The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(38)
I was expounding on the lack of recognition for the writer Patrick Hamilton and she said, “I don’t read.”
Now, I don’t, God forgive me, remember her name but, alas, I do remember my reply: “You don’t read? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
And she was gone.
I staggered home, wondering if I would fry up a big batch of sausages, then thought, “And put two down for the pup.”
To instantly realize there was no pup, no more. I had that drunken moment of utter self-pity, leaning against a wall. Managed to get it together to find my way home, opened the door, and felt a gun barrel into the back of my skull.
A voice.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
My whole life I had done just that. I managed,
“Shoot me now.”
Heard an intake of breath and,
“What?”
“Save me a biblical hangover.”
Heard a slight chuckle.
I asked,
“Let me sit down.”
And moved to the armchair.
My hangover had vanished. Guns might be the new hangover cure. The man facing me was mid-height, dark curly hair, a boxer’s bruised face, and eyes so brown they verged on black.
I asked,
“You here about my TV license? I heard they were getting more proactive.”
The gun was lowered to rest against his right leg. He tapped it gently against that, said, “You’re a cool one.”
I stared at him. He had an ease in his bearing acquired from long experience of conflict.
He said,
“I’m Joe Tyrone.”
Took me a moment, then I spat,
“The other Fenian fuck.”
He said,
“Just Joe would be fine.”
He had a trace of an English accent and I sneered,
“You’re not even Irish.”
The gun came up and he took a deep breath, said,
“You need to mind your mouth. And many of the greatest Irish patriots …”
Paused, then,
He intoned,
“Roger Casement
Wolfe Tone
Were
Of English birth but their very souls were Fenian.”
I said,
“I don’t think they were into gutting dogs.”
He sighed, said,
“I have a deal to offer.”
I gave him the look that said,
“Dream on sucker.”
He pushed on.
“We declare a truce and I give you Clancy.”
Clancy!
I said,
“Clancy?”
He allowed a small smile, said,
“He is in line to be the new police commissioner, the big prize for a cop, but he needs to be …”
Paused.
“Squeaky clean.”
“Is he?”
Tyrone said,
“Clancy likes to portray family values, and his strong moral code will be much praised.”
He took a large envelope out of his jacket, mused,
“What if it were shown such is not the case?”
I said,
“He’d be fucked.”
“Indeed.”
I stared at him, let a silence build. He was one of those who could ride a silence, so I said, “I’m thinking you want to trade.”
He made a hammer of his hand, said,
“Bingo.”
My shredded hangover fought with my desire to beat the living daylights out of him but I drew a deep breath, waited. He said, “Here’s what I’m thinking. I give you these …”
Indicating the envelope.
“And we call it quits.”
I said,
“You must believe I had very little regard for my pup.”
He was about to respond then rearranged that, said,
“Wasn’t me did the deed. In fact I vetoed the idea.”
I gave him the look that says,
“Like, seriously?”
Even in my head, it echoed of the U.S. He asked,
“Have we a deal?”
I considered my choices and went for the brazen lie, said,
“Sure, we have a deal.”
The gun was slowly eased into his jacket. He moved toward the door, said,
“I won’t be seeing you, then.”
I nodded.
I waited a beat until he was well gone. I circled the envelope with my fingers, wondering what revelations awaited.
There were four black-and-white prints, A4 size so there was no mistaking the players.
I felt I’d been gut punched, let out a wail of
“Oh, God, no.”
Never made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
Violently.
I sank down on the carpet, muttering,
“Sweet Jesus.”
A pity plea or a prayer?
Does it even matter?
If the past
Is
Another country
Why
Am
I
Held
At the border?
To come cap in hand!
In Ireland, that translates as
Begging,
With a suitable amount of groveling and humiliation.
As a nation, we know it all too well.
I said the words aloud as I prepared to meet Anne Henderson.