The Devil (2 page)

West C o r k , the old people believed -'

She was seriously mortified now, but soldiered on,

'- that malevolence is a living, breathing thing and it

hovers, waiting for a target, then it latches on, won't let go

till it owns you, and usually it targets people w h o are

sad or disappointed. I k n o w this sounds crazy, but

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THE DEVIL

that man seemed dehghted to see you so . . . despondent.'

Christ, no wonder the national airline had gone d o w n the

toilet.

I asked, a mocking tone evident,

'So, the D e v i l is hanging out in airports, looking for poor

bastards w h o get refused entry to America? A n d he's what,

going to scoop them up? Jesus, lady, you need to get a grip

or some serious medication.'

I hurt her badly, wounded her in fact, but for fuck's sake,

I was doing her a favour. Wasn't I?

Jesus wept.

I began to move away and she shouted,

'I just thought I should make you aware of the situation.

I'm sorry if I sounded o d d . '

I gave her a slight smile, nothing too fancy - you can

never encourage lunatics - and said,

'Odd? Least you're in the best country for it.'

A n d oh sweet Jesus, added,

' Y o u need to get out more, take a walk round the car

park. Y o u know, get a different perspective.'

I got on the bus, leaving her looking forlorn and lost.

Beyond redemption?

Oddest thing, as the bus swung round to take the turn for

Galway, maybe it was a trick of the light, but I thought I saw

K u r t pressed up against the glass entry door, not watching

me.

Watching her.

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1

'May you be in heaven a full half-hour before the Divil

knows you're dead.'

O l d Irish blessing

I

Lucifer.

The Light Bringer.

He was the Angel of light.

He believed that man had seriously fucked up.

So, hke a good cop, he collected his evidence, brought it

to His L o r d .

The L o r d , being G o d , like all governments, was highly

sceptical and laughed at his bearer of hght.

Truly pissed off, like all good cops, Lucifer began to

falsify the evidence.

A n early fan of
The Wire,
if you w i l l .

N o t so much Serpico as Satan.

A n d yeah, got fucked over.

So he did what you do when you get caught, you rally the

guys.

Set up his o w n shit.

N o t quite Mugabe, but he was getting there. H i s coup

failed.

No wonder the Irish have such belief in h i m .

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KEN BRUEN

Failed rebellions.

W h a t we do best.

He was, as they put it, thrown into hell.

A n d like all former zealots, he swore,

'The fuck Fm going d o w n alone.'

A n d you kinda have to admire the cojones of the guy. N o t

only was he taking his motley crew of failed cohorts to hell

and beyond, he'd go after God's supposedly mega love.

The H u m a n Race.

H e ' d enlist:

Idi,

A d o l p h ,

Maggie Thatcher,

A n d for a pure Trivial Pursuit (even arch demons need

recreation) somewhere on the list of crazed cronies he added

the name of

Taylor, Jack.

Just for a spot of diversion.

The guy went around w i t h

guilt,

fear,

anger,

spite,

arrogance.

A n d best of all, he was a half-assed recovering Catholic.

N o t only w o u l d it give Luc some R and R, he'd get to

drink some Jameson, sink a few pints of Guinness and,

primarily, watch the stupid bollix try to figure it out.

Where was the downside?

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THE DEVIL

M o s t diabolical of all, Taylor w o u l d look for motivation.

That made the Devil laugh out l o u d . He loved the game

most when humans sought explanations and motivation.

Reminded h i m of wondrous times, like that idiot Aleister

Crowley.

A n d if he knew Taylor, and he sure knew a sitting target,

sooner or later, Taylor w o u l d do two really stupid acts.

Apart, of course, from trying to understand it.

Taylor w o u l d do two incredibly dumb acts.

One: he'd go to a priest.

A n d by all that is unholy, the priest w o u l d feel the wrath

of meddling w i t h the Anti-Christ.

A n d then the tinkers.

Luc had a special hatred for them as the weird clan could

see
things.

He didn't like that.

N o t to be seen.

If there was to be a show time, he'd call the time and

place.

Mostly, he worried (if such an entity could worry) about

them because, unlike Taylor, or priests, or the other minions,

they weren't afraid.

He thrived on fear.

H i s raison d'etre, perhaps.

A n d if Taylor did follow through, w i t h the tinkers, he'd

lay such a wrath on them that they'd huddle in the fear he

had tried so long to instil in them.

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2

'Evil is only a concept to those who've never experienced

it. To those who've met it, the term "concept" dropped

from their vocabulary.'

K B

Everybody with
an beal bocht
(the poor mouth).

The economy hadn't so much mehed as

crashed,

burned

and

died.

Dell had just announced they were pulling out of the

country and, of course, a shite load of jobs had gone.

But every single day it was the same dirge, another

company was moving operations elsewhere.

The banks were now beginning to understand how the

clergy had felt for the past few years, that the next knock on

the door was the lynching party.

The government were screaming that in two years we'd be

maybe, just maybe, a little bit on the road to recovery.

The beast was no longer slouching towards Bethlehem, he

was in full possession and even the wondrous bright flicker

of Barack's victory had faded.

I was in Conlon's Fish Restaurant, best fish in the country.

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KEN BRUEN

A n d h o w they achieved that w i t h us entering the second

year of the water being contaminated was a wonder.

The council was proclaiming that it wasn't really the

water but the lead pipes, and oddly, 'twas little comfort.

Y o u either boiled all water or bought it bottled.

I was waiting on me

cod

with

mushy peas

and drinking a coffee that tasted like coffee!

I'd almost given up on reading the papers, but Ray

C o n l o n had passed me the
Irish Times.
A photo of a w o m a n

killed in a freak accident leaped out at me. A brief para-

graph noted how she'd been hit by an u n k n o w n car at the

car park in Shannon airport.

The photo.

M y Aer Lingus w o m a n .

H o l y fuck.

I lost me appetite but wouldn't hurt Ray's feelings by

bolting.

I wanted a large Jameson.

Fast, wet and lethal.

W i t h the X a n a x , I was keeping a sort of l i d on me

drinking.

A w o m a n was standing over me, asked,

'Jack Taylor?'

Jesus, if I had a Euro for the amount of times this had

happened.

A n d yes, always, always ended in disaster.

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THE DEVIL

My getaway was meant to put all the past horrors of my

time as a half-arsed PI behind me.

She was that indeterminate age between forty and fifty,

nice face, though looking heavily burdened. Blonde hair

pulled tight in a ferocious bun and m i l d blue eyes that had

seen too much of the w o r l d .

She fidgeted nervously w i t h her wedding ring, the

Claddagh band, and that more than anything else had me

say,

'Yes.'

She looked like she was going to fall d o w n , so I offered

her the seat opposite.

She took it and I signalled to Ray, w h o was over in jig

time, and I asked,

' M a y I get you something?'

'Some water w o u l d be nice, thank you very much.'

Ray gave me the look and I shrugged.

The fuck d i d I know?

He brought a bottle of sparkling Galway water, neatly

took the top off the bottle and poured half a glass.

She said,

'I hate to bother you, Mr Taylor.'

'Jack.'

She nodded and said,

'I'm Teresa Jordan, a Galwegian too.'

A rare and rarer breed.

I waited.

Spent all my bedraggled life doing that, though for what,

I don't know.

31

KEN BRUEN

She took a dehcate sip of the water, then said,

' N o e l , my eldest lad, is at N U I - one year left of Science -

and he's disappeared. I told the Guards and they said not to

worry,
students were always up to shenanigans and he'd

show up in his own sweet time.'

For perhaps the first time in my whole screwed-up

relationship w i t h the Guards, I agreed with them.

Easy as I could, I said,

'They are probably right. Students, they get up to mis-

chief.'

I couldn't believe I'd used the w o r d
mischief.

Evelyn Waugh w o u l d love me.

H e r eyes fired, and believe me, I've seen it often enough,

Irish women do wrath like no other women on the planet.

'He's been missing two weeks, and missed my birthday.

N o e l w o u l d never miss my birthday.'

She did scream that last w o r d .

I took out my notebook, it was for the horses and the

latest runners and riders at Lingfield and the Curragh.

Adopted my biz tone, like I knew what the fuck I was doing.

'Description, friends, what clothes he might have been

wearing, his address, and if possible, a photo.'

A real pro.

Right?

I dutifully took d o w n the data and then she reached in her

handbag, took out, like a piece of valued jewellery, a

snapshot.

He looked like . . .

A thousand other young kids.

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THE DEVIL

Dark hair, long, lean face with lots of acne, nothing else

to say. He was any face you'd see on the street, just an

ordinary young student.

She said,

'I don't k n o w what you charge, Mr Taylor, but I have this.'

Handed me a slim envelope. I had the decency or shame

not to look inside, said,

'I'll get right on it.'

Took her telephone number and was so relieved when she

stood up and said,

'Thank you so much, Mr Taylor.'

I gave her the hollow bullshite about not to worry, I'd get

right on it, and finally she was gone.

A new case.

I was w o r k i n g . W h e n the whole country was losing their

jobs, I'd just been hired.

Was I delighted?

Was I fuck.

Ray brought my dinner and I'm sure it was up to their

usual excellence, but my mind . . . Jesus, that photo, that

w o m a n . Shannon airport and my, dare I say, curt response.

I shrugged it off, shouted,

'Ray, got any more tartar sauce?'

This seems too crazy to be true, but within two days of my

arrival back in Galway, I'd found a place to live.

A guy I knew was emigrating, like so many, and wanted

to rent his apartment.

In Nun's Island!

33

KEN BRUEN

My previous case had involved nuns and was a bitter and

twisted series of events.

I took the apartment.

It overlooked the Salmon Weir Bridge, not that I'd see any

of those gorgeous creatures jumping, the poisoned water

had killed them off.

It had w o o d floors, two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen and a

large sitting room, crammed with books.

Books.

A l w a y s and ever my desperate salvation.

A coffee-maker, washing machine and an internet

connection.

W h a t more could you want?

A p a r t from

love,

care,

purpose,

family,

belonging.

I was so long from any of the above, you think I'd be used

to it.

N o p e .

Few things as lonely as shopping for one, and eating alone

in your o w n home, aw fuck, that is the pits.

Y o u keep the TV on, the radio in the mornings, just to

blank out that awful silence.

As usual, I had me favourite music:

Gretchen Peters,

Johnny D u h a n ,

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THE DEVIL

T o m Russell.

I had two friends.

Sort of.

Ridge, Ni lomaire, a gay G u a r d , w h o had recently, in a

desperate effort for promotion and to
belong,
married an

Anglo-Irish landowner, w h o ' d lost his wife and was merely

seeking companionship and a mother for his teenage

daughter.

H o w was that w o r k i n g out for her?

H o w d o you think?

Every case I'd worked, she'd been involved and we had a

love/hate relationship of the Irish kind. That is, we tore strips

off each other, verbally, every chance we got, and yet had saved

each other's arses more times than we'd believed possible.

A n d then there was Stewart.