Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“Tell me.”

“I went out for a jar with Vicky…you know, my friend?”

“Right.”

“So, we were in Busker’s and these two guys, they kept bothering us, just wouldn’t let up. Anyway, when we left, they tried to grab us on the street. Then this man came out of nowhere and…” she opened her arms wide, “banged…” she brought her palms together, smack, “their heads together, ran them into the wall. He turned to us and said, ‘Miss Nealon, you can carry on now.’ We were like gobsmacked.”

I thought Bill was keeping his word, could only hope when the time came, I’d be able to keep mine. I said,

“Old Galwegians, they look out for each other.”

“Oh, it isn’t anyone you know?”

“Me? No.”

What was I going to tell her, that I’d hired protection. No, I’d keep that deal on the need-to-know basis. There was no way in hell she needed to know. I raised my glass, said,

“Sláinte.”

Third night and I’m crouched against the wall. A driving rain found me at every turn. The swans were huddled towards the shore; felt I’d gotten caught in some episode of The Twilight Zone, for ever surrounded by unpredictable swans. Had decided to cut out early on this vigil, maybe fuck off home at five. Just after four, a figure stopped at the wall, directly above me. I could hear troubled breathing, like asthma or something. I watched as he approached the slipway…

And stepped down.

All I could make out was a long overcoat, wellingtons and, then, a flash of metal. Machete.

He began to walk towards the water. I was up, trying to ease the pain in my joints. I could hear identical sounds to the swans. He was calling them. That spooked me more than anything. Two of the birds were approaching. He raised the knife. I said,

“Yo, shithead.”

He turned and I moved nearer. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, blond hair cut short, an ordinary face, nothing to distinguish it, till you saw the eyes. I once read how Hemingway described Wyndham Lewis as having “the eyes of a professional rapist”. Here they were. He said,

“Fuck off or I’ll cut you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“For me exams.”

“What?”

“Lucifer will give me all A’s for eighteen heads.”

“Eighteen?”

Annoyance crossed his face and he spat,

“Six six six, the number of the beast.”

“Jesus.”

He ran at me. I let him come, then hit him with the stun gun. The voltage took him off his feet and into the water. I was astonished at the power. As the kid thrashed, it crossed my mind to let him drown. Then the swans went at him. I’d a battle to fend them off as I dragged him out. Took a second to catch my breath and then heaved him over my shoulder. He was groaning as I made my way across the road. I banged on the door of St Jude’s till a light came on. Tate opened it and went,

“Oh my God.”

“Here’s your swan killer.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

I laid the kid on the ground, said,

“You better do it quick, whatever it is, as I think the swans took his eye out.”

I turned and started to walk. He shouted,

“Where are you going?”

“For a pint.”

Afterglow

The story made page one.

LOCAL HERO

Galway born Jack Taylor helped apprehend the person suspected of killing swans. In recent weeks, residents of the Claddagh had been outraged at the attacks.

A spokesperson for the area said, “The swans are part of our heritage.”

Mr Taylor, an ex-guard, had mounted a vigil over a number of nights. The alleged perpetrator is believed to be a teenage boy from the Salthill area of the city. Superintendent Clancy, in a brief statement, said:

“The guards are increasingly concerned at the lack of respect by young people for the institutions in the public domain. We will not tolerate wanton vandalism.”

He called on parents to play a more active role in the supervision of young adults. Mr Taylor was unavailable for comment.

I’d finally solved a case. Yup, I cracked it. Did I feel good? Did I fuck. A sense of desolation engulfed me. Cloud of unknowing?…Not quite. I knew and was not consoled. Emptiness lit my guts like a palpable sense of dread. Back to basics, back to books. I read as if I meant it. In ’91, I came across David Gates, first novel Jernigan, not a book much ratified by addicts. The narrator is boozy, belligerent, demented. Crucified by his own irony, he is on a course of bended analysis. It depicts the horror of American suburbia. I lent it to a few people who hated it. I asked,

“What about the humour?”

“You’re as sick as Jernigan.”

Valid point. Payback though when he was nominated for the Pulitzer. I settled down to read his short stories titled Wonders of the Invisible World. In “Star Baby”, a gay man leaves the big city for life in his home town, only to find himself cast as a father figure to his detoxing sister’s son.

“Mostly he avoids taking Deke to restaurants, not because of the catamite issue but because the two of them look so alone in the world.”

I thought what a great word catamite was. A little difficult to insert into everyday conversation, but you never knew. The next up was “The Crazy Thought”. A woman misses her true love and chafes at city life with an embittered husband.

“ ‘Nothing wrong with John Le Carré,’ Paul said. ‘I’d hell of a lot sooner read him than fucking John Updike. If we’re talking about Johns here.’ ”

The doorbell went. I said,

“Shite.”

And got up to answer. At first I didn’t recognise him, then,

“Superintendent Clancy.”

He was in civies, dressed in a three piece suit. A big seller in Penney’s three years ago. He asked,

“Might I step in?”

“Got a warrant?”

His face clouded and I said,

“Kidding. Come in.”

Brought him into the kitchen, asked,

“Get you something?”

“Tea, tea would be great.”

He eased himself into a chair, like someone who has recently hurt his back. He surveyed the room, said,

“Comfortable.”

I didn’t think it required an answer. I took a good look at him. When I first knew him, he’d been skinny as a toothpick. We’d been close friends. All of that was long ago. His stomach bulged above his pants. Rolls of fat near closed his eyes, his face was scarlet and his breathing was laboured. I put a mug before him, said,

“I’m all out of bickies.”

He gave a wolf’s smile, said,

“You’re to be congratulated.”

“On a lack of biscuits?”

Shook his head, said,

“The swan business. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Lucky was all.”

“The other business, the tinkers, are you still pursuing that?”

“No, I got nowhere. Couple of your lads gave me a wallop recently, said you ordered it.”

“Ah, Jack, the new lads, they get a touch overzealous.”

“So why are you here?”

“Purely social. We go back a long way.”

And all of it bad. He stood up, the tea untouched.

“There was one thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Bill Cassell, our local hard case, you’d do well to steer clear.”

“Is that a warning?”

“Jack, you’re becoming paranoid. I’m only passing on a friendly word.”

“Here’s a word for you… catamite . Look it up, you’ll be rewarded.”

As he stepped out of the door, a car glided up, a guard got out and opened the rear door. I said,

“Impressive.”

“Rank has its privileges.”

I gave him the stare, said,