Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“We clean chimneys.”

“Oh, and as we speak, what are the lads doing?”

“That’s two questions.”

“You’re counting?”

“The lads are preparing the way.”

“I see.”

“You will.”

The light flashed. I had the 9mm in the waistband at my back, like in the best movies. Jeez, I didn’t even know was it loaded. Didn’t feel it was the time to ask. The house was mock Tudor, acres of ivy obliterating the front. The door was opened, and I followed Sweeper. Down a hall littered with spares, bicycles, stripped down engines. Into a huge living room. The lads were in possession. Two sat on a fat guy on the floor. A skinnier version was sitting in an armchair, a knife held to his throat. Both the men were in shorts and singlets. Sweeper said,

“The fat one on the floor is Charlie; the other, the brains, is Fergal.”

Hearing his name, Fergal smiled. A bruise was already forming on his cheek. He spat, said,

“Taylor, you stupid cunt.”

The lad on the left smacked a fist in his ear. Rocked him, but the defiance stayed full. I said,

“Lads, move away.”

They looked to Sweeper, who nodded. I took out the 9mm, moved over, asked,

“Fergal, is it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Jeez, Ferg, easy with the language.”

He felt he was almost back in control, said,

“See that gun, I’ll ram it up your arse.”

Charlie, on the floor, despite a bloodied face, cackled, shouted,

“You tell him, Fergal.”

Emboldened, Fergal roared,

“What are you going to do, shithead?”

I said,

“First this…”

I turned and shot Charlie in the knee, continued,

“Then I’m going to castrate you.”

Charlie shrieked, and I said,

“Gag him.”

Fergal was afraid, sweat blinding him. I said,

“Watch.”

Stuck the barrel in his nuts, asked,

“Anything else?”

“Oh, Christ, Taylor…please…it got out of hand, we’re sorry.”

I said,

“You owe me for a set of teeth.”

“Sure, no problem. Jesus, anything you want. You like videos, we have brilliant films.”

“I want your teeth.”

Cracked the barrel into his mouth, bent down, said,

“I never want to hear from you again.”

He nodded, holding his mouth. I turned to Sweeper, said,

“I’m done.”

Back in the van, I tried to light a cig. Couldn’t. Sweeper did it, stuck the filter in my mouth. He put the van in gear and we eased slowly out of there. After a time, Sweeper said,

“I thought you were going to do it, shoot his balls off.”

I took a long hit, said,

“So did I.”

Soft laughter from the back. I should have paid more attention to those lads. The fact that I didn’t would cost me in a way I could never have imagined.

Kiki arrived on a wet afternoon. I took a cab to the airport to meet her. The driver was saying,

“There’s been positive dope testing at the Para-Olympics.”

You can’t encourage taxi drivers. Even the most noncommittal grunt is interpreted as,

“You are so fascinating, please tell me all your opinions on everything immediately and never let me get a word in.”

He was off.

“Now your regular Olympics, OK, we expect them to cheat. But your cripples and such, you think they’d have integrity, am I right?”

Next we’d get to whose fault it was. He asked,

“Know who I blame?”

“No idea.”

“Your Arabs.”

“Oh.”

“They drug the water.”

When we got to Carnmore, I asked,

“Can you wait?”

“Sure. You want me to come inside, grab a tea with you?”

“No.”

As Kiki came through the gate, my heart did a minor chord. Not wild abandon, more a distant relative. She looked gorgeous. Navy jacket, faded blue cords. I said,

“You look gorgeous.”

Put her arms round me, full kiss, said,

“Jack, you’re blushing.”

“That’s mortification.”

Got her bags, and to my relief, they were small. Not planning a long trip. Getting in the cab, I said,

“Don’t mention sport.”

As we pulled out, the driver said,

“There’s been positive dope testing…”

At Hidden Valley, I was carrying Kiki’s bags from the cab when the neighbour passed. He winked, said,

“You yoke.”

The English might say “you rascal”, but it hasn’t the same flavour.

She loved the house. I got some drinks, said,

“Sláinte.”

“Oh, I like that word. I like you. What happened to your nose, your teeth?”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Are you in trouble, Jack?”

“Of course not.”

We went to bed. I wish I could say I delighted her. I didn’t. She said,

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

“Nothing, I’m just not used to you.”

“Maybe the alcohol, the cocaine, they robbed you.”

“No…Jeez, a few days, I’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Neither of us believed it. That evening, I said,

“Come and meet some friends.”

We went to Nestor’s. The sentry ignored us. Jeff was tending bar. I said,

“Jeff, this is Kiki, a friend from London.”

She shot me a look. Jeff shouted for Cathy and asked,

“Can I get you something to say welcome to Ireland?”

“A small Guinness.”

“I’ll have a pint, Jeff.”

Cathy arrived, curiosity writ large. Her pregnancy was very developed, and she and Kiki got into woman talk. We were sitting on stools, Cathy behind the bar with Jeff, when Cathy asked,

“Well, Jack, how come you kept this terrific woman a secret?”

Kiki looked at me, then asked Cathy,

“Jack hasn’t told you?”

“No, nothing.”

“I’m Jack’s wife.”

Even the sentry went,

“What?”

Jeff recovered first, went and got a bottle of champagne. Cathy remained stunned. Kiki said,

“I’m going.”

I followed her outside, said,

“But they’re preparing a celebration.”

“I will need keys, Jack.”

I handed over the spare set I’d been planning to give her later. She asked,

“Where do I ask for?”

I told her and she hailed a cab. I half hoped it was the Olympic guy. Then she was gone. Back in the bar, all stood waiting. I said,

“Better put the champagne on ice.”

The sentry said,

“Their first row.”

Cathy added,

“I doubt it.”

I ordered a large Jameson, took my hard seat. Cathy brought it over, asked,

“Can I sit?”

“Sure.”

I got a cig going, circled my drink. Cathy asked,

“Is whiskey a good idea?”

“Is marriage?”

“Good heavens, Jack, how come you never said?”

“I don’t know. I think I thought it was a London thing. You know, come home, leave the bedsit, all that behind.”

“But God…I mean…did you love her…what?”

“I was a little crazy over there.”

“What a change.”

“Yea, yea, anyway, I thought it would settle me. She has a doctorate in metaphysics.”

“Is that supposed to tell me something? I can’t even pronounce it.”

“It’s the study of being.”

“Gee, Jack, that really clears it up for me.”

“I thought she might see into my soul, see some redemption.”

Cathy stood up, said,

“The baby’s kicking, I’ll have to lie down. You’re going to have to stop the coke, you know that, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

A little later, a man came in, spotted me, walked over. He was familiar but that’s all. He said,

“Jack.”

“Yea?”

“I’m Brendan Flood.”

“Of course. I’m not long married; it appears to have rattled me. A drink?”

“A mineral, please.”

Got that squared away. Least he didn’t ask for a straw. He had aged badly. Wearing a donkey jacket with the leather patches. Opened it to reveal a heavy silver cross. I said,