The Devil (9 page)

I asked,

'What, he'll get a wee slap on the wrist and yada fucking

yada, right?'

He looked away, couldn't meet my eyes, said,

' H e ' l l run out of luck, but Jack, stay out of this.'

I smiled, said,

'We're missing the best bit of "Impossible D r e a m " . '

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THE DEVIL

I went home.

If home is where the heart is, then I simply went back to

my latest accommodation.

I kept my mind in neutral, dropped two X a n a x , put on

one of the D V D s , not even looking at the title.

It was
Doubt.

Way back when, a young priest, upped on the N e w

Vatican council and all that gung-ho good vibe, was friendly

to his students. T i l l M e r y l Streep, as convincing a merciless

nun as ever Ireland produced, went after him. Called him a

paedophile.

Should have just titled it
Priest.

Like that w o u l d work.

I finally decided it was time I ate and about the one thing

I can cook with intent is chilli.

H a d all the ingredients and made that baby sing.

Red peppers,

hopping beans,

onions,

garlic,

and what the fuck,

a decent shot of Jay.

If it tasted anything like it was smelling, I was good to go.

A n d it felt good to be doing, if not normal, at least ordinary

stuff.

The X a n a x kicked and I was chilling, as the young Irish

say.

Enough w i t h the heavy shite though.

123

r

1

KEN BRUEN

I ejected
Doubt,
put on
Alien vs Predator
to get some

reality into me life.

Found a book of poetry in the closet when I was looking

for chives and opened it at random, found these lines:

. . . that came

With days

Being spent

Too long alone

A faint yet fainter whisper

That asked

To be

With you

Those moments

Before

The close.

No wonder it was in the closet.

I stopped. I was in the kitchen, but had I heard something

come through my letterbox at this hour of the night.'

N o w we have the best postal guys in the w o r l d . But surely

not at this time.

I put it d o w n to the mellowness I was experiencing.

On the screen, it sure looked like the predator was kick-

ing the living be-jaysus out of the alien.

I buttered a French roll I didn't even remember buying,

but it was vaguely in date, like me life, so what the hell?

G o t everything in situ - always wanted to use one of those

L a t i n terms - and moved the feast to the coffee table.

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THE DEVIL

Sat finally, hungry, and out of the corner of my eye, saw

an envelope on the mat.

A plain white envelope.

The quandary?

Eat first and sustain the mellow m o o d ,

or

bollix.

I got up, grabbed the envelope, tore it open and a scratch

card fell out.

The success and popularity of these items never ceased to

astonish me. The latest one I'd heard about, big cash prize,

and in times of dire poverty these friggin' things were selling

better than ever.

I'd never bought one in me whole life.

Plus a note.

Read:

Jack,

Sorry about the over-zealous minion.

But I have a devilish feeling this scratch is the O N E .

See you soon.

Stay away from fast-food joints.

They clog the arteries.

K.

I did what you do.

I scratched the card.

The numbers matched.

I'd w o n 25,000 Euro.

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KEN BRUEN

The chilli went cold.

I woke next morning, seriously regretting the chilli.

I was sick as forty dogs and then some.

But the old X a n a x .

Sure, it w o u l d kick like a frigging mule one of these days.

I remembered the pictures of Whitney in the
National

Enquirer
a few years back.

I popped two after I threw up what looked like most of

the red peppers.

Least I hoped it was them and not some vital organ.

C h i l l i , unlike revenge, is not a dish best eaten cold.

Pieces of the previous evening started to come back.

In neon.

Jesus.

There's a lot to be said for total blackouts.

As I waited for the X to weave its spell, I got into the

shower, turned the bastard to roasting and . . . roasted.

Then tried a very shaky shave.

Let's say it was a wee bit haphazard, but hey, the X was

kicking in.

I got dressed:

battered denim shirt to accessorize me battered soul,

a pair of white cords that were one wash away from

shredding,

w a r m sweatshirt that celebrated the Phillies' 2008 w i n ,

me Gore-Tex boots.

The snow hadn't fucked off yet.

Neither had the government.

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THE DEVIL

A n d then I saw the scratch card.

H a d I dreamt that?

Approached it real careful.

Oh my sweet L o r d .

Scanned it a dozen times, it didn't change.

I had w o n twenty-five large, plus the zeros.

I did a little jig, right there on me wooden floor.

Then remembered where it had come from.

The Devil's coin?

Was I literally going to be bought?

By that fuck?

Y o u betcha.

I asked meself,

'What does that make you?'

M a y b e the X replied, but I said aloud,

'Fucking loaded is what.'

Hemingway had a handy dictum.

Y o u want to k n o w if something is morally right?

Listen to your stomach.

If it sits like broken glass, then it's morally wrong.

My stomach felt w a r m and delighted.

I checked the weather - more snow en route - so got me

Garda coat and watch cap.

Headed out.

Claiming me winnings took a bit of time, but I had time,

and waited.

Finally, bingo.

I phoned Stewart.

N o t to share the glad tidings of me w i n .

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KEN BRUEN

I was delighted, but not stupid.

He was cold in tone. But what the hell. I tried,

'I was out of line, I'm sorry.'

Silence.

O K .

Then he said,

'Apology accepted, I guess everyone was a little bent out

of shape.'

I let that shde.

Touching the Sig in me jacket, I asked,

' H o w is Ridge?'

Pause.

Then,

'She's doing good, much better than they anticipated. But

Jack . . .'

I knew what was coming.

' M i g h t be better if you, er, stayed away.'

I promised I w o u l d and then, bloody pushing it, he

cautioned,

' A n d best if you stay away from the Sawyers.'

I bit d o w n , like the Iris D e M e n t song, and swallowed

hard, said,

' O f course.'

He was suspicious, I guess he'd seen me in action too

often, said,

'Jack, I worry when you're too agreeable.'

I thought. Too
fucking right mate.
Said,

'Staying away is the best k i n d of action.'

He took a sharp intake of breath, asked.

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THE DEVIL

'You've been studying Zen?'

I said,

' N o , it's f r o m a country song.'

A n d clicked off.

Sing that, you sanctimonious boUi

129

11

'The heart hurts from evil anticipated.'

K B

'So Jack, I don't get this American gig. I mean, come on,

what the fuck's with that?'

That hne was from Caz, a R o m a n i a n in Galway for over

ten years.

The Immigration midnight raids, the sudden weekly

deportations of non-nationals, he always escaped the net.

Even wangled a job as an interpreter for the Guards and

so had all kinds of info.

For a price.

He was as trustworthy as a bent tuppence. We weren't

friends, he was too slippery for that and I was too wary. But

we had history and a give-and-take dance.

I gave.

A n d he took, as much as was on the table.

I'd run into h i m outside the Augustine church, not a

breath away from the newest head shop selling Ecstasy due

to a loophole in the Irish law.

Seemed k i n d of apt, both sold m o o d change, depending

on what y o u believed and especially what you had to spend.

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KEN BRUEN

If you managed to skip the church and the head shop, and

continued on what used to be a lovely little lane, you hit the

sex shop, and not two porno mags from there was, yup,

St Vincent de Paul.

There is a wonderful ironic set of inferences in all of that,

but I'm fucked if I could be bothered making them.

I was in the church, lighting candles for the recent dead,

my old dead and, by the look of things, some yet to

come.

I was frustrated by the new automatic candle routine.

Vegas without the showgirls. I'm a dinosaur, I know,

way past my sell-by date, but is it too much to ask for the

old gig of tapers, actually lighting the candle and being

connected.'

It was my version of comfort food. Candle soup for the

soul, if you w i l l .

The whole ritual had a richness to it, a sense of tradition.

A n d yeah, my candles didn't light.

Like me bedraggled life.

As I came out, I dipped my fingers in the H o l y Water font.

Surely that wasn't poisoned.

Yet.

Standing on the steps to the church was C a z .

He glanced up at the church, asked,

' F i n d any grace in there. Jack.''

H i s accent was more G a l w a y than my o w n . He had

almost classical R o m a n y features, a head of fine black hair,

shining in the weak sun, the lively eyes, the chiselled nose,

and was dressed in

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THE DEVIL

an A r a n sweater, last seen on the Clancy Brothers,

the Irish version of the A m e r i c a n vest, all tweed and

pockets,

and best of all,

the rip-off Barbour w a x jacket we were selling to tourists

as made in Connemara.

Put h i m on the Galway hooker - and I do mean the ship

we make here, a beautiful craft - and he could be a poster

boy for the new Ireland.

Cheap,

fake,

and

smug.

I said,

'Live in expectation of a miracle.'

He liked that.

Gave his best smile, the one that warns, watch your

Euros. T w o of his teeth were solid gold. In an Irish person,

there w o u l d be simple gaps. He asked,

' A n d did you find one, a miracle?'

H a r d to dishke h i m and I'd tried. I said,

'I sure d i d . Today's the day y o u get to actually buy me a

drmk.'

He feigned hurt, but then said,

'Sure, I just got me dole money and the allowance for the

three dogs.'

' Y o u have dogs?'

'Don't be an eejit. Jack.'

We paid out for non-nationals to feed imaginary canines

135

KEN BRUEN

and wouldn't pay our nurses. As Stewart had so delicately

put it,

' Y o u do the math.'

No doubt he had the sought-after medical card.

We went to the Front Door, a pub I still have some

affection for.

Being contrary, we went in the back.

Don't ask.

I like it, despite the bouncers, those wannabe FBI eejits.

Sign of the times, there was an actual school for bouncers

in Salthill.

A weekend course. Guess it only took three days to figure

out h o w to kick the living shite outa some poor bastard and

appear justified.

It still managed to vaguely resemble the old pubs and I

suppose that's as much as you can expect any more.

We grabbed stools at the counter and a gorgeous girl

approached, asked,

' C a z , what can I get you?'

T w o pints of Guinness.

She built them slow and easy, a real professional. W h e n

she was done, the creamy head on those pints was a w o r k of

art. Almost a shame to touch them.

We did.

C a z , toasting
'Slainte amach:

H e ' d garnered enough Irish to w i n g the important stuff,

like toasts, begging and false flattery.

I went with
'Leat fein:
(And yer o w n self.)

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THE DEVIL

We put a serious dent in the pints, then he asked,

'How^'ve you been?'

Usually I went with the G a l w a y reply. ' G r a n d . '

But the truth got in first, said,

'Depressed.'

He signalled the girl and she put two new ones under

construction, said,

'Depression is sadness gone riot.'

I was floored. O u t of the mouths of babes.

He continued,

'Anyone w h o can describe depression exactly has never

been there.'

Paused, then,

'Because it's beyond words.'

Whatever the fuck was in those pints, he'd nailed it.

H i s eyes went out of focus and he was somewhere else,

said,

' M y mother, back in Romania, she was so sad. We didn't

k n o w about depression so my father just beat her. She

walked into the woods one day and we never saw her