I asked, 'How did you know where I live?'
His eyes were alight with dark energy.
'Don't be stupid, Jack.'
I moved aside to wave him in. He gave the apartment intensive scrutiny, then spotted the estate agent's heading.
'Selling up?'
I closed the door, said, 'Well, selling out is what I do.'
He sat on the hard chair and I asked if he'd like anything, saying I'd, alas, no herbal tea.
He declined, looked at me, said, 'I found her.'
'Gail?'
'We're dating.'
He had to be fucking joking, though humour was one of the traits he'd left in jail.
I asked, 'You're joking?'
He gave me that odd look, as if he still wasn't quite sure when I was serious.
'In all our odd and colourful history, Jack, you ever knew me to be a kidder?'
A slight edge leaked over his words and I wondered anew what he'd had to shut down, to cut off, to survive in prison. Whatever it was, it wasn't returning.
I shook my head, said, 'Tell me.'
He gave a slight smile. This was the Jack Taylor he was most comfortable with.
'There's the Guard in you still remains. I told you I have contacts, and though I don't deal drugs any more, I know the network and that means knowing where the players hang out. You with me?'
How fucking complicated was it?
I said, 'Gee, I think I can follow it.'
He let that slide.
'So I checked out the clubs, like revisiting my youth, and third strike, I found her. And I have to tell you, Jack, you didn't do her justice.'
I wasn't sure where he was going with this, but I was sure I didn't like it. I snapped, 'What do you mean?'
He drew a deep sigh.
'My sister, who was killed – and I'll never forget you got justice for her – she was the best person I ever met, true goodness. I think Gail might have once been a little like her, but after her mother died, after the suicide attempt, she died.'
My expression must have shown cynicism.
He continued, 'Sure, she came back, but wherever she was during that time before, someone else came back, a true malevolent being. I met the worst men on the planet in jail – real scum, pure evil, psychos, sociopaths, you name it, every type of dangerous animal – but they are nothing, nothing compared to the sheer power of darkness in this girl.'
I wasn't buying it, said, 'She's just a girl, and a nasty vicious thug. Don't make her out to be some super being.'
Now his smile was full but not warm. He said, 'Good, we're on the same page, my friend. I needed to know you were on board.'
What the hell was this?
I stared at him and he said, 'Jail isn't going to stop her. You have to remove her.'
I was pacing, said, 'Call it what it is: kill her.'
He stood up.
'Here is the address of the house they're renting. On Friday night, she'll be meeting me. Why don't you go and have a chat with the father and son, and I'll keep the girl . . . occupied.'
I wasn't sure what he was driving at, so I asked, 'And what the hell am I supposed to do?'
He let his shoulders slump, the classic body language of defeat.
'Jack, this is your gig, I'm just along for the ride.'
Fuck.
I said, 'Nothing's exactly that . . . nothing.'
He stopped at the door, taken by surprise.
'Is that Zen you've been studying?'
And that rarity in his tone: delight.
I let him savour it, then said, 'Fuck no, that's Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke.'
24
'Death is Nature's way of telling us
to slow down.'
The address Stewart had given me was in Father Griffin Road, and I figured I better have a look at it. My limp was acting up, so the walk would be good. I walked along Shop Street and buskers, mimes were out in full swing. One mime, raised up on a box, was meant to represent the devil, covered in red paint, with horns, tail and what appeared to be a pitchfork, though it was a little bent – maybe that was the intention. A young boy was staring up at him, transfixed, I stopped for a moment and the devil spoke to me in a Galway accent.
'Want to shake hands with Satan?'
Tempted to tell him I'd been doing that for more years than he'd believe. I put some euros in his box and he gave me a wide grin. His teeth were black, I don't think they were part of the disguise.
I saw a familiar figure coming towards me – Caz, a Romanian who'd been in the city for nearly six years and had become completely acclimatized. He'd learned Irish-English to an amazing degree, he usually tapped me, and somehow got the message across that by taking the money he was doing me a favour. As I said, he'd learned real well.
He greeted me with, 'Jack, me oul' mate.'
Very Romanian, right?
He was dressed in a new suede jacket, designer jeans and very flash cowboy boots. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been expecting deportation. Things had obviously improved, big time.
'Caz, how are you?'
He stared at me, asked, 'What's with the hearing aid?'
What do you say?
I said, 'Old age.'
He nodded, no argument there.
Fuck.
He looked round, as if he'd something important to tell, then 'I'm a little short.'
The touch.
I palmed him some notes, and he quickly put them away.
He said, 'I hear odd stories about you.'
Did I want to know?
I risked it, asked, 'Like what?'
'That you don't drink any more, that you haven't had a drink for donkey's years.'
In Ireland, that is as odd as it gets.
I said, 'Yeah, it's been a while.'
Drinkers hate to lose one of the gang. It's an implied threat that maybe they might be next.
Perish the thought.
He asked, 'How's that going for you?'
Just fucking dandy, a joy a minute.
'It's OK, you get used to it.'
Like fuck.
He scratched his head, pressed, 'What do you do, you know, with all the time?'
I had no idea.
I said, 'I read a lot.'
He began to move away, said, 'You poor bastard.'
Amen.
I did a mini tour of my city. America was looming nearer and I might never again get to walk these streets. I went towards St Joseph's, Presentation Road. I remember my father telling me about the Black and Tans and the British Military lined up outside that church, when Father Griffin had been shot by them in a reprisal. The murder of priests was not part of our history. The difference now was, we no longer needed occupying armies to do it. We were the killers.
The funeral of Father Griffin in 1920 had left Mill Street and crossed O'Brien's Bridge, and there were still old people who swore that as the hearse hit the middle of the bridge, three salmon leaped from the water, hung suspended in mid air for a moment and then slipped gracefully back down. You don't see the salmon leap any more, the poison in the water has them lacklustre, much like the population. My dad, telling me this, his eyes wet, said the driver of the hearse, a guy of rare courage and spirit, wore a top hat and sash in defiance of the ruling edicts. Then and now, I see that man, a hero to his own fierce belief. The following week, he was shot dead.
You ask the young people who Father Griffin was and they give you the look that goes, 'Like, dude, I dunno priests.'
I found the house in Father Griffin Road without any trouble. It's a narrow street and used to be real old Galway. Not any more, but then, what was?
For Sale signs were the main feature now. I had to be real careful. If any of the family spotted me, I was fucked. The house was near the middle, seemed quiet, no movement.
I jumped when a man spoke, asked, 'You looking for someone?'