GALWAY

  CONFIDENTIAL

  A JACK TAYLOR MYSTERY

  KEN BRUEN

  For

  Dr. Charlie Cox

  Lifesaver

  Sheila Winston

  A wonderful reader

  “If you do

  What you always did,

  You’ll get

  What you always got.”

  —Declan Coyle

  The Green Platform

  The man looked down at the woman. His third fist to her head had knocked her unconscious; he briefly considered killing her but moved back, whispered,

  “Not yet.”

  He gathered up his kit,

  Rope,

  Duct tape,

  Handcuffs,

  Knife,

  And a recent addition to his trade,

  A mountaineering hammer

  that

  doubled as an axe.

  He hefted it in his hand, thought,

  “I could take her head.”

  Stood back and laughed out loud, said,

  “Just kidding, these are the jokes.”

  He reached in his backpack, took out a pack of Marlboro Red, the soft pack you rarely saw anymore, shook one out like they do in the movies, lit it with a heavy Zippo that had the logo:

  “C

  Is

  For

  Cun . . .”

  Tickled him each time.

  He let the ash grow on the tip then, with a definite gesture, flicked it on the supine woman, said,

  “Ashes to ashes.”

  Gathered up his gear, took one last look around, then let himself out through the ground-floor window.

  The nun on the ground groaned quietly but remained unconscious.

  C

  is

  for

  Confidential

  Control

  Calibre

  Contempt

  Cri de Coeur

  Covetous

  Courage

  Catastrophe

  C is thus a multifaceted letter, but for the man who attacked nuns, it filled his head with one of his bon mots:

  Chaos

  1

  ______

  How do you come out of a coma?

  Really

  Really

  Slowly.

  Or—

  So they told me.

  I opened my eyes after what seemed like an ice-white light had filled my head.

  Hospital.

  Tubes stuck in/attached to every orifice.

  I was bewildered, befuddled, but mostly I was very—

  Thirsty.

  Like a bastard.

  Moving very cautiously, I tried to sit up, kind of managed it. A man was sitting by my bed, wearing a surgical mask, serious save the cartoon characters sprinkled on it. He asked,

  “Water?”

  I nodded.

  He stood, got a glass, filled it, then brought it to my mouth.

  Nirvana.

  I gulped it, coughed.

  “Easy, easy big guy.”

  I tried to talk but my vocal cords felt mangled, atrophied.

  More water.

  I could feel something almost snap in my throat and prayed to some God that my speech was okay. Take speech from an Irish guy?

  Just shoot him.

  The man was in his fifties, dressed in a black tracksuit with gold trim on the side; it was expensive, I know that as the cheap version hung in my wardrobe, unworn and unloved. I’d been very drunk when I bought it.

  Ah, glory days.

  “Who are you?” I asked, my voice fighting to return.

  He sat back down, intoned, “Mise Raifteirí an file / Lán dúchais is grádh.” (I am Raftery, a poet / Full of hope and love.)

  Paused, made a flourish with his hand, a gold claddagh ring glinting in weak Galway sun from the bay window and almost involuntarily I volunteered, “Le súile gan solas / Le ciúnas gan crá.” (With eyes without light / Calm without anguish.)

  We’d recited that in primary school, so embedded that I could recall the lines without trouble. The memory was accompanied by the lash of bamboo across my knuckles. Inflicted by the brothers of mercy, to whom mercy was an alien concept, maybe even, God forbid, Protestant.

  A daze of corporal punishment colored all my schooling.

  You got walloped, suck it up.

  Raftery was a Medieval blind poet who traveled the countryside, poetry for substance. Nowadays he’d get a medical card and direct provision.

  Raftery, the present one, explained, “I can trace lineage back to the blind bastard, so Raftery is the moniker I trade under.”

  He reached in a holdall by his feet, produced a hip flask with leather trim, asked, “Uisce Beatha?” (Water of Life?)

  This translates as holy water, but in Ireland means moonshine/poitín.

  Coming out of a coma of nigh two years duration, is booze the way to go?

  Fucking A.

  I nodded so he held my head back, tilted the flask, and I drank.

  Wow.

  Phew-oh.

  It kicked like a Connemara pony.

  Brief interlude as my ravaged system tried to assimilate this ferocious insult, and then—

  Bliss.

  Utter.

  I relaxed, sank back into the pillows with a deep sigh of contentment. Whatever shenanigans had landed me in a coma, in the hospital, ebbed away like the dying light of evening devotion.

  Raftery asked in mock FBI tone,

  “You’ll be wanting data?”

  Not really.

  Another shot from the flask and I might never question anything again, ever.

  A doctor, trailed by a coven of nurses, came rolling in.

  “Mr. Taylor, you’re back.”

  He sniffed, took a moment, then snarled,

  “Who’s drinking?”

  Glaring at Raftery, who smiled weakly, the doctor said,

  “It would be beyond madness to give a revived patient alcohol.”

  Then he and the nurses began a series of tests, prods, blood samples, and all the other paraphernalia designed to keep the patient in a state of imminent terror.

  Raftery shunted from the room, gave me a wave.

  “We’ll talk soon, Jack.”

  The doctor said,

  “We have to remove the feeding tube and it may be a tad uncomfortable.”

  Taking the tube from my stomach, I’d like to say I took it like a man.

  No.

  I howled like a bastard.

  The doctor, finally finished with manhandling me, stood back, hands on his hips, dismay writ large on his face.

  “Mr. Taylor, you’re a mystery, one might even hazard a miracle, but you’re in good health, which is just amazing.”

  I gave him a smile of what I thought might be appreciation but more likely transformed into a grimace.

  I don’t do appreciation.

  He then outlined a program of therapy and rehabilitation.

  “After which you’re free to go.”

  Then, muttering, he left, literally scratching his head.

  I looked to the least severe nurse, echoed,

  “Therapy!”

  Nora declared her name badge.

  “Jack, you’ve been in a coma for eighteen months, it takes time to get the body up and functioning, to get you . . .”

  Searched for a word.

  “Mobile.”

  Confidential

  Is the excuse

  Sometimes used

  Not to reveal

  A dirty secret.

  2

  ______

  Two months of grueling PT nearly dissipated what little spirit I had, but slowly, very slowly, I began to function.

  Nora was my coach, as it were, and she never cut me any slack, and like the Galway Girl she was, she had some mouth on her. Any attempt at sympathy was blown out of the water.

  Worse, she seemed to find me amusing. Few things are more devastating that a girl mocking you. She was about 5'7", jet-black hair, a nose that, alas, slanted to the right, thus spoiling the shot at pretty.

  During one of the rare breaks she allowed, she told me she was a boxer, added,

  “So, don’t fuck around with me Taylor.”

  As if!

  I did venture,

  “Why boxing?”

  I didn’t really care but it was something.

  Got the look, the one that screams,

  Where the fuck you been?

  I nearly said,

  “In a coma, actually.”

  Or, as a Galway wit called it,

  “A comma.”

  Pause.

  “Don’t come to a full stop.”

  Galway banter.

  Still, each day, I got a little stronger.

  Nora, believing I was interested, said, “Women’s boxing got a huge boost when Kelli took gold at the Olympics.”

  Kelli?

  I didn’t ask so much as devour and assimilate the internet for two years of events.

  Sports.

  Life.

  Politics.

  Television.

  The public had to observe a two-meter distance because of Covid.

  The two-meter distance didn’t make a whole lot of difference as I had spent my life swerving away from folk.

  And handshaking—my hands usually shook so I had mostly avoided touching other’s hands. The wearing of masks creeped me out.

  My mind veered between snapshots of the attack that put me there and this harsh new reali
ty. Mostly I felt—not panic attacks, but being petrified.

  Some days I could absorb huge chunks of data and others—

  Nowt.

  My first unsupervised shower, I finally looked at my torso, the knife scars.

  Red, still raw in appearance. I felt dizzy and the room spun. I muttered,

  “Get a grip, get a fucking grip.”

  How the hell did I survive it?

  Well, part of me didn’t, never would.

  The words of the doctor ringing in my ears,

  “How on earth did you live?”

  I said bitterly,

  “Just freaking lucky.”

  I noticed Nora had a large rock on her finger, an engagement ring, I said,

  “Hell of a stone.”

  She gave a spontaneous laugh, and oh Lord, how it transformed her face, the eyes lit with joy. Joy is not something I’ve had much depth in. I pressed,

  “Who’s the guy?”

  Paused, added,

  “Sorry, these days I believe it is significant other or some such shite. A doctor, I suppose?”

  She literally . . .

  Tut-tutted . . .

  Said,

  “A doctor? God save us.”

  Looked at me, wondering how much was safe to tell me, then,

  “Colin is a Guard. You know, the Garda, like a cop?”

  I went quiet, regrouped,

  “I know the Guards.”

  Her face clouded briefly; I might even have detected a hint of sadness.

  She said,

  “I know.”

  To end the chat, she closed the topic by taking my blood pressure, gave that uh-huh that tells you zilch.

  Means you’ll never see Christmas, or worse, it’s already the festive season.

  One thing I’d learned since coming back (that’s how I saw it, I’d come back) was keep the medical questions to the basics, fewer frights that way.

  I did some deep breathing, and she was obviously pondering a thought, then,

  “Colin says you’re a legend.”

  I laughed, said,

  “Legendary fuckup.”

  She nodded and I thought she might have at least tried to mitigate the image.

  I eased myself into the bedside chair, the PE had been especially rough that day, and saw copies of The Irish Independent on my table.

  “Your brother brings them in.”

  “Tell him I’m more of a Joycean.” (As if.)

  Got a lovely smile from her; she said,

  “What you are is a bit of a divil” [sic].

  She looked at me, added,

  “But he’s not your brother.”

  Bold statement.

  “How’d you know, I mean he could have been.”

  She sighed.

  “The day after you were admitted, he showed up, said he was”—she made air quotes—“ ‘family,’ but he seemed sketchy on personal details, and I just didn’t like him.”

  Then she added as an afterthought,

  “He doesn’t look anything like you.”

  She fluffed up my pillows, gave me a long look, cautioned, said,

  “Don’t believe most of what he says, he has the cut of a liar.”

  I thought about my last case, just before I got attacked.

  My friend, a garrulous Scot and intuitive Falconer, had a farm outside town and staying with him was a young lady.

  My friend, the girl, the horses, all had been massacred in a situation nobody saw coming.

  Some time later, his lawyer/accountant got in touch telling me that he’s left me the farm and a stash of cash.

  Weird, right?

  He bought the farm.

  I inherited it.

  Giraldus Cambrensis wrote that,

  “Ireland was separated from the rest of the known world,

  And

  In some sort to be distinguished

  As another world.”

  3

  ______

  A café in Woodquay was advertising:

  Couscous

  And

  Crubeens

  Couscous is, of course, Moroccan grain and crubeens are pigs’ feet. How far the country had progressed in so many forms.

  In my childhood we had:

  Bacon

  Cabbage

  Spuds

  I haven’t advanced a whole lot in dietary terms.

  The brief new trend of eating out was blocked by the lockdown and the rain. Trotters were regarded as poor food even in terms of poverty and to be bought in Quay Street.

  Quay Street was then a shabby line of pawnshops and dodgy cafés. A man could pawn his suit on a Sunday and then redeem it on payday before a weekend of drink.

  Who knew Quay would become a trendy nightspot and then later metamorphose to being The Latin Quarter?

  None of the locals ever called it that, no matter how many signs they put up. You’d be hard put to find a crubeen in The Latin Quarter, but couscous, buckets of it.

  I had my mental faculties tested by a young female psychiatrist named Dr. Lydon. She looked a little like Noirin, who worked alongside Vinny in Charlie Byrne’s bookstore. My memory must have been okay since I remembered those two people. She was all eagerness and bubbling with inexperience.

  She was overfond of terms like,

  Empathy,

  Owning my feelings,

  Admitting my anger.

  She finally finished up that spiel, asked,

  “How are we today?”

  Uh-huh.

  “Dunno about you, Doc, but I’d kill for a cigarette and two shots of Jay.”

  She echoed,

  “Jay?”

  Lord on a bike.

  “Jameson, what we Catholics drink.”

  She gave an audible,

  “Ah.”

  Scribbled furiously in her notes, you could almost hear her think,

  “Breakthrough.”

  All gung ho, now she asked,

  “Would you classify your drinking . . .”

  Pause.

  Reached for a non-alarmist term, settled with,

  “Problematic?”

  I surprised her by almost on the trot replying,

  “Most definitely.”

  Plead guilty and you disarm them instantly. I looked at my bare wrist, no watch, said,

  “I think we’ve got through enough for today and I am pleased at your progress, we’re in good shape.”

  Her face registered surprise and I felt a bit guilty, but what the hell, she was getting the big bucks.

  I stood up, ended with,

  “Same time next week and keep taking the meds.”

  Covid-19 had killed five thousand people. An unaccountable number were hospitalized, ICU had literally run out of beds due to the sheer volume of cases.

  But.

  Nigh on 90 percent of the population had received the two doses of the vaccine.

  But.

  The pubs had now been closed for eighteen months. Eighteen dry fucking months. The lockdowns had almost killed the bar trade completely. Shebeens sprang up but the Guards were on the prowl and shut them down.

  Woe is me.

  The heroes of the virus were the frontline workers who were exposed firsthand to the plague and went about their vital work in a quiet, dignified fashion.

  True grit.

  I was reading the paper; Ronaldo had returned to Man United after sixteen years and for his very first game he scored two goals. The man was a magician.

  Nora appeared, said,

  “Your brother is here.”

  She didn’t believe he was related but seemed happy enough to go along with the charade.

  Raftery was dressed in a tan safari jacket. He didn’t have a cravat, but the intention was there. He had dark jeans, with a tear at the knee, as was fashionable. He had Doc Martens with, I suspect, a metal toe cap.

  Apart from the jacket, it was the gear I wore my own self but any tear in my jeans was from age. Nora breezed in, shot a dark look at him, fluffed my pillows as they do, then bounced off.

  Raftery moaned,

  “She doesn’t love me.”

  His tone suggested,

  “What’s not to love?”

  “She hates liars.”

  He faltered then rallied, said defiantly,

  “The whole brother ruse was the only way to get to see you.”

  I near shouted,

  “But who the fuck are you?”

  He tapped his pockets, said,

  “Ah, for a smoke, eh?’

  Continued,

  “It was pure chance I was coming along the bridge when I saw the guy knifing you.”

  He stopped and I made the gesture with my hand that says,