The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(17)

All of the above.

Cooper wanted a cigarette.

His whole dream of ruling the city with his army of ghosts was just smoke in the Galway wind. Woody, his second in command, could see something was seriously wrong. His boss, his messiah, was weakened and, Christ, he looked sick. Cooper said, “Our grand schemes are fucked.”

Obscenities from the master!

Cooper sighed, then,

“Get me a cigarette.”

That in itself was the sign of how things were. Previously, cigarettes were part of the list Cooper had banned. Not that Woody had stopped smoking; he’d stopped only in front of the boss. So he had to make a show of going to fetch some. He asked his own self, “Fuck, now what?”

The ghosts were going to be famous and powerful and …

He tore open a pack of cigarettes, lit one, fumed in every sense.

He had managed to recruit ten followers, and what would he tell them now?

“Sorry guys, Armageddon is deferred.”

Traipsed back to Cooper, depression laying heavy on his mind. Cooper took a cig, fired up, then, “Change of plan, if we’re going out, let us go out in style.”

Woody had no idea what this meant so said nothing. Cooper chucked the cig, said,

“Something major, have them gasp and exclaim, There be ghosts.”

Then Copper paused, thought. Said,

“At the hospital, I met a man who might be suitable for our plans. His name is Jack Taylor and, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you would find him in a pub.”

Woody felt a tinge of resentment, as if he was being considered less vital. Cooper caught the Sense, soothed,

“I am blessed with you my man.”

Neither of them felt it carried much conviction.

Woody was in a quandary. He had so fervently believed the ghosts were the answer to everything but now Cooper was sounding very much like a guy who was quitting. Rage was simmering in every pore. He needed some fix to put him back on some meaningful track.

Confession.

His mother had gone faithfully every Saturday to be absolved for her sins. It didn’t seem to make her life a whole lot better but for a brief time she would be light and even singing. Fuck, he thought, a brief respite would be just fine.

Rang around the churches to see what times confessions were being held. Riled to find a tone of suspicion not to mention downright hostility from most of the churches. First lesson, it was no longer called confession but, get this, “The sacrament of reconciliation.”

“But,”

He pleaded,

“Is it the same gig?”

Meaning,

“Will I be forgiven?”

The voice on the other end was beyond supercilious, sneered,

“I am hardly in a position to judge that.”

The sarcasm was loud and meant. Woody was enraged, said,

“Before I get forgiven, I’ll add you to my list of wrongdoing.”

Slammed down the phone. Eventually got times for the Cathedral. Headed up there.

Nervous now so stopped at the pub off Mary Street. A place where if you knew even one name of the Kardashians you were barred. Sunk two large Jamesons and, thus fortified, headed for reconciliation.

At the church, business was brisk. Post-Christmas blues providing a steady stream of folk keen to get something free, like forgiveness. Saw a young priest head into the confessional and thought, Young is more likely to be accessible. The old codgers were holy terrors.

Got in there and began,

“Forgive me Father.”

Which was a bad start as he was at least twenty years older than the priest.

Then the booze hit and he amended.

“Whoa, hold the bloody phones, I forgive God.”

The young priest had been schooled in most situations but not this, he tried,

“I beg your pardon?”

Woody was having none of it, the Jameson flowing mad through his system. He echoed and mimicked.

“You beg my pardon? Too bloody right, mate, and you know what, I ain’t giving it.”

And then stormed out of the confessional, banged the door in as far as is possible in a church, ranted at the assembled penitents, “Get up off your knees, have some fucking backbone.”

He was gone by the time the Guards arrived.



“Now that he was no longer subject to institutional rules governing brutality he felt free to hit people at will.”

(Kate Atkinson, Started Early, Took My Dog)





Back she came.

Emily.

Waiting in my apartment when I returned from walking the pup. The pup went apeshit with delight on seeing her so, no matter how I felt about her, it would always be tempered by the affection he felt for her. She was dressed like Jennifer Lawrence in American Hustle, all bad-ass grunge. I said, “Nice to see you have no compunction about breaking into my place.”

Was she fazed?

Was she fuck.

Said,

“Mi cassia es su cassia”

She delighted in mangling language, any language. Then,

“Your neighbor is climbing Everest?”

She and Doc had had a brief, insane fling, which was a touchy subject for all of us. I asked, “You guys are talking again?”

“Fuck no, I broke into his place.”

The last thing you ever did was ask her why, ever. She said,

“He might have to change them plans of glory.”