The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(11)

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.”

(Frank Miller, ex-priest)





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?”

He laughed, said,

“She said more like Sancho Panza.”

There was no sign of him leaving, I asked,

“Something else?”

Again with the smile, he said,

“I’m waiting to be invited in.”

Now I smiled, with absolute no warmth, said,

“Never happen son.”

He put out his hand, said,

“I’m Hayden, that is with a capital H.”

The pup had decided he was no threat, just an idiot, and went back into the apartment. I said, “Time to fuck off, H.”

He lost the smile, edge leaking over the mouth, said,

“Emily said you could be … difficult.”

I said,