Authors: Ken Bruen
The Dramatist (17 page)
“Slow down, Prof, I want you reasonably coherent.”
He gave a short laugh.
“There is no coherence. Haven’t you been listening to the news?”
I placed the girls’ photos on the desk, said,
“You decided to spare these poor creatures all that?”
He nodded, pleased.
“My students, creatures of innocence the world wanted to ruin and corrupt, but not now. I knew about the drug dealer, that scum, Stewart; it was fitting that his sister be selected. The second girl, she smoked pot. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”
He sat in the chair opposite, no tension in his body, relaxed, as if dealing with a not too bright student. I said,
“You decided to involve me because of your brother…what, you think my father’s punch led him to suicide, all those years later?”
He reached for one of his pipes, a worn briar, took a leather pouch from his jacket, began to fill the bowl, said,
“Clan! Leaves a most fragrant aroma. How simplistic you are. Yes, my brother was shamed by your father’s action. Did it lead to his suicide? Perhaps. As you know, some hurts can never be wiped away. It did lead me to take an active interest in your family. I have followed your precarious career with…how shall I say…bemusement. I learnt of your visiting that dregs of humanity, the drug dealer, from Superintendent Clancy; the guards at Mountjoy were enraged that you’d visited him.”
I stood up, walked over to the window. His eyes were too intense, too penetrating. I said,
“Rationalise all you like, you murdered two girls.”
His voice rose, just a timbre, but I got a sense of how fine a lecturer he was. He said,
“Spared, I spared them.”
I turned, picked up the
dúidín
, and alarm lit his face. He shouted,
“Be careful, you imbecile, that’s priceless!”
I snapped the stem, let the pieces fall, asked,
“And the fucking with me, the wreath, the mass card?”
He was staring at the ruined pieces, his eyes wet, said,
“An error of judgement, a momentary lapse of concentration, a frivolity that is alien to me; plus, I’d been tippling, a little too much of the Glenlivet. I apologise but then I felt you might be a worthy opponent.”
My shout startled him.
“Opponent! You sick fuck, this isn’t a game!”
He reached for his glass, sipped, then lit the pipe and composed himself, asked,
“What do you know about my wife?”
“What?”
“Ah, Jack, you’d make a poor student. Preparation, research, these are the keys.”
The aroma of Clan filled the room, pungent, sweet, near cloying. I said,
“I found you.”
“
Touché
. My wife had an inoperable tumour, suffered outrageous pain, then after years of anguish, when I wasn’t home, she fell over some books I’d left at the top of the stairs.”
I interjected,
“Books by Synge?”
He dismissed my interruption, continued,
“She was so peaceful there, curled at the bottom of the stairs. My beloved Deirdre.”
Again I was thrown for a loop, went,
“That was her name?”
“Of course.”
I refused to allow any sympathy to form, walked to the desk, picked up the third photo, asked,
“How did you get this?”
He smiled like he was definitely talking to an idiot, said,
“I’m a professor, I got it from college records; you think I don’t have access to all areas?”
He smiled as if blessed.
“There was a woman went to bed at the lower village a while ago, and her child came along with her. For a time they did not sleep, and then something came to the window, and they heard a voice and this is what it said:
‘It is time to sleep from this out.’ In the morning the child was dead, and indeed it is many get their death that way on the island.”
J.M. Synge,
The Aran Islands
I slammed the photo down on the desk, asked
,
“Do you seriously think I’m going to let that happen? You’re finished, pal.”
His pipe had gone out and he tapped the bowl against an ashtray, a clay one with the faded letters:
Inishman
He sighed, said,
“Part of my plan was to engage someone’s interest, and I was more than pleased that fate selected you. I hoped you might come to appreciate Synge; few do.”
I sat, faced him, said,
“Sorry. The deaths of two girls obscured my appreciation of literature, and you know what? Synge is a pain in the ass.”
He stood up, enraged, roared,
“You philistine! Synge didn’t develop until late and yet was dead before his thirty-eighth year. Six short years of real creativity, yet he left a body of work without parallel.”
I got as much scorn into my voice as I could, said,
“And you, you created two bodies, two grieving families, and you’re plotting a third?”
He didn’t reply, had shut me out. I said,
“I’m bringing you down, pal.”
His head jerked and a tiny smile began to jig along his lips. He said,
“I think not. Superintendent Clancy and others of influence will crush your wild theories.”
I reached over fast, slapped his head with the palm of my hand, said,
“You’re not paying attention, Prof. I want to tell you about the Pikemen.”
The slap had amazed him and he glared at me, said,
“Urban paranoia, if you mean the so-called vigilantes.”
I spoke slowly, told him about Pat Young, the castration, then added,
“They’ve asked me to join them. Imagine that. So I’m going to bring your green file and your activities to them. You can be my first recommendation.”
The blood had left his face and I said,
“This desk, yeah, they could hold you here. I think they’ll have to use a gag, as slicing off your balls with a pike—I got to tell you, it’s messy. I can’t guarantee the instrument is even all that sharp. But tell you what, I’ll ask them to put a copy of a book by Synge under you. An appropriate gesture, don’t you think? Almost literary.”
I put the file under my arm, walked past him, stopped at the door, said,
“But there is an alternative; you’ll see it in the garage. It’s a touch melodramatic I grant you, but, hey, you’re the Dramatist.”
Literary Ireland turned up en masse for the professor’s funeral
.
All the tired usual suspects who hadn’t acknowledged him in years lauded the two books on drama he’d written. That these volumes had been out of print for years wasn’t mentioned. The papers gave him polite obituaries, and one article hinted at his death as a tragic accident. Between the lines was the unspoken word, managing to convey the sad accidental deaths of his wife and brother, the strain of suicide never actually articulated.
I was in Nestor’s, reading all this, a cup of neglected coffee before me. Jeff was changing a barrel and we were dancing around the chasm between us. The sentry was watching Sky News, the battle for Baghdad at its height. Man U had walloped Liverpool by four goals. Leeds, despite their troubles, put six past Bolton. Ferguson was suggesting that Man U’s draw against Real Madrid was a fix.
The weather was glorious, probably our summer, though May was a while away yet. Margaret had called to say she wouldn’t see me for a time till I got my priorities straight. I’d said,
“Fine.”
Cathy appeared, asked,
“Jack, would you sit with Serena May for an hour?”
“Sure.”
I went upstairs and the little girl was delighted to see me, gave me one of those warm hugs. She was more energetic than usual, scooting around the room, gurgling happily. I felt bone weary but read for a bit to her, though neither of us was riveted. I opened the window to ease the heat, looked down on Forster Street, jammed with people. I went back, sat at the table, said to Serena,
“Hon, I’m going to buy you some new books tomorrow, how would that be?”
She gave the thumbs up. The first time I’d shown her, she was intrigued, and it had become a regular gesture with us now.
I thought about the professor and realised I’d become a Pikeman. The very act of vigilantism that put distance between Jeff and me was the same as what I’d done to the Dramatist. I hadn’t yet contacted Stewart, wondered if I should make the trip to Mountjoy. I don’t know how long I was sunk in those thoughts, probably only minutes, when I heard a small alarmed scream, then a chorus of horror rise up from the street.
I turned, the window was wide open. Serena May was gone.
I don’t know the name of this pub. It’s new and some sort of awful
techno is on the speakers. I’ve got a corner table and there’s a full glass of Jameson near my right hand, within spitting distance so to speak. An untouched pint of Guinness is shadowing it, standing point. I was in Garavan’s, was it yesterday? And when I came out, a group of school kids were messing on the street. One of them shouted “Hey, Johnny the limp!” I looked back and I swear one of them was the twin of Niall O’Shea, who leaped from the crane. I’m not too sure how long I was in Garavan’s, but I heard a man mention the sadness of the small white coffin and I had to get out.
The day before, I bought sixty Major in Holland’s. Mary spoke to me, but her words didn’t seem to make sense. In the shop beside the canal, I got a shiny new lighter. I like it as it has the Galway crest on the side. I’ve put them to the very left of the drinks. It seems important the table look neat, everything in its place. Symmetry, is that the word?
If I ever go back to Bailey’s, I might look it up, check the spelling.
Also By Ken Bruen
Funeral
Shades of Grace
Martyrs
Rilke on Black
The Hackman Blues
Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice
A White Arrest
Taming the Alien
The McDead
London Boulevard
The Guards
The Killing of the Tinkers
Blitz
The Magdalen Martyrs
Vixen
THE DRAMATIST
. Copyright © 2004 by Ken Bruen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bruen, Ken.
The dramatist / Ken Bruen.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0236-6
1. Taylor, Jack (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Ireland—Galway—Fiction. 3. Ex-police officers—Fiction. 4. Galway (Ireland)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6052.R785 D73 2006
823′.914—dc22
2006040883
First published in Ireland by Brandon, an imprint of Mount Eagle Publications
