The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(5)
He eased a bit, maybe seeing the shock in my face, said,
“She’s in the hospital. Bad state I hear.”
As I was heading out the door I nearly ran into the housekeeper, who said,
“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Jesus, people actually said that kind of thing?
I looked back, shouted.
“God love you.”
“The Red Book wasn’t so much a repudiation to the Gospels but a challenge to the Church to deny its existence.”
(Father Frank Miller)
Emily
Em
Emerald
A Goth-like crazed girl who had blasted into my life two years ago and left me
Bewildered
Burned
Bewitched.
She may or may not have been involved in the deaths
Of
Her father
Mother
Various lowlife.
And managed to mangle and massacre my heart and mind. She woke in the morning and chose a personality for the day. Usually a personality bordering on the maniac. Whatever else, it was hard to ignore her. True too. She had saved my life and hide in many ways. Her act was to disappear for long stretches then blast back with utter impact. She was a long sentence from beautiful but her sheer vitality was highly addictive. There was a tiny defect in her left eye that seemed to deepen the emerald effect. Well, a deeply flawed stone but valuable nevertheless.
Was she
Bipolar
Byronic
Or simply a blip on the mental calendar?
Fuck knows. But boring? Never.
She had by many circuitous routes and canny connivance the ability to conjure up a constant cash flow.
And she liked to spend.
Recklessly.
I was relieved when she left and exhilarated when she returned. She had given me the gift of my dog Storm. And if you like people who love dogs, then she was a shoo-in.
But I have learned some things in my bewildered career and that was to know how extremely dangerous she was.
She had that aura that read
“Fuck with me at your peril.”
Emily was at NUIG hospital. I stopped to buy some grapes and the guy in the shop said, “Of wrath?”
I said,
“Little early for literary smart arses.”
The National rugby team had defeated France in a stunning display of courage and grit, then gone to Cardiff to lose to Argentina.
Fuck it.
Prior to the match, hotel owners in Cardiff had increased their rates by almost 100 percent. Echoing the Irish government in their thinking: if it moves, price it to death.
Em was in ICU and thus not allowed visitors. Standing outside was Bean NI Iomaire, Sergeant Ridge. Once a great friend but now a cross between an enemy and an ally but a very precarious ally. Since the death of our mutual friend Stewart, she had become outright hostile. I tried, “Comas ata tu?”
(How are you?)
She scoffed.
“Your attempt at Irish is like your friendship.”
Pause.
“Woesome.”
I reached out my hand, said,
“But good to see you, Ridge.”
She slapped my hand away, said,
“Your girlfriend is in a bad way.”
Fuck.
I said,
“She is not my girlfriend.”
Ridge smiled, not with any warmth but with a mean edge, said,
“Of course, you don’t do friends.”
I gave up, asked,
“Any notion of what happened to her?”
“Yes, she did what she does best, pissed someone off. In this case, the wrong person, apparently.”
“Got any person of interest?”
She didn’t even deign to answer, just smirked and strode off in that Garda way of
“Fuck you, civilian!”
Did I care?
Only a wee bit.
I managed to grab a doctor, tell him I was an uncle. He did the doctor gig of telling me, “We will have to wait and see.”
Which was very closely related to Ridge’s response if somewhat more refined.
As I passed Ridge on my way out, I handed the grapes to her. She was caught, dare I say, off Guard, and asked, “What do I do with these?”
I said,
“Thing is, they’re slightly bitter so just add them to your reservoir.”
I hit the pubs, not drinking but asking about the assault on Em. Took a while and I very nearly said, “Aw, fuck this.”
But persisted,
And
In the Kings Head, a guy asked,
“Is there a few quid in this?”
There was.
And got,
Em had been giving it large the previous night and an apprentice thug named Corley had made a pass. She had very loudly dissed him and he waited outside … with a baseball bat.
He was apparently a minor dealer in GHB, the new form of deadly ecstasy that was hitting the streets. Some further inquiries to ensure he was not deeply connected. I didn’t want to step on some kingpin’s runner but, no, he was a bottom feeder. He liked to hang out near the Claddagh Basin and throw rocks at the swans. An all-round winner.
I went home, took the dog for a joyous run in Eyre Square. A number of people attempted to rub or chat to him but he was having none of it. He gave that canine look of “I already got family.”
Worked for me.