Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“I used to hang with Cathy in her punk days.”

“Oh, right.”

“You’re the old guy…Taylor…Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“She said you were a cool dude.”

“Thanks again.”

I thought he was going to hit me for a loan so I said,

“Good to see you.”

“Listen, you want to score some speed?”

On the verge of saying no, I thought, “Hold a mo’.” I was pulling an all-nighter, an edge would help. I said,

“Sure, give me a few.”

Not cheap. Course the addict in me wanted to drop one immediately, see how it went. My teeth were dancing in their gums from lack of coke. Went home and rang Cathy.

“Jack, how are you?”

“Doing good. How’s the man?”

“He’s hurting.”

“Way it goes.”

“But he hasn’t taken a cure or anything, so I’m hoping it’s finished. Do you think it is?”

“Jeez, Cathy, I don’t know. But he has a better shot than most.”

“Jack?”

“So you won’t try to lure him away?”

“What?”

“Please, Jack?”

“No, I guarantee I won’t try to tempt him.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

Click. I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. The phone went. She was going to apologise. Keegan.

“Are you missing me, boyo?”

“I sure am.”

“I did some more checking on Bryson, even spoke to his mother.”

“And?”

“Yea, his old man was a vicious drunk and abused the boy in all sorts of ways.”

“So he has motivation to hate drunks.”

“Yea,…but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t think he’s your boy.”

“Oh, come on, Keegan, when you were here, you were ready to frame him.”

“Listen, Jack, I hate to be wrong. His mother and others say he was always claiming to have done things to get attention. Here’s the kicker: he might hate alkies, but he’s done an awful lot of good, too, really helped them.”

“Sorry, Keegan, the fuck sent me a hand.”

“A real one?”

“No, plastic, and trust me, the shock was real enough.”

“That’s it, Jack. He’s a nuisance and needs a kick in the head, that’s all.”

“Keegan, London has screwed up your head. It’s him.”

“Look, Jack, there’s lots more, I…”

“I’ve got to go, Keegan.”

“Jack, come on, think about it.”

“I already did. Got to go.”

Click.

London was like that, put all sorts of doubts in your head. I’d have to bring Keegan back, straighten him out.

I had hoped never to see Nimmo’s Pier again. A daunting task if you live in Galway as it’s the crucial point in walking the Prom. That walk is mandatory. I had drowned my best friend from there, with malice aforethought. The largest gathering of swans is at the Claddagh, and the pier is the focal point. There is only one way to approach the birds, and that’s down a slipway to the water. Most days, somebody’s there, distributing bread. The swans gather at this feeding point. You plan on killing one, this is where you have to do it. A week now since the last slaughter, I got down there at two in the morning. The lights of the city across the bay. I kept my eyes averted from Nimmo’s, found a place to hunker down against the wind. In my dark clothes, I was invisible to passers-by. Least, hoped I was.

Clad in my all-weather coat, thermal gear and gloves, I could endure the wind. A black watch cap pulled over my ears. As preparation, I’d filled a thermos with coffee and brandy. Music and laughter floated across the water. I nipped from the flask. My legs were aching with stiffness, and I did some exercises to free them. At four, fatigue came calling and I popped the amphetamines. For twenty minutes, nothing; figured the guy had sold me a dud. Well, I’d have his ass. Next thing, I was near catapulted to my feet with a jolt of energy. Cranked? I was in hyperspace. Into my mind came “Speed kills”, followed by “Who gives a toss?” My heart was accelerating by the second, and I was digging it. You’re in serious bother when massive palpitations are a buzz.

And buzzing it was. Felt I could bend iron bars with my teeth. The inspiration for a novel came roaring down the pike and I speed-wrote it in jig time. Wanted to shout,

“It’s going to be a classic.”

Kept hopping up and down like Johnny Rotten at his zenith. Jumped up on the road, begging the swan killer to show. He didn’t. Eight o’clock, winding down, I headed home. My face felt raw with twitches, the nerve ends were electric. A milkman said, “Good morning,” and I roared, “GOOD MORNING TO YOU.” Tried to rein it in but shouted at a postman and a cleaner. Took me two hours to get to the house as my feet propelled me into hundred metre dashes. Finally home, I ran up and down the stairs in a frenzy. With the thermal gear on! The crash when it came was nasty and brutish. Collapsed on the sofa, totally wiped. Focused on the clock and saw it was noon, muttered,

“Not-High Noon.”

Slept then till ten at night. Coming round, thought,

“You are no way up to speed.”

Tried the restoration stuff: shower, food, coffee, fresh clothes. Barely dented the speed afterburn.

Come midnight, I prepared again. When this was done, I checked the mirror. Not good. The skin on my face was grey, my eyes like high points of lunacy. Trudged again to the Claddagh. Whatever else happened, I wouldn’t be using the speed. Took my place against the wall as heavy rain began. If the attacker showed up, the very best I could do was call him names. He didn’t show. Odd times, I dozed, just enough to run through a nightmare. Round four, I woke to two swans pecking at my feet. I shouted,

“…the fuck away!”

They hissed and seemed set to strike. The sound they make is truly intimidating. I forced myself to stay still, and finally they waddled away. I was fast losing my fondness for them. The early hours of the morning, cold wet and depressed, I muttered,

“Am I too old for Tesco?”

The swans were beginning to scare the bejaysus out of me. In the half light, they appeared so menacing. I drank often from the flask, begging the brandy to ignite. As dawn began to break, I swore.

“No more; I’m through with this.”

At nine, I moved from my vigil and climbed wearily on to the walk. A spasm of dizziness, and I barely made it to the bench. Tried to light a cig but they were sodden. A short time later, I heard,

“Jack Taylor?”

Turned to see the swan guy. I nodded and he said,

“My God, you look awful.”

“It’s my disguise.”

“Have you been here all night?”

“Yea.”

He indicated the houses behind, said,

“Look, I live over there…St Jude’s. I’ll get you breakfast, a hot shower.”

“No, I’m OK.”

“I apologise for the outburst the other day. I see now you’re a conscientious person.”

I stood up, said,

“I’ll have to go.”

He put out his hand, said,

“Thank you for helping.”

I’d gotten about a hundred yards when he shouted,

“I’m going to personally see to it that you get another pound.”

I was tempted to go,

“My cup overfloweth.”

But he was, as the Irish say, “a harmless idiot”, so I simply waved my hand. My bile could be better directed.

Laura came by the next evening. She’d bought Chinese and we’d a mini feast. With a shy expression she said,

“I bought wine.”

“Great.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Me neither.”

Big smile.

“You’re a lovely man.”

“So, what did you get?”

“ Beaujolais, is that all right?”

“Perfect.”

Later, she said,

“Something odd happened last night.”