Ken Bruen - Taming the Alien

Ireland

Pat’s house

Pub crawling

Quay Street

Dancing Irish jigs.

Dancing! He prayed — ‘Please Jesus let me be wrong about the dancing!’

He wasn’t.

He was clad in his grey Y-fronts. Not grey by choice but cos he’d washed them white with a blue shirt. Sweat cascaded off his face and he said, ‘I’m dying.’

The door opened and Pat breezed in bearing two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Howyah, you’re wanted on the phone.’

‘What?’

‘An English fella and by the sound of him a policeman. Likes giving orders.’

‘Roberts?’

‘That’s the lad.’

Lawrence Block in Even The Wicked :

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ he said, ‘when a man develops a taste for killing.’

‘You have a taste for it.’

‘I have found joy in it,’ he allowed. ‘It’s like the drink, you know. It stirs the blood and quickens the heart. Before you know it, you’re dancing.’

‘That’s an interesting way to put it.’

Brant gulped the tea and roared, ‘Jesus, I’m scalded.’

‘Aye, it’s hot as Protestants.’

But something else, something that kicked. Pat smiled, said, ‘That’ll be the hair of the dog.’

‘Bloody Rottweiler, was it?’

A moment, as the liquid fought his insides, near lost and Brant got ready to puke. Then lo, it crashed through and began to spread ease.

Pat said, ‘Yah better get to the phone.’

Brant said, ‘OK,’ and thought: ‘Ye Gods, I do feel better.’

Roberts said, ‘Got you outta bed, did I?’

‘Naw, I was playing golf, had to rush in from the ninth.’

‘Eh?’

Brant scratched his balls, couldn’t believe how better by the minute he was feeling. Maybe he’d never leave Ireland.

Roberts said, ‘I had a hell of a job to locate you.’

‘I’m undercover.’

‘Under the weather, it sounds like. You’re not pissed now are you? I mean it’s not even ten in the morning.’

‘Haven’t touched a drop.’

Roberts took a deep breath. He had startling news and he wanted to be startling with it. The plan was to meander, dawdle, and plain procrastinate.

Get to it e … v … e … n … t … u … a … l … l … y.

Like that.

What he said was, ‘They’ve caught the Band-Aiders.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Yeah.’

Brant wanted to roar:

Where?

When?

Who?

Why?

But instead repeated, ‘Jesus!’

Roberts figured that counted as ‘startled’, so he said, ‘The deadly duo tried to mug a punter in New York, but guess what?’

Brant had no idea. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He was carrying a nine millimetre Glock. He must have been influenced by the subway vigilante … what’s his name?’

Brant didn’t know or care. The healer in the tea had done its job. In fact, he wanted more, more of everything, especially information. ‘He killed them?’

‘Naw, just the man — the girl begged for her life, and by the time the cops arrived she coughed up everything — stabbing you, killing young Tone … I think she even copped to Lord Lucan and Shergar.’

Brant laughed, this was great. He was truly delighted and thought: ‘I love Ireland!’ Which, if not logical, was definitely sincere.

Roberts said, ‘Now, here’s the thing. She’s waived extradition and wants to come back. There’s one condition though.’

‘What? She wants a seat on Concorde or to meet Michael Jackson?’

‘Worse. She wants you to bring her back.’

Brant couldn’t believe it, shouted, ‘No, Fuck that! I’ve plans … I’m going to San Francisco … that’s where Fenton is.’

Pat heard the shouting and did the Irish thing. He got Brant more tea and a cigarette. Roberts felt it was time to pull rank and kick some subordinate butt. ‘Sergeant, it’s not a request. Those on high aren’t asking you politely for a favour. It’s an order.’

‘Shite!’

‘That too, but look on the bright side — they’re springing for it, won’t cost you nowt.’

Brant took a hefty slug of the tea, better and bitter, but he wanted to sulk and as he crushed out the cigarette, he whined, ‘It’s not about the money.’

Roberts laughed out loud. ‘Gimme an Irish break. With you it’s always about the money.’

It was … always .

Brant could hear the shower running and … yes, the sound of Pat singing. Sure enough — ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’.

Roberts said, ‘Go to the local Garda station in Galway and all the details will be faxed.’

‘Fucked, more like. They’ll welcome an English policeman, I suppose.’

Roberts was beginning to enjoy this. How often did you get to mess Brant about? His skin cancer was itching like a Hare Krishna and he felt the dehydration beginning. ‘Why were they called Band-Aiders? Musicians, were they?’

Brant snorted. ‘The only tune they played was from an Oliver Stone film. The guy had a cut on his face and said, “When I’m cut, she bleeds”. They both sported snazzy bandages. Cute, eh?’

Roberts couldn’t resist it. ‘They’ll need some bloody bandage to cover what’s left of his face.’ He wanted suddenly to share his pain about his illness. Brant was the nearest to a friend he had. He began, ‘I’ve been in some pain, Sergeant.’

‘Jaysus, who hasn’t boyo?’

And he hung up.

Pat had prepared breakfast as if Man United were expected.

Two plates on the table with:

sausages (2)

eggs (2)

tomatoes (2.5)

fried bread (1)

black pudding (1)

The plates were ample enough for a labour party manifesto.

Brant said, ‘Holy shit!’

Pat was already tucking in. ‘Get that inside you, man, soak up the booze.’

Odd thing was, Brant was hungry. He sat down, lifted a fork and indicated the black pudding. ‘What kind of accident is that?’

‘Would you prefer white?’

‘White what … eh?’

‘It’s pudding, the Pope loves it.’

Brant pushed it aside, speared a sausage and said, ‘Which tells me what exactly? I mean, the Pope … is that a recommendation or a warning?’

Pat laughed, had a wedge of fried bread, said, ‘The Pope’s a grand maneen.’

‘A what?’

‘Man-een. In Ireland we put ‘een’ onto names to make them smaller. By diminishing, we make them accessible. It can be affectionate or mocking, sometimes both.’

Brant found the sausage was good, said, ‘This sausage is good … or rather, sausageen.’

‘Now you have it. Pour us a drop of tea like a good man.’

They demolished the food and sat back belching. Brant said, ‘Lemme get my cigarettes.’

‘Don’t stir … try an Irish lad.’

He shoved across a green packet with ‘MAJOR’ in white letters on the front. Brant had to ask. ‘Not connected to the bould John I suppose?’

It took a moment to register, then ‘Be-god no, these have balls.’

Pat produced a worn Zippo lighter and fired them up. Brant drew deep and near asphyxiated. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Mighty, eh?’

‘Jesus, now I know what they make that pudding from.’

Pat excused himself, saying, ‘Gum a less school.’ At least that’s how it sounded to Brant. It means simply, ‘Excuse me’.

Like that.

He came back with the inevitable tea pot and a large white sweater. ‘This ganzy is for you. It’s an Aran jumper and if you treat it right, it will outlive yer boss.’

Brant never, like never got presents; thus he was confused, embarrassed and delighted. ‘That’s … Jesus … I mean … it’s so generous.’