The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(8)

The culprits certainly had balls. A large van was seen at the end of the square, backed up on the grass and in no apparent rush, then they flung open the back doors and dumped the animal, then, again with no haste, drove back into traffic and disappeared.

Were there witnesses?

Were there fuck!

Hundreds.

And thus a hundred descriptions.

The Guards said, with conviction if little certainty, that a definite line of inquiry was being followed.

Right.

They were looking for a truck in a city with twenty thousand registered vehicles alone.

I could imagine Ridge’s face

—and relieved I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while.

I was wrong about that of course.



“The ellipsis is used to trail off in an intriguing manner.”

“After surviving the trenches

I now find myself

With the horrors of peace.”

(Jack Taylor, senior)





I didn’t realize it but I was about to get hold of a dream, albeit a mad one, but still … I do believe that a dream, however insane, will get you out of bed on many a dire cold wet November morning.

My neighbor Doc was slowly renewing his friendship with me. We had fallen out over Em and it was nasty and British. Like life.

I liked him a lot, principally because he had a great affection for the pup. He was English but kept that subdued. He had served with some distinction and darkness with the British army and he sure kept that tight wrapped. This was still the Republican West of Ireland no matter how far we might have traveled since the Peace Initiative.

We shared a love of fine whiskey

Bad whiskey

And box sets.

Too, he read voraciously and, like me, in a sort of controlled fever. Meaning he would follow a theme like say true crime, then read all and everything on that. Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop was on his speed dial. In his varied career, what most impressed me was his attempt with his army buddies on Everest. They had turned back at Hillary Step. Just below the death zone.

This resonated in me in so many ways that it was almost preordained. Currently he had lent me Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer,

The Death Zone by Matt Dickinson,

No Way Down by Graham Bowley.

And probably my favorite, Matt Hail’s account of the 1996 disaster.

In addition he had given me a copy of The Summit, the Oscar-nominated documentary about the K2 tragedy. To watch eleven climbers die on the screen and the heroic Irish guy Ger McDonnell, who died trying to save the Korean team members. So, smitten with mountain fever I surely was.

The mind-set of the Sherpas echoed the way the Irish had once been before Celtic Tigers, crushing financial reparations, and water bills killed our very spirit.

Doc told me his last attempt on Everest brought down many of his team with HAMF.

High-altitude mountain fever.

What resonated with me most was Doc saying,

“On the mountain, more people are killed on the descent than the ascent.”

Story of my life right there.

Getting high was mostly a soaring ride of exhilaration and expectation then

The coming down

Hell.

He explained that the fever was a result of a swelling of the brain and caused the climber to imagine things, lose focus, stagger ’round dangerously. Again, I had a whole lot of experience with that. Then he surprised me with, “I am planning one last attempt and this time I am traveling light, a two-man team, to hit it fast and furious.”

He paused, then,

“If I fail, then being buried is not the worst way to go.”

And

? Gave

???? Me

My

? Dream.



Ghosts are, supposedly, silent.





I was telling the pup about my hope of traveling to Everest. He was eating his breakfast, some spareribs from the stew of the evening before. I told him about the various attempts on the mountain but he seemed singularly unimpressed. Then his head went up and to the side. I was having a visitor. Sure enough, a loud bang at the door.

I was just getting up to answer when a further series of loud wallops hit the door, I shouted, “Jesus, have a bit of fucking patience, I’m coming and it better be important.”

Ridge.

With a young Guard in tow who had that formless look that Saturday nights on the beat would beat the fuck out of fast. She marched in and the pup growled. The young guy demanded, “Is that animal aggressive?”

I gave him my, dare I say, guarded smile, said,

“It is not the dog who bites.”

Could be wrong but did Ridge allow a tiny flicker of a smile. He blustered,

“I must inform you sir that you are threatening a Garda Síchoána in the course of his or her duty.”

Ridge snapped.

“Ah, shut up you emit.”

I did wonder what an emit was?

Then turned to me, demanded,

“Do you know an individual named Frank Miller?”

I did what you do.

I asked,

“Why?”

The emit said,

“We’ll ask the questions.”

Jesus, seriously!

I said,

And do admit that I have waited many TV years for this, I said,

“I refuse to answer on the grounds I might incriminate my own self.”