The Devil (6 page)

But the food had done its stuff and I was a little more

affable, asked,

' H o w can I help?' Trying not to think of the previous

w o m a n and her dead son.

She sat, nervous, and began,

'This is probably not your area of expertise.'

I w o u l d dearly love to k n o w what was, but nodded.

She continued,

' M y daughter, she's ten and has D o w n syndrome.'

I blanked for a moment. Serena M a y going out that

w i n d o w and all the horror that ensued. But I focused and

said,

'Yes?'

'She attends ordinary school and is doing great.'

'That's terrific, good for y o u and your daughter.'

She bit her lip.

A h fuck.

I'm a hard arse. I w o r k at it. But that kills me. I asked,

' H e r name, your daughter?'

She brightened, went,

' K e l l i . She's a wonder, loves school, studies like a n u n and

is such a contented child.'

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KEN BRUEN

Like a nun.

I kept me expression neutral and asked,

'So, what's the problem?'

N o w the sadness, in Irish the awful
bronach.

'A group of girls - all from the same family - torment her,

take her lunch money, call her names, tear up her homework

and call her a . . .'

She had to pause but I had a horrible idea of what was

coming.

'Retard.'

I took a deep breath, my chest congested, fury racing in

me blood and said,

'But the teachers, her dad, surely they can do something?'

She began to weep.

Fuck.

A n d fuck all over again.

D i d I need this?

C o m e on.

I'd been d o w n this ferocious road before and had screwed

it up so badly.

She said,

'These girls, their family is very important, nobody wants

to be on their wrong side. They can . . . er . . . make trouble

for people. My husband, Sean, he's a good man but says he

could lose his job, and that Kelli just needs to . . . toughen

up.'

I didn't k n o w what to say. Said,

'I don't k n o w what to say.'

She looked into my eyes, pleading, said,

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THE DEVIL

'People say you can do things that others can't.'

Oh sweet Jesus.

She quickly added,

'They live in Salthill.' Then, 'Naturally! Their name is

Sawyer and they think they are the bee's knees.'

I wanted to tell her.
Sorry, I can't help you, life is shite,

this is how the world goes, yada yada.

I couldn't.

L i e d , said,

'I'll get right on it.'

A n d she grasped my hand, tears rolling d o w n her face,

said,

' O h M r Taylor, thank you, thank y o u . '

A n d then she was gone.

The fuck was I doing.'

L o r d knows, and cares less, I'd warrant.

I looked out the window, thinking of Florida and other

places I could/should have been. The snow was pelting

d o w n and I wanted to stay there, have another cup of scald-

ing tea, finish me rasher, not think of Serena M a y and D o w n

syndrome.

Cecily approached, asked,

' M o r e tea. Jack?'

I said no, this was fine, and then on impulse asked

her - she was an out and out Galwegian and thus a rare

species -

' Y o u ever heard of Sawyers in Salthill?'

She gave me an odd look so I pushed,

'What?'

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KEN BRUEN

She looked round her, like someone might hear, then leant

i n , smelling of a really subtle perfume, said,

'Jack, blow-ins - f r o m D u b l i n , I t h i n k , but very

dangerous. Stay well away from them.'

A n d she was gone, w i t h that expression like she'd already

said too much.

T i p p i n g is not the practice in Ireland. Like zip codes, we

haven't quite got that far. But you know, fuck it, I left twenty

Euro, then paid the bill.

As I headed out Cecily shouted,

' G o d mind you w e l l . Jack.'

Somebody needed to.

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7

'My soul was mortgaged so long ago.'

K B

N o t sure what exactly to do, I headed for the park where the

girl had been found.

The L o r d and I don't do a whole lot of biz these days. As

Patrick H a m i l t o n wrote, 'Those w h o m G o d has deserted are

given a bedsit and electric fire in Earl's Court.'

Nun's Island was a long spit from Earl's Court, but the

deal was much the same.

Solitary.

I'd tried, even went to Mass for a bit, but it didn't pan

out. The collection dish had been passed round and it had

an edict on it:

' N o coins! Notes only.'

I'd been tempted to write a note to put in there.

A n d I'd been on my knees in the Claddagh church,

begging G o d to spare the life of my beloved surrogate son.

He didn't.

So I figured I'd muddle through and not bother G o d a

whole lot. He seemed to have important issues, like

tsunamis, starvation, etc. to be attending to.

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KEN BRUEN

Do I sound bitter?

Like the Americans so nicely put it,

'Fucking A . '

A n d as if G o d had indeed heard these ruminations, who

should come shambling along but my o w n clerical nemesis.

Father Malachy.

My mother was a bad bitch.

A n d pious with it.

Gave my dad a dog's life.

That I was, in her words, 'a public disgrace' just added to

her martyrdom.

On my dad's death, she leaped into w i d o w h o o d w i t h glee.

The black clothes, the Masses said for h i m , the whole

sanctimonious shite we'd been tolerating for generations.

Some of these widows get dogs or, better yet, a tame

priest.

She got the priest. Father Malachy, a chain-smoking nasty

bastard who delighted in every fuck-up I had.

A n d fuck, there were plenty of those.

But you know, the w o r m turns. He got himself in

some serious trouble a while back and came to me for

help.

I helped.

Was he grateful?

Was he bollocks.

Seemed to resent me more than ever, proving the old

adage, they w i l l never forgive those who help them.

He looked much the same. Nicotine emanating from

every pore, his black suit ringed w i t h dandruff, his eyes as

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THE DEVIL

unforgiving as any guard in Guantanamo Bay. He stopped,

exclaimed,

'I thought we'd seen the back of y o u . '

I asked,

' Y o u missed me?'

He snorted.

I thought that was some novelistic flourish that literary

writers used when they were aiming for the Booker.

But no, that's the sound he made. He said,

'Weren't you all set for America?'

I gave him my best smile.

'I couldn't leave without saying goodbye to you . . .

Father:

Let sarcasm scald the last w o r d .

He lit an unfiltered cig from the butt of the previous one,

inhaled deeply, coughed like his lungs were about to come

up, said,

' Y o u broke your sainted mother's heart and you haven't

an ounce of repentance in y o u . '

We'd reached the park, close to the fire station and

bordered on the other side by Flaherty's funeral parlour.

A l l the eventualities covered, you might say.

The Guards had cordoned off the park and that fore-

boding white tent for a murder scene was in place, w i t h

masked and white-suited personnel milling around.

For a moment, M a l a c h y seemed almost human, said,

'The poor girleen, they asked me to administer the Last

Rites but tis way too late for that.'

I asked h i m if he knew who the girl was.

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KEN BRUEN

He was still looking at that white tent as if he'd give any-

thing not to have to go in there. Still distracted, he said,

' A l l I k n o w is the poor creature's first name. She was a

student, and w o r k i n g in some fast-food place to pay for her

books.'

My heart sank. I was afraid to ask.

He added,

'I wish I had a naggin of Paddy. They say her heart was

removed.'

I thought for a moment I was going to pass out.

He flicked the cig away, said,

'I better go and do what I can.'

I caught his arm, and if it bothered him he didn't react. I

asked,

' H e r first name, what was it?'

W i t h o u t even looking at me, he said,

' E m m a . '

A n d he was moving away.

I grabbed at h i m , near shouted,

' W h o
' d
do such a thing?'

He didn't even stop, just added,

'Tis the work of the D e v i l . '

I was rooting in my G a r d a coat, praying - no, pleading -

that
rd
brought some pills.

A n d found the X a n a x .

Swallowed one, tried to get my m i n d in gear.

I began to move away, my emotions in t u r m o i l , a voice in

my head screaming.
Oh Jesus no, not that lovely bright girl,

the one I've spoken to, had a burger from, please, not her.

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THE DEVIL

H e a r d my name called and turned to see an older G u a r d

approaching. Naturally, I figured I was in for a bollocking.

Superintendent Clancy, once my partner, now the top dog

in the Force, loathed and despised me. My last case, I'd

helped save his young son and I don't think he could forgive

himself for being indebted to the person he most detested.

H i s dearest wish was that I drink meself to death, go to

America, or both, but get the sweet Jaysus out of his t o w n .

I had tried.

To leave.

The drinking was still under consideration.

Up close, I recognized Sergeant Cullen.

O l d school.

I mean by that he lamented the days when you could take

a hurley to the thugs w h o polluted and terrorized the

city.

W h e n I had dispensed a certain
justice
in back alleys, he'd

actually bought me a drink.

Course, he had to keep his friendship with me a secret and

rarely acknowledged me.

We understood each other.

We had once pulled border duty in the days when peace

agreements were far in the future, and, under fire in

A r m a g h , we'd been cowering in a ditch, the rain lashing

d o w n , and he'd asked me,

' W h o the Jaysus is shooting at us?'

A good question in those days.

W e ' d been armed with batons. Just what you need against

Armalites, Kalashnikovs, grenade launchers.

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KEN BRUEN

I remember his face even now, a riot of confusion, and

he'd added,

Ts it the U V F , our o w n c r o w d , or w h o the fuci-c is trying

to k i l l us on our o w n land?'

I said,

'Whoever it is, just thank Christ they can't shoot for

shite.'

A n d he started laughing, hysteria, sure, but he pulled out

a flask, said,

'Uisce beatha:

H o l y water.

Poteen.

I'd taken a long swig - and that stuff kicks like a nun

whose polished floor has been walked on - managed to say,

'Don't worry, this stuff w i l l k i l l us long before any of the

bastards manages to get lucky.'

They kept shooting.

Us? We kept drinking.

To each his o w n , I guess.

W e ' d been friends since.

He looked old now, long lines creasing his face, furrows

on his forehead you could plant potatoes i n .

I'd heard his daughter had been killed by a drunk driver

and the accused had w a l k e d free, due to emotional

problems. I could see that lingering pain in his eyes even

now.

I said,

'Sergeant, h o w are you?'

He glanced back at the scene in the park, said.

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THE DEVIL

'Tis a holy awful business.'

'I hear it's a young student.'

He nodded, still vigilant, lest he be seen talking to me.

That truly saddened me.

Then he composed himself, said,

'Jack, you shouldn't be here. If Clancy knew, well . . .'

I knew.

Then he said,

'I've two years to go to retirement, and to tell y o u the

truth. Jack, I'm just filling in the time. This new violence,

the awful savagery, I don't understand it.'

W h o did?

I don't k n o w if it's a particular Irish trait or what, but we

can only dwell in the darkness for so long without trying to

pull something w a r m out of the inferno. I said,

' L i a m Sammon is doing a mighty job with the team.'

A n d he smiled.

Football, hurling, our last barricades against the tide that

is about to engulf us. But it only lasted a brief moment.

He gave me a serious look, asked,

'Jack, you're not involved in any of this? I mean, I heard

you gave up all that PI stuff. This is way out of your league.'

Then, almost to himself,

'Way out of ours, too.'

I gave h i m the old punch on the shoulder we used to use

after a fine goal against the likes of D u b l i n , lied,

'Are yah codding me? I'm getting ready to go to A m e r i c a . '

He stared at my coat, and w i t h a tiny smile said,