The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(19)
“Go to the Guards.”
She gave me a look of scrutiny that only utter innocence can bestow and she saw nothing that promised the world would cut her any slack. She produced a battered purse, I think it might have had Our Lady of Perpetual Help on it, rooted in it, and came up with a handful of notes, said, “I’ve been saving up for a bike but here, you take it.”
There are very few times I have much regard for my own self but right there I was verging on complete disgust. I asked, “How much is there?”
She rolled her eyes, said,
“Hello, maybe nineteen euros.”
My cup finally overfloweth.
She added,
“I will need a receipt for that.”
Of course.
I asked,
“And your name?”
“Lorna.”
I muttered,
“Lorna Doone.”
Exasperated, she snapped,
“No, silly. Dunphy.”
I asked,
“Have you a photo?”
She produced a thick envelope, said,
“Everything is in there.
School
Age
Description
And my contact details.”
Paused
As if she heard something.
Then,
“I have to run.”
And run she did.
When I got back to the apartment I opened the package.
It was reams of blank paper.
I got on Google search and did indeed find her.
She was an only child.
I was walking the pup up the town and he didn’t much take to the mime artists. They spooked him.
Me too.
Heard,
“By the holy, Taylor.”
Father Malachy. My nemesis. The bane of my life in so many ways. We had a varied history and most of it bad. He stopped, cloud of nicotine over him, stared at the dog. Asked, “Did you steal that poor creature?”
Low growl from the pup. He could sense my feelings instinctively. Not that he saw Malachy as a threat but rather a nuisance, like a bedraggled cat. Not to chase but to chastise.
Worked for me.
I said,
“Still smoking, eh?”
Ignored that, said,
“I’ve been thinking of your poor mother.”
Fuck, here we go.
I said,
“We all have our crosses.”
Looked like he wanted to wallop me, said,
“I think the poor woman was bipolar.”
Oh, man, I fucking laughed out loud, mimicked,
“Bipolar! Fucking beautiful, the greatest bitch to walk the earth and now it’s, like, oh, she couldn’t help it.”
He gave me a look bordering almost on pity, said,
“You are a bitter man.”
Just then, the girl Lorna Dunphy passed by, stopped, asked, no, demanded,
“Did you find my brother?”
Before I could answer, Malachy said,
“Lorna, run along now.”
And she did!
I stared at him and he rounded on me, near spat,
“Hope you haven’t been putting notions in that girl’s head?”
Jesus wept.
I said,
“She hired me to find her nonexistent brother.”
His eyes were on fire from rage and he accused,
“You took money from that poor creature?”
“Yeah, all of nineteen euros.”
He blessed himself, said,
“There is no end to your wickedness. That child suffers.”
I was all out of patience with the craziness that seemed to have infected the whole city, snarled, “Let me guess, bipolar?”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand, said,
“You are a heartless excuse for a man.”
I ignored that, persisted.
“What is it with that girl, eh?”
He sighed, said,
“Like everyone else who has had dealings with you, she simply wanted one simple thing.”
I had to ask.
“What might that be?”
Like I could give a full fuck.
He said,
“To get your attention.”
Back at the apartment, I drew up a list of all the bizarre threads of my current life.
Who, what, were the ghosts of Galway?
What was the deal with the girl and the imaginary brother?
The Red Book.
Emily … Always Emily and her diffuse weirdness.
My former boss.
The dead ex-priest.
Sat back, looked at it.
Made no sense.
Tried to think how a thriller writer would throw out all these strands and then, presto, wrap them all up with a rugged hero, battered but unbowed, heading into an award-winning future.
I looked at the pup, asked,
“Got any ideas?”
He stared at the leash.
A pounding at the door put the heart sideways in me. The pup went into attack mode. I pulled the door open to a young Guard. I mean so young he seemed like a child in dress-up but what was old was his attitude. Already bitter and malignant, he near shouted, “Are you …”
Consulted his notes.
“John Trainor?”
“No.”
Rattled him.
If it was in the notebook, it had to be true. He tried,
“Name?”
I said,