Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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11

Galway: An irony-free zone?

– Stewart

Stewart stood outside the Bridge Mills, lots of people around. A voice in his head telling him,

“Leave it alone, this is not the way to get Brennan.”

Weighed that.

Moved.

He was in the penthouse in five minutes, the burglar kit making entrance easy. He’d taken the precaution of wearing surgical gloves. The place was massive, testament to a guy with too much money and no taste. Gigantic TV, copies of

Autos

Penthouse

Hustler

Loaded

Ikea furniture; heavy cloud of blended weed, nicotine, curries, and empty pizza boxes. The bedroom had a walk-in closet, four Louis Copeland suits, twenty pairs of built-up shoes, tracksuits, and a set of weights. Under the mattress, a sawed-off shotgun, bags of coke. Enough to warrant a major bust. Stewart moved back to the front room, settled to wait.

He let his mind Zen-float, his body at ease, time suspended.

The apartment was dark when he heard keys in the front door. Didn’t move.

Brennan came storming in, lights going on, packages being strewn on the floor. He was making a drink near the window when he realized he wasn’t alone. Spun round, going,

“The fuck?”

Stewart continued to sit, stared at him. Brennan was dressed in a sweaty tracksuit, gym clothes, a white towel round his neck. Stewart stood, did a loosening exercise, asked,

“Why did you attack Ridge?”

Brennan was regaining his composure, his eyes darting to the bedroom, assessing how much of a threat there was. His expression answered,

“Not much.”

He said,

“Sonny, you picked the wrong fucking place to park your sorry arse.”

When Stewart didn’t answer, he pushed,

“And who the fuck is Ridge?”

Stewart said,

“A female Guard, asking about your dumb son stealing the statue.”

Brennan laughed.

A nasty blend of scorn and bile.

He asked,

“You’re not a cop? Was she your girlfriend? I got to tell you, fellah, she was one ugly cunt.”

All reservations, doubts about the value of violence, moral considerations vanished with the mention of the c-word. He shot out his left foot, catching Brennan in the crotch, followed through with a series of lightning kicks to the ribs, kidneys, face.

Finally, drawing breath, he pulled back, looked in almost wonder at the bundle at his feet, muttered,

“Jesus.”

Checked for a pulse. Faint. Got outside the penthouse, left the door open, and called an ambulance. Back on the street, he looked in dismay at his hands, the gloves coated in red, understood for maybe the first time why Jack needed a large Jameson after an event.

He dumped the bloody gloves in the trash.

Zen didn’t quite cut it.

12

The household tax is to Ireland what the poll tax was to the U.K. The beginning of bullying.

– Galway protester

Ridge woke up.

Her head hurt and she emitted a tiny groan. A nurse came, fluffed the pillows. No matter what state you were in, those fucking pillows had to be fluffed.

A lot.

The nurse asked,

“How are you?”

Took Ridge a moment to figure.

“Who am I?”

Then pieces of it surfaced, knocking on Brennan’s door, anticipating verbal aggression but not an onslaught. After the first blow, she was blank. Put her hands to her face, the nurse bringing some water, she asked,

“Am I. . damaged?”

Irish nurses, their very directness is refreshing. This one said,

“Ah, you took a fierce hiding.”

Right.

Added,

“But you’re awake, that’s good.”

Argue that.

The doctor came, did some hmming, a bit of mmm, said,

“Nothing serious, really.”

Unless you counted a coma.

She asked,

“Was I. . out. . for long?”

“Yes. Trust me, you’d prefer not to know.”

Then,

“A day, two, you’ll be going home.”

Ridge, relieved, said,

“Good as new.”

The nurse gave her a look, translated as,

“Don’t be bloody stupid.”

Yuppie, in dump café,

“Do you perchance have WiFi access?”

Owner,

“I don’t have bloody access to me kids.”

I was sitting in Elaine’s, the newest coffee shop off Shop Street. Kelly was sitting opposite, on her second Marciano. She’d been asking me about my hearing aid, then moved on to the loss of my fingers, said,

“Not enough of you left to even mail, fellah.”

I was developing a deep affection for her. She had a mouth on her, kept my game up, and she was that rarity,

Interesting.

I mean in a world of Lindsay Lohans, who is interesting any more? Romney was fast-tracking toward the Republican nomination, Barack was simply looking tired, and the brief dark glitz of Newt was dissipated. I said,

“I had a night out with Reardon.”

She laughed, went,

“Whoa, now that I would have paid serious wedge to witness.”

I debated, then,

“We ran into a spot of bother.”

And she literally guffawed, echoed,

“A spot of bother. What are you, a freaking Brit suddenly?”

Ignoring that.

“A gang of wannabes tried to take us out.”

Her eyes were lit. She said,

“Right up Reardon’s block. He likes to get down and dirty.”

Her glee set off an alarm.

I asked,

“You mean, Jesus Christ, he fucking staged it?”

She was saved from replying by a large man who, without asking, sat at our table, glared at me. Kelly went,

“Seriously?”

He produced a wallet, his plainclothes ID, said,

“Thought you might prefer an informal chat rather than the barracks again.”

Jesus, did anyone still call the cop station that?

I asked,

“You have a name?”

He showed some very expensive bridgework, allowed,

“Foley.”

I waited.

“Where were you yesterday, late afternoon?”

Kelly said,

“He was with me.”

I wasn’t.

Foley gave her a look of utter disbelief, said,

“And you are?”

Now she smiled, took a sip of her coffee, went,

“I’m what’s known in the trade as an alibi, presuming you wouldn’t be asking if something hadn’t happened.”

He looked like walloping her wouldn’t be too much of a reach, said,

“You need to be very sure, miss, of what you’re telling me.”

She was delighted, cooed,

“I love it! You are so rigidly. . anal.”

I asked,

“What happened?”

Like he was going to tell me. He stood up, turned to Kelly, warned,

“You’re a Yank, a visitor to our shores. Be in your interest to not. .”

He paused.

His big moment.

“Not to fuck with the authorities.”

She gave a mock shiver, said,

“Show me your weapon, Foley.”

After he’d left, I said,

“Watch your back. Those guys, they remember.”

She signaled for the bill, said,

“My treat.”

Added,

“Those guys, you can see them. It’s the motherfuckers who hide in plain sight I worry about.”

I had no idea what this meant but it sounded. . hard-core.

Thanked her for the coffee and she said,

“What do I get in return?”

I had my own question, asked,

“Why did you lie for me? You weren’t with me.”

And she gave me the gift of a full warm-to-warmest smile, said,

“Yeah, but you’re thinking, Wish she was.”

Not far off the truth. She said,

“Invite me to your apartment.”

“What, now?”

She sighed.

“Jesus, Jack. Get real, buddy. This evening, so you can prepare a meal, get ready to party.”

Had to know, went,

“Are you fucking with me?”

A kiss on the cheek and,

“That’s what you’re hoping for later, big boy.”

An hour later, unable to get Stewart on the mobile, I found out about Brennan and that Ridge had come around. Bought some flowers and headed for the hospital. Was I sorry about Brennan?

Yes.

Sorry the fuck wasn’t dead.

Laden with white roses, box of Ferrero Rocher, I arrived in Ridge’s room to find Stewart sitting by her bed. He went,

“What kept you?”

I ignored him, put the stuff down, moved to Ridge. Her face was covered with those yellow-blue marks that are a sign of healing. You can only surmise from their ferocity how bad the beating was. Her eyes were clear but something new in there, a wariness.

Fear?

I hoped to fuck not. A frightened Ridge raised a mayhem of biblical shouts in my head. I was saved from hugging her by the IV. She smiled, said,

“Tactile as ever, Jack.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a horse’s arse. I said,

“Good news.”

Ridge looked like that would be impossible. I added,

“The guy they figured did for you, Brennan, someone paid him a visit.”

She sighed.

“Oh, Jack, you didn’t?”

True, I had some mileage in this field, but protested.

“I’m guessing it’s the C33 lunatic.”

Stewart said,

“C33 doesn’t leave the victims alive. You’d remember that if you were paying attention.”

I swung around, snarled,

“The fuck is the matter with you?”

He waved at Ridge, said,

“I’ll be back later, babe.”

Strode out.

I was after him, Ridge calling me back.

Caught up with him outside the hospital, a batch of huddled smokers to the right, like the ones God cast out of heaven and as cowed. Stewart gazed at them, muttered,

“Wish I smoked.”

I grabbed his shoulder, snapped,

“The fuck is with you?”

He stared me down but something was amiss with his focus and for a bizarre moment I thought he was stoned.

Stewart!

No way, ever. He’d been a dealer, did his time in jail, he’d eat a bullet before that. But. .

He said,

“Brennan is at death’s door.”

I read it wrong and, Jesus, not the first time, asked,

“You think I did it?”

He gave a bitter smile.

“If it was you, Jack, the bastard would be dead, right?”

He moved to go, I asked,

“You’re thinking C33, but we didn’t get a letter, like the other times.”

“Jack, I’m working with all me might to think nothing, nothing at all.”

And was gone.

I went back to Ridge and tried to make desultory talk, until she exclaimed,

“Jack, you seem out of sorts.”

I sighed, sounding horrifically like my despised mother, said,

“Certainly out of something.”

13

If you don’t have sex and you don’t do drugs, your rock ’n’ roll better be awfully good.

– Abbie Hoffman

Purgatory is what the Americans term. . a plea deal.

Since my evening with Reardon, I’d stayed clear of the booze but wondered what the tipping point would be for the headfirst dive into oblivion. Tried to tell myself I’d done good with the cigs.

“Hey, not smoking, no coke-way to go, fucking Saint Francis.”

I was having the first coffee of the morning, strong, heart-kick gig, using a small hand exerciser to build up the strength in the right hand, try to compensate for the lost fingers. I’d promised Ridge I’d be there to collect her on her release from the hospital. Her husband was hunting with the local hounds club. I kid thee not, fox hunting still being permitted on his lands.

His lands.

How utterly fucking Irish is that?

But like the rest of the country, he was in hock to his balls and, yet, the hunt must. . run.

Fuckers.

The date for the household tax deadline had passed, less than half the population had paid it for the simple reason the others couldn’t. And now, still reeling from the sheer bullying tactics in the empowering of this, they were going to introduce water meters in every home. It was like they figured,

“We’ve broken the spirit of the people, now let’s really kick them in the nuts and then fuck them.”

Only a short time in power and they already had the distinction of being the most hated government of all time.

Some achievement.

The weather was once again doing its peekaboo act, rain to sun to wind to storm and freezing. I wrapped myself in my Garda coat, Galway United scarf, headed out. A man I’d swear I never saw before fell in step beside me, asking,

“You don’t mind if I walk with you, Jack?”

He looked harmless but what does that mean anymore? In his shredded forties, he was short with a very flash leather jacket, as if he expected a slot on The X Factor. I stopped, asked,

“I know you?”

Letting the aggression of no cigs leak over my words. He smiled-good teeth; bad, mean eyes-said,

“Ah, sure, you won’t be remembering me, Jack-o.”

The faux stage-Irish with the frigging O on my name got to me in ways I’d forgotten. Ways that conjured up the flash of a hurley and steel toe caps. That is, my days as a Guard.

He said,

“I used to help your mum, you know, carry the shopping, look after the garden.”

My mum!

Fucksake.

Like she was a slice of Irish whimsy.

She’d been a walking bitch, spat and snarled her way through a sham religiosity, with a tame priest as buffer. I stopped, asked,

“What did you call her?”

His eyes, startled, went,

“What?”

My voice was cold as yesterday’s Mass, asked,

“Did you call her ma’am, Mrs., your ladyship?”

Relief flowed, he said,

“Oh, right, I am. . Mrs. Taylor, you know.”

He wasn’t even worth a wallop for his worthless lie. I asked,

“And you’ll want, how is it? A little something for your. . thoughtfulness?”

He was unsure now, maybe stories of my erratic behavior had reached him. I shot out my hand, shook his shoulder, said,

“If only we had more of your kind, we’d be a richer country.”

And moved past him, a dumbfounded expression on his face. I got to the hospital, went into the patients’ shop, bought some very expensive flowers, box of flash chocolates, and the daily tabloid. The headline screeched about the new sly tax the government was planning.

A water charge.

In Ireland.

Where we were surrounded at every turn by it, now we were to pay for it, with meters to be installed free of charge. The woman behind the counter said,

“Now I’ll have to give up water, like everything else.”

As I came out of the shop, I saw a woman on the edge of my vision and stopped, frozen. The tilt of the head, the way her body moved, then, no, saw her face and it was not who I thought. Time back, I’d been as close to commitment, a relationship, as it ever gets for a loner like me. An American woman, for a few months, it was bliss. Made me believe I could even feel good about me own self and that’s some leap.

One conversation had leaped into my mind. She’d been listening to my fear,

“It’s the dread of becoming boring, that the gold dust will fade, the glitter evaporate.”

She’d said,

“Jack, you’ll never be boring to me.”

I’d snapped,

“Not talking about you.”

Outside Ridge’s room, I thought about sharing this with her and realized it wouldn’t much improve my standing, walked in, and found an empty bed. Shock at first, thinking,

“Jesus, she’s dead.”

Until a passing nurse told me she’d checked out last night. We both looked at the array of stuff in my hands. I asked,

“Will you give them to the children’s ward?”

She would.

Back at my apartment, I’d done a fevered job of cleaning, not so easy when one hand is missing digits but I’d learned to compensate. Not smoking, drinking, drugging, I sure had the time, and even, part-time, the energy. Lady Antebellum on the radio, singing about being a little drunk after midnight and needing you now.

Trouble was, I didn’t know anymore who I missed the most.

Distracting my own self, I arranged the boxed DVDs for the second time, it gave me a fragile sense of order, of weak control, and the titles were a testament to all the shows that had been canceled after one or two seasons, the ones that didn’t cut it.

Eastbound and Down

The Riches

Testees

Bored to Death

Seemed apt I’d go for shows that didn’t last the distance. I phoned Ridge, told her I’d been to the hospital, tried to keep the whine out of my tone. She lashed,

“Oh, I’m sorry; should have immediately called you when I got released.”

Fuck.

I asked, not so much caring now.

“You doing okay?”

Deep sigh, then,

“Long as I don’t have to run any errands for you, I should be fine.”

Jesus, the bitterness. I did the only thing you can do, said,

“God bless.”

And hung up.

You had to figure: this is how I got on with my friends, imagine the rest of the world. No wonder I drank, the truth being, maybe I wasn’t drinking half enough. Shook myself. I’d be buried in a bottle in a jig time and I had a meal to prepare. Yup, I was cooking dinner for Kelly. Where did that place our relationship? Dark side of the manic moon.

Okay, I could do this.

I’d watched Come Dine with Me.

How hard could it be?

Starter.

Fuck, who needs a starter?

Main course.

Could only be Irish stew. You’ve served your time in the Guards, two things you can do:

Use a hurley

Make stew.

Got all the ingredients laid out

Mass of potatoes

Ton of vegetables

Salt

Chorizo

I kid thee not, chorizo gives it a kick like bargained absolution. Profane but exhilarating. Washing the veg, then slicing, even with my dud hand, was a comfort, as if normality might be accessible, like in a patch. Lashed the lot, with the spuds, into a huge pot, added a wee dram of the Jay, now leave to cook for a few hours. The smell permeated the apartment, like a childhood revisited, save we never had the peace such aromas supposedly bring.

I had white wine cooling, Kelly said it was her preference. Made the bed, clean sheets, and ignored what this might entail. Set the table, with a red candle centerpiece, then surveyed.

Not bad.

Wanted to call Ridge, describe it, then roar,

“See, I can do this shit.”

But she’d say I was drunk. I’d taped the big match, Man City versus Man U in the game of the decade. Didn’t think Kelly would want to watch but you could dream. I put the Pogues on, sat back as Shane gnarled his way through Dirty Old Town. Their thirtieth anniversary this year. Who figured Shane would still be around? He made me seem positively teetotal-part of the reason I loved the band.

Now all I had to do was wait.

A tricky gig when I’d oceans of booze right there but I managed, barely. I’d just checked on the stew, added some more Jay, left it to simmer when the doorbell went off.

“Game on,”

I whispered.

* * *

Kelly looked divine, black silk shirt, tight, over white jeans and scuffed boots with a serious heel. Her hair, tumbling over her face in the way that begged wrap your fingers in this. I said,

“Jeez, you look great.”

“I know.”

She came in, gave that detailed inspection that women do. Said,

“Zen via poverty.”

I laughed, went,

“I’m not that deep.”

She plunked herself down on the sofa, said,

“Oh, I know that.”

I offered a drink and got,

“Only if you’re joining me.”

Hmmm. .

Took that long to reach my decision. As she sipped on a vodka tonic, I drew from a Shiner Bock, checked my stew, sure smelled. . strong. The slug of Texas beer only increased my nervousness. Second drink in, I suggested we might try the dinner but, no, she produced a spliff, said,

“We mellow out, won’t no ways matter how bad the food is.”

Fuck.

Trouble was, hitting on the joint made me want a whole pack of Marlboro Red. Must have been strong dope. We’re sitting on the floor, piled plates of stew on our laps, eating like munchkins. She said,

“No shit, but this is like being back at Kent State.”

Showing I was still in the set, I asked,

“Where you studied?”

“Fuck no. Where I smoked major dope.”

Right.

She asked,

“Am I really flying or do I taste whiskey in this here stew?”

I said,

“That would be crazy.”

I curse my own self. Jesus wept. The mix of dope and the food, booze, I felt my eyes droop. Kelly said,

“Hey Jack, put your head on my shoulder, grab five.”

Damn it to hell.

Woke early next morning, blankets around me and no Kelly.

She left a note.

“I had my way.”

What?

And

She’d done the dishes.

To block out my frustration, I switched on the radio.

Sarkozy was gone, Hollande the new president.

You could say he and I got the wake-up call too late.

Quel dommage. Bad fook to it.

14

An angel in Hell flies in its own little cloud of paradise.

– Eckhart

Stewart heard the news late in the evening. He’d been keeping busy, his various business interests, like everything else, leaking money and credibility. Global news was, as usual, dire. Greece about to drop out of the euro. France had a new president, adding to the unrest. Syria continued to murder its own people with impunity.

Stewart was restless, his Zen doing little to ease him down. An almost fevered agitation spurring him on. Ridge was due to visit. He’d even promised her a meal but had been unable to settle to the preparation. His affection for her was huge but now all he could think. .

“She’s a cop.”

How would she respond if he told her of his treatment of Brennan? Beating the guy to within an inch of his wretched life. They’d been down a lot of dark roads, but some semblance of justice had been riding point, even if it didn’t warrant close scrutiny. He knew if he’d shared with Jack how that would go.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Yeah.

The doorbell went. He made the mental leap of control, took a deep breath, opened the door. Ridge, cleaned up, dressed in a black tracksuit, white glowing T-shirt, looked tired: hospital fatigue, the shadows under her eyes. She gave him a tight hug and he could feel how thin she was, the years of wear catching up. He lied,

“You look great.”

And she laughed.

She sat on the sofa as he prepared tea. Ridge being one of the few who appreciated his herbal efforts. She said,

“I miss living here.”

A time, last case, he’d given her refuge from her husband and the violence swirling around her. The darkness had reached out, followed them literally to the doorstep, but they’d found a new alliance in each other. To his dismay, he’d enjoyed her company but, one thing he knew, you never traveled back.

Never.

He said,

“It was real good, sister.”

Striving not to leak all over the sentiment with his new shadows. Laid out the tea, the soda bread, honey, crackers, her favorite snacks. He sat opposite, willing himself to tell her about Brennan, to share the burden. She said,

“They’re advertising for police in Australia.”

“What?”

She was serious.

Half the young people were lined up to leave, Australia being very keen to recruit our trained young. Stewart asked,

“But what about Jack?”

She gave a bitter laugh, said,

“We can hardly take him with us.”

Us?

She gave him a shy smile, then,

“Couples seem to have a better chance.”

He was incredulous, pushed,

“As. . what?”

“Friends?”

Threw him, completely. She moved to pour the tea, reading him wrong, blustered,

“Forget it. It was just a thought. These days, the panic in the air, everybody’s desperate.”

Sharing with her now was slipping away and it seemed to be more urgent. He started,

“If Jack went after the guy who hurt you, would you. . you know. . be angry. . at. . the vigilante aspect?”

Groaned, the fuck had happened to his facility with language?

She gave a rueful smile, said,

“Thing with Jack, he’d never tell you.”

Said, like, she admired that.

They muddled through the tea, both knowing something had changed but for different reasons, each now locked alone, regretting the inability to spew out the truth. She stood and he tried to lighten the mood with,

“Jack in Australia, eh?”

Harsh tone, harsher look. She said,

“Wise up, Stewart.”

Added at the door to his silence,

“Jack is fucked, always has been.”

I was reading about rinsing.

What?

Yeah, me too.

Describes young women who post on Twitter, Facebook, that they want, say,

“Diamond earrings, new car, some cash-heavy item.”

And an old guy provides.

Seriously.

No physical contact takes place. . they say.

Jesus, virtual hooking.

The phone rang, heard

“You like literature, Oscar?”

Kelly.

I went,

“Bit early for it.”

Heard the laugh, then,

“See, the thing is, Town Hall tonight, one night only, ‘Irish Literature as Seen Through an Urban Malaise.’”

Then she read me the names of the local suspects who’d be discoursing. I said,

“Compelling as that is, tonight is the final part of The Bridge.”

I explained this Danish-Swedish joint venture, following on the heels of the superb Danish Borgen. She sneered,

“Tape it, fellah; why we have the record button.”

I protested,

“Trust me, someone would tell me the end, like when I tape the football, if Chelsea get hammered, some bollix will shout the result across the street.”

She said,

“Jesus, and there was me thinking the Syrian situation was a crisis.”

I offered,

“We could meet after, grab supper, have our own collaboration, Ireland and U.S.?”

“Heavens to Betsy, Jack, you sound downright decadent.”

“Heavens to Betsy?”

She laughed again.

“A little down-home folksy for all yah pilgrims.”

She rang off. I settled down to watch Season 4 of Breaking Bad.

Time called the line by Bryan Cranston:

. . “I am the one who knocks.”

The best line on TV in 2011.

As Walter White, he’s been reassuring his wife, Skylar. She is afraid for his safety as a guy had knocked on the door of a drug chemist, shot him in the face, and she believes Walter is in danger. Walter waits a beat, then corrects,

“Not in danger. I am. . the danger.”

Then follows with the above line. Classic.