Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

35

“You think they can convict her,” I said. “Motive and opportunity, prior solicitation to murder, plus the jury won’t like her.”

“Because?”

“Because she’s what my mother would have called cheap. She’s too pretty, too made up, too blonde, lot of attitude, drinks to excess, probably does dope, sleeps around.”

“Sounds like a great date,” I said.

– Robert B. Parker, Widow’s Walk

He would never again tempt innocence, he would be good.

– Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Lewis Hyde wrote about John Berryman, and it’s a wee stretch to see it as the Modern Ireland, whereas irony was once riding point to our deep abiding sense of humor. Now, as Hyde had said,

“Irony is only of use once.”

. . Irony has only emergency use. Carried over time, it is the voice of the trapped who have come to enjoy their cage.

Fuck, I hated that to be true. And as I waited to meet with Tremlin the cop whose daughter Reardon said he’d employ, I seethed over the newly published Richard Burton diaries.

The critics had always lumped the Celtic hell-raisers,

O’Toole

Harris

As if there was romance in drink-to-lunacy shenanigans.

Christ on a bike.

Burton wrote,

He despised the Irish, everything about them, their posturing, the silly soft accents, their literature, their genius for self-advertisement, their mock belligerence

Pause

. . their obvious charm.

It was small comfort that we’d beaten the be-Jaysus out of the Welsh in the Nations Cup. While I waited for the cop, a guy came into Garavan’s, made a beeline for me, offered,

“Want to buy a book of poems?”

He had that half-insane expression of a patient newly released from a mental hospital or a recent convert to vegan. Which is much of the same thing. I asked,

“Who are they by?”

He seemed to think that was the most foolish question he’d heard in many’s the day, petulated,

“Meself.”

Sure, I could have asked,

“And you are?”

Went,

“How much?”

“Eighteen euros, and two for twenty-five.”

I bought one, the volume titled,

The Abortion Collection.

And on the back it declared,

“Do judge by the cover.”

It’s a spoof, a joke.

So maybe my thoughts of irony were premature. Tremlin arrived, looking hale and happy? Guards did happy? He ordered from the barman, breezed over to me, his hand extended, said,

“Gotta give it up for you mate, you delivered.”

I did?

I gave the humble smile, related in a pure way to a grimace. He sat, continued,

“Jesus H. My missus is over the moon. A job with Reardon, she’d been sure our little one would be emigrating like all the rest.”

Pints came.

He raised his, smiled,

“Sláinte agus go raibh míle maith agat.”

Staying in the humble mode, I said,

“Glad to be of help.”

He reached into his jacket, produced a black leather folder, asked,

“You ever hear of the Refuge?”

Unless it was Johnny Duhan’s new album?

He continued,

“The rich, and I mean the seriously fucking loaded, the type you and I only wet-dream about, they have their own very private hospitals. For addictions, sex crimes, all the shite the tabloids would kill for, they created their own treatment centers and the Refuge is the very best. You ever hear of Gormanston?”

“Yeah, a boarding school for boys, run by. . Franciscans?”

“Right, Ireland’s very own Eton.”

Perish the thought.

He said,

“In County Meath, and about five miles up the road from this posh school, is the Refuge.”

He tapped the folder.

“Map and assorted shite in here, plus,”

Waited.

The big flourish,

Produced a warrant card, said,

“Special Branch, and it’s even got your name on it.”

I was impressed. He held it out to me, cautioned,

“One time only, Jack, that’s all it’s valid for, else. .”

Let it trail off.

I took it and felt, Jesus, what?

Ferocious regret, if only,

Fuck, I hadn’t been thrown out of the force, would I have gone on. . would. .?

And shut it off, said,

“This is bloody great, thank you.”

He motioned with his glass and more pints were built. He said,

“Don’t wait too long to use it. The patients, especially the high-priority ones, they tend to be moved after a few weeks.”

He then moved on to hurling, the Galway team and our hope of the all-Ireland next year.

After I left him, I took a walk down through the town, with my Special Branch ID, the book of poems, and felt, in a jagged way, I was most of what you might call the Irish contradiction.

Ridge felt enormous guilt over Stewart’s legacy. Who knew he’d amassed so much? She’d sent a check off to Our Lady’s Hospital Crumlin; the work they did with children would uplift the most grizzled cynic.

A light blue 2008 Ford Focus 1.8. By pure coincidence she saw it slashed in price and, on a whim, bought it.

Then the guilt eased. Stewart had been nagging her to buy a car. Course, with the money she now had, she could have bought two of them. The seller had explained about mileage, even pulled the bonnet up, telling her about fuel gauges. She listened with feigned interest. They both knew

. . She liked the color.

Friday, she finished work early, decided to take the car for a decent workout, familiarize herself with the stick shift.

Heading out of the city, she figured she’d go as far as the new motorway bridge just outside Loughrea. Traffic was relatively light as she accelerated toward the bridge. At the stairs on the left-hand side of the bridge, a young man struggled as he made it to the top. He had to stop, wipe the sweat from his brow. The large jagged piece of concrete had left deep ridges on his hands and he muttered,

“Aw, fuck.”

Looked around, as if his mother would appear, clip his ear for cursing. On the bridge now, he was alone. He’d timed it almost every day for a week and knew, almost to the minute, the time when the bridge was deserted. He looked out over the rim, a gray BMW glided under him like a shark.

“Shite.”

He thought,

“That one would have made a fierce bang.”

Sighing, grunting, he hefted the concrete onto the rim, nearly lost it, and just managed to hold the block back. He had seen this so many times in his mind, it had to be exactly right.

The color.

God alone knew why but the car had to be the color of the one in his imagination.

Light blue.

36

The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamaties, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. . We must get into step, a lockstep toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.

– Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

I stayed in a small hotel off O’Connell Street. I’d hired a car, business was brisk, and I had to settle for a Corolla. Mostly it was all they had left in a black shade and dark I wanted to be. Come evening, I was restless, being out of Galway. I went to Madigan’s, had a few pints, and failed to hear a single Dublin accent. All seemed to be from Eastern Europe and, indeed, our main street in our capital city looked more like a street in a repressed satellite state. Gray, grimy, dope-infested, grim. Spent an hour in Chapters, the huge secondhand bookstore, and found three of Derek Raymond’s Factory novels. Apt for the way I was feeling.

On the road early, I wanted to get the job done before the hospital got full neon. Dressed dull

Black slacks

Black shoes

Off-white shirt

An excuse for a bad tie

And. . my Garda all-weather.

My bedraggled face would be accessory enough for the Special Branch papers. Once I found my way out of the city, the drive was almost pleasant. The radio had a nice blend of Marc Roberts and Gretchen Peters. Kept my mood low. The directions were good and I found myself heading up a tree-lined avenue in little over an hour. The Refuge was one of the old Anglo-Irish mansions, restored and renovated. Mainly, they’d have put in heating. Got out of the car, surveyed for a moment. A garage to the left seemed to be for the staff and there were up to ten vehicles. I headed for the front entrance. Inside it was quiet with that suppressed hospital vibe of things unseen. An attractive woman, late thirties, manned reception.

In my days in the Guards, even we’d believed

. . don’t ever fuck with Special Branch.

First, the woman was sniffy until I flashed the ID.

The change was heartening. She didn’t pale but definitely faltered. Said,

“I’ll have to get Dr. James.”

I stared at her, said nothing, and she echoed,

“Right. . um, I’ll do that so.”

Did some jigging with the switchboard, then,

“Dr. James will be here forthwith.”

Forthwith.

Who the fuck talked like that?

But indeed, forthwith or not, he was there in jig time. A big man, in his fifties, even his beard was big, no white coat for this chappie. Tweeds ruled the day and the man.

He boomed,

“Let’s take it over here.”

Meaning the lobby, beside a bay window. We sat, he commanded,

“Papers.”

This in command tone, the guy was used to staff and hopping staff. He peered at my ID and I knew I had to act, asked,

“You have a problem with the Branch?”

Letting insinuation, accusation, suspicion run riot over the words. He almost flinched, tried to regroup, asked,

“What do you want?”

I gave the hard-arse smile, said,

“My ID first.”

Get some ground rules down.

He said,

“We don’t usually have this sort of. . scrutiny.”

I stared at him, asked,

“How often do you have someone of Mr. Reardon’s power, and resources, need your. . help?”

His eyes flinched and I had the money shot. Pushed,

“Rehab and security, the only two growth resources in these dark days, place like this, cost a mighty load of euros to run and a sponsor, of. . unlimited assets.”

I stood up, said,

“I’d like to see her. . now.”

He stood and, almost smoothly, backed away from me, physical distance in lieu of eroding authority. He said,

“You must understand. .”

I put up my hand, enjoying it a bit, said,

“Whoa, Doc, drop the imperatives, okay?”

He did, said,

“We’ve had to administer some therapy.”

I laughed, said,

“The old electric shock treatment?”

Shook his head, said,

“Oh, no, we don’t do that, we have MST.”

Like a car warranty. He waited, then,

“It’s memory suppressor therapy.”

I asked,

“You still apply the voltage?”

“Well, yes. .”

I said,

“Same shite, different label.”

He was about to protest. I cut through, said,

“I want to see her now.”

He considered many options, none of them ridding him of me, which is what he most desired, said,

“Very well, but I must caution you, she isn’t yet very responsive.”

Led me to an upstairs room, did the gig with many keys, and opened the door. I grabbed his arm, said,

“Go get yourself some coffee.”

I moved in, pulled the door behind me. Kelly was seated by the large window, looking out on a deserted garden. Dressed in a white tracksuit, she was absolutely still. The room resembled a luxurious hotel, save for the locks on the outside. I said,

“Hi, babe.”

No response.

I grabbed the desk chair, pulled it over, sat right next to her face. Her face was completely devoid of expression. I said,

“I was in your apartment.”

Nothing.

Continued,

“Found some very impressive volumes of Wilde, and guess what?”

Her eyes flickered, barely, but something going on, or inward, rather. I said,

“One volume really caught my interest. It was signed by your father.”

A faint stir in the eyes and a tiny movement in her shoulders. I sat back, as if seeing the book, said,

“Tell you, Kell, it was a beautiful piece of work.”

Let her hear that past tense, waited a beat, said,

“And fuck, the way that sucker burned.”

She spat in my face, her hands going for my eyes. I slapped her back, said,

“Whoa, that’s some miraculous recovery.”

Then as if a light went out, she slumped in her chair, even let her mouth sag, but couldn’t quite prevent a sly smile from racing across the corners of her mouth. I stood, said,

“I’m going to give you a countdown, when you eventually walk, and Reardon has covered your arse in all the ways that matter. A certain number of days, you’ll turn around and I’ll be there, give you the same chance you gave my friend Stewart.”

I headed for the door, banged on it, and, as it opened, heard,

“How many. . days?”

I gave her my winning smile, said,

“33.”

The boy had the granite slab finely balanced, beads of perspiration burst on his forehead from exertion and high excitement. He looked up the road and nearly crapped himself. A light blue car was coming.

Ridge, uncertain as to whether to turn for home now or make the turn after the bridge. On pure whim, she said,

“Let’s see what you got.”

Her foot pushed down on the accelerator, she felt a burst of joy as the car hurled toward the bridge. It was the first break in the blanket of grief that had enshrouded her.

The boy focused, shouted,

“Blue rules.”

Crows perched on a lone tree near the motorway, startled by the grinding crash of metal and exploding glass, hurled into the air like tiny stealth bombers, above the bridge, their glass eyes registering only what might be deemed scavengings. Their harsh cawing like a screech heard behind a confession gone rogue.