By Jesus.
Ridge parked the car and they got out. Woody watched them, thought,
Can’t be cops driving a Corolla.
They moved to the door and Ridge banged hard on it. Woody stepped out from the bushes, said,
“Don’t knock like that, have some fucking manners.”
Ridge looked at him, saw a scrawny youth with a stupid expression, and spat,
“Get over here.”
To him.
Orders.
From a damn woman.
He didn’t move and Murphy, gung ho, added,
“Get your arse in gear and I mean now.”
Now?
Woody raised the nine and for one frozen moment it could have been averted if Ridge hadn’t moved toward him.
He shot her in the face.
Murphy, in disbelief, muttered,
“What?”
Woody shot him twice in the stomach.
Woody stood over them and fired one more shot in Murphy’s head, said,
“Ghosts two,
Assholes nil.”
Part 2
A bespoke girl
Tailormade, as it were,
Would require one vital quality.
(A sense of humor,
Because she was going to fucking need it.)
15
I was in Crowe’s pub in Bohermore when a guy burst in, said,
“Two Guards have been shot.”
Mad conversations erupted and Ollie shouted,
“Quiet, I’ll turn on the radio.”
Utter silence as we heard that two Garda had been killed, a massive manhunt was under way. The killer, or killers, were not yet identified and no one had claimed responsibility. The names of the fallen Guards were being withheld until relatives were informed.
All eyes turned to me.
Once a Guard, always a Guard.
Even a disgraced one like me might have some in.
I took out my phone, said,
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Scattered shouts of
“Good man.”
There is a kind of horrified delight in unveiling tragedy and a dark thrill at bearing witness.
I called Owen Daglish, just about the only contact I had remaining in the Guards.
Ridge had been my go-to gal for so long but she wasn’t answering my calls these days.
Owen began,
“Jesus Jack, you can’t be calling me.”
He was a piss artist of epic scale and still managed to stay on the force. He kept his head down and was a hell of a manager of the hurling squad. To manage hurlers, you needed to be ferocious and drink didn’t hurt in adding the layer of aggression.
He took a deep breath, said,
“Seriously Jack, this is not a good time, all hell is breaking loose.”
Time to fake him out.
I said,
“Me heart is broken with the shootings.”
He was taken aback, asked,
“You know, then?”
I gave a bitter laugh, said,
“Superintendent Clancy and I may seem at odds” — to put it fucking mildly — “but we go back a ways.”
He bought it, said,
“I know you were once close to Sergeant Ridge and I am truly sorry for your loss.”
WTF?
I remember mimicking,
“Sergeant Ridge?”
He said,
“Yes, died at the scene, and the young recruit Murphy died en route to hospital.”
The double funeral was held on a bitter cold Thursday. Crowds lined the street.
I have only vague recollections of the whole awful event. Trying to offer my condolences to Superintendent Clancy, who snapped,
“You don’t belong here.”
I indicated Ridge’s coffin, asked,
“Does she?”
Yeah, I know.
Beyond lame.
At the graveside, Father Malachy intoned,
“Man is full of misery.”
And I shouted,
“Aw, don’t say that.”
I got into a minor scuffle with the priest and, phew-oh, they threw me out of the cemetery.
Got to be a first, barred from the graveyard.
Guess it would be cremation then.
My mobile shrilled and in my utter madness I half thought it might be Ridge. It was Emily, who went,
“Wassup?”
Jesus.
I said,
“I’m kind of fucked here, Em.”
“Where are you?”
“At Rahoon Cemetery.”
She laughed, said,
“Don’t let ’em bury you.”
I met her in what used to be the River Inn. That there is not a river within a spit of that pub is neither here nor there. Like so many other pubs, it was now under new management and called
The Sliding Rock.
No, me neither.
There is a sliding rock in Shantalla. A Galway landmark to generations of children but now more in use with the ubiquitous drinking schools.
I was working on a full pint when Emily showed.
Who was she today?
Dressed in black leather, her hair in black synch, I asked,
“A Johnny Cash vibe?”
Got the look and,
“Seriously?”
I said,
“I give up. It’s not like I could really give a fuck.”
She sat, signaled to the guy behind the counter, said,
“Christie Hyde.”
The barman came over and oddly enough? Was actually Irish. He was not accustomed to being summoned. He snapped,
“Yeah?”
Like I said, Irish.
Despite what the Brits had believed, we were not born to serve. Emily didn’t look at him, said,
“Margarita.”
He nearly smiled at me. Translation:
“You poor bastard.”
He said to her,
“Think you’re in the wrong establishment.”
Waited a long beat.
Then added,
“Love.”
Fuck me but women hate that sneered endearment.
She turned the full wattage of those sometimes green through blue eyes, asked,
“You got tequila?”
He was into it, running the bitch, he thought. Said,
“Hello? ’Course we got it.”
She said in a very Texan accent,
“Then y’all put that in a tall glass and my dad here will add the bitterness.”
Phew.
He nodded, turned to go, and she said,
“Yo, Paddy, don’t ever call me love.”
He headed back to the bar, trying to walk like he hadn’t had his arse handed to him.
When the drinks came, she toasted me with
“Good result, eh?”
What?
I stared at her, hoping I wasn’t horrendously correct in what was uncoiling in my fevered mind. I asked softly,
“What do you mean?”
Seemed two bullied lifetimes before she answered.
“The bitch is dead.”
I had my drink mid-lift, stopped.
Asked in real low tone, menace dripping from every slow enunciation.
“Who is the bitch?”
She usually was so on the ball, saw peril before it even finished its coil, but was now on a tequila dance that was blind to nuance, said in jolly voice,
“Sergeant smartass Ridge, fixed her good. She bought the farm and all its equipment.”
I snatched her wrist, as rough as I could, snarled,
“You reckless cunt, what did you do?”
First time in all our multifaceted dealings that I ever saw fear in her eyes. She near whispered,
“I just made a call, told her of a situation that required Garda help.”
Pause.