The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(23)

It fit.

All the squad cars were at the water protest so Ridge took a battered Corolla, used by the Drug Squad. Murphy asked, “Will I drive?”

Ridge said,

“Shut the fuck up unless you are spoken to.”

Murphy could already envision his future in Australia: barbecues and Foster’s.

Outside Jeremy Cooper’s home were a riot of bushes, small trees. Once lovingly cared for by the Poles but they had long since fucked on home, the Celtic Tiger but a dead memory.

Woody lay in wait behind a juniper, the nine in his hand like a discarded prayer, there but not yet utilized.

Madness ran wild through his head.

Muttering,

Bloody priest treating me like shite,

Cops always on my case.

Women laughing at him.

At him.

By Jesus.

Ridge parked the car and they got out. Woody watched them, thought,

Can’t be cops driving a Corolla.

They moved to the door and Ridge banged hard on it. Woody stepped out from the bushes, said, “Don’t knock like that, have some fucking manners.”

Ridge looked at him, saw a scrawny youth with a stupid expression, and spat,

“Get over here.”

To him.

Orders.

From a damn woman.

He didn’t move and Murphy, gung ho, added,

“Get your arse in gear and I mean now.”

Now?

Woody raised the nine and for one frozen moment it could have been averted if Ridge hadn’t moved toward him.

He shot her in the face.

Murphy, in disbelief, muttered,

“What?”

Woody shot him twice in the stomach.

Woody stood over them and fired one more shot in Murphy’s head, said,

“Ghosts two,

Assholes nil.”





PART 2

A bespoke girl

Tailormade, as it were,

Would require one vital quality.

(A sense of humor,

Because she was going to fucking need it.)



I was in Crowe’s pub in Bohermore when a guy burst in, said, “Two Guards have been shot.”

Mad conversations erupted and Ollie shouted,

“Quiet, I’ll turn on the radio.”

Utter silence as we heard that two Garda had been killed, a massive manhunt was under way. The killer, or killers, were not yet identified and no one had claimed responsibility. The names of the fallen Guards were being withheld until relatives were informed.

All eyes turned to me.

Once a Guard, always a Guard.

Even a disgraced one like me might have some in.

I took out my phone, said,

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Scattered shouts of

“Good man.”

There is a kind of horrified delight in unveiling tragedy and a dark thrill at bearing witness.

I called Owen Daglish, just about the only contact I had remaining in the Guards.

Ridge had been my go-to gal for so long but she wasn’t answering my calls these days.

Owen began,

“Jesus Jack, you can’t be calling me.”

He was a piss artist of epic scale and still managed to stay on the force. He kept his head down and was a hell of a manager of the hurling squad. To manage hurlers, you needed to be ferocious and drink didn’t hurt in adding the layer of aggression.

He took a deep breath, said,

“Seriously Jack, this is not a good time, all hell is breaking loose.”

Time to fake him out.

I said,

“Me heart is broken with the shootings.”

He was taken aback, asked,

“You know, then?”

I gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Superintendent Clancy and I may seem at odds”—to put it fucking mildly—“but we go back a ways.”

He bought it, said,

“I know you were once close to Sergeant Ridge and I am truly sorry for your loss.”

WTF?

I remember mimicking,

“Sergeant Ridge?”

He said,

“Yes, died at the scene, and the young recruit Murphy died en route to hospital.”

*

The double funeral was held on a bitter cold Thursday. Crowds lined the street.

I have only vague recollections of the whole awful event. Trying to offer my condolences to Superintendent Clancy, who snapped, “You don’t belong here.”

I indicated Ridge’s coffin, asked,

“Does she?”

Yeah, I know.

Beyond lame.

At the graveside, Father Malachy intoned,

“Man is full of misery.”

And I shouted,

“Aw, don’t say that.”

I got into a minor scuffle with the priest and, phew-oh, they threw me out of the cemetery.

Got to be a first, barred from the graveyard.

Guess it would be cremation then.

My mobile shrilled and in my utter madness I half thought it might be Ridge. It was Emily, who went, “Wassup?”

Jesus.

I said,

“I’m kind of fucked here, Em.”

“Where are you?”

“At Rahoon Cemetery.”

She laughed, said,

“Don’t let ’em bury you.”