The Devil (14 page)

She said.

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KEN BRUEN

'Thanks, son.'

She poured us both a farewell Jay, asked,

' C a n you kill a man?'

She knew my history, what I had done in the past for the

clans, but this was a different dance.

I said I could.

She muttered,

'Ta tu an bronach nach bhfuail feidire leat a rith:

Literally, it means you are the k i n d of person w h o is not

able to run, but it has
bronach
in there which gives a whole

other dimension, meaning what a sadness, you aren't the

type to quit.

I wanted to shout, /
would if I could, but I can't.

But she already knew that.

We were done, and to my astonishment she hugged me.

Blame the damn cigarettes, but I felt me eyes well up.

As I headed for the door, her parting line was,

Ts anois an t'amall an fear seo a marbh.'

There are various translations for this, but in a nutshell it

means,

' K i l l him now.'

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17

'The Devil plays with a loaded deck.'

O l d Irish proverb

1

After Taylor left, Peg said a small Novena for him. Like all

the tinkers, she had a deep love for the man.

A l l those years ago, when young tinkers were being

slaughtered, their bodies thrown in the fair green, did the

Guards help?

She gave a bitter laugh.

D i d they shite.

The Garda Suichona . . . Guardians of the Peace.

H e r arse they were.

M o r e like Garda Chickana.

That Superintendent . . . Clancy?

O h , a bad bastard.

Was overheard on the golf course saying,

' G o o d riddance to bad rubbish.'

This was, of course, off the record, a private remark if you

w i l l .

In Ireland, a 'private remark' is like putting it on a billboard.

Then along came the bedraggled, befuddled Taylor, a

broken man to hear it said. A n d 'fond of it'.

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KEN BRUEN

M e a n i n g , a drunk.

Taylor was wounded in all the ways that last. He took up

their cause. A n d took some serious beatings along the way.

One horrendous one, they literally kicked the teeth out of

his head. Beat him w i t h the ash, the hurleys giving h i m that

limp.

D i d he run?

She smiled. He kept on coming. Like a dog w h o w i l l not

quit, no matter h o w many times you w a l l o p it. She

blessed herself for h i m and her o w n self. He had solved the

case.

A b o v e all, he had true respect and affection for the clans.

They never forget and he was among the few outsiders to be

considered almost one of their o w n .

She poured a large Jay, raised it and said aloud,

'Bhi curamach:
(Be careful.)

She felt the Jameson light her stomach, like the child she'd

never have. A wave of weariness began to wash over her.

M a y b e she'd just rest her eyes for a wee while.

H e r dreams were v i v i d . She saw Taylor so clearly, going

willingly towards a man. She wanted to cry,

' N o , not the L o r d of Lies, he believes he owns y o u . '

The rest of the dream involved fire and a cemetery of

young people.

She woke w i t h a small sigh.

H e r body was covered in sweat and yet she was frozen, ice

cold.

But she'd left the heaters o n , she could have sworn.

Then she saw the m a n sitting at the table. L o n g golden

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THE DEVIL

hair, hke her L o r d , Jesus. The same golden tresses as in the

huge portrait of the Sacred Heart she prized.

Till he turned.

L o o k e d at her.

Eyes . . . of yellow.'

A n d a beautiful suit.

She had seen such clothes in the shops on the main street

that w o u l d never let the likes of her inside.

He gave a smile of such radiance, her hopes rose briefly,

till he spoke.

'Peg, I thought you were sleeping the sleep of the

damned.'

A n d he laughed.

A sound that sent slivers of ice along her spine. He lifted

the miraculously full Jameson bottle, poured two generous

glasses, said,

'Come, drink with me.'

As if mesmerized, she rose, moved slowly to the table and

took the hard chair.

H i s eyes were locked on hers.

She prayed she was still dreaming and somehow she'd

wake.

Safe.

W a r m .

He pushed the glass towards her, raised his o w n , asked,

'Peg, oh Peg, my heart, what shall we drink to?'

She grabbed the glass, like some futile lifeline, drained

half, seeking heat and oblivion.

He said.

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KEN BRUEN

'I know, let's drink to Jack Taylor.'

A beat. Then,

'That w o r k for y o u . Peg? A toast to the bold Jack?'

Each time he uttered her name, it was like a laceration on

her soul. He indicated the ashtray. T w o cigarettes, newly lit,

were waiting.

She knew she was done for, but damned, by G o d , never

that.

As she took the cigarette, he said,

' A H your needs are catered for. Peg.'

H e r hand trembled and he watched it, said,

'Woe is me, if only this whole episode were just the

jigs, as you Irish call them. H o w amusing that your

favourite dance is also what you call the horrors, Deliria

Tremens. Y o u could deal with that Peg, right?
C'est

vraif

She stared at h i m , defiance writ large.

He laughed, said,

'Excusez-moi,
what w o u l d a peasant like you k n o w of

such a language as French?'

She finally found her voice, fingering the gold miraculous

medal round her neck, said,

' W h a t do you want?'

He lunged across the table, tore the medal from her neck

and flung it across the caravan.

' Y o u think such trifles can help you?'

She was shocked. The touch of his hand was like a knife

w o u n d , and cold, like a dead heart. H e r heart pounded but

she managed,

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THE DEVIL

' Y o u have no business w i t h me.'

He laughed anew, but in a new tenor, pure unadulterated

malevolence, said,

' Y o u told Mr Taylor that he was tainted, that he had

taken the Devil's coin?'

Peg was of pure tinker stock, she'd k n o w n every h u m i l i -

ation the w o r l d could cast. She had fronted up to bailiffs,

sheriffs. Guards, tormentors of every sort, and had never

given one inch.

But now?

N o w she was terrified.

He indicated the booze, the cigarettes, said,

'Purchased with . . . how should I put it? The same currency.'

She had to know, asked,

' W h y are you so focused on one wreck of a man, a poor

creature w h o is only of danger to his o w n self?'

H i s lips drew back and she'd have sworn he snarled, but

he reined it in. He lifted the box of matches slowly,

methodically. Lighting them, flicking them across the table,

on the floor, he said,

'Very eloquently spoken, for a . . .'

The curtains caught fire, a bundle of
Galway Advertisers,

a flier for takeaway pizza.

'. . . A barren sow.'

He filled her glass as the smoke began to envelop them,

said,

'I'm a very busy man - swine flu, genocide, the usual

manifestations of my power, mild diversions if you w i l l . But

I do have certain fetishes, some idle projects I like to see

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KEN BRUEN

come to fruition. A mere drop in the ocean, but of amuse-

ment to me.'

Then he was on his feet, towering over her. H i s voice Hke

the awesome storm of '82, he boomed,

' A n d I will not be thwarted. These
diversions
have their

place and are of some value to me.'

The smoke was hurting her eyes, invading her lungs, but

she was transfixed. He continued,

'Some years ago, I had wonderful aspirations for a young

man, a true believer, and he was doing so well, laying waste

to the young of your tribe, who even your o w n nation

despises.'

Despite the fire raging, the congestion in her lungs, she

managed to smile, said,

' A n d Jack Taylor stepped i n . '

H i s blow knocked her from the chair and sent her

sprawling close to the burning curtains. He strode over,

said,

'Cunt, listen well, he has meddled many times. I even had

a nun turned. Have you any idea, in your tinker's soul, what

it means to o w n a nun, what a spit in the face of the

Nazarene that w o u l d have been, a Bride of Christ doing my

unholy w o r k ? '

She w o u l d never k n o w how she managed it, but she

laughed, laughed at h i m , said,

' A n d Jack stopped her, didn't he? Despite all your fireworks

and scare tricks, this small, insignificant man yet again kicked

you in the balls, which I doubt you have. Y o u might be

the L o r d of Hell, but it takes no balls to hit a woman. It

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THE DEVIL

takes a long yellow streak, as yellow as your piss-tinted eyes.'

He grabbed her hair, pushed her face into the flaming

newspapers, said,

' Y o u w i l l kneel before me, or by the Christ you worship,

you w i l l die a death you never imagined.'

She somehow dredged up a mere dribble of spit, spat it on

his beautiful trousers, cried,

'You're a poor excuse for a devil, G o d help us, and mark

my words, you cowardly piece of shite. Jack Taylor w i l l

show you hell before you're through.'

True to his w o r d , he made her die hard.

Very.

But kneel?

Never.

The caravan burned quickly. By the time the fire brigade

arrived, it was but a smouldering shell.

One of the firemen, moving towards the debris, spotted a

glint, reached d o w n and picked out a medal. He held it up

to the light. For years after, he'd swear 'It shone like the

purest gold.'

A passer-by said to his mate,

'Another dead tinker, what a fucking surprise.'

On L o n g Walk, across the water from the caravan, the

man with the golden tresses fumed, said,

'Taylor, she goes on your list. The sow never knelt, but

you w i l l . '

The sun lit up the ruined caravan and the burnt remains

of Peg.

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KEN BRUEN

The man knew that what her charred remains might yield

was a smile of pure victory.

As he stomped along L o n g Walk, even the swans with-

drew from his passing, huddled on the other shore.

Despite the sun's brief respite, he threw no shadow.

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18

'Lie with your eyes, your mouth will follow their lead.'

K B

I heard about the fire on the radio. Jimmy Norman's show.

H e ' d been playing one of me all-time favourites, Nilsson's 'If

Living Is Without Y o u ' .

That he died of booze endeared him to me anyway,

but this song reminded me of when I'd met the love

of me life and she left me for a G u a r d , because, she

said,

'You're a hopeless drunk.'

Yeah, I know, it's a classic whine-into-your-glass dirge,

but no less effective for that.

Time eases all pain.

W h a t a fucking crock.

Sometimes I thought I saw her on the street and me heart

died all over again.

I nearly missed the news item.

As it sunk i n , I wanted to weep. The fire department

believed the w o m a n had fallen asleep with a burning

cigarette in her hand.

The inference being 'a d^unk'.

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KEN BRUEN

An empty whiskey bottle found amid the charred remains

seemed to endorse their premiss.

Like the Peter Gabriel song, I grieved, in ribbons over her

terrible death, song titles mutating like wrapped cobras in

me fevered brain.

I muttered Leonard Cohen's ' W h o By Fire?'.

W h y the fuck did I bring booze and cigarettes to her?

I didn't k n o w if I could go to the funeral. Tinkers grieve

like M u s l i m women, the awful keening and wailing. I wasn't

sure my shredded nerves could withstand it.

But Jesus, I could do flowers, had to.

Rang Interflora.

The w o m a n was sympathetic without being cloying.

I ordered a dozen red roses and she asked if Fd like to add

a note. I said, 'Just "Deepest condolences. Jack T a y l o r " . '

A pause and I figured she was writing it d o w n , then she

asked,

' Y o u live at Nun's Island?'

'Yes.'

'So you wish to send a second wreath?'

'What?'

'Bear with me a moment, Mr Taylor. I haven't been in the

office for the past few days, touch of flu, and the girl I have,

not a fecking clue, just boys, boys, boys.'

I needed to hear about her personal fucking problems? I

gave a snort of impatience. She caught it, said as she shuffled

through papers,

'This is very o d d . '

'What?'

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THE DEVIL

She sounded almost panicked.