Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“What else is new? You, however, are shining.”

“Thanks to you, buddy. I owe you one.”

“Yea, yea, gimme a pint and a half one.”

For a split second, he hesitated, and I said,

“What?”

He got the drinks. The sentry tried again,

“You’re a hero, Jack Taylor.”

“Fuck off.”

Jeff put the drinks on the counter, said,

“On me.”

I got out my money, said,

“No, thanks.”

Took the drinks, my hands shaking, and I had to put them back. Jeff was going to help but saw my face and backed off. I took the short in both hands, drained it. The sentry was mesmerised. I said,

“Didn’t I just tell you?”

He studied his habitual half empty glass. The whiskey hit my stomach like a rocket. Felt the blood rush to my face, knew I’d have the instant barroom tan. A glow rose from my guts, up through my chest, and I felt the ease. A few seconds later and I could lift the pint with one hand, no tremor. Was about to ask Jeff to hit it again when Mikey appeared at my elbow, asked,

“Bit of a party?”

“You want something?”

“We don’t have time. We’re having a bit of a party ourselves.”

He’d a half smirk. I said,

“Time for a fast one.”

I ordered a double and said to Mikey,

“Join me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.”

I lit a cig with the silver Zippo. Mikey said,

“That’s Sweeper’s lighter.”

“So, what’s your point?”

He didn’t have one. I drained the glass, waited for the jolt, said,

“Let’s go.”

Jeff said,

“Take care, Jack.”

I didn’t answer. The Jameson kicked, robbing me temporarily of speech.

Mikey had the van parked outside. Looked battered till you got in and saw it had been custom fit. You could happily live there with all the comforts. I said,

“Nice transformation.”

“I’m good with my hands.”

He put the van in gear, eased into traffic. I asked,

“Where are we going?”

“ Headford Road, the settled community.”

The contempt in his voice was like a knife. I didn’t bite, and he looked across at me, said,

“I’m not a tinker.”

“What?”

“You presume I am.”

“Yo, Mikey. I don’t presume anything about you. This may be hard to believe, but I don’t think about you at all. I met you what…once?”

“Twice.”

“Twice?

“I was along for the Tiernans, remember? Of course, you just saw a band of tinkers.”

I shook my head and got out my cigs, reached for the Zippo. He said,

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, not in my van.”

I lit up, said,

“Like I give a fuck.”

At Woodquay, he said,

“My mother, when I was four, had me out walking at midnight. Ended up at the Fair Green. She tore all her clothes off. Always at a certain point of drink, she’d do that.”

When I didn’t answer, he continued,

“A van hit her, killed her instantly. Not that she felt anything, she was too drunk for that. The tinkers adopted me.”

“Why?”

“Their van.”

“What about your family?”

“It was just me and her…oh, and the booze. In a flat in Rahoon, remember those? You wouldn’t put a dog in them. A Galway ghetto, like America.”

I crushed the butt on the floor, said,

“So why’d you stay? You’re an adult now.”

We were pulling into the driveway of a large house. He said,

“Of all people, you should know there’s no going back.”

As we got out, I asked,

“Who lives here?”

It was a large three-storey affair with adjoining garage. What it conveyed was cash, lots of it. I couldn’t see Mikey’s face, but heard the sneer as he said,

“Who else? Sweeper.”

Mikey led me into the house. Down a hall lined with black and white photographs. Old Galway. Women in shawls, men in cloth caps. Maybe it was the whiskey, but it appeared a better time. Into a sitting room, lush with antiques and leather furniture. A huge open fire, Sweeper before it, his arm resting on a marble fireplace. Three young men in black tracksuits. Sweeper barked,

“What kept you?”

Directed at Mikey, who glanced at me, said,

“Traffic.”

Sweeper turned to me, asked,

“Drink?”

Mikey made a choking sound. I said,

“No, I’m good.”

Was I ever? Enveloped in the artificial calm of four whiskies. Sweeper nodded, said,

“I’ll take you to him.”

Led me through the house. In another room, a woman and three children were watching Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? I heard Chris Tarrant ask,

“Final answer?”

We entered the garage. Ronald Bryson was tied to a kitchen chair, naked. A two bar electric fire near him. Sweeper said,

“I’ll leave you to it.”

A second chair was placed in front of Bryson. His head down on his chest, he appeared to be sleeping. His skin was chalk white, not a single hair on it. I couldn’t see any bruising and felt relieved, said,

“Ronald.”

His head snapped up, blood around his lips. A moment before he focused, then,

“Dack…dank dog.”

His teeth were gone, the gums were encrusted with dried blood and spittle. His speech was distorted and barely decipherable. For the sake of sanity, I’ll give his words as I finally decoded them. I said,

“You wanted to see me.”

He strained against the ropes, said,

“They took my teeth with the pliers.”

I wish I’d taken the drink. He said,

“Jack, you’ve got to tell them it’s a terrible mistake. I know I behaved badly but I didn’t do those men.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Jack, please! There’s something in me that craves attention. I let people think I did those terrible things but it’s…”

Then his voce fell into a whisper.

“It’s only a game. I do good work, then it’s like I’m possessed. I turn against the people I’m helping and start to pretend I’ve done dangerous stuff. Then I have to move on. You can check. In London…loads of times, but it’s all fantasy.”

I lit a cig, said,

“You trashed my house, made calls, terrorised my girl.”

“I only wanted your attention. Have you think I was more than your match.”

I stood up and he cried,

“Oh, God, Jack, don’t go.”

I leant in close to him. Fear rose off his torso like smoke. I said,

“Even if I was to buy any of that, there’s one thing that damns you.”

“What, Jack? Tell me…I can explain…anything.”

“The hand.”

He seemed genuinely confused, asked,

“What hand?”

“One of the victims, his hand was chopped off, left on a doorstep. Then I get a plastic hand in the post. How could you have known about that, unless you did it?”

“Jack, I swear, I don’t know anything about hands. I never posted you anything. God Almighty, you have to believe me.”

“I don’t.”

I turned to go and he began to cry, begging me to come back. I closed the door behind me, went back to the living room. Sweeper asked,

“Did he confess?”

“No.”

Sweeper looked into my eyes, asked,

“What’s your final word?”