Ken Bruen - Green Hell

“Speak of this and you’ll go in the canal.” Maeve had duly reported all to her Mother Superior, who said,

“Jezebels! Common harlots who enticed a good man.”

De Burgo was one of the prime movers in having extensive renovations made to the convent. Maeve, pushing aside her now flat water, said, in a very un-nun-like fashion,

“Who is going to besmirch the name of a man responsible for the central heating?”

Comfort versus truth?

No contest.

I asked Maeve,

“Why have you come to me, Sister?”

She considered her answer, then,

“Because you understand that justice is rarely delivered through ordinary channels.”

Something radiantly different in a tiny, holy nun letting loose her very own

Mongrel of War.

Whatever else I thought, I didn’t think she “got the right guy.”

She had moral indignation, I had rage but, more important, I had the hurly.

The priest was crying.

A tear of hatred trilled down his cheek. The thin man noted it was quite lovely.

They were standing two feet apart-the man of law and the man of God.

As the tear dissolved into the thick beard, the big man wiped it away, then looked up into the thin man’s eyes with loathing and slowly whispered,

“ God. . damn. . it. ”

The thin man couldn’t contain himself. He was grinning openly,

Was it a thrill to hear this man of the cloth taking the name of the Lord in vain?

“ I knew then the bitch was mine. ”

(From The Murder Room by Michael Capuzzo)

Later, when I was asked about the essential difference between Jack,

A wild Irish fucked-up addict.

And me,

A WASP wannabe academic.

I was able to summarize it thus:

I liked to quote Beckett.

Jack quoted Joan Rivers.

And an ocean of misunderstanding flowed between the two.

Much has been said of Jack’s propensity to violence. Not long after I’d found a place to rent, in Cross Street, just a drunken hen party from Quay Street, Jack announced,

“I’m treating you to dinner.”

His version:

Fish ’n’ chips from Supermac’s on Eyre Square. It was relatively early, 7:30 p.m. on a slow Galway Wednesday. Come four in the morning, when the clubs let out, it became a war zone. We were in line behind a young couple. Dressed for a night out, the guy in a smart suit, the girl in a faux power suit but without the confidence. The girl was asking,

“Please, Sean, I just want chips, no burger.”

The guy’s body language was flagging. . volatile.

They got their order and the guy grabbed her portion of chips, mashed them into her suit, said,

“No burger, no fuckin eat.”

I glanced at Jack, his body was relaxed, no visible sign of disturbance. For one hopeful moment, I prayed he might not even have registered the incident. We got our fish ’n’ chips, then Jack added,

“A carton of your hot chili sauce.”

I said nothing.

We got outside, the couple were standing at the Imperial Hotel, the guy jabbing his finger into the girl’s face. Jack said,

“Give me a sec.”

Ambled toward them, not a care in his stride, the chili carton oozing steam from his left hand.

He said something to the girl, who stepped back. He slapped the chili into the guy’s face, gave him an almighty blow to the side of the head, asked,

“You want fries with that?”

I don’t know any form that

doesn’t shit on being in the most

unbearable manner.

(Samuel Beckett)

It’s quite a good idea: when words fail you,

you can fall back on silence.

(Samuel Beckett)

He looked like the kind of gobshite who’d spent his

Life

(pause)

being mildly amused.

This was Jack’s verdict on a guy selling flags for Down Syndrome Ireland. The “mildly” brought to crushing effect the contempt he felt.

I asked Jack,

“The violence, the almost casual way you rise to it?”

He had the granite flint in his eyes, which cautioned,

“Tread very fuckin lightly.”

Clicking back and forth on the Zippo, he held my eyes, coldly said,

“For starters, you don’t ‘rise’ but descend to violence.

Let me paraphrase:

‘Some are born to it

and others

have it thrust upon them.’”

Wearying of his semantics, I asked,

“And you, which category are you?”

His eyes slid off me, dissing me curtly, said,

“Take a wild fuckin guess, hotshot.”

Reaching into his battered all-weather Garda coat, he slapped a single sheet of paper before me, said,

“Read.”

Four names:

Siobhan Dooley

May Feeney

Karen Brown

Mary Murphy

He said,

“All students of de Burgo.”

Then abruptly standing up, he said,

“Get yer arse in gear.”

“For?”

“An appointment with the eminent professor.”

“What?”

“As an American high-flying student, you are meeting to discuss Beckett and the Galway Connection.”

Then he shrugged, said,

“Who the fuck cares, we just want to meet the lunatic.”

“We?”

He smiled, cold,

“I’m your concerned old uncle.”

“Can you do ‘concerned’?”

He was already moving, said,

“I can certainly do old.”

The University of Galway was teeming with new prospective students. Parents in tow, they were checking out their new home. It would be the one and only time the parents got a look in. Their role from now on would be twofold:

(1) Pay for books.

(2) Pay for bail.

De Burgo’s office was in the old part of the building. I noticed Jack’s limp was prominent and he said,

“Gets a sympathy vote.”

A secretary assured us we had to wait for only five minutes, would we like some water?

Jack said,

“With a splash of Jameson.”

She gave him a look that implied:

“Old guys, they still have some moves.”

Then we were told to enter Dr. de Burgo’s chambers. Jack’s face was granite. He looked as though he wished he still held a container of chili sauce.

De Burgo was engrossed in papers, pushed them aside with a sigh, came round the desk, hand extended, said,

“Welcome to my humble retreat.”

Whatever else he implied, humility wasn’t in the mix. He looked like an Ivy League professor from Central Casting. Corduroy jacket over worn plaid shirt and, yes, patches on the sleeves. Pressed navy chinos, boat shoes, a well-tended goatee below deep-set eyes. Eyes that were burning with intensity. But, as Jack would say,

“Off.”

Definitely.

When he looked at you, a sense of unease slid along your spine. He motioned us to sit, then, like Mr. Laidback, perched on the edge of his desk. All was well in his academic principality. He said,

“Now Beckett, just recently I gave a lecture on the postmodern reliance of his language in relation to. .”

Here he paused, made those air quotation marks, continued,

“The current idiom of Anglo-Irish usage.”

Silence hovered.

Then Jack said,

“Cut the shit, pal.”

Like a slap in the face. He turned, faced Jack, asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

Jack stood, looming over him, said,

“See this list of girls? Ring any postmodern bells?”

Shoved the four girls’ names in his face. Took him a moment, then his face regrouped, he sprang from the desk, reached for the phone, said,

“I think security are needed.”

Jack, unfazed, asked,

“You going to surrender to them?”

I was up, grabbing Jack’s arm, said,

“We’ll be leaving.”

As we got to the door, Jack said,

“We’ll be coming for you, fuckhead.”

And I got him as far as the secretary. On her feet, she asked,