The Devil (3 page)

Y o u want to talk enigmatic?

H e ' d been a highly successful dope dealer, looked and

dressed like an accountant, till his sister was murdered

and he engaged me.

By pure fluke, I solved the case. Stewart went to prison on

dope charges, back when it seemed like the government gave

a shite, and emerged a Z e n , deadly, totally unreadable ally.

He and Ridge had paid for my ticket to America.

I'd phoned them and Ridge had said,

' Y o u stupid bollix.'

Stewart went,

' Y o u can travel without moving.'

I preferred Ridge's response.

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3

'The Divil loves those who deny his existence.'

O l d Irish proverb

I'd barely got started on the case of the student, had asked

round and mostly heard he'd been a nose-to-the-grindstone

kind of guy.

Sure, he partied at weekends, but seemed to take the idea

of getting his degree very seriously.

One girl, a very pretty wee thing, told me,

'Lately, he got involved in ouija boards and all that occult

crap, began reading books about Aleister Crowley and shit.'

I was about to say, thank you very much when she added,

'Then he met L o r d of the frigging Dance.'

I nearly said,

' M i c h a e l Flatley?'

Bit d o w n and waited.

She said,

' M r K himself, turned up recently and has like . . .'

I'd have sworn she was Irish, but she had that half-arsed

American idiom gig going, and sure, used the w o r d
like.

Like a lot.

I asked,

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KEN BRUEN

' A n d he is? Mr K, I mean, w h o is he?'

She gave a world-weary sigh that proved she was indeed

Irish, then said,

' H e preaches some weird bullshite about empowering and

the energy of the
the One.'

I asked,

' A n y idea of where I might find the charismatic Mr K ? '

She gave a small laugh, no relation to mirth or joy, said,

'That's part of his schtik, he just shows up, begins his tired

rap and wallop, a whole bunch of eejits follow.'

I liked her a lot. Women of spirit always appealed to me.

I had to know, asked,

' Y o u were never drawn in?'

She gave me the rolling-eye bit, said,

'I w o r k in a fast-food joint to keep me afloat and I hear

enough horseshite without having to go looking for it.'

She was Irish, no doubt.

I asked,

'What's he look like?'

She gave it her full concentration, then said,

'Tall, great smile and a shaved head. H a r d to place where

he's from. He sounds like a German, or maybe French?'

I put out my hand, thanked her profusely and volunteered

that she was one bright young lady.

She gave a lovely smile, said,

' M y name is E m m a , I enjoyed talking w i t h y o u . '

I spent the best part of a week w i t h students and frequent-

ing student hangouts.

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THE DEVIL

Was even offered some Ecstasy.

The song remained the same.

N o e l had been liked, had friends, and then out of the blue

- or black - he became a total devotee of this Mr K.

I found no sign of the enigmatic Mr K.

I'd always just missed him.

Or he was due at the Quays and I'd show up.

He didn't.

They found N o e l d o w n near the rowing club, hanging by

his feet from the flagpole, an inverted cross not so much

carved as literally gouged into the skin.

W h e n I called his mother, I left out the above details but

had to say it looked like somebody had harmed him.

Fuck, talk about understatement.

Her wails of grief, the sheer torment of her agony made

me just want to hang up.

Like I could.

I said the trite shite you do and offered to refund her

money.

A silence.

Then,

' M r Taylor, you use that money to find the scum w h o

robbed me of my precious golden boy.'

I swore I w o u l d .

I even sounded like I meant it.

In the local pubs, the murder was on the menu and I heard

faint whisperings of the head of a dog being enmeshed in the

poor boy's entrails.

I didn't inquire.

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KEN BRUEN

W o u l d you?

Fuck, it was sick enough.

W h i l e the country went nuts, I went to the cemetery.

Phew-oh.

I sure had a long line of people to pay my respects to.

Cody, my surrogate son, and the others, it grieves me to

name them. So many of them in their graves because of my

stupidity.

I left my dad till last.

He wasn't buried w i t h my mother.

She'd torn h i m asunder in life, so at least in eternity, he

truly w o u l d have some peace.

I did lay a red rose on my mother's grave and tried to

think of something nice to say to her.

N o t h i n g .

N o t a blessed thing.

Then I walked along the narrow path to my father, and at

first, I couldn't register what my eyes were seeing.

Faeces, rubbish, condoms, were scattered over his plot.

Too late to blame my mother.

I was in shock for about five minutes, then began to clear

away the debris, and it was then I saw it above my dad's name.

A n inverted cross.

Y o u come out of the cemetery and it's but a spit to the

nearest pub.

Naturally.

We take our burials almost as seriously as our drinking.

I took a place at the counter and realized I was actually

shaking.

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THE DEVIL

The b a r m a n , my age, p r o b a b l y used to s h o o k - u p

mourners, asked quietly,

'What w o u l d you like?'

'Jameson, large, pint of Guinness.'

He withdrew discreetly.

A f r a i d he'd wake the dead?

Once I got on the other side of the drinks, I began to, as

the young people say,
chill.

My anger was at its usual simmering slot and G o d , I

wished I still smoked.

So someone knew I'd been investigating the student's

death. N o t hard as I'd been all over the campus for a week.

A n d had sent me a message.

To frighten me off.

By Jaysus.

M a d e me more determined than ever to find Mr K.

Whoever this bollix was, he was a key factor.

There was a blazing log fire in the bar and the temptation

to curl up there, get a line of hot toddies going was

powerful.

But I turned up the collar of me Garda all-weather coat

and headed out.

The barman said,

' G o d mind how you go.'

My limp was acting up, a legacy of a beating w i t h a

hurley.

My heart was going like the hammers and I debated if

taking a X a n a x w o u l d be the wisest course of action.

I took two.

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KEN BRUEN

Back in Nun's Island, I thanked Christ that the heating

was w o r k i n g and had settled into an armchair when the

phone rang.

Ridge.

She made chitchat for a while.

She was even worse at that than me and that's really

saying something.

I said,

'What's on your mind?'

She didn't bite my face off, so I guessed she wanted

something.

She d i d .

H e r beloved husband was having a soiree on Friday

evening, nothing too formal, just sports jacket, tie, slacks!

I was just born for soirees.

I snapped,

' W h y ? '

She told the truth, I think. Said,

'There are a lot of well-to-do people coming and it w o u l d

be nice to have an ally.'

I nearly laughed.

W e ' d been d o w n many roads together, most of them dark,

but she'd never used the w o r d 'ally' before.

I could have said,

'You're gay, from a shite poor background and you marry

the nearest thing to a fucking lord there is. W h a t did you

expect, bliss?'

Instead, I said,

' O K . '

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THE DEVIL

Like I said,

T w o X a n a x .

I had nearly dozed off when my doorbell rang. I went,

'For fuck's sake.'

Pulled open the door to Stewart. He had some bags in his

hands, said,

'I come bearing gifts for your new home.'

Beware of geeks bearing gifts.

He looked wonderful.

The guy Td once visited in prison was long gone.

At least on the surface.

W i t h his Z e n philosophy, designer clothes, laid-back

mellow style, he had all the trappings of a hip young

entrepreneur.

But he was lethal.

My last case, I'd seen exactly h o w lethal.

He moved into the living r o o m , said,

'Hey, this is a nice place.'

I said,

'Alas, I'm all out of that decaffeinated tea or herbal shite

you drink, so it's either a shot of the Jay or bottled water.'

He volunteered that water w o u l d be great.

Jesus, the day a glass of water is that is the day I walk into

L o c h C o r r i b .

He settled himself on the couch in the frigging lotus

position and I went to get the water. If he was chanting some

fucking mantra when I got back, I'd throw h i m out the

window.

He took the glass, then,"

1

45

KEN BRUEN

'Here are your presents.'

A dressing gown, w i t h the letter J on the pocket,

a dictionary of Z e n ,

and

green tea capsules.

M y fucking cup overfloweth.

I said,

'I'm lost for words.'

I was.

Anyone bearing links to manners, that is.

He was so totally at ease, I wondered h o w many X a n a x

he'd ingested.

He gave me that all-searching gaze I was used to and said,

'So, they wouldn't let you into the States.''

I shrugged as if it didn't matter.

It did.

He asked,

'What now, big guy?'

My chance to surprise. I said,

'I'm on a case.'

He came out of the lotus position, his face truly con-

cerned, said,

'I thought you were all done with that.'

I moved to the window, said,

'I thought I was going to America. Surely Z e n covers that

k i n d of fuck-up?'

He sipped at the water, biding his time, then said,

'Are you going to tell me about it?'

I d i d .

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THE DEVIL

The whole shebang.

He never interrupted, and when I was done he was

shaking his head.

I asked,

'What?'

'Jack, this is real bad karma. Get the hell away from it and

finish your investigation.'

I was amused. Just to blow that cool finally I asked,

'What's the big deal? Some shitehead comes after me, I'm

looking forward to it.'

He moved from the chair, came and touched my shoulder,

said,

'Jack, trust me, this is evil in its truest form. Y o u are not

equipped to deal with it.'

I pushed his arm away, turned, said,

' A n d what about N o e l Jordan, and my dad's grave? Y o u

think I can let that go?'

H i s face pleading, he said,

'Jack, I beg you, walk away. Y o u can't do this alone.'

I gave h i m my best smile, the hundred-watt vibe - pity the

teeth aren't my o w n - said,

'But I've got y o u . '

M o v e d to the table, picked up the green tea capsules,

added,

' A n d these.'

47

4

Tf you are going to sup with the Divil, bring

a long spoon.'

O l d Irish proverb

Come Friday, the gig at Ridge's. She's said to dress casual,

mentioning

a sports jacket,

tie.

Like look in my wardrobe, see the black suit, the G a r d a

coat and . . . some jeans and T-shirts.

Time was, I bought all my clobber in charity shops.

I'd have thought w i t h the economic meltdown people

w o u l d be flocking back to those stores.

Nope.

People were no longer giving stuff to the charity shops!

I headed d o w n to my favourite one, St Vincent de Paul,

and the w o m e n w h o worked there had the welcome of the

world for me.

I got grey slacks, a snazzy corduroy jacket w i t h leather

patches on the sleeves, a V a n Fleusen shirt and a dark

knitted tie.

Cost?

Ten Euro.

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KEN BRUEN

I swear to G o d .

On the bookshelves, I found:

Brian Evanston, w i t h an intro by Peter Straub,

Daniel Woodrell's first two novels

and John Straley's volume of poetry.

A d d four Euro to my total b i l l .

A n d they thanked me.

I had been really trying to cut d o w n on the booze and

even the X a n a x , and outside the shop, I got a dizzy spell.

I thought,

' U h - o h , drop in blood sugar.'

H o p i n g to fuck that's what it was.

I walked slowly along Merchant's R o a d . N o t many

merchants there any more, only the usual luxury apart-

ments. Turned left at the tourist office, w h i c h was empty,

and into Eyre Square.

Walked up past the Skeffington A r m s , w h i c h had been

renovated and looked quite posh now. Past Abracadabra,