Ken Bruen - Green Hell

Assault rifles,

Antiaircraft guns.

Notable inmates: Angelo Fusco

Martin Ferris

Dessie O’Hare

John Gilligan

Paul Magee

In 2007, John Daly, an inmate, phoned the radio show Live Line . His call resulted in Guards seizing fifteen hundred items of contraband:

Mobile phones

Plasma TVs

and incredibly, a budgie, smuggled in by a visitor concealing it in his buttocks! Whole new meaning to “a bird in the hand” or indeed “doing bird.” Daly had to be transferred owing to the death threats from the inmates.

Released in 2007, he was celebrating with a night out and was murdered.

The Caged Bird Sang No More.

I asked,

“Who are we supposed to be to gain entrance?”

She was all manic energy now, said,

“I’m the lawyer of note and you are the beloved, elderly Irish uncle.”

“Hey, enough with the elderly.”

She nearly smiled, said,

“Least you won’t have to work hard to get into character.”

The Guards gave us the full security gig, eye-fucking as they did. Eventually, we were led into a small room, told No. 2035789 would be along shortly. Em, who for reasons best known to herself had adopted a haughty Brit accent, snapped,

“He does have a name.”

The Guard, delighted he had riled her, said,

“Not in here.”

Pause.

“Ma’am.”

The tone was,

Bitch!

We sat on hard metal chairs, a beat-up table before us. Someone had gouged into the top:

Kilroy was here

. . didn’t last

Deep.

She said,

“You never asked what my ideal moment would be.”

As the door opened, I said,

“Like I give a shit.”

“Let he who has not been stoned

cast the first sin.”

A warden, built like a brick shithouse, led Boru into the room. He was dressed in faded denims, way too large. He looked like a twelve-year-old. The warden pushed him to a chair, facing us, then moved back to stand, arms folded, against the wall. A heavy link chain circled the guy’s belt, clanked as he moved. It was the sound of punishment. Boru never looked up, his head down like a penitent’s.

Em barked at the warden in a Maggie Thatcher “ Don’t fuck with me ” tone.

“Some privacy please.”

Reluctantly, slowly, he withdrew. I said,

“Boru, hey buddy, it’s Jack.”

He raised his head as if it hurt. A dark bruise ran from his right eye all down to his jaw. It looked swollen. I didn’t ask.

“How are you?”

How he was, was badly fucked. I said,

“This is Em, she’s going to get you out.”

Yeah, right.

Boru said, his mouth revealing a bloody gap where his fine American front teeth had been,

“I want to go home.”

It reminded me of Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again .

I didn’t share this literary gem. Em asked,

“Besides the underwear they found, has your lawyer said the prosecutors have anything else?”

He looked at her, his eyes off-kilter, then,

“I didn’t take her. . intimate things.”

Em slammed the table hard with the palm of her hand, startling Boru and me. She snapped,

“Get with the program, kid. . man up for Chrissake.”

It focused him, he tried,

“Don’t be mean to me.”

Unrelenting, she pushed,

“We’re all you’ve got. Now I want to know if the bloody knickers are all they’ve got.”

He stammered,

“The st. . stalking, they say. . I did that.”

She waved it off.

“Overzealous admiration, no biggie.”

She stood up, said,

“I think we’re done here.”

Boru was amazed, pleaded,

“Can’t you stay a bit?”

She was already gathering her things, said,

“No offense, kiddo, but you’re hardly riveting company.”

He turned to me, asked,

“Jack, will I get out?”

He might get out but, judging by his appearance, he wasn’t ever coming back.

In the movies, this is where the good guy reassures,

“Stay strong, we’ll get you out.”

And other such shite.

I said,

“Keep your head down.”

Em added,

“But try not to give head.”

She pounded the door, shouted,

“Yo, Cruickshank, we’re done.”

I didn’t give Boru a comforting pat on the shoulder. He’d been touched enough.

Back in the car, I asked,

“You got a cig?”

She did.

We fired up, then she blew rubber as we got the hell out of there. Ten minutes in, she said,

“Saga Norén, in case you were wondering.”

The fuck was she on about? I asked,

“What?”

“Who I’d like to be. The icy, semi-autistic cop in The Bridge .”

I said,

“You’re not even blond-well, least not today.”

She shot past a BMW like a dervish, said,

“Yeah, but I got the bitch part down cold.”

We stopped in Oranmore for a drink. She ordered a toasted sandwich, like this,

“Highly grilled cheddar,

hint of mayo,

rye bread.”

The guy taking the order simply slapped a prewrapped job in the microwave, zapped it.

I took a Jameson.

No ice.

“Your treat,” she said, looking at the expensive bill.

I didn’t argue. Then she asked,

“Have you plans for Christmas Day?”

“Cold turkey.”

She was interested, asked,

“You’re giving up. . what?”

“Nothing. I’ll eat my turkey cold with a pack of Lone Star longnecks and watch Breaking Bad ’s spin-off series on Netflix.”

She had no answer to that, so I asked,

“And you?”

Thinking, “Who’ll you be that day?”

No hesitation,

“I’m going to Prague with my boyfriend.”

Jesus, come on, did I feel a pang of. . fuckin. . jealousy?

I managed,

“What’s he do?”

“He’s a felon. . and a poet. A poetic felon, you might say.”

I went with,

“Sounds like a blast.”

I paid. We were heading for the car, she said,

“He’s hung like a stallion.”

Indeed.

Em’s lunacy, Boru’s fucked state, the shadow of the prison, led me to need some time alone but not on my own, if you catch my drift. To be among people but not part of them. Christmas eve, the city is on the piss so a quiet pub is a scarcity. Paddy Fahy’s in Bohermore is a haven. It has a certain dress code-no assholes allowed.

I sat at the counter. The owner, Paddy, is blessed with the gift of silence. Five people in total made up the clientele. I was working on my second expertly pulled pint, a large Jameson holding point. A man two stools away was working on his own solitude. I had the Irish Independent books section open before me. The year’s top sellers looked like this:

(1) Padre Pio

(2) The GAA: A People’s History

(3) Gone Girl

(4) One Direction

(5) Niall Horan: The Unauthorized Biography

(6) X-Factor Encyclopaedia

(7) Alex Ferguson: My Autobiography.

I sighed. The guy two stools down caught it, raised his pint, nodded. Now I remembered him. When I had a drink with Boru in Jury’s, I’d told him about the man who odd times drank there.

Always alone.

He’d done some hard time in a South American jail. So rumor said. He certainly had the lost eyes to give it credence. I’d heard too he had a minor rap going as a crime writer.

On impulse, I asked,

“Buy you a pint?”

No answer.

Pushed,

“It being the season and all that good shite.”

Cracked the remotest smile, then,

“Yeah, what the hell.”

And he moved to stand next to me. I signaled Paddy, who reached for the Jameson. The man’s movements were slow and calculated as if energy was vital and spared. He raised his glass, said,