Ken Bruen: Dublin Noir

The Englishman turned and left.

“I’m shaking in me boots,” Fred says. “Threatened by a scut who can’t hold down a job in this economy.” I remembered then, the Brit had been fired. Incompetence, I think. They’d been so desperate for bodies they’d offered to retrain him. He told them to fuck off, and went back on the dole.

I must have been buckled because I found myself in Megan’s gaff a bit after the holy hour. She was a fine thing, Megan. She had the map of Ireland painted on her face, and since I was going in without me slicker, sweet baby Jesus willing, I’d paint a map of the Hebrides all over her sweet belly, in a shade of white paler than her skin.

I don’t know why she took me home. She’d never fancied me before I defended her wee bit of honor. Maybe it was a deeper need, or maybe she really did like me. I stopped thinking about it as soon as I got a glimpse of her pubes.

I love Dublin in the rain, the drops bouncing off the bricks, the stabbers looking like boats riding little rivers between the cobblestones; reminds me of my history lesson. Some of the Vikings, tired of rape and pillage, took a fancy to the place where the River Poddle joined the Liffey; Dubh linn, Black pool in the old language. They’d settled down, married some of the local women, and started trading with the painted inland chiefs.

I felt bad about pulling a legger on Megan, but I thought kindly of her, a heavy blanket between the chill predawn morning and her fine pelt.

She’d surprised me the night before, when we tangled up in each other after we’d done with the rasher. She’d the accent and the attitude, had her pegged for skanger, but she was a bogger, slipped out of Sligo a little after her fourteenth birthday and managed to stay two footfalls away from the whorehouse steps since. I felt like I was the only jackeen left in the whole pissing city.

That is, till the hurley stick took my legs out from under me. I figured it was a couple of local lads looking for a quick score. Then I thought better of it.

It was the worst beating of my life, and not on account of the pain. A couple of Manchester boys and a Yank had turned my piss to blood a few years ago when I was on the piss after a football match. I’d limped around for a few months after that one. I’d probably shrug this one off in under a week. Still, I prayed for a two bulb, or even a wasp to save me from the humiliation.

The fucking wog and the sasancach used hurley sticks on me. Judging by the dried flecks of blood mingling with my fresh batch, I’d say they were the same pieces of Irish ash they’d used to work over the narrowback. The fucking wankers had probably paid for them with euros.

C aidé an scéal?

Conas atá tu?

Oh, not Oirish, are you? Funny. You’ve got the pale skin, dark hair, the whole Gaelic vibe ’bout you.

Me? Spent a lot of time here and there. A lot of it here.

No, not literally here , in this pub. Nice place, though, innit? Trés Victorian.

Hey, let a girl buy you a drink.

Yeah, I’m foukin’ serious. Fancy a pint?

Oh. A Scotch man. A thousand pardons. Allan, could you pour this handsome devil here a Johnnie Walker black? To match his hair.

It’s a joke, boyo.

You’re a serious one, aren’t you?

Let me take a wild foukin’ guess: You’re American. And your wedding ring’s in your carry-on, right?

Yeah, sure I’ll watch your drink. I’ve got Allan here to keep me company.

That was quick.

Yeah, sarcasm. Bingo.

Ah, just drink up. Your ice is already melting. Tell me about yourself.

Hi, Jason. I’m Vanessa. Glad we covered the basics.

No, you first. I insist. I’ll get to me in a little while.

Sin scéal eile?

Ah. Knew you were a customer-relations man, Jay. I could just tell.

Ever scale the museum steps-like in Rocky?

Nah, never been. I’m sure I’ll make it there eventually.

Yes, yes.

Hmm.

Very interesting. Really. Would I lie to you, Jaybird?

Oh me?

Me, I’ve got a plane to catch in exactly fourteen hours. Which means I’ve got time to kill. And to be perfectly blunt, Jason, I’d like to spend it with you.

Which is why I poisoned your drink…

Uh-huh.

As you Americans say: deadly.

Whoops.

Was it something I said?

Tá tú air ais.

Means, “I knew you couldn’t cut it abroad.”

It usually takes a few minutes to sink in.

Yeah, it’d be easy to think I’m crazy. Or that I’ve got a seriously sick sense of humor. But part of you is wondering, right? Wondering if there’s a tiny chance that I’m serious?

Jason, mo ghrá, I’m completely serious.

Hand on the Holy Book, I poisoned your drink.

Nasty stuff, too. I’m not going to bore you with the precise chemical compound-you probably didn’t like chemistry in secondary school in Philadelphia, did you?

Didn’t think so.

Well, let’s just cut the shit-in about twelve hours, you’re going to be bleeding out yer eyes. Your skin’s going to turn red and slough off your muscles. It’ll start with an itch. Then you’ll itch all over. It’ll drive you crazy. And you’ll scratch. And you won’t be able to stop.

Yeah. Weapons-grade.

I know it’s easy for you to think that.

Such a mouth on you.

Walk out of this bar and you’ll never see Philadelphia again.

They’re called gardaí here. Guards. And they can’t help you.

No one can.

Only me.

Hey, Jaybird… pub closes at midnight!

An hour and forty-five minutes. That’s a new record.

You started itching, didn’t you?

Oh, sit down. I’ll explain everything. Almost.

Want another drink?

Swear to Christ, I’ll leave it be.

Suit yourself.

Here it is, Jaybird. I’ve been poisoned, too. No, not with the same stuff. Something else. Something worse. If I’m alone, my heart will stop. And my brain will burst.

Oh, I wish it were a bloody poem. No, I mean it literally.

If I don’t have someone within six feet of me at all times, I will die.

What’s that?

Look around you. We’re in a crowded pub on Dame Court. Plenty of people. Until midnight. Until I have to leave and go for a walk down Dame Lane. If I’m not with someone like you, I’ll be one dead dame.

Gallows humor is my specialty. It’s on my CV. Right after biochemistry.

Nah, I never did tell you, did I? Well take a wild foukin’ guess.

Uh-huh. U.S. of A.

I work here. The Celtic Tiger’s been roaring. We’ve got all kinds of labs.

More on the research end, but yeah. You’ve got it.

Ah, I know you’re humoring me. But that’s okay. As long as you humor me for the next twelve hours.

No way, huh?

Okay, then. Piss off.

Really, I’ll poison some other handsome devil. Have a nice flight. Hope your bride doesn’t mind a closed casket.

Bí curamach.

Allan, I’d suck a dick for another pint, so how about it?

Back now, are you?

Your skin must be driving you mad by now.

Me? You want to know about me?

Ah, you’re just looking for the antidote. Nothing more. Maybe a blowjob before you die. Yeah, well ask me arse, ye bollix. I’m desperate. Just not that desperate.

Yeah, I know what I said to Allan. It’s an Oirish thing. Ironic exaggeration. You wouldn’t understand.

Okay, fine, the antidote. We’ll get to that. In a while. First you’ve got to hear my story. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the abridged version.

Look above you. Past the ceiling of this pub, deep into the clear Irish sky. Not as far as the stars. Just below. Can you see it? The spinning silver ball?