Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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8

You’d lose a farm in one bet, take you twenty years to drink it.

– Old Irish saying

Peg Ramsay thought no more of Jack Taylor, his bizarre account of some lunatic maybe posing a threat. She’d laughed.

Jesus wept. She had more enemies than the church had excuses.

She stood in the foyer of her new home. A magnificent seven-bedroom house, built in the boom by a property whiz who was now in jail. She’d bought it for a quarter of the asking price, the market being now more a turkey shoot than a business. Her minders/collectors, FX, Francis, Xavier, were four rooms away, chowing down in the vast kitchen. Rottweilers, she thought, loyal as long as she fed them.

She climbed the wide ornate stairway to the third floor, muttered,

“Third floor! Phew, count ’em and weep, yah bad bastards.”

Pride in her achievements was a rush, a sheer jolt of energy that propelled her up the stairs. Stopped, leaned on the balustrade, and wondered,

“Maybe some paintings along the walls?”

Buy a shitload of art. Like everything in the country, artists were on sale. She registered a sound a split second before the arm went around her throat, a knee in her back. Then a hand on her spine and she thought,

“Over the balustrade?”

A voice whispered,

My heart is as some famine-murdered land

Whence all good things have perished utterly

And well I know my soul in hell must lie.

One,

Her body halfway over the rail.

Two,

A deep effort of breath.

Push,

And fly,

The foyer rushing to smash her startled face.

A DIY petrol bomb landed on her back and with a whoosh illuminated the marble inlay.

9

He always liked laundromats. They’re like waiting rooms for people who never travel.

– Zoran Drvenkar, Sorry

Purgatory was deceptive in its promise that you might one day be released.

The American woman who’d given me a lift home from Reardon’s party phoned to confirm our coffee date. We arranged to meet in Griffin’s Bakery café, but you had to get there early, before the lunchtime gang. I made an effort, wore a white shirt, ironed; 501s; and my Garda-issue coat. Trying for that blend of

I tried/don’t give a fuck

Vibe.

Checked the mirror, thought mainly I looked old. But good, real good, to be meeting with a woman. Jesus, I’d nearly forgotten how that felt. So okay, some negatives:

1. She worked for Reardon.

2. See above.

The little time I’d spent that evening with her, I liked her. She was smart and caustic, and I seemed to amuse her in a vague fashion. Her age seemed to hover in that blurred could be thirty, probably forty set. She was waiting outside when I arrived, said,

“You’re sober!”

Registered my face, went,

“Kidding, sorry. Jeez, Jack, these are the jokes, right?”

I nearly turned on my heel, but took a deep breath, ushered her in. Long line of people at the counter for The Grinder. The specialty bread that had a taste like wish fulfillment. We got a table close to the wall, and I got a good look at Kelly.

But, oh fuck.

Skinny jeans.

Jesus weeping. And in that puke mustard shade that seemed to be the only damn color they were flogging. The hell was with that? Okay, she was thin, that vogue for starved-with-a-tan look.

Skinny jeans, I wanted to roar,

“No

No

Never.”

Unless you are a teenager or the bass player with Kasabian. She ordered soda bread, Galty cheese, Barry’s tea. Said,

“Get all my carbs stashed.”

No sane answer to that. I ordered a double espresso. She said,

“Bitter, huh?”

Our fare arrived and she laid on the thick Kerrygold butter with gusto, said,

“Reardon, my boss, he has. . more than a passing interest in you.”

“Why?”

She was on her second round of bread. Jesus, this girl could eat, washed it down with tea, burped without fanfare, said,

“His research into the town, its recent history, your name keeps coming up, be it the swans, the tinkers, the church, Magdalene laundries, and you are, he feels, a person of interest.”

I thought about this, then,

“I feel he has plans for the city.”

She whistled, low but definite, said,

“Oh, yeah, like you wouldn’t believe and, who knows, maybe a part for you.”

I gave her my rabid smile, let that be its own reply. I drained the last of my coffee and, sure enough, down the yearning pike came the nicotine blues. She looked at me, asked,

“How long since you smoked?”

She was good.

I said,

“Well, I was the kind of dedicated smoker who smoked between cigarettes.”

She quoted,

“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied.”

I hazarded,

“Simon Gray, The Smoking Diaries.”

I could tell that went over her gorgeous head, she said,

“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

I ordered more coffee, get some palpitations running. She asked,

“Top of your head, no thinking, favorite book?”

“The Book Thief.”

Surprised her.

Fuck, surprised me.

She asked,

“You ever married?”

“No.”

She gave a radiant smile, then,

“Me neither. What’s your excuse?”

Tell the truth, then it’s their gig, said,

“Drink.”

She considered that. I asked,

“You?”

No hesitation.

“Never met anyone like my dad.”

Was she kidding?

Her mobile shrilled, she checked it, said,

“The mighty Reardon calls.”

Outside, we had that awkward moment

. . do you mumble some vague shite about staying in touch?

Go,

. . that was nice, let’s never do it again.

She asked,

“Want to see me another time?”

The thought struck me. I asked,

“Do I remind you of your father?”

She was moving, stopped, said,

“Don’t be ridiculous, he is a good man.”

10

Draw a picture of my soul and it’d be a scribble with fangs.

– Gillian Flynn, Dark Places

Souls in purgatory are supposed to be on day release.

I was arranging my DVDs on a shelf, mug of coffee in my hand, cigarette on my mind.

Stepped back, looked,

Game of Thrones, Series 2

Breaking Bad, Season 4

Treme

Weeds, the whole seven seasons

Conspiracy: The Wannsee Conference, The Final Solution

Damages, Series 4, with John Goodman.

You put John Goodman in a series, I’m there. On the coffee table, strewn almost casually, was

Matter of Heart: The Extraordinary Journey of C. G. Jung Into the Soul of Man. Visitors would be impressed. The empty walls sneered,

“What visitors?”

A heavy book, and I’m talking actual weight,

Gitta Sereny, Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth.

I intended to give this to Stewart, all 800 pages of fine, tight print.

And speak of the devil, my mobile rang.

He said,

“The statue was found in the canal.”

Took me a moment to catch up. I snapped,

“No hello, you know, the Zen niceties?”

He was ready.

“The sarcasm, Jack, it gets old, like you. Ridge is still in a coma; how’s that for fucking nice?”

Rang off.

Shook my head. His language was way down the shitter now.

Saint Laurence O’Toole, the patron saint of Dublin, whose heart was preserved since the twelfth century.

I know, sounds like the Irish Twilight Zone.

Thieves figured the heart had to be covered in gold, right?

And stole it.

Around the country, small churches were reporting the theft of chalices and gold crosses, and a priest exclaimed,

“Have they no respect?”

Where the fuck had he been for the past decade?

Our Lady of Galway, submerged amid the litter of a hen party at the Dominic Street end of the canal, had been spotted by a dog walker. The Brennans were still lying low but I fully intended having

A wee chat.

I called Sister Maeve, who despite my protests seemed to think I had a part in the statue being found, promised,

“The church will not forget you.”

Sounded faintly like a velvet threat. I was heading down Shop Street, the weather in early spring mode, mimes, buskers on the streets, a guy flogging time-shares in Greece, proclaiming,

“Buy now while the Greeks are broke.”

Like Saint Laurence, he had little gold in his heart.

Reardon had finally shown up in person at my apartment, insisting he treat me to dinner. He was dressed in chic grunge, scuffed trainers, hoodie, combats, but oddly these emphasized that he was older than I’d figured. Deep black splotches under his eyes testified to either work, insomnia, dope, or all three.

I was surprised when I opened the door to see him, muttered,

“What?”

“We need to talk.”

Before I could ask,

“About the fuck what?”

He glanced at his watch. Yeah, a heavy gold Rolex job and no knockoff, too fake looking to be false. Like the pope.

He said,

“The Arch, new joint in Kirwan’s Lane, do biblical steaks they tell me.”

What the hell, see if I could get a handle on the guy. Grabbed my Garda-issue jacket and he said,

“Ah, the infamous government one.”

I said what I thought.

“It’s downright creepy how much you know about me.”

He laughed, one of those laughs nurtured on Marlboro Red and Wild Turkey, so I kind of liked him a bit better. It was a short walk to the lane, buskers doing everything from

Galway Girl

To

The Undertones.

Mainly massacring any tune you ever liked. He’d a table booked. I had noticed two heavy guys a discreet distance behind. He said,

“My guys.”

“You need security.”

As we were seated at what I figured to be a table for eleven, he went,

“Guy has as much green as I do, two ain’t even enough.”

Ain’t

Pronounced with a midwest emphasized twang. Irony or just pig ignorance?

Waiters surrounded us like altar boys feeding a bishop. I asked,

“You intending to buy Galway?”

He scanned the menu, nodded.

“Pretty much.”

The wine waiter presented a bottle of some antique vintage. Reardon snapped,

“Bring two pints of Guinness, Jameson back.”

I said,

“I’m not drinking.”

He smiled. I saw the inner steel, a glimpse, the blaze that made megabucks. He said,

“Tonight you are.”

I did.

As I sipped the head of the pint, my heart hammering, I asked,

“What next-lines of. .?”

“Not before the dessert.”

Fair enough.

We had steaks, his blood raw, mine medium, circled by mashed spuds, blitzed with gravy. At least mine were; he went the ketchup gig. He ate with a restrained ferocity, as if he loathed the food but, by Christ, he’d get the better of it.

Like that.

I overheard the table next to us, stopped at mid-fork, focused.

They were talking about the death/killing of the moneylender. In her own house!

Reardon asked,

“You okay?”

I snapped,

“Gimme your phone.”

Naturally, iPhone, did everything save the ironing. Got through to Stewart, asked,

“You heard?”

“You mean Peg Ramsay?”

“It’s true, then?”

I could hear his despair, anger, then,

“Yeah, in her own home, thrown from the top of the stairs.”

Christ, tried to get my head around this, asked,

“And FX, the so-called bodyguards, where the fuck were they?”

Reardon watched me with lazy interest, a small smile dancing near the corner of his eyes. Stewart said,

“In the kitchen.”

“You are fucking kidding. What? Making tea? Jesus.”

He waited, then,

“We have to do something, right?”

Yeah, sure.

Said,

“Any change in Ridge?”

“No.”

Rang off.

Reardon took his phone back, looked at the number, noting it, saving it, said,

“I don’t do friends.”

Maybe it was Peg Ramsay, maybe the pint of Guinness. I went,

“Just what exactly led you to believe I give a flying fuck?”

Stopped him. Then,

“Dude, you really are the wrath.”

Pushing his plate aside, he ventured,

“You interest me. You’re a sort of Irish Zelig, witness to the history of Galway.

The Magdalen

The swans

The tinkers

Despair of the young generation

Clerical abuse.”

Paused, drank a fair whack of Guinness, continued,

“See I figure, guy like that sees trends, and maybe can keep me up to speed on certain elements.”

The prospect of just. . one, swear to God, Jameson lightened me. I said,

“Paid tout.”

He shrugged.

“Whatever.”

Could work. Least I could take his money. That would definitely work. He paid the bill with a platinum card, impressing the shite out of the waiters, me, half of Quay Street.

We’re shallow, so sue us.

Outside, I offered,

“Nightcap?”

He sighed, said,

“Told you about friends.”

I near shouted,

“Lighten up. It’s a drink, not a fucking commitment.”

We went to the Quays, ghosts of drinks past, bitter and recriminatory. A few guys, sitting at the bar, nodded, not in a friendly fashion, more the

“We see you”

Irish warmth with cunning outrider. We had us some shots of Jameson. Reardon holding the shot to the light, saying,

“See why it is you do this shit.”

He didn’t.

I said,

“No, you don’t.”

He wasn’t bothered, lazily asked,

“You get on with anyone?”

A young guy passed.

“Jack?”

A total

As in, total stranger. I said,

“Good to see you.”

He was lit up, like Ecstasy, with intent, rushed,

“One Direction are number one in America.”

Jesus.

Reardon gaped at him. The kid said,

“Like, hello, not since the Beatles, so this is, like, huge, you know?”

Reardon looked at me, then,

“That makes me feel old, so fuck can only guess how ancient you’ve got to be feeling.”

I shucked into my jacket, said,

“Been fun but, you know, enough.”

He walked out with me, palmed me a phial, said,

“You got five pills there. Ease that hangover right easy tomorrow but, like my job offer, it’s a one-shot deal.”

I said,

“As opposed to One Direction.”

We were standing in Quay Street, crowds of people swarming, the constant search for the craic, Irish party time. Involved gallons of drink, some blow, and who knows, that evasive all-encompassing fulfilling moment. No sign of the brutal economic austerity. Drinks on the Titanic indeed. Reardon’s mobile shrilled again. He moved into Kirwan’s Lane to take it. I moved with him but with enough space for privacy. And saw,

Top of the lane, Ma.

The Feebs.

First, I thought it was an urban illusion, the booze, rush of Quay Street but, no, here they were, myth on foot. Five teenagers, green T-shirts with

The Feeb

Logo.

F.B.I.

Fucked

Boozing

Irish.

The logo on the green T-shirts now being sported by a new phenomenon. A gang of feral, vicious teenagers who specialized in urban mayhem, inner-city terrorism. They were underage, but the courts seemed reluctant to send them to the young offenders units, owing to the lack of money available for staff. Knowing this, the Feebs were growing bolder.

Looking indeed feral, up for it. Three guys, two girls, the guys holding bottles of cider and wine spritzers. Moving with intent.

To us.

I nudged Reardon, who, engrossed in the call, waved me off. The gang moved closer, one of the girls making sucking noises. They spread out; bad idea. I pulled Reardon’s arm, snapped,

“Pressing matters!”

He looked up and, I swear, smiled. Grasping the drift instantly. First guy said,

“Hey, fuckheads.”

Reardon laughed, said,

“Love it.”

And he was moving. Took out the first guy with a kick, moved to the second, a chop.

Down.

The third, two rapid slaps, then to the girls,

Said,

“Ladies.”

Moved.

Lashed, with his open hand, the ears of both, swung round, sank his trainer in the arse of the first, looked at me, asked,

“Want some?”

* * *

Five hangover pills. A cure is a blessed reprieve but a loaded gun, too.

Next morning, the hangover phoned it in.

The pills kicked ass. I vaguely remembered hitting some late-night clubs and, oh fuck, scoring some dodgy coke off an even dodgier dopehead. Getting home, I was wired and drunk, bad combo, watched TV.

I kid thee not, a documentary on teenage pajama girls. That went viral. The two girls, featured, wear pajamas, in and out, all day.

Smoke forty fags

Use the c-word incessantly

Drink strong cider

Search for any. . any kind of drugs

And were both

Fourteen years old.

In deep shit at school

No job prospects

Worked at being hard

As in

“Hey c. . what’cha looking at? Want yer head kicked in?”

And yet, maybe it was the Jameson, they seemed to possess a sweetness that they fought like little bees to hide.

This was Ireland’s youth.

And I do recall wanting to weep.

Oh.

And swearing off

The drink.

Stewart had always tried to rein in the worst excesses of Jack’s temper. Jack was so. . extreme. Truly believed that the courts gave out the law, and alleys dispensed justice. He favored the latter, with a hurley. Over the years, Stewart had been part of some horrendous violence but never, Jesus, God forbid, gratuitous, and fuck no, never got a kick out of it. He was beginning to suspect, albeit reluctantly, that there was a part of Jack that relished acting outside the law.

And, whisper it,

. . liked the rush.

He’d seen the light, a dullness become radiant, as he lashed into some thug. More, he seemed now to seek out the cases where it would end in a purity of bloodletting.

With Zen, his martial arts iron training, stepped up, he was trying to purge his own self of the charisma of violence. The dark thrill of control, meting out punishment. But the last twenty-four hours had shaken him. He loved Ridge.

No question.

They’d shared a house on the last case, seen the horrors up close and personal, and together shared the bond of futile attempts to redeem Jack. Only Stewart’s feelings for his dead sister even came close to the elusive love he swore he didn’t need. Prison had scorched granite into his being, had to, to survive. Found that same shell vital for an entrepreneur.

Dragon’s Den?

He rented them the fucking den.

Sources, the fuel of information, were key. Lots of minor characters, like those in a novel, chorusing the narrative, spurring the impetus, never less than essential. Bit players in the clubs, pubs, street of Galway.

And, oh, they loved to talk.

Tell a story.

Any story.

And sometimes, the truth was in there, just a wee bit tangled. As in the late call to his mobile last night. The voice saying,

“Brennan, father of the brat who stole the statue of Our Lady, he’s the one who fucked up Ridge.”

Click.

The line went dead. Google search. Brennan, a beaut. Thug city

In a suit.

If a good one, Louis Copeland no less.

Brennan had come quietly from Dublin, smartly avoiding the roundup of the original psycho drug dealers.

The General

John Gilligan

The Monk

And had kept under the radar as those larger-than-life scumbags went national, prompting

Movies

TV documentaries

Countless tabloid fodder.

With the creation of CAB, the special unit to nail those guys on their illegal assets, Brennan had fled to the west, gradually seeping into the Galway geography like vile limestone. His only son, the statue stealer, was a grave disappointment to the would-be Irish drug lord. Built an empire of dirt and dope, and had an eejit heir.

Seemed karma right.

Brennan, in his sixties, still a formidable physical presence and, like Jack, favored a hurley for his ad hoc boardroom meetings. Rumored to have recently taken out a rival dealer with two mighty wallops to the guy’s head, shouting,

“Come on the Dubs.”

Didn’t make him any more appealing despite his support of the capital’s team. In the few available photos from Google, he looked like Gerard Depardieu without the Gallic charm. An eye for the ladies, was said to be proud of his fuck pad. A penthouse over the Bridge Mills. What his wife thought was not recorded. But going on Brennan’s reputable temper, she wasn’t likely to be saying a whole bunch.

Beating women seemed to be a hobby. Ridge, asking questions, especially about his worthless son, would have been like an automatic trigger. Stewart had three tasks Zen-appropriated this day.

His sister

The Galway Advertiser

Brennan.

Did the second by phone, rang, asked for Kernan Andrews.

Said,

“Kernan, am leaving a batch of photos, notes about a number of recent Galway deaths in the office for you.”

Heard,

“What?”

Hung up.

Next, went to Going Dutch, the best florists in the city, bought a dozen white roses.

Walked to the Bohermore cemetery.

A huge monument to a young tinker was visible from the road. Locals wondered how the mega tribute, adorned in Connemara marble, could be affordable to the travelers. At night, it was fluorescent, sending a beacon of dazzling light across the nearby hill. Had converted many heavy drinkers who believed they’d had a portent direct from the Lord Himself.

To reach his sister’s resting place, he had to walk by a long line of young men, who’d committed suicide in the previous few years. Their families had laid

Football sweaters

Football boots

CDs

Little fluffy toys

Intricate scrolled tablets of love.

Making the graves more like the boys’ bedrooms than graves. It appalled and moved Stewart in equal measure. He reached his sister, stood, the tears threatening, bent, tidied the loose clay. A passing old woman, paused, offered,

“Sorry for your trouble.”

He muttered,

“Thank you.”

Not with too much warmth, though he appreciated the words. This was his sister’s time. Needed to visit in quiet. Sensing something, she asked,

“Your wife?”

“My sister.”

The woman stared at the stone, saw the dates, then said,

“Ah, sure, the bed of heaven, a leanbh.”

That pierced his heart anew.