Ken Bruen - Green Hell

I took a breath, asked,

“Could I borrow the van for a few hours?”

“You going into the book business, Jack?”

“Well, research of a sort.”

He rooted around, then handed me the keys, said,

“Second gear needs a bit of cajoling.”

Smiled at that, said,

“I will of course pay for the petrol.”

“Yeah, like that will happen.”

Em had only ever once referred to her mother, a throwaway quip:

“Good old Moms is a rummy.”

The last time I read that description was in the early works of Hemingway. This in mind, I made a pit stop at an off-license, bought a bottle of brandy. The owner, handing me the bottle, asked,

“You want to buy a bundle of books?”

“Excuse me?”

He nodded at the van, which had a sign on the side:

CHARLEY BYRNE’S

NEW AND SECONDHAND BOOKS

I said,

“Not really.”

He seemed surprised, pushed,

“Some James Pattersons in the bunch.”

Jesus, how could I resist?

I found Marion McKee’s cottage easily. Just look for the closed curtains. Alkies don’t do light. I had a briefcase and my Garda coat, and looked like someone collecting the Household Tax. That is, like an asshole.

Took some banging on the door until she finally answered. A small woman in what used to be termed a housecoat,

or

camouflage.

Badly permed blond hair was sorely in need of help. Her eyes were tired, a little bloodshot, and her face, despite makeup, showed the savagery of alcohol. A stale reek of alcohol, nicotine, and fear emanated from her pores. I said,

“I need a few minutes of your time, about your daughter.”

Saw the alarm, rushed,

“Nothing bad. . quite good in fact. If I may?”

Indicating,

Let me in?

She did, reluctantly. The living room was small but obsessively tidy. Your life’s going to shit, you try to hold something in place. She pointed to a chair that was forlorn in its loneliness. She sat on the couch, asked,

“May I offer you something, Mr. . ?”

“Jack. No, I’m fine.”

I put the briefcase on the table, pulled out a stack of papers, the bottle of brandy seemed to slip out. I smiled, said,

“Whoops, Christmas leftover.”

And placed it on the table. Then, as if struck by a thought, said,

“How about we baptize this bad boy, to mark the good news about Em. . or do you prefer Emerald?”

Her eyes locked on the bottle.

A beacon.

She fetched two glasses, heavy Galway crystal tumblers. I poured a passable amount into both, said,

“Here’s to your daughter.”

A fleeting dance across her eyes, fear chasing anxiety. She drained the brandy like a brawler. I stood up, glanced at her bookshelf, asked,

“May I. . peruse? A compulsion of the trade.”

Giving her the window. And, like a pro, fast, she replenished her glass and, I loved it, took a swig of mine. Oh, she was mighty, almost noble in her ruin. The books were like a legion of female artillery:

Germaine Greer

Naomi Wolf

Betty Friedan

And like a lost black sheep among the strident women, that out-of-favor, poor quasi-hippie, Richard Brautigan’s

A Confederate General from Big Sur

and peeking optimistically from a corner, Elizabeth Smart’s

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept

Indeed.

I said,

“We are expanding the shop and wish to appoint Em as manager.”

Marion tried to rouse some enthusiasm but blurted,

“She had been such a promising child.”

I spied a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and, as I handed it to her, topped up her glass. She was rolling on a short recovery high, continued,

“But her father. .”

deep brandied sigh,

“He claimed Emmy’s dog had bitten him and she found. .”

mega gulp of brandy,

“The dog nailed to the shed door. He claimed some passing lunatic did it.”

I was smart enough to stay quiet. I knew the stages of rapid morning drinking, and brandy? Well, fuck, it adds an extra dimension of apparent energy to a false alertness. She didn’t as much smoke the cigarette as absorb it, her cheeks sucked to the bone as if the nicotine would grant absolution. Cresting now, reaching the anger stage,

“And the affairs, parading floozies in front of us, the renowned literary professor.”

She looked at me as if I’d just appeared, dismissed me, said,

“I had money, you know, oh, yes but he. . had something better, a shyster lawyer.”

I looked at the bottle. Christ, how much had she drunk?

She hit a brief cloud of severe clarity, said,

“When she was seventeen, she went to him, after years of no contact. You know what he did? He hit on her! Isn’t that the term nowadays and, when he realized who she was, he laughed and said, ‘Roll your own.’”

I got out of there. Had put a blanket over her as she lay on the couch, called an ambulance. Driving away, I felt as low and dirty as any of the scumbags I’d ever laid a hurly on.

When I returned the van to Vinny, I said,

“I might be able to get you a deal on a batch of James Pattersons.”

Got the look.

He said,

“Perfect! I’ll add them to the five hundred copies of John Grisham adorning most of the Crime Section.”

I was about to go, said,

“Hey, I believe you were on TV. . that series, Cities ?”

A rueful smile, then,

“It’s all showbiz, Jack.”

As he refused petrol money, I bought a shitload of books.

Jason Starr

Gerald Brenan

Eoin Colfer

Adrian McKinty

James Straley

Stanley Trybulski.

Asked,

“Any chance, Vinny, you can deliver them?”

He tipped his Facebook hat, said,

“Why we have the van.”

Outside, I ran into Father Malachy, shrouded in cigarette smoke. I said,

“According to the papers, half the country’s smokers have changed to e-cigarettes-vapors, as they’re known.”

He glanced at me, said,

“I’d rather be electrocuted.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Father.”

Dinner with Em.

She’d booked a table at Cooke’s. The family who not only run a superior bookshop but probably the best restaurant in the city and bonus. .

Pure Galway.

Billy Idol-

“White Wedding”

Yeah!

I had a Jameson. For the record, here’s what Em ordered. .

She opened with,

“Will you marry me?”

Never knowing when/if ever she was

(a) Herself/selves?

(b) Taking the piss.

I said,

“You’re not pretty enough.”

And fuck. . her face fell, before I could say, “Hey. . kidding.”

She ordered a large vodka tonic and I began my Jameson march. After we got some of that knocked down, we both pulled back a way, physically and emotionally. She asked,

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I know, I know, you’ll run with,

“You. . dear.”

The Jameson said,

“How it would be nice if just one person would fess up to 12 Years a Slave as eleven years too long.”

She frowned, said,

“It’s a masterpiece.”

I sighed, tried,

“If I want torture porn, there’s the Saw franchise.

Her starter arrived, she asked,

“Wanna share?”

“Like. . our lives?”

By the time she reached dessert, she asked,

“Did you ever, like once, feel real love?”

“I feel it right now.”

Had to rush,

“for that little waif, Ziggy.”

Then the image of Em’s puppy nailed to the shed door arose and I said,

“You should go visit your mother.”

A mischievous dance in her eyes, she asked,

“And you, Jack, . care much for yours?”

Truth.

“She was a walking bitch, awash with piety, cunning in her constant cruelty. . if there’s a hell, I pray she roasts in it.”