Текст книги "Purgatory"

Автор книги: Ken Bruen

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He echoed,

“Secret?”

Westbury was waving to various high-profile types who passed, basking in his current success, said,

“Money.”

Stewart couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. He thought this might be true to a degree but wouldn’t want to be in the dock hoping cash was the key. Westbury said,

“I made some discreet inquiries of the Guards and, currently, you are not a person of interest.”

Stewart acknowledged his debt, said,

“I’d still like to retain you lest something arise in the future.”

Westbury’s mobile shrilled, he answered, made some mmm noises, then stood, said,

“Duty calls.”

They shook hands. Westbury said,

“Stay in touch.”

And turned as he was leaving, added,

“Stay in funds.”

24

The black afflicton of the brain.

– Brecht

Kelly climbed out of my bed, looked back, said,

“What you lack in heat you make up for in desperation.”

Add that to a fragmented ego, see how it plays. I propped myself up on one elbow, like Matthew McConaughey seems to do in every movie, but I did skip the squeezing of my eyes. She was doing that thing women think is cute:

. . wearing the guy’s shirt

. . and drives guys mental

And it was also my prized multi-washed cotton work shirt.

I said,

“So, you were married to Reardon.”

She pulled her bag over, took out a pack of Virginia Slims, lit one with a solid gold Zippo, that clunk sounding as it always did, like some weary hope. She blew out a cloud of smoke, said,

“You’ve been holding that for a time, measuring the max impact.”

She was caught between annoyance and amusement, continued,

“He comes from. .”

She paused,

Asked,

“You know the term fuck-you money?”

Sure.

“Well, his family is so far up that fuck-you trail they don’t even bother to brag about it, they just do it: annihilate and move on. I come from jack shit and, to get in that charmed circle, I’d have fucked his whole clan.”

This riled me in ways I couldn’t even articulate. I spat,

“So did you? Lay the whole crew?”

She dropped the cig in my coffee cup and, no, I wasn’t finished, said,

“Pretty much.”

She was heading for the shower. I asked,

“You must have done pretty fine from the divorce.”

She looked at me in genuine puzzlement.

“Who got divorced?”

She switched on the TV, the final of the Volvo Ocean Race at the Galway Docks. Eighty thousand people turned up at two in the morning to welcome them. New Zealand was first over the line but the French won on overall time. It was to be the beginning of nine days of party-on in Galway and a huge financial coup for the city.

She flicked it off, said,

“Reardon’s got a boat.”

Jesus, quelle surprise.

Like I gave a good fuck. I asked,

“In the race?”

She laughed, began to make coffee, said,

“Yeah, right, like the dude’s got the time to sail round the world. It’s berthed in Saint-Tropez, or is it Saint-Malo?”

I asked, edge leaking over my tone,

“Remind me again why you’re with me?”

She glanced up, asked,

“You don’t know?”

Dare to hope.

Said,

“I make you laugh?”

She sighed as she surveyed my range of coffee, said,

“Slumming, see how a loser lives.”

There was no smile on her lips.

And certainly

No warmth in her tone.

I’d recently come across the first of Arne Dahl’s novels to be translated into English, The Blinded Man, a passage in there that captured a look that passed between Kelly and me as she handed me a mug of coffee.

Did those few minutes in the kitchen draw them closer together? Or had a final chasm opened up between them? It was impossible to say but something decisive had taken place; they had looked into each other’s naked loneliness.

So many times, a piece, quote, passage from a book reflected exactly the current of my life.

But never did my life reflect a single piece of uplifting writing in all my reading years. My life didn’t imitate fiction; it mocked it.

More and more, I was reading into darkness, the resonance of my days simply ratifying what I read. This knowledge was less a revelation than an affirmation.

A memorial was unveiled in Celia Griffin Park to honor the victims of the Famine ships, and those ships, rescue ships, that had tried so hard to deliver our people to the United States. Celia Griffin was six years old during the Famine and died of hunger on the streets of Galway. An autopsy revealed she had not a scrap of food in her stomach.

Mark Kennedy had

Cajoled

Struggled

Fought

To raise the funds for this memorial and, close to his seventy-sixth birthday, he saw his dream fulfilled. How fitting that the unveiling was attended by Brian Sheridan, the harbormaster, as he juggled with the logistics of the Volvo Ocean Race.

Truly, a shard of sunshine amid so much darkness.

Don Stiffe had composed a song for the occasion, titled

Celia Griffin.

And there, in the sunshine, he sang it as the spectators, their eyes wet, turned out toward Galway Bay. Kelly had come along with me. I had promised to show her a slice of the real Galway and she went,

“Dead kid, huh?”

I wanted to wallop her.

Len Waters’s apartment was beyond basic. Someone with money and spare time had attacked it with clichés. The mega-flat screen, heavy leather sofa, kitchen outfitted with every expensive gadget, never used. Lads’ mags scattered on the glass coffee table and obligatory ashtray with butts and spliff ends. The fridge had simply six-packs and a half bottle of Grey Goose.

C33 was partial to a chilled vodka, found new Waterford crystal in a cupboard, and poured a decent measure. Sat on the couch, feet up on the table, and wondered what anxiety was like, having recently read about it in a medical column. It seemed like a useful vibe to imitate.

Too, it could double up with stress and have a whole concerned presentation running. C33 placed the shotgun on the sofa, double O ammunition. Bought in that fish and tackle shop without any fuss. Even exchanged pleasantries,

“Shame about the weather.”

“Indeed.”

And, on leaving, heard,

“God bless the hunting.”

Gotta love that.

C33 thought about Waters, wondered if there was any point in a chat before offing the little bastard. The guy terrorized old women, working his twisted path toward the main event. What was there to talk about?

The vodka was slipping down easy, a nice glow building. C33 thought about Jack Taylor and knew now that he was not going to be an adversary. Had seemed like an idea to play with him, him being such a book fiend. But he had failed to follow up on the clues and now seemed more interested in his limp romance.

C33 sighed.

Stewart. Now maybe that’s the way the game should have gone. Stewart was definitely willing to rap but,

C33

Shouted,

“So goddamn freaking slow.”

Needed everything spelled out?

Fucksake!

A key turned in the door, C33 breathed,

“Showtime.”

Len Waters had been on the piss, big-time. A fairly average evening for him.

Barred from three pubs

Thrown out of two clubs

One fistfight outside Supermac’s

And threw up twice near the canal. Whatever company he’d been in had abandoned him, nothing new there. He was just trouble without the humor. Now Waters was hit by the late-night fake appetite, for something

Greasy

Full of fat

Cheap

And had no money.

Fuck.

He roared.

Thought, back in his kip of a flat, he had some stashed coke. Yeah, get some lines done, then he’d see. Maybe head back out, smash some old bitch up, yeah, get right in her old face, crush it. That never got. . old.

Took him a few minutes to get his key aligned to the lock and involved a stream of obscenities, then literally fell in. He lay on the floor, unable to get up for a moment, and started to laugh for no reason other than simple derangement.

A voice cut through his mirth.

“Care to share the joke?”

C33 had decided to go with one barrel. Mainly as one was more than sufficient to wipe Waters off the map. All the talk C33 had planned on giving had just evaporated and C33 had thought,

“Who the fuck can be bothered?”

Too, what could Waters have possibly said of vague interest? Standing over the body, nudged the head with a boot, dead as a doornail. The smell of cordite was intoxicating. C33 looked around the flat, shrugged, opened the door, the shotgun cradled on the right arm.

A man was standing outside, stared at C33, struggling to place the face, said,

“I know you.”

The movement

Shotgun

One

Moved fast to the right hand

Two

Finger on the trigger

Three

Second barrel goes

Into Stewart’s face.

25

“Artists certainly aren’t easy people.”

“No,” Eva giggled, “but somebody’s got to take the trouble to emphasize the depths of existence so that the rest of you have a surface to skate over.”

– Karin Fossum, In the Darkness

Purgatory is the backup plan the church has for hell.

I was watching Season 5 of Breaking Bad when I heard the knock at the door. Expecting Kelly, I ran my fingers through my hair. Make an effort, right? Smile in place, I opened the door to Ridge.

A very distressed Ridge. Could see her red eyes, knew it must be bad. If Ridge was crying it was hard-core. I ushered her in, got her sitting down, waited.

She said,

“Stewart’s been shot.”

That didn’t make any sense. Not Stewart, the guy was too fast, too aware. I muttered,

“What?”

“He was found at the home of a young guy who’d been killed and we think he may have disturbed the killer.”

I couldn’t get a handle, tried,

“What young guy? Jesus, where, I mean, how is he, Stewart?”

She stared down at the floor. I grabbed her shoulder, rougher than I intended, shouted,

“Ridge?”

“He’s dead, Jack.”

The next few days were a flurry of dazed and utter confusion. I was there, present, but only barely. For some fucked-up reason, Stewart had named me as his next of kin in his papers. He had to be kidding but kidding wasn’t anything he’d be doing again. I knew he lost all contact with his family after his jail time, but to name me, Jesus, what was he thinking?

Like everything else, he’d arranged his disposal, as he termed it in his will.

Cremation.

“He was afraid of small spaces,”

Ridge told me.

How’d she get told and not me?

You want cremation in Galway, it makes perfect Irish sense, you have to travel to Dublin. Fuck. In my anger, I’d spat,

“Hey, give me a can of petrol and a Zippo, we can stay home.”

Ridge let that slide.

Kelly had said,

“Anything you need?”

Yeah, my friend back.

She got Reardon to arrange a flight to Dublin and Ridge, Stewart, and I made the trip early on the Monday morning before the races. We were back that evening, with Stewart in an urn. All of that is only vaguely recallable, brief vignettes of pain and anger. I was drinking but not drunk, not sober, and certainly not in any sane state of mind.

Phew-oh.

I do remember the plane ride back, Stewart on the seat beside me. I asked Ridge, who was as shell-shocked as my own self,

“What do we do with the urn? Put it on our mantelpieces, take it alternate weekends?”

She shook her head, said,

“He left instructions.”

Of course.

Ridge and I were waiting close to Nimmo’s Pier, a boat due to take us out on the bay, to scatter Stewart. I’d handed the urn to Ridge, felt weird holding my friend thus. Ridge looked down at it, said,

“And I’ve held you in the palm of my hand.”

It was shortly before noon, the Claddagh church would soon be ringing the bell for the Angelus. I was burning with bitterness, bile, and bewilderment.

I said,

“Who’d ever think I’d outlive Stewart?”

Ridge gave me an unknowable look, said,

“You shouldn’t have, no way.”

Jesus, steady.

A lone swan came gliding along. Ridge watched it with longing, said,

“They say a swan is the reincarnation of a Claddagh fisherman who drowned.”

Fuck.

I said,

“Jesus, I’m so tired of Irish

Piseógs

Stories

Omens

Superstitions

Fairy fucking tales.

Stewart is fucking dead and he ain’t coming back as a swan or any other freaking thing.”

Like I said,

“Bitterness oozing.”

I’d checked out Lee Waters, he’d fit the bill for the C33 agenda, but the Guards were no way going the way of a vigilante and, anyway, Stewart had been a dope dealer. Never no fucking mind it was years ago, he was dirty, end of story. Waters, and Stewart, had been clients of Westbury and Stewart had told me he was trying to find a link with Westbury and former victims, and I’d

. . blown him off.

I said to Ridge,

“Stewart thought the lawyer, Westbury, was worth investigating, maybe even built a case for him being the C33 character.”

Ridge shook her head.

“It’s nothing. The Guards checked out all this nonsense, there is no link between the killings.”

Fuck sake.

I said,

“What about the notes?”

She gave me the look, then,

“There’s a school of thought, um. . that suggests. .you. . you might have written those.”

“Are you fucking kidding? Why? Why on earth would I do that?”

The boat was approaching, I moved back from the pier, asked,

“And you, Ridge, what school do you favor?”

Said,

“You’ve been under lots of pressure and maybe, you know, a desire to look, um. . significant, in front of your American buddies.”

She put a lean of condescension on buddies.

I started to move away, she asked,

“Where are you going? We have to scatter Stewart’s ashes.”

I fixed my eyes on her, tried to keep my voice low, said,

“You’re smart, just take the top off and. . scatter.”

* * *

My mind was in free fall.

A line from Scott Walker, he’d said something like this is how you disappear.

To a torrent of self-recrimination, the chorus of not disapproval but downright bile, thinking,

“I always knew when the joke was over, but my dilemma?

Never being quite sure when it began”

Toward David Mamet describing his childhood,

. . In the days prior to television, we liked to while away the evenings by making ourselves miserable, solely based on our ability to speak the language viciously.

Pause.

Stopped to catch my breath, reach for my cigarettes,

And,

“Fuck, don’t smoke no more.”

Fume, yes, freely and with intent. The director Mike Nichols declaring,

I do well with the fundamentally inconsolable.

Fucking A.

A homeless person asked me for something and I shouted,

“You want something? Here, a word of consolation, fuck off.”

Repented.

Went back.

Gave him fifty euros, heard him mutter,

“Bloody eejit.”

26

“It’s over for you, motherfucker.”

– the voice Brian Wilson heard in his head, over and over, for twenty years

I went down into the abyss,

Spiral

Screaming

Burning

Hot

To

Freakish

Cold

Fucked.

Snatches of Stewart’s friendship flashing through my mind like a dire recrimination of what would never be again. Five days before I surfaced, kind of, sick through sickness like I’d rare to rarer experienced.

I came to in my own apartment, a large man sitting opposite, lounging in a chair, drinking from one of my coffee mugs, a slight smile playing on his lips. I didn’t know if he was real or part of the previous day’s horrors and hallucinations. I croaked,

“Hey.”

Deep, yeah.

I sat up, real bad idea. The room did a jig, a reel. The man stood, got a glass of water, said,

“Get some of this down, slow ’n’ easy.”

I did, slowly, and managed to keep some if it down. I asked,

“Who are you?”

He was even bigger when my vision settled, over six two and climbing. And must have been close to 200 pounds, not much of it fat. A face that had been squatted in then grilled. Cold blue eyes but with a shot of amusement. Wearing chinos and black, battered Dr. Martens, the originals. A T-shirt with the logo

Monterey rocks.

So faded it might have been an original, which could mean he saw Jimi Hendrix. I shook my head as he said,

“Name is Moore, least that’s we’re giving out today.”

And he smiled, kind of.

He said,

“I’ve got some healing here for you, buddy, some pills your benefactor Mr. Reardon provided.”

Reardon.

Moore had been asked by Reardon to keep an eye on me, mainly for Kelly’s sake, and found me crumpled in a mess outside my apartment, reeking to high heaven of booze. Got me inside and halfway cleaned up.

I snapped,

“So, have I to beg? Let’s make with the fucking things or not.”

He laughed, took out a battered tin, began to roll a cig. I said,

“No-smoking zone, pal.”

He laughed, said,

“I like it, and gotta say, dude who’s taken the punishment you have, to crack funny, that’s. . hard-core.”

He, I kid thee not, flicked a long match off his boot, lit up. I said,

“You’re kidding. What, you studied Clint movies and then figured you’d trot out that party trick?”

He blew a perfect ring, said,

“Just a match, partner, nothing more.”

Jesus, I’d woken up in a scene from a clichéd western by the freaking numbers. He reached in his pocket, tossed a phial, and, no, I didn’t catch it. Fuck.

Got the lid off, got two capsules out, dry-swallowed them. He said,

“Trusting type, ain’t yah?”

I said,

“If you’re poisoning me, the hangover I have coming down the pike, you’d be doing me a favor.”

He shrugged, said,

“You’ve got some grit, fellah.”

I asked,

“So, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing in my home, besides cowboy cameos?”

He stood up, did the neck exercise beloved of jocks, said,

“I’m your guardian angel.”

His accent was gruff, no prisoners New York, Lower East Side if I knew my Jimmy Breslin. His eyes testified to war years with not so many bullets avoided.

I gave him my best skeptical look, honed by years of dealing with priests who told me the Kingdom of Heaven was within.

Within whom they neglected to mention.

Christ, I began to feel good, not just, um. . hungover, but fucking real fine. I had a shower, shouted,

“Brew up some coffee there,”

Pause

“Pilgrim.” Angel dust indeed. I dressed fast, raring to go. Faded Levi’s, cleanish white cotton shirt, my fave boots, the ones that clicked, made you sound like you were going places or, at least, had been to some joint of significance. A light jacket, khaki in color, that gave the vibe of a player.

Being able to stand straight, I was nearly as tall as Moore. He handed me a steaming mug of caff, said,

“Roasted Colombian.”

Roast heaven.

All I needed was spurs, a gray palomino, and wagons fucking ho to be the full cowboy.

Moore was surveying me, then pulled out a small jotter and with a stub of a pencil made some notes. No Mont Blanc posing here. I asked,

“You taking notes?”

Growled,

“Sure as shooting.”

Time to showtime, asked,

“Why?”

“For Mr. Reardon. He sicced me on you, to keep your dumb ass safe.”

He saw my expression, said,

“Smell the beans, compadre. You’re. . a guinea pig. Those pills, you’re. .”

He chuckled.

“. . straight out”

Fucking chuckled.

“. . the trial subject.”

Added,

“Used to be there was gold in them thar hills.”

Breath.

“Now, it’s pharmaceuticals, the Big Dipper, the treasure of the Sierra Madre, all rolled in one. Can you imagine having a real live test subject, not in a goddamn lab but out on the street, living it, if not large at least colorful? The FDA will be shitting themselves.”

I was horrified but buoyed by the dope so. . you know. . torn.

Managed,

“He’s using me as a guinea pig?”

He made a gun of his hand, let the thumb/hammer fall. I managed,

“Jesus, wait till Kelly hears this.”

He laughed, said,

“Her idea.”

It was out before I could think.

“The. . cunt.”

Wagged a finger in my face, said,

“Easy, partner, that’s my sister you’re dissing.”

God on a bloody unbelievable bike. I muttered,

“Jesus, you people all related?”

He smiled, said,

“Like to roll our own.”

And,

“Tell you what, caballero. Those pills should be kicking in and I hear give you an appetite, so how’s about I treat you to some eggs over easy, bacon, pot of joe?”

Truth to tell, I was now ravenous, said,

“Sure, long as I can have me some grits.”

He looked at me, asked,

“They do grits?”

“Get fucking real, Clint.”

I chilled for a few hours, the pills coasting me back to the land of hunger, near normality, and light. Moore sighed, said,

“I can see you’re improved, and it’s time we grabbed some chow.”

He was out the door, his boots echoing in the hall like a rumor that was only half understood. I caught up with him on the street, said,

“Tell you what, I’ll buy breakfast, see if you can open up a bit about Reardon.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

The GBC does the best fry-up.

Lots of neon cholesterol.

Runny eggs

Fat Clonakilty sausages.

Black pudding like the pope ordered (cross me heart)

Thick streaky rashers

And a pot of Barry’s tea like the childhood you never had. I ordered all of this for two and then, under the table, pushed the snub-nosed.38 to him, said,

“Think you mislaid this.”

He reached for his back, where I’d relieved him of it during my stumble. He was as close to impressed as a stone jackal got, asked,

“You learn that in the Guards?”

I waved at Frank Casserly, the chef, then said,

“I learned it on the streets.”

The tea and thick buttered toast arrived and he asked,

“So, want to know what you missed while you were. . away. . for five days?”

I had to focus, trying to measure how long it had been since Stewart. . since Stewart, said,

“The Olympics.”

He poured the strong tea, bit down on a hefty wedge of dripping toast, said,

“You guys got five medals, gold for the Taylor lass in boxing.”

Jesus.

“Really?”

“Yup, no shit, Sherlock, you guys can fight.”

The food arrived, freaking mountains of it. Moore said,

“Man, gonna flood some major arteries here.”

But he dug in, like he had a shovel rather than a fork. He said,

“Lots of folks bought the farm while you were AWOL.”

I felt the food lodge in my throat, spat,

“Besides my best friend?”

He shrugged, said,

“Yeah, well, condolences and all that good shit. Gore Vidal, Helen Gurley Brown, Ernest Borgnine.”

Like I could give a fuck.

I said,

“So you’re to babysit while I’m running on experimental meds.”

He was having a second mug of tea, seemed to be liking it, said,

“Reardon wants to ensure you don’t end up like your best bud.”

“I’m touched.”

He laughed, said,

“Hell, Taylor, you ain’t shit to shinola to him but Kelly, she seems to have some weird shine on you. Go figure, huh?”

I simply muttered,

“C33.”

He stopped,

Actually held his mug mid-frozen, asked,

“What did you say?”

I was about to tell about Westbury and he grabbed my arm, snarled,

“Not the whole fucking saga, the number, you said a number.”

“C33.”

He put the mug down, shaken, murmured,

“I’ll be fucking hog-tied.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the pills-the crap you’re swallowing.”

I think that’s what they call a showstopper.

Jesus.

My mind racing to all sorts of scenarios.

. . Reardon was C33?

Playing at vigilantism like he fucked around with everything else. And what a perfect rat fuck, to dabble in serial killing. Just the kind of sick shit he’d relish. Would explain the initial letters to me. Reardon was stuck in every aspect of my life. Did Stewart surprise him and just happen to be collateral damage?

As my mind jumped through a maze, Moore stood up, said,

“Gotta go jam my head under some real cold water.”

The bill was on the table. I said,

“You picking up the tab?”

He grimaced, said,

“Been picking up the freight on you for five days, hoss. Time you paid some dues.”

He was heading out. I said,

“Moore?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me hoss again.”