, if I’m not mistaken, a ripped Vivienne Westwood black T-shirt. It said on the front

... this is a ripped Westwood T-shirt.

I was post Guard 1970.

As in item 1834, black 501s, and a sour expression. I said,

“You’ve covered all the icons there I think.”

She struck a pose, said,

“Brass in pocket.”

For a vague tense moment, it seemed we might hug but it evaporated. She shouted,

“Yo, barkeep, service before the fall.”

Then she leaned over and gave me a forceful puck in the chest, said,

“You shithead, how many months are you gone under the radar?”

We ordered a couple of longnecks and got the look from the barmaid. Em snapped at her,

“We’re down-home folks so get to it.”

She did.

Reluctantly.

She gave me a searching look and you know you have been full measured and assessed when an Irishwoman does that.

And

Found wanting.

She said,

“You’re different, Jack.”

Death sentence will do that I guess. Did I share?

Did I fuck?

Went with,

“How’s your mom?”

Not mum but this fake schmaltzy affectionate term. She managed to fast convert a grimace to a smile, said,

“I bought her a car.”

Before I could comment, she continued,

“Nice breezy little yellow convertible, the color to match her cowardly soul.”

Phew.

I tried,

“Convertible? Not so sure that is really how would I put it, an Irish car.”

“How astute, Jack. Turns out the brakes had been tampered with.”

What?

She gave her smile of utter innocence she kept for utter lies, said,

“Went off the road near Silverstrand, I so hope she got to see the beach before... She broke her back and um... her neck too, I think, but who’s keeping count, eh?”

Of all our failings, loss for words isn’t something we Irish can be accused of.

I was lost for words. She leaned over, touched my arm, said in a down-home tone,

“Don’t sweat it, big fellah.”

I wanted to strangle her. Finally, I tried,

“Why on God’s awful earth would you want to...”

Grasped for a word.

Got...

“... share

Such utter madness with me?”

She drained her drink, seemed intent on getting wasted in jig time, said,

“I like you, Jack, even though you broke into my apartment and I do want that golden gun returned. I like to hang with you.”

Jesus.

She continued,

“And if I hang, you’ll fucking hang right along with me.”

I saw another drink had materialized before me and I took a long draft, considered my position.

Three months at best until curtains and what was still left, dare I say, hanging ? There was the boy, and the man molesting him, so I went for the darkness. I mean, if you have a tame psycho in tow, why not utilize her?