Ken Bruen - Green Hell

Next on my list of Taylor trails was Ban Garda Ni Iomaire. Female Guard Ridge. Now a sergeant, she’d only recently returned to duty after a horrific accident. My data were meager. She was gay, combative, and once a close Taylor ally.

Now, she was simply elusive. I’d left messages, called the station, and hit a brick wall. Finally it was Aine who tracked her down. They attended the same gym. She agreed to meet me in Java coffee shop. I’m not sure what I expected. A woman who not only survives in the Guards but gets promoted, well, she was hardly going to be a shrinking violet.

The first surprise was her size; she was small, almost petite. She moved with a grace due perhaps to her kickboxing training. A large gash across her forehead testified to the gravity of her recent accident. I was sitting and rose as she approached. She snapped,

“Spare me the gallant shite.”

Oh, boy!

She sat, leveled hard brown eyes on me, asked,

“You a Jack fan?”

I stammered,

“Um. .”

She ordered,

“You pushed to meet me and now what, you’re shy? Jesus!”

Oh, Lord, another ballbuster. I decided on diplomacy, asked,

“How are you after the accident?”

Big, big mistake.

“Accident! Do you know me? No, so why would you give a toss as to how I am or do you mean the train wreck that is Taylor?”

It was probably too late to run. So, haltingly I told her of my project, the book on Jack and my plan to interview those who know him.

She appeared to be only half-listening as she ordered herbal tea. The waitress was having some difficulty with this, asked,

“You do know this is called Java? The hint is in the name, meaning, ‘Hello?’ We serve coffee.”

Before this escalated, I put in my two cents, said,

“Chamomile is good.”

No kidding, they both glared at me. Ridge said,

“You hear anybody ask you?”

Maybe they were sisters! Certainly related in animosity. We waited until her tea came, she didn’t touch it, just fixed me with that stare, the one that says,

“Let’s hear it, asshole.”

I asked,

“How would you describe Jack?”

“A feckless drunk.”

OK.

I waited.

Nothing further.

I tried,

“But he did have a certain measure of success. I mean. . with your assistance of course.”

She rolled her eyes, then,

“Cases got solved despite him, not because of him.”

I felt frustration building but strove for an even tone, asked,

“So why did you hang in there all these years?”

Her body language altered, not a lot but a modicum less of steel. Maybe chamomile is underrated. She said,

“Time was, I thought the light shone stronger in Jack than the darkness. I believed he was running from the ugliness, the brutality. But I was wrong. All the time, he was courting it until finally it became not a part of him but all of him.”

I said,

“Wow, that’s a bleak picture.”

She was done, stood up, said,

“He’s a bleak man.”

Desperate, I asked,

“Surely there is at least one redeeming feature?”

She seemed to consider that, then,

“He knows who he is. If that’s a point in his favor, then he’s even more fucked than I’ve said.”

She had reached the door when a thought hit her. She came back, leaned over the table, got right in my face. She was proof that sheer physical intimidation has less to do with build than intent. She said,

“You want, as you Yanks say. .”

hissed this,

“. . a sound bite?”

She let me taste that, then,

“A blurb, isn’t that what they call them? Hell, you could even use it as a title, Jack Taylor is

a

Spit

in

the

Face.”

Then she was gone.

I wiped at my face as if spittle had landed there.

The only difference between

a rut and a grave

is the dimensions.

(Jack Taylor)

Aine was hugely excited, called me to say we had to meet, she had great news.

OK?

We meet in Crowe’s, she ordered a vodka, slimline tonic. I had a pint of Smithwick’s. I loved Guinness but, oh man, that sucker sits in your gut like lead. She looked, oh, my God, so darn pretty, and all lit up, gave a glow to eyes already on fire. I went,

“S’up?”

The Budweiser ref was lost on her. She gushed,

“Guess what?”

“You won the Lotto?”

Seemed to be an Irish response.

“No. Professor de Burgo offered me a position as a research assistant and he’ll help me return to college as a mature student.”

I felt fingers of ice sneak along my spine. Before I could say something reckless, she said,

“I knew you’d be delighted for me. It means I can talk to you properly about your work.”

I wanted to protest,

“Jack is my work.”

But went with,

“What about your job?”

She lit up even more.

“Oh, sweetheart, that is so you. Concerned for my welfare.”

Uh-huh.

She continued,

“I can still keep my day job and do the research in the evenings.”

Halle-fuckin-lujah.

More.

“The professor has great admiration for you.”

Yeah. . right.

Her effusiveness was not catching. I tried for something that wouldn’t sound sour, sound lame, I went with,

“I wonder why he chose you?”

Her expression changed and not for the good. She snapped,

“What does that mean?”

This is where a smart guy folds his tent. But no, dumb ass had to push it.

Like this,

“Just seems odd that with all the hundreds of students actually there, I mean, who are like, you know, really students?”

Oh, fuck!

She was on it, repeated, with venom,

“Really students!”

You’re in a hole, stop friggin digging. I dug.

“You know what I mean. It’s not like you’re an obvious Lit type.”

Sweet Jesus, did I say that aloud?

She stared at me for a long moment, as if really seeing me, then literally drew back, gathered her things, said,

“Fuck you.”

And was gone.

The barman came by, asked,

“Anything else?”

“Something seriously amnesiac.”

Jack was listening to a very drunk guy who was in mid- shy;monologue. The diatribe had begun in a vaguely promising manner, with even flashes of a sub-Proust/Joycean flavor, but was deteriorating fast.

Like,

“So, Jack, I’m asking you, there’s this guy on I’m a Celebrity . . the fuckin awful jungle reality show. This bollix has got a ten-thousand-euro Rolex and, I kid you not, he’s an adult but he cannot read the time.”

He stops, astounded by the lunacy and bewildered by the Jameson. Shook his head, continued,

“. . What’s with the world, Jack, like we’re celebrating the culture of ignorance. That wanker Simon Cowell says the secret to success is being lazy and lucky.”

He stared at a fresh pint, a Jay as old outrider, puzzlement on his face, like

“How’d that happen?”

Shrugged, reached for one.

A low rumble came from the man’s stomach and an almost rictus crawled down from his hairline. Jack knew that gig. Had borne lonely witness to it his own lonely self, a thousand times over every brand of toilet bowl on the planet. Jack looked around, no one else noticed and certainly no one cared.

He said quietly,

“Incoming.”

The man vomited all over the counter. A small volcano of Technicolor gunk. A piece of green testified to the last attempt at food. People were backing away fast, exclaiming,

“Aw, for fuck’s sake.”

Or

“There goes the neighborhood.”

Jack turned to the barman, said,

“Now that’s a Kodak moment.”

Aine refused to answer my calls. I even fell back on the hackneyed gesture of flowers. They were returned. Sat on my coffee table, slowly dying. My mother had believed if you slip an aspirin into the water, the flowers will last.