Purgatory (6 page)

At Mill Street, I was marched before him, in his new spacious office, a riot of photo opportunity, mostly golf shots of him with the rich and crooked. The odd bishop to add color if not dignity to the montage. He was in full uniform, a large oak desk with orderly files at his left. I said,

“Dr. Clancy.”

Lee was behind me, barely restrained.

Clancy looked up, distaste writ huge, said,

“Always the smart mouth, Taylor.”

Before I could summon up something
smart,
he added,

“So, they cut off your fingers a time ago.”

Indeed.

Lee said,

“Pity it wasn’t his balls.”

Clancy indicated the holdall, the hurley, said,

“Should be good for six months.”

I said,

“Not to mention good PR. Guards bust man for love of the national sport.”

Clancy got to his feet, shoulders back, potbelly well concealed beneath expensive tailoring but there. He said,

“Sergeant Ní Iomaire was hurt in an incident. The wrath of Jesus will descend on you if your name comes up in the investigation.”

Not the time to mention Ridge was seeking . . . the Virgin Mary. Christ, it would sound like a deranged spiritual odyssey. I could have brought up the weird photos, C33, but he’d just ridicule it. He rasped,

“Get out of my sight.”

They confiscated the holdall, bad bastards. Outside, I nearly reached for a cigarette, did the deep-breath gig instead. Turned toward the hospital, frustration dancing with anger in my daily reel of reproach. I bought the paper, the shop guy asking,

“Cigs, Jack?”

I said no and he ventured,

“Rolling your own, eh?”

No answer to that.

Athens was burning anew as the Greeks faced further medieval measures to offset the massive bailout. Dire predictions on every financial front and still, get this, the bank directors awarded themselves massive bonuses.

No wonder the Virgin Mary was MIA.

The Artist
won five Oscars. Some deep message in that a silent movie was top of the heap but I was fucked if I knew it. Ridge was still in intensive care. Stewart was pacing the corridor, he snapped at me,

“Didn’t break your neck getting here.”

I let that slide, asked what the doctor said.

The next forty hours would be critical. I said,

“I’m going to try to track down Brennan. If he attacked Ridge, he better hope I don’t find him.” Stewart said,

“You and C33 make a fine team.”

8

You’d lose a farm in one bet, take you twenty years to drink it.

—Old Irish saying

Peg Ramsay thought no more of Jack Taylor, his bizarre account of some lunatic maybe posing a threat. She’d laughed.

Jesus wept. She had more enemies than the church had excuses.

She stood in the foyer of her new home. A magnificent seven-bedroom house, built in the boom by a property whiz who was now in jail. She’d bought it for a quarter of the asking price, the market being now more a turkey shoot than a business. Her minders/collectors, FX, Francis, Xavier, were four rooms away, chowing down in the vast kitchen. Rottweilers, she thought, loyal as long as she fed them.

She climbed the wide ornate stairway to the third floor, muttered,

“Third floor! Phew, count ’em and weep, yah bad bastards.”

Pride in her achievements was a rush, a sheer jolt of energy that propelled her up the stairs. Stopped, leaned on the balustrade, and wondered,

“Maybe some paintings along the walls?”

Buy a shitload of art. Like everything in the country, artists were on sale. She registered a sound a split second before the arm went around her throat, a knee in her back. Then a hand on her spine and she thought,

“Over the balustrade?”

A voice whispered,

My heart is as some famine-murdered land

Whence all good things have perished utterly

And well I know my soul in hell must lie.

One,

Her body halfway over the rail.

Two,

A deep effort of breath.

Push,

And fly,

The foyer rushing to smash her startled face.

A DIY petrol bomb landed on her back and with a
whoosh
illuminated the marble inlay.

9

He always liked laundromats. They’re like waiting rooms for people who never travel.

—
Zoran Drvenkar,
Sorry

Purgatory was deceptive in its promise that you might one day be released.

The American woman who’d given me a lift home from Reardon’s party phoned to confirm our coffee date. We arranged to meet in Griffin’s Bakery café, but you had to get there early, before the lunchtime gang. I made an effort, wore a white shirt, ironed; 501s; and my Garda-issue coat. Trying for that blend of

I tried/don’t give a fuck

Vibe.

Checked the mirror, thought mainly I looked old. But good, real good, to be meeting with a woman. Jesus, I’d nearly forgotten how that felt. So okay, some negatives:

1. She worked for Reardon.

2. See above.

The little time I’d spent that evening with her, I liked her. She was smart and caustic, and I seemed to amuse her in a vague fashion. Her age seemed to hover in that blurred could be thirty, probably forty set. She was waiting outside when I arrived, said,

“You’re sober!”

Registered my face, went,

“Kidding, sorry. Jeez, Jack, these are the jokes, right?”

I nearly turned on my heel, but took a deep breath, ushered her in. Long line of people at the counter for
The Grinder
. The specialty bread that had a taste like wish fulfillment. We got a table close to the wall, and I got a good look at Kelly.

But, oh fuck.

Skinny jeans.

Jesus weeping. And in that puke mustard shade that seemed to be the only damn color they were flogging. The hell was with that? Okay, she was thin, that vogue for starved-with-a-tan look.

Skinny jeans, I wanted to roar,

“No

No

Never.”

Unless you are a teenager or the bass player with Kasabian. She ordered soda bread, Galty cheese, Barry’s tea. Said,

“Get all my carbs stashed.”

No sane answer to that. I ordered a double espresso. She said,

“Bitter, huh?”

Our fare arrived and she laid on the thick Kerrygold butter with gusto, said,

“Reardon, my boss, he has . . . more than a passing interest in you.”

“Why?”

She was on her second round of bread. Jesus, this girl could eat, washed it down with tea, burped without fanfare, said,

“His research into the town, its recent history, your name keeps coming up, be it the swans, the tinkers, the church, Magdalene laundries, and you are, he feels,
a person of interest
.”

I thought about this, then,

“I feel he has plans for the city.”

She whistled, low but definite, said,

“Oh, yeah, like you wouldn’t believe and, who knows, maybe a part for you.”

I gave her my rabid smile, let that be its own reply. I drained the last of my coffee and, sure enough, down the yearning pike came the nicotine blues. She looked at me, asked,

“How long since you smoked?”

She was good.

I said,

“Well, I was the kind of dedicated smoker who smoked between cigarettes.”

She quoted,

“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied.”

I hazarded,

“Simon Gray,
The Smoking Diaries
.”

I could tell that went over her gorgeous head, she said,

“
The Picture of Dorian Gray
.”

I ordered more coffee, get some palpitations running. She asked,

“Top of your head, no thinking, favorite book?”

“
The Book Thief
.”

Surprised her.

Fuck, surprised me.

She asked,

“You ever married?”

“No.”

She gave a radiant smile, then,

“Me neither. What’s your excuse?”

Tell the truth, then it’s their gig, said,

“Drink.”

She considered that. I asked,

“You?”

No hesitation.

“Never met anyone like my dad.”

Was she kidding?

Her mobile shrilled, she checked it, said,

“The mighty Reardon calls.”

Outside, we had that awkward moment

. . . do you mumble some vague shite about staying in touch?

Go,

. . . that was nice, let’s never do it again.

She asked,

“Want to see me another time?”

The thought struck me. I asked,

“Do I remind you of your father?”

She was moving, stopped, said,

“Don’t be ridiculous, he is a good man.”

10

Draw a picture of my soul and it’d be a scribble with fangs.

—Gillian Flynn,
Dark Places

Souls in purgatory are supposed to be on day release.

I was arranging my DVDs on a shelf, mug of coffee in my hand, cigarette on my mind.

Stepped back, looked,

Game of Thrones, Series 2

Breaking Bad, Season 4

Treme

Weeds
, the whole seven seasons

Conspiracy: The Wannsee Conference, The Final Solution

Damages, Series 4
, with John Goodman.

You put John Goodman in a series, I’m there. On the coffee table, strewn almost casually, was

Matter of Heart: The Extraordinary Journey of C. G. Jung Into the Soul of Man
. Visitors would be impressed. The empty walls sneered,

“What visitors?”

A heavy book, and I’m talking actual weight,

Gitta Sereny,
Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth
.

I intended to give this to Stewart, all 800 pages of fine, tight print.

And speak of the devil, my mobile rang.

He said,

“The statue was found in the canal.”

Took me a moment to catch up. I snapped,

“No hello, you know, the Zen niceties?”

He was ready.

“The sarcasm, Jack, it gets old, like you. Ridge is still in a coma; how’s that for fucking nice?”

Rang off.

Shook my head. His language was way down the shitter now.

Saint Laurence O’Toole, the patron saint of Dublin, whose heart was preserved since the twelfth century.

I know, sounds like the Irish
Twilight Zone
.

Thieves figured the heart had to be covered in gold, right?

And stole it.

Around the country, small churches were reporting the theft of chalices and gold crosses, and a priest exclaimed,

“Have they no respect?”

Where the fuck had he been for the past decade?

Our Lady of Galway, submerged amid the litter of a hen party at the Dominic Street end of the canal, had been spotted by a dog walker. The Brennans were still lying low but I fully intended having

A wee chat.

I called Sister Maeve, who despite my protests seemed to think I had a part in the statue being found, promised,

“The church will not forget you.”

Sounded faintly like a velvet threat. I was heading down Shop Street, the weather in early spring mode, mimes, buskers on the streets, a guy flogging time-shares in Greece, proclaiming,

“Buy now while the Greeks are broke.”

Like Saint Laurence, he had little gold in his heart.