Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

I was in Garavan’s, a pint before me, and a man in a splendid suit, groomed hair, tan, knocked back a large gin and tonic, pronounced,

“See, say what the fuck you like, the church still rules this country. The clergy might be less profile but they are still covert. Abortion is their ticket back.”

His use of the obscenity seemed especially offensive. A photo of the deceased woman was on all the front pages. She had one of those lovely faces that testify to a gentle soul. The suit turned to me, assessed me, found me wanting, asked-demanded-

“What do you think, fellah?”

I moved from my stool, looked at him, said,

“You shout the odds in a pub but what are you going to do?”

This seemed to baffle him. He echoed,

“Do? What can I possibly do?”

I hadn’t the energy to start, said,

“Gotcha.”

He grabbed my arm, hissed,

“What’s that mean, eh? We’re a nation of talkers, we shout and rant, it’s our heritage.”

“But what happened to the country of fighters?”

I asked.

“Not the point,”

He said.

. . and more’s the Irish-ed pity.

33

“Naturally,” he said, “I don’t defend evil deeds, but if you can’t understand the nature of crime. . the motives of a criminal. . well, you won’t get very far as a detective. There is a sort of twisted logic which is often easier to discover than the logic which governs our everyday actions. As we all know, chaos is the neighbour of God; but everything’s usually neat and tidy in hell.”

– Håkan Nesser, Hour of the Wolf

Finally did a detective thing-found the apartment Kelly lived in when she wasn’t staying at Reardon’s place. Knew she had to have a separate, if not peace, then territory.

How?

I asked the ESB.

Light bills have caught more villains than the Guards.

The apartment was in Devon Park, formerly a rich enclave for hidden and hiding consultants who’d be hiding even more after the needless death of the young Indian woman. The whole of the bottom floor was in Kelly’s name. I had a clipboard and a puzzled expression, basically the only tools essential for burglary. Those and a bent key. I got in without triggering alarms and, it struck me, this was my second break-in in a week, maybe a whole new line of work.

The living room was spotless, I mean, vacuumed to within an inch of its fiber. Leather easy chairs and a large lived-in sofa.

One massive bookcase.

Wilde.

As in, hundreds of Oscar volumes. A top shelf devoted to true crime and psychology.

Ann Rule.

People of the Lie.

Books on Bundy and all the boyos. But, most telling, a three-volume Study on Women Psychopaths and Sociopaths.

One volume seemed to be especially well thumbed so I took that. And must have triggered something in the shelf as suddenly all the lights came on, the radio, the huge-screen TV. Put the shite crossways in me. I literally jumped. Moved quickly around, turned off everything save the TV.

I found the drinks cabinet, and phew-oh, a veritable wet dream for an alky. I settled for a fine old single malt. The TV was tuned to Setanta, our version of ESPN.

Showing Sweden versus England and Ibrahimović’s spectacular scissor goal. It was in a loop play and I watched, mesmerized, as

1. He focused on the ball, bent his knees to prepare.

2. The non-kicking left foot leaves the ground first.

3. The left foot’s rapid upward swing gets him airborne.

4. In midair!. . He brings the kicking boot into play.

5. The right foot strikes the ball in a looping goal-aimed trajectory.

6. The sheer power rush of the strike somersaults his body as he then lands on his feet to punch the air.

He knew that baby was going to goal.

“Jesus,”

I muttered,

“What a thing of beauty.”

I checked the bedroom: neat, tidy, and brand-new clothes, still in their wrappers. Ten pairs of expensive shoes, lined up, and I knew the prices, as the tags were still intact. A Michael Mortell coat on the door peg, also unworn. I stepped back, thought,

“A life waiting to be lived, truly on hold, but for what?”

Bathroom. Usually a treasure of medication, you can at least hope for a slew of Valium. Nope, just a bottle of Joop!

Jesus-with the tag, real men wear pink. Surely an Oscar link. If you ignored the bookcase, there was nothing to say anyone lived here. This was vacancy writ large to largest. I’d learned absolutely fuck all. I took one final sweep through, not even sure what I hoped to find. In the kitchen, on top of the fridge, was a TV Guide and I flicked the pages.

One series heavily underlined.

The Booth at the End.

Of the myriad of things I longed to share with Stewart, to discuss, fight over, this series was prime. Had begun as a twenty-minute Internet sensation, now a five-part series, directed by Adam Arkin, it was The Twilight Zone meets The Zen of the Diner.

It was punk, street metaphysics, and I no longer could watch it as, every line, I wanted to shout,

“Stewart, get a load of this.”

Fuck to fucked loss.

Why she’d marked that didn’t provide a whole lot more light. The bitch was a stone-cold psycho, unraveling faster than a propeller cycle backward kick. I sat on a hard cane chair, put my head in my hands, and wondered when the grief would ebb. I mused on the five stages of grief they extol and said,

“Hey, I took the shortcut, rage to outright violence.”

The nine was in my jacket and I withdrew it, shot the fridge four times. Childish, indeed, but, you know, it felt better to actually let rip.

Got ready to leave, stared at the now dripping fridge, muttered,

“Soul on ice.”

I met a woman outside, elderly, not carrying rosary beads but had the look of it. She asked,

“Did you hear. . shots?”

I said,

“Only the one heard round the world but that wasn’t recent.”

Asking myself,

“Where would Oscar go?”

Not London. Not after they’d jailed him. Paris? Hmmm. . He’d lived on

The fake and humiliating kindness of strangers.

Italy?

I’d need to check that out. I was standing on the Salmon Weir Bridge, where the salmon no longer leaped, the water still, five years on, poisoned. Like the fucking country. The cathedral to my left, noon Mass letting out, and sparse-not too many attending these days. A forlorn priest outside, shaking the hands of the measly faithful, grateful they weren’t, I suppose, a lynch mob.

I turned my back on them, headed to town, stopped in the Cellar; used to be the students’ joint. But they, like everyone else, were getting takeout, bringing it on back home. Cider and Red Bull, instant wasted, from A to out of your fucking head in jig time. The Cellar had a flash coffee dock, with even a barista.

You’ve truly lived too long when an Irish guy, in a mock mid-Atlantic accent, asks,

“How would you like your java, sir?”

Way too tempting a question to answer truthfully. The bar was way too flash, too brightly lit. No hiding of blemishes here, every dark mark of my existence on neon. About to turn when a guy sitting on a stool went,

“Jack?”

Took me a second, then, Tremlin, joined the force just as I was about to get my arse handed to me. Had run into him a few times, not the worst, which in Ireland is a huge compliment. He liked his pint so he couldn’t be all rotten. I moved back, shook his large calloused hand, like the hand of a man who’d tilled fields-and recently. I recalled he’d a rep as a brawler. An essential if increasingly discreet part of most police forces. He asked,

“Buy you a jar?”

“Great.”

The barman, obviously related to the barista, judging by his fake tan and delicately tied ponytail, asked,

“Like to try the new concoction?”

Fuck.

Concoction.

The pubs I frequented, that word usually came with a phone warning, going,

“You have five minutes to clear the premises.”

I asked,

“What is it?”

“Lager and Guinness blended.”

“Holy fuck, you’re kidding.”

He wasn’t.

We’d got past, somehow, that we no longer owned our national beverage, even tried to forget the whole Guinness-Lite nonsense, and let’s never mention the White Guinness, but with lager?

Fucksake.

He did manage to pour a half-decent pint and Tremlin and I took it to a table. He sighed, said,

“God be with the days we could smoke.”

In a spirit of misguided camaraderie, I joked,

“And beat the be-Jaysus out of the public.”

Phew-oh, that sank.

Cloud of utter darkness flitted across his features. I could sense his whole body tense. I lied quickly, added,

“You’re looking fit, my man.”

Lame, huh?

He downed his shot and I signaled for another. I tried,

“Not your usual pub, this?”

He gave me a long look, then,

“Nothing is usual no more.”

He managed to include the whole of life’s rich tapestry in this. The drinks came. I handed the guy a twenty, wondering if in these days of baristas that even covered one drink. Tremlin hugged the glass with both hands, said,

“Your girl is making waves.”

Threw me.

Kelly?

Nope.

He continued.

“She was responsible for that major drug gig, you know, got some serious points there.”

I nodded, implying, a good un indeed, then he added, as if it was a throwaway,

“Pity she’s a fucking lezzie.”

As I took a moment to grasp this casual slice of ice bigotry, he knocked back his drink, said,

“My daughter, Oonagh, she finished college and, like every other young wan, looks like she’ll have to emigrate so I was wondering. .”

Let his wonder hang there, like a sad dead prayer. I asked,

“What?”

He fidgeted, took a whiskey breath, said,

“If you’d. . ask Mr. Reardon. She’s a great girl, real go-getter, he wouldn’t regret it.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Reardon, why would you think he’d listen to me?”

He gave a sly smile, ugly in its nicotine blemish, said,

“You’re his go-boy. Jesus, no shame in that, we all have to eat some shite, right? Am I right, boyo?”

Go-boy.

Count the ways I was phrasing to tell him to fuck his own self when he said,

“Course, no one eats for free, right Jack-o? So I could put some info your way, as a. . sweetener.”

For once, I bit down, said nothing, waited.

He looked around, as if the pub were hanging on our every golden word, then,

“I know where the cunt is.”

You had to admit, the guy had new ways of using the language to foul and besmirch. I stared at him and he said,

“The American nutter, I know where she went.”

At least I figured his toilet mouth had wound down and I asked,

“Why would I want to know?”

He said, staring me right in the eye,

“Sure, the whole town knows you were riding the bitch.”

34

Manson was a crazy fucky, tipsy with demons which paced him a degree higher than Nick Copeland because Nick had everything to live for, had put his family first (so had Manson, well, in a way) and Nick had failed without even a hint of notoriety.

– J. P. Smith, Airtight

Prince Paul: “I would much sooner talk scandal in a drawing room than treason in a cellar.”

– Oscar Wilde, Vera

Time ago, in The Killing of the Tinkers, a former priest said to me, bitterness leaking over every measured word,

“Jack, a terrible darkness is hovering. It’s going to be the passing of the priests, where once they trod on hallowed ground, now they will tread on the thinnest ice. Lunch parties will be replaced by lynch ones. To wear the Roman collar will be to wear a bull’s-eye on their back.”

I’d had a few, the Jay sinking nicely, whispering nice warm lies to me, and I trivialized his prophecy, said,

“Arrah, go on, they will always pull off the ecclesiastical smoke and mirrors.”

He’d stared into a dwindling pint of the black, seeing nothing but demons, howling ones, said,

“You will see, not so much the end of days but a rise in such as

Scientology

The Black Arts

Sham clairvoyants

Fundamentalism.”

He’d stood abruptly, shot out of the pub, and, in those days, I cared enough to follow him. He was huddled in a doorway, gulping down a cigarette as if it were Holy Communion, he coughed, and I asked him,

“What will you do?”

He gave me a look of utter surprise, as if the thought never occurred to him, said,

“I’m going the Irish way.”

I mused on that, then tried,

“Pretend it isn’t happening or, worse, confined to the U.K.”

He laughed, no relation to joy or humor, said,

“I’ll slow-drink myself to oblivion.”

I made light of it, said,

“I doubt that.”

He nodded, crushed the butt into the ground with vehemence, said,

“You’re right. Scratch the slow shite.”

Call it serendipity or just sheer shite bad luck. That priest was running through my mind

. . for reasons

Not at all

When

I heard

“Taylor!”

In that tone of

Get over here. . now.

Imperative, very.

I was on Shop Street, just outside Tommy Hilfiger, who, despite the so-called pestilence of recession, was doing a roaring trade.

Go figure.

The very bane of my life has been a friend of my late mother. Her very own tame priest, he was easier to maintain than a dog and cheaper to feed; he simply needed pious platitudes as a rudimentary diet. Her part of the deal was to look good with a priest in tow. These changed days, you’d be considerably safer to tow a rabid rottweiler. Father Malachy.

Phew-oh.

What a charged lethal history we had.

He loathed, despised, and downright hated me. Straight up.

And get this for Irish irony: I saved the bollix’s hide, and was he grateful?

Was he by fuck. Few more resentful than those you’ve helped. The gas part was, he hated priests more than most. His calling was a joke. It was purely a job and one he detested. Said to me once,

“Confessions, fuckers whining about beating wives and getting drunk. I should be so lucky.”

He was dressed in the priestly gear, rare to rarest these days owing to the suspected public fatwa, his suit jacket a riot of either dandruff or ash or both. His pockets bulging, like those of a cheeky boy who’d raided an orchard, save he carried many packs of cigs and

Lighter

Matches

Handkerchief

Nasal spray

Breath freshener.

Well, maybe the last one not so much, but one could hope. He looked diminished, not just age and nicotine. A year back he’d been set on by a vile gang named Headstone and never quite recovered.

Who would?

It saddened me, no matter how much I despised him, and I did, but it was no joy to see him fade. He was a tangible link to my past and a reminder, too, that once I’d held belief. He stared at me, said,

“Jaysus, you look like something the dog refused to drag in.”

I smiled, glad of the constant.

Then he asked,

“Would you come for a drink?”

By all that’s unholy, it was startling. Next, he might even offer to pay but that would be stretching it. I said,

“Sure, where’d you have in mind?”

He gave a sly grin.

“Someplace you’re not barred.”

We went to Richardson’s on the Square, still family-run by some amazing miracle. The barman said,

“Good day to you, Father.”

And got,

“What’s bloody good about it? Bring us a couple of pints and slow-draw them.”

The barman wasn’t fazed. Like I said, a family place.

We sat in the corner, Malachy with his back to the wall, eyeing the door. Beatings do that. A light sweat broke out on his forehead and I recognized the onset of a panic attack. I said,

“Take a deep breath.”

He snarled,

“Take a fucking jump in the Corrib.”

He tore off his jacket, let it fall to the floor, and, when I went to retrieve it, he snapped,

“Leave it.”

My sadness for him was eroding fast.

The pints came, I toasted,

“Sláinte.”

He spat,

“Bad cess to them all.”

Them being an Irish generic term for all the gobshites who crossed his path in vexation. He killed that pint like a nun on ecclesiastical meth, wiped his mouth, said,

“I’m off for a fag.”

He was rooting in his jacket when he noticed I wasn’t moving, asked,

“Aren’t yah coming?”

I said, quite demurely I thought,

“I don’t do that type of thing anymore.”

My tone framed for max annoyance.

Landed.

He said,

“Jaysus, the day you give up anything, there’s a new wing in hell.”

And off he stomped. A book had fallen from his jacket, I bent to pick it up and nearly had a convulsion.

. . Fifty Shades of Grey.

I was so fucking delighted. A true stick to wallop the living be-fuck out of him.

When he returned, reeking of nicotine, enough to make me, a smoker, gag, I prepared my best shot. At school, the days when the clergy could beat you with impunity, and often with approval, they liked to lecture at length about

. . dirty books.

Pronouced, doirty.

As if they all originated in Dublin.

Prime contenders were

Joyce, of course, though you’d have thought a medal would be more fitting for attempting to get a thrill from Finnegans Wake.

Edna O’Brien.

J. P. Donleavy

Ian Fleming

And a series of soft– to softest-porn novels, all with the name Angelique in them.

Before I could launch, he signaled for fresh pints, said,

“I’m sorry for your friend.”

And before I could say anything, he added,

“Even though he was a Protestant.”

There are times, not many so much anymore but enough, that sheer hereditary hatred will stun me. Malachy had trained, if such a term as train can be applied to the priests of his generation, but fuck, he spent seven years in seminary doing something besides playing hurling and bad-mouthing Brits.

Liturgy, theology, the Latin Mass, surely they would have dented even his thick skin.

Seemingly not.

One time, he’d told me of sending silver paper to the African missions and that, mad as it seems, was a widespread practice.

I’d asked, in dismay,

“What the fuck for?”

Cross me heart, I was waiting for a half-sane answer. He’d told me,

“Gollywogs like shiny things.”

Now he asked,

“Your friend, Savile, was it?”

A sly dig over the Jimmy Savile scandal, rocking the BBC, but maybe I gave him too much guile credit.

I hissed,

“Stewart.”

He shrugged, laying into the fresh pint,

“Not an Irish lad, then.”

Jesus.

Maybe blunt trauma would kick-start him. I said,

“The shotgun blast tore off his face.”

Unfazed, he said,

“I know. I’ve hunted rabbits in me time.”

Enough.

I stood up and he grabbed my jacket, cried,

“Jack, Jesus, don’t go, I need your help.”

Truth to tell, I hesitated. Time of the Priest, a nasty, vicious case involving child abuse, Malachy had been on the accusatory hook and nigh destroyed. He’d begged for my help and I’d managed to free him of the stain. Was he grateful?

Yeah, right, along the lines of Oscar’s

. . No good deed shall go unpunished.

Too, he never, like fucking ever, missed an opportunity to slag

Slander

And, as the kids say,

Diss

Me in every form of religious viciousness at his yellowed fingertips. So the temptation to go,

“Go fuck your unholy self.”

Was paramount. I sighed, Jesus, almost like my mother who could have sighed for Ireland and frequently did. I’d say Lord rest her but not even the Almighty has that alchemy.

His gratitude was almost worse than his bile. He gushed,

“Christ, Jack, thanks, thanks a million.”

I snarled,

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d help. You hear me say I’d do that?”

He nearly smiled. The bollix. I was sitting, so he was halfway home, now he’d but to nail the deal. The barman, unbidden, brought two Jamesons, said to Malachy,

“On the house, Father.”

He grunted as if such was only to be expected. He said to me,

“Sláinte mhaith.”

I left the toast and the drink cold, asked,

“Get to it.”

The Jay immediately lit up his cheeks, giving that barroom tan beloved by reality TV. His eyes shone and he began.

“The church says we have to tighten our belts, the public are not giving as generously as of yore.”

Of fucking yore.

Jesus, had he morphed into Darby O’Gill? My face must have shown my ire-a good word to add to yore, I guess. He hurried,

I felt the rush of anger, spat,

“Christ, people can’t feed their families, pay mortgages, and you expect them to continue paying your wages? Wake up, Padre, the country is dying from poverty.”

Not a stir out of him.

He said,

“Your shout.”

I didn’t shout-that is, for the next round. I asked in a quiet tone,

“How much were you needing?”

He said,

“Well, you got the big payoff from the dead Prod.”

Incredulous, I asked,

“How did you know?”

He laughed, not from humor but from pure unadulterated spite, said,

“The bank fellah. I’m his priest.”

Jesus, no wonder we were fucked. I took a deep breath, asked,

“How much were you estimating you could wrench from me?”

The drinks had woven their malicious alchemy and he had a cockiness that I remembered well from days when the clergy ruled like feudal lords. He said,

“You know, your mother, Lord rest the poor woman, wouldn’t like me to be out on the street.”

And came as close to a wallop to the head as it gets. My mother was never the route to go. I said,

“I’ll go the bank, see what I can get. I don’t suppose you’d take a check?”

He gave me a look of utter devilment, said,

“Cash keeps us all afloat, wouldn’t you say?”

I could have said a lot of things but, to him, like a wasted prayer on a wasted overgrown forgotten grave. I got up to leave and he said,

“God knows, Jack, but you’re not the worst.”

A blessing from the inferno.

Sister Wendy, Britain’s favorite nun, is eighty-two. She reveals,

“I have a cold heart. People never meant much to me. I was a nasty child with no emotions.”

I read this in the paper, The Irish Independent, as I waited for Reardon to show. We’d agreed to meet at seven, Tuesday evening. He’d suggested McSwiggan’s, said,

“I feel the need to see that tree growing in the center of the pub.”

Fucking with me.

I wanted to ask him for a job for the cop’s daughter and then, hopefully, find out where Kelly was and, as Liam Neeson said, track her down and kill her. Nice thoughts to run as I read of a coldhearted nun. Obama was reelected but the big news here was the next Irish ambassador might be

Wait for it

Breath held

Clinton.

Our new Bono and John Kennedy in one. We hated Bono owing to the whole tax gig. Clinton seemed to love us as much as we did him. Michael Winner, the film director, in his final column for The Sunday Times, wrote,

“I’m a totally insane film director, writer, producer, silk shirt cleaner, bad-tempered, totally ridiculous example of humanity in deep shit.”

Still, if it came to the wire, who’d you have a pint with?

Him or Sister Wendy?

A mammoth man approached my table. I’d just gotten what looked like the perfect pint: the head was so creamy, so still, it seemed a sin to touch it. The man’s shadow fell across that head, I looked up, he was seriously steroid. And you could see road rage dance in his eyes. I hoped to fuck I didn’t owe this megaton anything. He was wearing a suit, swear to Christ, or, rather, a fabulously expensive cloth had been draped over his form and he. . just let it hang.

He asked,

“You Taylor?”

I wanted to go Hollywood, snarl,

“Depends who’s asking.”

But, seriously?

I said,

“Yeah.”

And to cream off the surreal element, he spoke into his cuff, like all the movies, said,

“Clear.”

And moved to a table close by. It was so fucking deliciously lunatic, I could almost have appreciated it. Moment later, Reardon sauntered in. Dressed in Silicon Valley chic: chinos, trainers, and the ubiquitous T with the logo

Wired to the Pogues.

Okay.

He smiled, asked,

“May I sit?”

I said,

“You probably own the place by now, but sure.”

He was immediately attended by the barman, who asked,

“Mr. Reardon, what can we get you?”

In true ego vein, he never looked at him, said,

“Same as Mr. Taylor here and, oh, rustle up some fries with curry sauce.”

No need to mention the kitchen was long closed. He’d get the fries if the guy had to run up to Supermac’s. I finally took a draft, said,

“Sláinte mhaith.”

He said,

“You wanted something?”

I told him, the cop’s daughter, a job? He didn’t hesitate, said,

“Sure.”

I was surprised, went,

“Really, just like that? I mean, don’t you want any details?”

He finally got his pint, drank deep, made a sound of joy, said,

“In my world, all is joy and light.”

I looked at the mega bodyguard, said,

“He part of the. . joy?”

Reardon gave a long scrutiny, then,

“This is my movie, Jack. Don’t you get that? You’re just part of the plot.”

His fries came, the curry sauce giving off a strong aroma. He ate them noisily. I asked,

“How is Kelly?”

He pushed the fries aside, burped, said-and, I was later to discover, parts of what he told me were true. That was his game, sprinkle all the lies with nibbles of truth. He said,

“See, thing with Kelly is, she gets. . hyped.”

Laughed.

“Jacked, if you like, then burns out, we ship her off, get her serious ECT, and blast the hell out of her memories, then, good as new, she’s out, ready to boogie.”

I said,

“Part of the boogie being murder.”

He signaled for the bar guy, said,

“Two shots of Black Bush.”

To me,

“The tattoo dude, he’s now saying, gee, guess what, the needle in the other dude’s eye, pure accident.”

I felt the bile rise, asked,

“Stewart, my friend, he part of the. . memory loss?”

He said,

“Bottoms up.”

The shot downed, he said,

“Stewart is history and now your friend’s daughter, she has a bright future. All is hunky-dory, isn’t it?”

The velvet threat.

I got up to leave, didn’t touch the Bushmills, said,

“Appreciate your time.”

He was staring at the shot glass, then shook himself, said,

“Thing to remember, Jack, about my movie?”

I waited.

“In the final edit, lots of shit gets, like, you know, on the cutting-room floor.”

I said,

“Jesus, Mary, and Joe Cocker.”

He laughed, asked,

“You speak American now?”

I let him savor it, then,

“From Season One of Damages.”

He took my glass, turned it over the fries, watched the whiskey muddle over the curry sauce, dribble over the side of the plate, begin to drip to the wooden floor, said,

“It’s all there, Jack. Some of us, the followers, we’re TV, get maybe one series.”

I was tired of him, his bullshit sermons, asked,

“And you’re the movie mogul, right?”

He smiled, shook his head.

“No, Jack. Smell the coffee, I’m the money guy.”