Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“Slow down, boyo.”

“Fuck off.”

He didn’t let go of my arm, said,

“It’s been a long time since anyone said that to me, Jack.”

“You want to let go of my arm?”

“Tell me what you’re doing, Jack.”

I gave a long sigh, one my mother would have been proud of. Could feel some of the white heat dissipating. I wanted to hug it closer, said,

“I’m going to tear that fucker’s head off.”

“Not smart, Jack.”

“Screw smart. You said yourself you’d destroy anyone who touched your woman.”

He nodded.

“But not with witnesses. Let me go up there, see what the story is. You hang here, smoke a cig, get your act together.”

It made sense, so I said,

“It makes sense.”

“OK, see you anon.”

I watched him walk to the green, turn towards the Simon. Even from a distance, you could sense the balled up menace of his posture. I tried not to think about the damage I wanted to inflict. Sat on the small wall, favoured seat of many drinking schools. The meths passed round here didn’t come in a fancy bottle or get stocked in trendy pubs. No, it was true rot gut, what they called “Jack” or “White Lady” in south-east London, 100 proof methylated spirits. I’d sipped it on rare occasions.

Moved my mind to books. Tommy Kennedy had said,

“There’ll be times when the only refuge is books. Then you’ll read as if you meant it, as if your life depended on it.”

My life and certainly my sanity had fled to reading through a thousand dark days. Resolved to get hold of James Sallis and his bio of Chester Himes. I’d reread all of David Gates. His Jernigan was my life if I’d had a formal education. Heard,

“Jack!”

Snapped out of it, looked at Keegan. He asked,

“Jeez, Jack, where did you go?”

“I was here.”

“Not if your eyes are any guide. Tell you, boyo, you’re going to have to quit the nose candy; it’s frying your brain.”

“I was thinking of books.”

“I rest my case.”

I stood up, asked,

“What went down?”

“He’s legged it, gave his notice.”

“Fuck.”

Connections were screaming in my head, couldn’t match them. Keegan said,

“My govenor came through from London.”

“Who?”

“My chief inspector.”

“What did he find out?”

“Our boy comes from money, like major bucks. Did public school, all that good shit. He’s a bona fide social worker all right. Now here’s the thing, he was attached to at least ten centres. The ones who had either street alcoholics or what the do-gooders call ‘the Marginalised’. He always left each place under a cloud. No specific charges, but a definite cloud of disturbance. So, people could disappear, who the fuck would notice? Then he did what the smart sickos do; he emigrated.”

The connection hit. I said,

“He follows Laura, deliberately, assaults her, knowing what she’ll do. That she’ll call me. I’ll come charging and my house is empty.”

Keegan nodded, said,

“Let’s get down there.”

“He’ll have been and gone.”

“But let’s see what he’s gone and left you.”

On our way there, he said,

“You think, Jack, that I don’t get the Irish. That I’m some sort of plastic paddy.”

I started to protest but he ploughed on.

“Just because I love the blarney shit doesn’t mean I’m blind. My mother was Irish, and when they’re rearing kids in England, they’re more Irish than you’ll ever know. She used to say, ‘Rear? I didn’t rear ye, ye were kept at room temperature like Fruitfield jam.’ You might have lived here, laddie, but I was fucking marinated in it. I knew what a hurley was before I could walk. When she used it, I definitely couldn’t walk. So do me a favour, pal, don’t pull Celtic rank on me.”

I was saved from a reply as we’d arrived at the house. The door was open. Keegan went,

“Uh-oh.”

And went first. The smell hit straight away. A huge crap in the kitchen. All the crockery was smashed and excrement smeared on the walls. In the front room, the new books were in tatters, the remains piled on the slashed sofa and reeking of urine. Keegan said,

“I’ll get cleaning.”

I went upstairs. My new clothes in bits and stuffed in the toilet, a note left on my pillow.

“Wanna play, Jack?”

Keegan shouted,

“Bad?”

The coke was gone, but more worrying, so was the 9mm. I was debating whether to tell Keegan when the phone rang. He said,

“I’ll get it.”

Obviously I only got Keegan’s side, which went like this.

“Jack’s not available. Oh, I know who you are, Ronald. Who am I? I’m Detective Sergeant Keegan from the Met, and I’ve a full report on you, son. Quite a work record. Oh dear, that’s very foul language. Yes, I’ve seen your actions here. Very impressive. I do hope you wiped your arse. Don’t shout, Ron, that’s a good lad. You’re leaving the country! Think about this, boyo; some day soon, you’ll get a tap on the shoulder and guess who? We have something in common…Oh, yes, I have a very dodgy past. I’m the animal you Guardian readers get orgasms about. No, no, Ronald, don’t worry about jurisdiction, because I certainly won’t. You’ll get to shit your pants again, and I’ll make you eat it. Okey-dokey, cheerio…lovely to chat with you.”

I was standing next to Keegan as he hung up, asked,

“He’s leaving?”

“So he says.”

“I had a gun here; it’s gone.”

“No sweat, I’ll make him eat that, too.”

“I don’t think he’ll go yet.”

“Me neither.”

Keegan said he’d yellow-page it and have the house cleaned, told me,

“Go see your girl.”

“Thanks, Keegan.”

“It’s no big deal. It’s what I do, clean up shite.”

“I feel odd calling you Keegan all the time. What’s your first name?”

“You feel odd! Gee, that’s a pity, get over it.”

At Roches, they were selling badges. I’d almost passed when the name struck me; pushed a note in the box, took two badges. Put one in my lapel and the other in my pocket. When I got to Nestor’s, Jeff was watching Sky News, said,

“Another recount, but I think Bush will get it. That or jail.”

The sentry asked,

“Is McGovern still alive?”

No one answered, so he added,

“I liked Carter because of the peanuts.”

Jeff said,

“The girl is fine. She’s upstairs with Cathy and the baby.”

He caught the glint of gold in my lapel, asked,

“What’s with the badge? Not the Pioneers, is it?”

I moved close, let him have a good look. It was two hands, the fingers barely touching. He asked,

“What’s it in aid of?”

I took a deep breath, aware that this could go horribly wrong, said,

“The Down’s Syndrome Association. Represents ordinary society reaching out to…”

I stopped, had put it across in the worst way. He said,

“I like it.”

I took the second from my pocket, said,

“Here.”

He held it in his hand, said,

“You took a risk.”

“You know me, Jeff, Mr Sail-Close-to-the-Wind.”

He pinned it on his shirt, said,

“ ’Preciate it.”

Upstairs everybody was hugging the baby. Cathy was watching with a wondrous expression. I asked,