The Killing of the Tinkers (6 page)

Kiki arrived on a wet afternoon. I took a cab to the airport to
meet her. The driver was saying,

“There’s been positive dope testing at the Para-Olympics.”

You can’t encourage taxi drivers. Even the most noncommittal grunt is interpreted as,

“You are so fascinating, please tell me all your opinions on everything immediately and never let me get a word in.”

He was off.

“Now your regular Olympics, OK, we expect them to cheat. But your cripples and such, you think they’d have integrity, am I right?”

Next we’d get to whose fault it was. He asked,

“Know who I blame?”

“No idea.”

“Your Arabs.”

“Oh.”

“They drug the water.”

When we got to Carnmore, I asked,

“Can you wait?”

“Sure. You want me to come inside, grab a tea with you?”

“No.”

As Kiki came through the gate, my heart did a minor chord. Not wild abandon, more a distant relative. She looked gorgeous. Navy jacket, faded blue cords. I said,

“You look gorgeous.”

Put her arms round me, full kiss, said,

“Jack, you’re blushing.”

“That’s mortification.”

Got her bags, and to my relief, they were small. Not planning a long trip. Getting in the cab, I said,

“Don’t mention sport.”

As we pulled out, the driver said,

“There’s been positive dope testing…”

At Hidden Valley, I was carrying Kiki’s bags from the cab when the neighbour passed. He winked, said,

“You yoke.”

The English might say “you rascal”, but it hasn’t the same flavour.

She loved the house. I got some drinks, said,

“Sláinte.”

“Oh, I like that word. I like you. What happened to your nose, your teeth?”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Are you in trouble, Jack?”

“Of course not.”

We went to bed. I wish I could say I delighted her. I didn’t. She said,

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

“Nothing, I’m just not used to you.”

“Maybe the alcohol, the cocaine, they robbed you.”

“No…Jeez, a few days, I’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Neither of us believed it. That evening, I said,

“Come and meet some friends.”

We went to Nestor’s. The sentry ignored us. Jeff was tending bar. I said,

“Jeff, this is Kiki, a friend from London.”

She shot me a look. Jeff shouted for Cathy and asked,

“Can I get you something to say welcome to Ireland?”

“A small Guinness.”

“I’ll have a pint, Jeff.”

Cathy arrived, curiosity writ large. Her pregnancy was very developed, and she and Kiki got into woman talk. We were sitting on stools, Cathy behind the bar with Jeff, when Cathy asked,

“Well, Jack, how come you kept this terrific woman a secret?”

Kiki looked at me, then asked Cathy,

“Jack hasn’t told you?”

“No, nothing.”

“I’m Jack’s wife.”

Even the sentry went,

“What?”

Jeff recovered first, went and got a bottle of champagne. Cathy remained stunned. Kiki said,

“I’m going.”

I followed her outside, said,

“But they’re preparing a celebration.”

“I will need keys, Jack.”

I handed over the spare set I’d been planning to give her later. She asked,

“Where do I ask for?”

I told her and she hailed a cab. I half hoped it was the Olympic guy. Then she was gone. Back in the bar, all stood waiting. I said,

“Better put the champagne on ice.”

The sentry said,

“Their first row.”

Cathy added,

“I doubt it.”

I ordered a large Jameson, took my hard seat. Cathy brought it over, asked,

“Can I sit?”

“Sure.”

I got a cig going, circled my drink. Cathy asked,

“Is whiskey a good idea?”

“Is marriage?”

“Good heavens, Jack, how come you never said?”

“I don’t know. I think I thought it was a London thing. You know, come home, leave the bedsit, all that behind.”

“But God…I mean…did you love her…what?”

“I was a little crazy over there.”

“What a change.”

“Yea, yea, anyway, I thought it would settle me. She has a doctorate in metaphysics.”

“Is that supposed to tell me something? I can’t even pronounce it.”

“It’s the study of being.”

“Gee, Jack, that really clears it up for me.”

“I thought she might see into my soul, see some redemption.”

Cathy stood up, said,

“The baby’s kicking, I’ll have to lie down. You’re going to have to stop the coke, you know that, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

A little later, a man came in, spotted me, walked over. He was familiar but that’s all. He said,

“Jack.”

“Yea?”

“I’m Brendan Flood.”

“Of course. I’m not long married; it appears to have rattled me. A drink?”

“A mineral, please.”

Got that squared away. Least he didn’t ask for a straw. He had aged badly. Wearing a donkey jacket with the leather patches. Opened it to reveal a heavy silver cross. I said,

“I’ve a lighter from the same seam.”

He shook his head, said,

“It does you no merit to mock.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not too late for repentance.”

“Would it help if I knew metaphysics?”

“I am speaking of belief, Jack, of faith. Knowledge is the tool of Satan.”

“How did you find me?”

At last a slight easing. He said,

“We were guards, Jack.”

I signalled for another drink, and Brendan said,

“There is indeed a pattern to the deaths of those unfortunate men.”

“Go on.”

“All were found naked; a degree of savagery, mutilation is common to all. And each was in his late twenties, none over thirty.”

“Anything else?”

“The guards have consigned it to family feuding.”

“What do you think, Brendan?”

He sipped at his mineral. If it was giving him any pleasure, he was hiding it, said,

“I think someone is systematically stalking and killing young tinkers.”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. You might want to talk to Ronald Bryson.”

“Who’s he?”

“An English social worker with the Simon Community. They have a shelter in the Fair Green. All the bodies were found nearby.”

I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out a wedge, laid it near his drink. He asked,

“What’s that?”

“For your time, your help.”

He considered, then pocketed it, said,

“I’ll give it to the missions.”

“Don’t you have a family?”

“God is my family.”

He stood up, said,

“So. Congratulations are in order.”

“What?”

“You have a wife now.”

“No, that was a rumour masquerading as fact.”

“God mind you well, Jack.”

Later, much later, Jeff said,

“You better go home, Jack.”

“I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here.”

“You have a wife, go home. I think Cathy’s going to have the baby real soon. I need some sleep.”

“Right, call me when the time comes.”

“Sure.”

“Promise.”

“I promise. Now go.”

When I got to my front door, I checked for Tiernans. Nope, no warriors. Staggered inside, said,

“Kiki, you awake?”

Fumbled my way to the kitchen, checked the time. Three thirty in the morning. How did that happen? Thought,

“I’ll do one line of coke, clear my head, then see if Kiki’s up for some serious love-making.”

I was smiling; this was a good plan. Kiki would learn I could be a stud. Just get me started, I could last as long as Sting. A note was propped up against the kettle. Beside it were the bullets from the 9mm. They shone as if they’d been polished. Before the note I decided to coke up a little more. Stashed in the fridge, between the Flora and the low fat yoghurt, keep it chilled. Got the line, a fatter one than planned, and snorted. Knocked me against the wall, felt like it blew a hole in my gut. I went,

“Phew-oh.”

Then,

“Whoops, keep it low, folk trying to sleep.”

My mind focused, I tiptoed to the note…maybe sneak up on it. It read,

Jack
,

Not “Dear Jack”. Already it was looking ominous. Read on.

I said,

“Bummer.”

And slumped on the floor. Late next morning, I came to with paranoia screaming at me. My neck was cramped, I’d been sick on my leather coat and my nose howled. Muttered,

“Could be worse.”

Then I resaw the note. Trudged upstairs, and there on the bed was a parcel. Opened it to reveal brown Bally boots. Serious comfort. Kick the crap out of them and they came back, holding class. If I was to be buried in my boots, let them be Ballys. Came as close to weeping as self-pity will allow. Endured a shower, then put all the clothes in the wash, even the leather. Turned the mother on, thought,

“Too late for fabric softner.”

The phone went. I put a cig together, picked up, went,

“Hello.”

It wasn’t Kiki, but heard,

“London calling.”

“What? Keegan?”

“That’s right, boyo.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Rang the guards, spoke to a prick named Clancy. He doesn’t like you, mate.”

“Good Lord, wow, I mean hello.”

“Hello yourself. I have leave.”

“Leave?”

“Holidays, squire. I’m going to hop a flight.”

“Now?”

“You betcha. You want me to come, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“OK then, eleven tonight, I’ll be in that Quays pub.”

“Tonight?”

“Get your skates on, pal; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

He hung up. I thought about his arrival, then thought,

“Why the hell not?”

If I dreamt, it was of nothing good. Woke in a coke sweat, muttered,

“Incoming!”

Horror of horrors, reached for Kiki and touched the Bally boots, whispered,

“Och, ochon.”

Which is Irish for “Oh sweetfuck”. Is it ever? The old
Jackie Gleason Show
, in black and white, he’d begin each episode with “How sweet it is.” I crawled into the shower, got it to scald and burned my way up. Checked the wardrobe and heard the refrain the drugs used to whisper to Richard Pryor:

“Getting a little low, Rich.”

Wore a white T-shirt — well, whiteish — the 501s, and pulled on the new boots. Perfect, which was a pity as that made me so guilty about Kiki. Alkies have to be the strangest animals on the planet, like the song says, a walking contradiction. Kris Kristofferson wrote the best lines of drinking despair. He was the personification of De Mello’s “Awareness”. If you really listen to “Sunday Morning Coming Down”, it’s the alky anthem. Particularly when you get the smell of someone frying chicken. That’s close to the loneliest line I’ve heard. London, wet Sunday afternoon, the pubs are shut, you’re battling that wind off Ladbroke Grove and, for an instant, a whiff of a home-cooked meal. You are seriously fucked.

Down to the kitchen, checked the time: eight forty-five. Brewed up some tea and dry toast, managed that. An impulse nagging at me. Figured I better make an attempt. Good old yellow pages. I began phoning.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Imperial Hotel, how may we help you?”

“Do you have a…Mrs Taylor registered?”

“One moment, sir, I’ll check.”

For one awful moment, I feared my mother might come to the phone. Then,

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone by that name registered.”

Click. I trawled through half a page. My tea got cold and the toast curled. Now there’s a country song. Was phoning by rote when,

“Yes, sir, we did have a Mrs Taylor, but she checked out.”

“Did she leave a forward?”

“I believe a cab took her to the airport.”

I missed her. Loaded the wet clothes into the dryer, including the leather, said,

“Melt, see if I care.”

My only other coat was Item 8234, my all-weather issue. They kept writing, demanding it back. The Mounties might always get their man, but the guards do not get their coat, not yet. Wrapped the coat tight. Didn’t do the coke, didn’t have a drink, but I could taste them. One final call; dialled, got,

“Simon Community, can I help?”

“May I speak to a Ronald Bryson?”

Heard a shout, an answer, then,

“Ron is off till noon tomorrow.”

“Could I see him then?”

“He’ll be here.”

Click. Enough detective work for one day; time to party. Checked my wallet and headed out. Five minutes to Nestor’s, how easy does it get? Decided to cut through St Patrick’s Church, shake a few memories. Stopped at the grotto. If I was to pray, it should be for Kiki. Heard,

“Well, I never. Jack Taylor in prayer.”

Fr Malachy, in all his smug glory. Even if I didn’t like priests, I wouldn’t like him. Ever. He was sucking the guts out of a dying cig. I said,

“Still smoking.”

“I was just with your mother.”

“Gee, that’s a shock.”

“Shock, is it? The poor woman is in deep trauma since she met you. To give her…teeth.”

“My teeth.”

He was raising his eyes in that “Lord give me strength” deal they learn at priest school. He said,

“She’ll never be the better of it.”

“Mmm, I’d say she’d recover.”

“What on earth possessed you?”

“The drink, Father, the drink made me do it.”

His right hand came up, automatic reflex when they’re crossed. So many years they could safely lash out without repercussions. I smiled and he fought back the urge. I turned to look at the statue, asked,

“If I claimed it moved, would it help business?”

“You’re a pup.”

He pulled out the Majors, got one lit, dragged madly as if he could inhale the rage. I said,

“I have some good news for my mother.”

“You’re leaving town?”

“No, I got married.”

“What?”

“But she’s leaving town. In fact, she’s already gone.”

“You have a wife and she’s gone already?”

“In a nutshell.”

He flung the cig into the grotto, said,

“You’re stone mad.”

“But never boring, right, Malachy?”

“To hell with you.”

And he stomped off, I called,

“That’s not a blessing.”

A local woman, passing, said,

“Good on you. That fellah’s got too big for his boots.”

I said the prayer for Kiki, albeit a short one.

In Nestor’s, Jeff asked,

“Did you find her?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone.”

“Back to London.”

“Jeez, Jack.”

“Where’s Cathy?”

“She’s angry with you. Give her a few days.”

He put up a pint, said,

“On the house.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m meeting Keegan.”

“Who?”

“Detective Sergeant Keegan, London Metropolitan Police.”

“In London?”

“No, in The Quays, in about an hour.”

“Is it work?”

“He’s a piece of work.”

“Forget I asked, forget I asked anything.”

The sentry was in place and he glared. I asked,

“What?”

“I liked your missus.”

“Oh, God.”

Heading down Shop Street. It was cold, but that didn’t stop the street theatre. Muted. Dented but there. A juggler outside Eason’s, a busker at Griffin’s bakery, a Charlie Chaplin near Feeney’s. A German couple asked,

“Where can we find the Krak?”

I waved my hands in the direction I’d walked, asked,

“What do you call that?”

The Quays was jammed. Above the tumult I could hear an English accent with,

“A hot toddy, love, and a pint of the black stuff.”

Who else could it be? Chaz, my Romanian friend, came out of the crowd before I could call Keegan, said,

“Remember the fiver I lent you yesterday?”

“No, Chaz, I lent you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, but did you want another?”

“You’re the best, Jack.”

“Tell my wife.”

Keegan was wearing a white sweatshirt with the logo
“Póg mo thóin”,
bright red golf pants and a Blackpool souvenir hat which begged,

“Kiss me quick.”

He shouted,

“Jack Taylor, me best mate.”

Shoved a pint in my hand, said,

“There’s hot ones on the counter and drink, too.”

I thought,

“Am I up for this? Is anyone up for this?”

I asked,

“Where’s your luggage?”

“In Jury’s.”

“You booked in there? But I have a place.”

“Yea, that’s great, mate, but I might be shagging.”

Argue that. I went with the flow. Keegan is a force of nature, raw, ugly, powerful and unstoppable. There’s a nightclub on Eyre Square called Cuba. I don’t think there’s a Gaelic translation. Two o’clock, I’m there with Keegan and two women he’s cajoled. They appear to love him. He puts his arm round one, says,

“Jack, I love this country.”

“It sure loves you.”

“Too true, son; I’m a Fenian bastard.”

To hear that in an English accent is to have lived a very long time. The manager came over and I thought,

“Uh-oh.”

Wrong. It was to offer complimentary champagne. Keegan said,

“Bring it on, squire. We’ll have black pudding for breakfast.”

I’d resigned myself to the Twilight Zone. Over the next hour I told Keegan the events of the past weeks. He said,

“You mad bastard, I love you.”

Whatever else they label him, judgemental he wasn’t. He flashed a wad of notes at the girls, said,

“Trust my instincts, but you’d like sticky drinks with the umbrellas…am I right?”

He was and they adored him. He turned back to me, said,

“The dark-haired one, I want to ride the arse off that…OK?”

“Um…yes.”

“The quiet one, you have her, OK?”

“Thanks, I think.”

Then he got serious. All the yahoo-ism, vulgarity, the Hunter S. Thompson shenanigans dropped in a second. He said,

“Jack, I’m a good cop, only thing I can do, but the bastards are trying to get rid of me. Only a matter of time till they bounce me.”

“I’ve been there.”

“So, I’m only going to say one thing, mate.”

“OK.”

“Stick with the case. Nothing else matters.”

“I will.”

Then he clicked back to John Belushi, said to the girls,

“So, who wants to lick my face first?”

Next morning, opened my eyes, did a double take. A girl beside me. Last night came flooding back, at least as far as Cuba. She looked about sixteen. I moved the sheet, and oh fuck, she was naked. Jail bait. She stirred, woke and smiled, said,

“Hi.”

I’ve had worse beginnings. I answered,

“Hi, yourself.”

She cuddled into me, said,

“This is lovely.”

Then pulled back, said,

“Thank you for taking advantage.”

“Um…”

“You’re a real gent.”

Go figure. The heat from her was stirring me, and I said,

“Let me get some tea, toast.”

“Can we have breakfast in bed?”

“Course we can.”

“Jack, you’re the greatest.”

Out of bed, I was starkers. Bad idea. As beat up, as old as I am, nude doesn’t work. Grabbed a shirt and undies, and she said,

“You’re not in bad shape, you know.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Where was my hangover? I deserved a classic. Hadn’t hit yet. Downstairs, I found her handbag, went through it. Tissues, lighter, lipstick, keys, condoms. Jeez, these girls travelled ready. Her wallet with ID revealed her to be Laura Nealon, twenty-eight, and she worked in phone sales. A fresh pack of Benson & Hedges; I tore them open, got one primed. Did the breakfast stuff. Found a tray, it had the wedding of Diane and Charlie. I even located serviettes. Shunted that up the stairs. She said,

“Oh, Jack, a picnic.”

She patted the bed beside her. I declined and sat on the side. If she’d a hangover, it wasn’t showing. Ate that toast with vigour, asked,

“May I use the shower?”

“Of course.”

“Want to join me?”

“Ah, no, thanks.”

“You’re nice, Jack, I like you.”

Hard for me to get a handle on all this good energy. Man, I’m so used to grief. It’s familiar, almost comfortable. She returned, swathed in towels. I asked,

“Where did your friend go?”

“With Mr Keegan. She’s crazy about him. We were so lucky to hook up with you guys.”

I had to know, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. You wouldn’t believe the animals out there. I’m going to hang on to you, Jack.”

Then she was in my lap, doing things. Next thing, I’m having the blow job of my life. After, she asks,

“Was it good?”

“Brilliant.”

“I’ll make you happy, Jack, you’ll see.”

Heard the front door and thought,

“Oh, shit, Kiki’s back.”

Pulled my pants on and shuffled down. Sweeper was in the kitchen. I said,

“You’re going to have to pack in this coming and going as you please.”

“I rang the bell.”

“Oh, I must have been in the shower.”

Then he was looking behind me. I turned. Laura was there, in one of my shirts, said,

“Sorry, are my cigarettes here?”

Sweeper asked,

“Is this Kiki?”

“No…um, this is Laura.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I gave her the cigarettes, and she said,

“I better get ready, I’ll be late for work.”

When she’d gone upstairs, Sweeper asked,

“That’s not your wife?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t and neither did I. I said,

“I’ve a definite lead.”

“Tell me.”

I did. He said,

“You’re going to see this Bryson, I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

We argued this for a while. Eventually he agreed and offered to give Laura a lift to work. I headed downtown. Went to the Vincent de Paul and bought a suit, sweater, shirts, jeans, blazer. Grand total: £35. The assistant said,

“Did you know each item is dry cleaned?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“The shops provide it free for us.”

“Pretty good.”

“It is.”

Got a cab back to Hidden Valley with the gear. The driver said,

“Nice bit of clobber there.”

“Dry cleaned, too.”

“That’ll do it.”

I was a man with a new girlfriend, new wardrobe, the least I could provide was attitude. Wore the blazer with a crisp white shirt, grey slacks. I crackled in freshness. Coming outside, my neighbour said,

“You’re like a new penny.”

Heady praise.

The Simon is located at the top of the Fair Green. To the west is the train station, the coach depot to the south. Perhaps they like to hear the engines roar. Simon has saved countless lives from the Galway streets. It’s clean, tidy, efficient and always available. In a city where most people have a bad word about most things, only Simon gets praise from all. I went in and a receptionist said,

“Howyah.”

“Hello, I’m hoping to see Ronald Bryson.”

“Hang on a sec.”

There were no bad vibes. In a place that bears witness to such misery, you’d anticipate an air of depression. Not a hint. A tall lanky guy, over six feet two, in jeans, black T-shirt and suede waistcoat came ambling along. A ponytail and sharp acned features. An energy, like an Indian on the trail. No hurry, as he knew where you’d be. He drawled,

“I’m Ron.”

I stood up, held out my hand, said,

“Jack Taylor. Appreciate you seeing me.”

He waved a hand, ignoring my outstretched one, said,

“No sweat, Jack. Let’s get some privacy.”

English. That certain London inflexion of cool ease. I could dig if not grasp it.

He asked,