Ken Bruen - Dublin Noir

“I’m sure Hannah is just trying to be helpful,” I said. “And you’d feel awful if you didn’t invite her.”

“You’re so right. This is so exciting! My last hurrah as a single woman and all my best friends will be with me. It’ll be fantastic!”

I said no more.

A month later, the six of us boarded a Ryanair plane and spent the hour-long flight catching up. It was the first time in a year we’d all been together, and as the noise level increased, I remembered why I’d always begged off: There was something about women in groups that made my skin crawl. One-on-one was fine, but en masse, I remembered these were Deborah’s friends, not mine; that she’d befriended each of them in primary school or uni or at work, and that I had little in common with them.

It was bad form to take out the crime novel I was only pages away from finishing, so I pretended to take part in the conversation. Thank God it was a short flight.

As I stared into space, I heard a snatch of conversation from behind me.

“Did you see Sam before you left?”

“No, Carol. He left a message saying he was stuck at work.”

“Typical, isn’t it?”

“I know, but he’s a very busy man, what could he do?”

Hannah cut in. “Too busy to say goodbye to his fiancée? Ridiculous.”

I tuned them out. I thought about what I would do when I finally reached Dublin. I had no desire to see the usual tourist crap, but didn’t expect anyone else to share my interest in lesser-known haunts. No doubt they’d spend most of their time shopping.

Sure enough, once we’d arrived and settled ourselves in the hotel bar, Adele announced to loud approving noises that she wanted to go to Grafton Street “to see what Dublin deems high fashion.”

I declined. “I’m rather knackered at the moment. What say we meet up back here at 8 o’clock before going to Temple Bar?”

“That’ll do. Enjoy… whatever it is you’ll be doing,” said Deborah.

I lay down in my room for a few minutes but quickly grew restless. I had a pilgrimage to make. After asking the concierge for directions, a ten-euro cab ride took me outside the premises of the Irish-Jewish Museum in the Portobello district. The building was a lot smaller than I’d imagined, and the actual museum was even tinier: a room filled with mementos of several lost Irish-Jewish communities and an entire section devoted to Chaim Herzog, the Dublin-born former President of Israel.

The curator, a stout woman in her late thirties, looked almost apologetic. “The communities were very small, and they didn’t donate very much. But we do what we can.”

“You don’t need to apologize at all,” I said. “It’s wonderful. I’m so glad I could come.”

“You also know about the upstairs synagogue?”

“Is it open for visitors?”

She smiled. “You’re in luck. But only for another hour.” She stepped away when another, more irate visitor, demanded she answer his question.

I left the room and walked upstairs. What awaited me were the remnants of one of the oldest city synagogues in all its haphazard glory. To my left was the ark, half-open with a Torah scroll peeking through; a thin layer of dust covered the wooden pews, and a display to my right held toys donated by the area schools. It had been a very long time since I’d stepped inside the premises of any sort of synagogue, and I hadn’t given much thought to praying lately. But suddenly, I was gripped with the desire to face the ark, kneel down, and pray.

I’m sorry , my mind repeated over and over. And I hope you’ll understand .

The fever passed and I stood up, mildly disoriented. A voice called out to me: “Miss? We’re closing the museum soon.”

I checked my watch. Six o’clock already. I dashed down the stairs, called a cab, and was back in my hotel room within twenty minutes. After a quick shower and change, I headed down to the bar, certain I was early. Deborah and the girls were well into their second round.

“You have a good afternoon then?” Hannah asked somewhat condescendingly. I noticed she was wearing new shoes, which pointed in odd directions and were decidedly unflattering.

“I got a good nap,” I replied, trying not to stare at her shoes.

Too late. “Ferragamo. I never thought I’d find them in this ridiculous town.”

“Stop it, Hannah,” said Deborah, who’d swiveled herself in our direction, “We should get to Temple Bar. It’s probably a madhouse by now.”

It was. I’d warned Deborah, but even I couldn’t imagine how many people had crowded themselves into this small area of bars, restaurants, and art galleries. I could barely hear what anyone was saying, and when at one point I tried to sit on a bench in the square’s center, a shabby vagrant launched into a tirade about how he’d earmarked the seat for his own. I jumped away and followed the girls into Gogarty’s, where Deborah had reserved the upper floor for her hen night needs.

Once we’d settled into our seats, Adele took out the tiara, Hannah brought out the lingerie, and a waiter appeared with cocktails. The chattering got louder and the gossip got nastier by the time Deborah quieted us all with a challenge.

“It’s my last big weekend out and I’m with the girls I love most. But before I get married, I have to purge myself of all the shit I used to do as a single girl-”

“You’re still single!” Carol yelled out.

“Barely, and besides, it’ll be so much nicer when I’m married and I can boss you lot around.”

Deborah giggled, and we joined in to humor her, even though it really wasn’t all that funny.

“So in the spirit of things, we’re all going to play a game called Confession.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” I said.

“That’s because I just made it up. But it’ll be great. So, each of you tell us something you’ve never revealed before, then drink your whole cocktail.”

The rest of us glanced around nervously. Deborah was obviously pissed out of her tree, but this was a bit much.

“Well? Who’s going to go first?”

Adele sat up in her chair. “Oh, all right. I shagged two blokes at the same time in uni.”

Laura cackled. “How was it?”

Adele downed her drink. “Bloody painful!”

Everybody laughed, and the tension lifted.

Laura then proudly confessed to skimming a few thousand quid from her boss over the last couple of years. “But you’ve met him,” pointing to Hannah and Carol, “so you see why. He’s a complete tosser.”

They nodded, and Laura drank up.

Carol’s confession was hardly anything, just some bit about shoplifting. The only surprise was where and how much.

“Harrods? A five-thousand-pound sweater?” Deborah’s eyes nearly popped out. “But how did you get away with it?”

Carol shrugged. “Dunno, but it wasn’t so hard. Too nerve-wracking, though, and I wouldn’t do it again.” She looked down and fingered her sleeve. Seeing that, we all drank.

Hannah put down her glass angrily. “You lot make me fucking sick.”

“What?” we chorused.

“You make me absolutely ill! Confessing all these horrendous things. You’re all just play-acting anyway. You wouldn’t know what something horrible is if you stared it in the face!”

Hannah’s own had changed from red to purple.

“It’s confession time, and I’ll tell each and every one of you something, oh yes I will. Adele, you’re a malicious cow who’d stab every one of us in the back if you could. And probably has. Remember David?”

Adele’s face paled.

“Oh, yes bet you thought I’d never find out. You sorry little bitch. And then you, Carol, always stealing my work, passing it off as your own, and then getting better marks!”