Ken Bruen - Green Hell

“Where’s the psycho bitch?”

I gave her a tequila smile, said,

“Good title for a self-help book.”

She studied me for a long minute, gave a mock sigh, said,

“You can’t rile me anymore.”

She was oh, so wrong about that. It was simply that goading ran so close to deep hurt that I backed off, asked,

“No way back to our former friendship then?”

The barman approached with a fresh pitcher, asked,

“You folks like to go for broke?”

I nodded.

Tequila is a sly son of a bitch. Tastes so good, you truly believe. . briefly. . it won’t kick. I coasted on that lie, rode the fake euphoria, risked,

“I miss you.”

She was lost in some other thought, then snapped back, said,

“We were scattered with the ashes of Stewart.”

Fuck!

I spat,

“Damn near poetry.”

She gathered her things, threw some notes onto the bar, tip for the barman, said,

“No, Jack, poetry was Stewart with his insane belief in you. What we’ve got is ashes in the mouth.”

And she was gone.

The barman took her empty glass, dared,

“Tough cookie.”

I finished my drink, said,

“If you only knew the half of it.”

Checked my watch, we’d managed all of forty-five minutes, not a moment of it civil.

My mobile rang at two o’clock in the morning. The pup, sound asleep on my chest, simply moved to the warm part of the bed. I growled,

“What the fuck-”

“Jack, it’s Em.”

“Christ, this is a surprise. Don’t you sleep?”

Her voice had urgency.

“How did the evening go?”

I nearly smiled but stayed in hard-ass mode, asked,

“You seriously thought you could get us to reconcile?”

More urgent.

“What time did ye stay until?”

“Hmmm. . she stayed, I think, almost forty-five minutes.”

Rage.

“What? You left within an hour? You stupid bastard, couldn’t you do one bloody thing right?”

“Hey. . hey. . take a fuckin breath. She left, I didn’t.”

Hope.

“You stayed on?”

“Sure, even ordered steaks for two. Got them to do a doggy bag-reluctantly I might add. Ziggy will be having prime for the next few days.”

Relief.

“And so you were noticed, right? I mean people remember you?”

My brain kicked in, I said,

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were giving me an alibi.”

Dawning.

“Em. . Jesus, is that it?”

Dead air.

The Irish Water Board, continuing to threaten, bully, and intimidate the population, refuses to release details of massive bonuses and perks. It does emerge that three hundred of its staff attended a “laughter yoga” workshop in Croke Park in 2013. The theory is you guffaw for fifteen minutes and this is good for body and mind.

The people haven’t had much to laugh at for many years. A workshop seems out of their reach.

The Guards came early. A heavy pounding at the door. The pup trailed at my heels as I went down to open it. Two in uniform. Number one was vaguely familiar to me as a hurler. Number two was of the new gung-ho variety. Number one gave me a nod, not unfriendly, said,

“Jack, they want to talk to you at the station.”

They followed me in as I threw on some clothes. The pup took an instant dislike to number two, yapping and nipping at his ankles. The guy said,

“Control that animal or I’ll give him a kicking.”

I snatched Ziggy up, put him in the bedroom with some treats, closed the door, said,

“Trust me, it would be the last kicking you’d give.”

He looked at number one, then blushed,

“Is that a threat, sir?”

Number one said,

“Ah, shut up.”

We drove to the station in silence. I let my mind go into the zero zone, focusing on nothing. I’d been this route many times.

I was brought into Superintendant Clancy’s office. In full regalia, he was behind his massive desk. A scowl in place. Sitting to his left was Ridge, no smile of welcome. The two Guards stood behind me. Clancy adopted a fake warmth.

“Ah Jack, good of you to come.”

I said,

“I’d a choice?”

Clancy flipped through some papers, then,

“Professor de Burgo was found murdered on Friday evening. Can you account for your whereabouts between eight and eleven that evening?”

My mind tried to grasp the implications but, before I could answer, Ridge leaped to her feet, shouted,

“He has a bloody alibi. . it’s me. I was with him.”

And she stormed out of the office. A silence followed, then Clancy paced.

“Lovers’ tiff?”

I asked,

“How was he killed?”

A beat before,

“A nail through his forehead.”

Then waved his hand, dismissing me. I said,

“You can cross another suspect off your list.”

His head moved, slight interest.

“And who might that be?”

“Boru Kennedy.”

He shook his head,

“Not known to me, I’m afraid.”

I turned to go, said,

“Of course not. Why would you remember a young man who hanged himself in prison on Christmas eve? He had been cleared of putting a nail through his girlfriend’s head.”

Em vanished. As if she’d never been. No e-mails, texts, nothing. I missed her. But the pup filled the void. I bought him a small Galway United scarf and he seemed delighted with its fit.

I took him, or rather he took me, for daily walks and I became reacquainted with my city. Feeding the swans was, of course, on our agenda. Oddly, after a few visits, the swans tolerated him. He could move along the shore and the slipway without them hissing. I kept a wary eye. Best not to fuck with these beautiful creatures.

He didn’t.

The evenings were getting a stretch to them and I’d see Ziggy, outlined against the bay, his scarf blowing gently, the swans dotted around him. He’d stand on the pier watching them glide. I could see his sharp mind thinking,

“Shit, I could do that.”

One evening, on our way back, standing on a wall by the Claddagh was the thug whose teeth I had removed. He was staring, dead-eyed, not at me but at the pup. Then he turned to me, made the cutthroat motion slowly across his neck with his right hand

. . and smiled.

The teeth had been replaced. I shouted,

“Now all you need to get is a set of balls.”

But he was gone.

As spring slowly began to creep up, we got back to the flat and in the middle of the kitchen was. .

A tiny green emerald.

Manchester United continued their losing streak as they made a record-breaking bid to buy Chelsea’s Spanish, Le Meta. I said to Ziggy,

“The Six Nations Cup will begin soon.”

He seemed more rapt in Paul O’Grady’s series on the Battersea Dogs Home. The pup disliked cigarette smoke so I took the odd cig outside. Too much drink and he sensed my loss of control, responded by whimpering. I cut way back. He was whipping me into shape.

Tuesday morning, St. Anthony’s Day, I was sitting on a bench in Claddagh. Ziggy was down on the shore, his sense of smell in overdrive from all the different stimuli. A well-dressed woman approached and sat on the bench. Her handbag? I saw an article in the Galway Advertiser quoting some lunatic price for these suckers. Plus a six-month waiting period to purchase! Jesus, you could order a Harley in less time. She obviously had not been among those who had to wait.

She smiled, said,

“That your little dog on the shore?”

I nodded.

She said,

“He keeps checking you’re still here.”

I gave a noncommittal smile.

Then she put out her hand, said,

“I’m Alison Reid. I already know you’re Jack Taylor.”

I took her hand, noting the thin gold Rolex, said,