Angry
Aggressive
Sarcastic
But
Scared?
Never.
He was scared now.
Very.
His type, they do the scaring. Being scared is not ever on their radar. He had a haunted look, and he kept darting his eyes toward the window. He barely acknowledged me, reached in his desk, tossed an envelope on the counter, said,
“Your severance pay.”
I decided to play dumb,
Asked,
“For which job? The security or The Red Book?”
Fuck, did I hit a nerve. He literally jumped, said,
“Take your money and go, Mr. Taylor, I don’t expect to be seeing you again.”
And on cue one of the bouncers/bodyguard appeared behind me.
Of all the troubles in my troubling life, I have never been troubled with minding my own business.
Never.
I asked,
“The poor bastard Miller? With pages of a book rammed down his clerical throat? Do I just forget about him?”
My arm was grabbed and I feinted to the left, came down hard on the instep of the guy’s foot with my Doc Marten, then swirled ’round and sucker punched him in the throat with an open flat hand.
He went down like the proverbial sack of spuds. A.K.K. Sighed, said,
“You are buying in to a world of hurt.”
Sounding not unlike a cut-rate Schwarzenegger and reached for his phone. I turned to leave and threw,
“Be seeing you, buddy.”
And got out of there fast before the rest of the crew arrived.
I stopped up the road and bent over, gasping for breath, muttered,
“Went well, all in all.”
“Did you put sugar in?”
He liked two spoons.
She had. Then, as we sat, she said,
“Mr. Taylor.”
I mentally said,
Jack!
She continued.
“I think you have many times in your life wished to travel the high road but circumstances led you to the lower plain.”
No argument there. Then,
“I think you have a good strong heart but life seems more acceptable if you adopt a shell of, um...”
She searched for a word that wouldn’t cause offense, then,
“Hardness.”
She poured the tea and then buttered the bread. I said,
“Out there” — and vaguely indicated the window — “there is precious little softness and any sign of weakness... they will annihilate you.”
She blessed herself which is, I suppose, answer enough.
She gave me a deep searching look, then asked,
“Do you believe in forgiveness?”
Aw, fuck.
I near snarled.
“I believe in retribution.”
She was upset, tried,
“The most difficult act of all is to forgive oneself.”
I tried not to snigger, said,
“Isn’t that God’s job description?”
She was flustered, torn between trying to explain and giving me some scant comfort.
A fool’s errand.
I mentioned the horrendous massacre of concertgoers by terrorists in Paris. Then added for pure maliciousness,
“Never thought I would quote Putin but he said if the terrorists see their mission is to get into heaven, it’s my mission to send them there.”
Horrified her, as was meant.
The pup sunk under a chair; tension freaked him. She made one last valiant attempt, said that old hackneyed justification
“God’s ways are mysterious to behold.”
I stood up, gave a low whistle for the pup, attached the leash, gave her a brief hug, parted with
“Oh, there is no mystery, sister. He likes to mind fuck.”
I regret the f-word but, fuck, I do not regret the sentiment.
Not one fucking bit.
I had read enough of James Lee Burke to nearly see his
Ghosts
in
the
Confederate
Mist.
Those days as I trudged through the streets of the city, on corners, at the tips of alleys, on the canal waterways, on bridges in the slight distance, around the cornices of churches, amidst crowds lining up for early shopping bargains at T.J. Maxx, slipping through the back doors of back street pubs, in the young people who gathered on the grass at Eyre Square, I saw
My
Very
Own
Ghosts
of
Galway.
My parents, one loved and one despised.
Oh, so many of my friends:
Stewart, the most decent person I’d ever encountered.
A treacherous close friend whom I lured to his death in the Claddagh Basin and never regretted it for one moment. He was evil behind a smirk.
And, weird as it sounds, more priests than a minor scandal.
Too, a gorgeous child, Serena Day, who haunted me every day.
Phew-oh.
A life indeed less ordinary and littered with those I deep mourned and those psychos even deeper despised.
I had lived a small life in a small town with smaller aspirations and yet managed to create havoc and chaos under the guise of assistance.
An echo of the Vatican, really.
I let out a considered breath and watched it dance among the shattered dreams. If there is a meaning to life in the concept of having made some little difference, then I had wrought bedlam and decay.
As Padraig Pearse wrote
And
I
Went
Along
My
Way
Pause.
Sorrowful.
“The existence of The Red Book was perpetuated by the Church as a sinister scare tactic to keep outspoken priests in line.”
8
I was watching the new Marvel series
Jessica Jones.
Netflix had a huge critical and commercial success with Daredevil.
This was the second of a planned four-part series.
Phew-oh. It was amazing, stunning, and moving in equal measure, especially to a guy like me who knew fuck to nothing about comics.
A ring at the door, the pup barked. I switched off the iPad. Took a deep breath, just knowing it was bound to be more shite. A young guy, punk hairstyle, battered combats, an even more worn combat jacket, with a smile and expectant manner.
I snapped,
“What do you want?”
His smile broadened. He asked in a semi-posh accent,
“Might you be Mr. Jack Taylor?”
The pup was low growling, his small head down in the attack mode. The guy said,
“I’m not good with dogs.”
I waited.
Then,
“Oh, right, Emily sent me.”
Then he smiled some more. I asked,
“Was there a message?”
He considered this, then reached in his jacket and both the pup and I went to alert. He pulled a book out of his jacket, said,
“Here.”
It was bound in red leather and for a mad moment I thought,
The Red Book?
Looked at the title.
Don Quixote.
He said,
“You’re welcome.”
I was baffled, asked,
“Why, does she think I’m Don Quixote?”