Purgatory (10 page)

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.

15

What Dies in Summer

—Tom Wright

C33 adored books. Everything about them, would mutter an

A–Z

Of terms

Like a mantra.

Thus:

Orihon: A book consisting of a sheet of paper with writing on one side pleated into a concertina fold. From the Japanese art of
ori
, meaning fold; and
hon,
meaning book. Considered a halfway point between a scroll and a codex (a set of interleaved folios sewn together).

Or

A favorite

Enallage: Meaning interchange in Greek. The substitution of a different word for another possibly incorrect one, often for emphasis or effect—like the editorial
we
instead of
I
.

That one in particular had led, indirectly, so to speak, to the adoption of the nom de plume C33.

The recent killing of the dog whimperer. Named Shaw, a former traveling salesman who bred dogs for the designer market and prided himself on being able to reduce any breed to a whimpering mess. C33 kept a special circle of hell for those who abused dogs. It brought out a biblical savagery that seemed appropriate for a beast who tortured canines, the only simply pure gift God had given.

Shaw had been lured to a warehouse off Grattan Road, believing he was buying six Pomeranians, stolen in Belfast.

C33 had chained Shaw as he’d chained dogs, then attached a spiked dog collar, the spikes turning inward, à la
a necklace of thorns.
Then taken a baseball bat and proceeded to slowly break every bone in the fucking bastard’s body.

Incanting

“Kenning . . .”

Loud

To

Louder

Loudest

Exclaiming

In slow measured tones

“The meaning is, in Old English, a metaphorical phrase.”

Paused

To wipe sweat off and grab a bottle of—of course—Galway sparkling water, then continue

“. . . to compound two words that makes a new one, in your case”

. . . Laughed hysterically.

Finished with

“Bone-house.”

C33 wondered if maybe this one should be kept off the public radar. C’mon, they’d say,

“To beat someone to death because he mistreated a dog?”

Laughed again, watched the light go out of Shaw’s eyes, knew they were crazy, whoa, yeah.

The shrinks had laid out that psychopath path in so many ways.

1. Ruthless disregard for others.

C33 laid a hand gently on Shaw’s head, said in a Brit accent,

“Surely not?”

2. A truly almost superhuman talent for hiding this from others.

C33 bent down to look into the ruined face of Shaw, shouted,

“Easy? You think it’s fucking easy to act like you give a goddamn, good or otherwise?”

What C33 loved, yes,
loved,

Was

You never saw a psychopath coming, as they were the most charismatic personalities on the planet.

Giggled.

Couldn’t help it, an actual giggle and titter.

“Not to mention their love of dogs.”

This did entirely for C33, who had to sit down, the laughter was so strong, leaning against the battered torso of Shaw, wiping the tears of mirth, for all the world like a couple of good ol’ boys whooping it up.

“
Man and superman
.”

16

He who kills a man kills a reasonable creature; but he who kills a good book kills reason itself.

—John Milton

A new referendum on the fiscal treaty looming and the government was using every bullying tactic to cow the voters into the vote it wanted. The Army of Occupation, on Eyre Square, pledged to be unassailable. Four o’clock in the morning, forty Guards swooped and demolished the camp. They would try to enshrine the date as a new icon of anarchy. The Occupiers pledged they’d be back for Phase 2.

The same week, Robin Gibb, Donna Summer died. A DJ termed it
the final death of disco.

A man was found beaten to death in a warehouse off the Grattan Road. He was, according to neighbors,

“A quiet man with a love of dogs.”

Odd the connections the mind makes. I’d been maybe five and my beloved father came home with a pup, a mongrel, with every breed included and love being the glue. An only child, I’d been beyond delighted. My mother, who was the she-wolf from the inner sanctum of hell, disguised in a sickly fuzz-buzz religion, asked,

“Another mouth to feed and who is going to find the money?”

A rhetorical question, as she’d already known the answer. A week later the dog was gone. She blamed my father, said he’d left the front door open. Years later, in a bad pub in a bad part of town, I’d been told by an elderly tinker,