The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(20)
“Jack Taylor.”
Again with the notebook, then,
“Your neighbor was burgled, you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“Mind if I have a look inside?”
“Got a warrant?”
He had obviously watched lots of cop shows, asked in a tough tone,
“Wanna play hardball?”
“I want to know if you have a warrant. If not, fuck off.”
Kinda hardball.
He reeled back, lost for a moment. I said,
“Get Sergeant Ridge.”
“She know you?”
“She’d know where to look.”
And I shut the door. Heard him mutter about dog license. The pup didn’t seem too concerned.
*
Over the years, I’ve made one hell of a lot of bad decisions. If there was a bad way to do things, I was your guy. Whatever about the road less traveled, I always took the road to despair. Be nice to think I’d learned from experience.
Nope.
Now, as I surveyed the list of bafflements, I thought I really needed to know what the deal was with the girl who claimed to have a missing brother.
Lorna Dunphy.
Found where she lived easily. Or where her home was. Off Merchants Road. A small beleaguered section of old Galway that still hadn’t fallen to the developers. Put on my Garda allweather, black 501s, my Doc Martens with the steel toe caps, and figured I was ready for just about anything.
Figured wrong.
Met my neighbor Doc outside my door, asked,
“You think I stole your laptop?”
Gave me a look of utter derision, said,
“Who else?”
I’d been obviously watching too much Sherlock as I said,
“Succinct.”
Well, beats the ubiquitous whatever.
Halve the distance between A and B
Halve it again
Then again
Until infinity.
You will never reach B.
(Zeno)
I stood for a moment outside Lorna Dunphy’s home, took a deep breath. Then knocked and waited. Door opened and a man appeared, maybe in his battered forties. Something had beaten the hell out of him and, when he was on his knees, life had kicked him in the balls. He was wearing old cord Levi’s, a faded sweatshirt with the logo for the Saw Doctors, though it was a long time since this man heard any music. Does anyone remember desert boots? This man did and was wearing them. He had a tangle of dark curly hair, long from not caring and not fashion. He asked, “Is this about Lorna?”
A soft voice, laden with foreboding, he knew most calls were about Lorna.
I nodded, said,
“I’m truly sorry to bother you.”
For once I truly meant it.
He waved me in, not even asking who I was. Led into a sitting room that was so tidy it seemed unlived in. A single framed photo of a woman, with her head back, laughing. He motioned me to a chair, asked, “Would you like a drink?”
Not tea or coffee?
I know the inflection so well, my whole life constructed around it.
I said,
“That would be good.”
Even fucking vital.
He got a bottle of Redbreast; they even make that anymore? Two heavy Galway crystal tumblers, poured nigh lethal measures, handed me one. The glass felt almost reassuring. I didn’t think a toast was in order. He sat opposite, his glass placed carefully on a small table beside him.
I said,
“I’m Jack Taylor.”
Then, oh fuck, he got up, held out his hand, said,
“Tom.”
I took a mega hit of the drink and it walloped my stomach, both bitter and comforting. I said, “Your daughter, um …”
He sighed, with a resignation that no one should have, asked,
“What she do now?”
I wanted a cig, took out the pack, offered one.
He took it, leaned over, picked up one of those family-size boxes of matches, and lit it, the sound like a pistol shot. I lit my own quietly. We fumed for a bit then I said, “It’s just she is telling people she has a brother and he is missing.”
He groaned.
I tried,
“I’m sure it’s just a phase.”
Lame, huh?
He pointed at the framed photo, said,
“Her mother, Ann.”
Nothing more.
But his face was ruin, sadness and despair battling for supremacy.
Then he asked,
“You know Barna Woods?”
I knew of it.
I just nodded.
He said,
“There’s a tree there that they supposedly favor.”
I didn’t have to ask
Who they were.
Suicides.
He continued, a story he had to recount over and over and never understand.
“Used a rope I had for a camping trip we had planned.”
Stopped, asked,
“You like camping?”
WTF?
I tried,
“Not really.”
He sighed, said,
“Me neither, but Ann …”
Gulped.
“Ann said it would be fun to do as a family.”
Aw, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I said,
“I’m very sorry.”
He stood up, said,
“Please excuse me. I have to do some serious drinking.”