Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

The sheer bastardry of alcoholism. I wanted a drink so badly, I could taste it.

The fourth and final grave: Sarah Henderson. A teenage girl, her grave was immaculate, weeded, tidied and laden with framed poems and fluffy toys. Everyone from Britney through Barbie to a Barney doll. Her mother had come to me, pleading I prove her daughter was not a suicide. A number of young girls had died in an apparent “suicide epidemic”. The case got solved. The girls had been murdered. The awful kicker was, Sarah did kill herself. Of course, I never told her mother. By then I was madly in love with her. I blew it all to hell and gone. A voice said,

“Jack.”

For a moment, I thought Sarah had called. Then a shadow fell across me. Ann Henderson, looking radiant. Her face glowing, those eyes looked at me. Summoning all my repartee, I said,

“Ann.”

She looked at her daughter’s grave, said,

“You brought six white roses.”

“Well.”

“You remembered, how wonderful.”

I had no idea what to do. Tried to get my mind in gear, but would it help? Would it fuck. She was examining me closely, said,

“Your nose has been broken again. Oh, Jack, what are we going to do with you?”

We!

She, however, could do whatever her heart desired. Am I weak? Oh boy…and she was saying,

“But you have lovely teeth; are they crowns?”

“Mmm…sort of.”

You’d think I’d have settled, got some bearings. No way, José. She asked, in that awful concerned fashion exclusive to those you’ve lost,

“How are you, Jack?”

I was giddy and, worse, reckless. Call it punch drunk. Said,

“I’m married actually.”

Wouldn’t that actually blow your head off? It did mine. I prayed she wouldn’t be happy for me. She gushed,

“Oh, Jack, how wonderful. Is she a local girl?”

“No…um…she’s left me.”

“Jack.”

I had to know about her life, and even though I dreaded knowing, I asked,

“What about you, still seeing, um…?”

“Yes, we’ve set a date for June. You’ll have to come, promise you will.”

I don’t know what I said. I stumbled away, bumping into headstones, cursing, near weeping. On the side of the van, one of the kids had glow scratched,

“TINKER.”

I’d spoken on the phone with Laura. Went like this:

“Jack, I miss you.”

“Good Lord, that’s…”

“Will I see you?”

“Sure.”

“Because Keegan is seeing my friend, like totally. She’s going to try for his baby.”

“That’ll get his attention. Look, how about a meal tomorrow night?”

“You’ll bring me to a restaurant, really?”

Why did I keep feeling she was winding me up? As soon as I got eager, people would leap out shouting,

“Ejit!”

Keep it low gear.

“I’ll meet you at eight in Garavan’s; we’ll take it from there.”

“I’ll look really nice for you, Jack.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Had eased my way back from the daily intake of coke. This could only be a good thing. I went to bed early and seemed to only just have got to sleep when the phone rang. I checked the clock, four…went,

“This better be bloody vital.”

“Jack, did I wake you?”

“Who’s this?”

“Thought you’d be guzzling whiskey all night.”

“Bryson.”

“What happened to you calling me Ron? Ah, be friendly, Jack.”

“Was there something?”

Could hear playfulness in his voice, a languid tone.

“I wanted to fuck with you, Jack, like you did with me today.”

“You’re getting there, pal.”

“Been doing your homework on me, Jack?”

“Why…have you something to hide?”

“Am I like ‘the Prime Suspect’? You, alas, are no Helen Mirren.”

“Would you like that, Ron, being a suspect?”

“Don’t patronise me, you worthless piece of sodden garbage.”

“Whoa…got a hard on for drinkers…that it, Ron?”

“How dare you presume to analyse me. Think about this, Mr Private Dick…Ann Henderson.”

I caught my breath. He heard it, said,

“Give you a start, did I, Jack? Now you have some clue as to who you’re dealing with.”

I needed some points fast; needed a cig, too, but fucked if I could see them, said,

“I know who I’m dealing with all right.”

“Pray tell?”

This last in a falsetto.

“A sick fuck who jerks off against windows.”

“8B, Hidden Valley, have I that right, Jack?”

Got me again, continued,

“Maybe I’ll drop by, catch you unawares.”

“You threatening me, Ron? I don’t do threats well.”

“You’ll grow accustomed. Alas, I must grab some zzzzzs, an endless line of deadbeat drunks to fix tomorrow.”

“Fix?”

“Oh, yes, Jack, I fix them fine. You’ll see soon enough.”

Click.

Got out of bed cursing,

“Where’s the fucking cigarettes?”

I couldn’t get hold of Keegan next day as he was touring Connemara. God help them, I thought. Sweeper was defending his position as leader of his clan. Literally. Every so often, a young buck would challenge and they’d settle it bare knuckled. Venues were usually held round Mullingar and attracted huge crowds. The betting aspect was the magnet, and fortunes were wagered. Nobody can generate cash flow like the clans. The guards would be reliably informed as to time, date and location. They’d overreact and flood a totally incorrect part of the country. The media particularly relished it and gave prime time to guards stopping innocent motorists. I had promised to attend at a later time. Not altogether sure I would.

I arranged to meet Brendan Flood. He suggested Super-mac’s. I got there first and took a table. Sign of the new Ireland, two black men were cleaning tables. I made a point of saying “Hello” but seemed to frighten them. Jesus, wait till they saw what the pubs and clubs disgorged at four in the morning. Then they’d know fear. Both the guards and the taxi men avoided it during the war zone. Those guys know. Brendan arrived in a suit, remarkably similar to my own recent purchase. I said,

“They get the dry cleaning free.”

“Who?”

“Vincent de Paul.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a detective.”

He looked round, and I asked,

“Why meet here?”

“They do lovely curried chips.”

“Want some?”

“Oh, no. I gave them up for penance.”

I let it slide. Would only open up all that ecclesiastical mayhem. I passed over a wad of money, said,

“For the missions.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Ronald Bryson’s address and the times he’s out.”

He nodded, asked,

“You met with him?”

“I did.”

“Is he the one?”

“He’s the one.”

I took my mobile phone on the date. Rarely I took it anywhere. I need to get out more. When it rings, it puts the shite cross-ways in me, and I swear “never again”. Only Jeff, Sweeper and Keegan had the number. Gave me an artificial sense of control. Dressed to impress. Wore the now-creaking leather. One day of Galway rain would wipe them notions. A white shirt and soft-to-softer faded jeans. You put them on, your body sways to the music of thanks. The off-white colour between stone and disintegration. Then the Bally boots. Oh, Kiki.

Walking down the town, two guards were coming towards me. Their combined age might be twenty. I said in the Galway vernacular,

“Min.”

They said,

“Sir.”

How old was that?

Garavan’s was hopping nicely. Old Galway still prowls there. A school friend said,