Free The Burning Soul by John Connolly Page A

sleeves of his black leather jacket, but the dark edges of the artwork on his back were visible at the base of his neck. He wore Timberland boots, heavily scuffed, and dark blue Levis. There was scarring around the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It looked like an old burn.
    His second beer was almost gone, and he was debating whether it was worth his while to order another. His name was Martin Dempsey, and his accent betrayed a life of wandering. In Irish bars, surrounded by immigrants, his many years on that side of the Atlantic found expression in his voice. Here it was less obvious, though still present in the rhythms of his speech. The other man was named Francis Ryan, and his accent was Boston Irish, with only the faintest hint of something else beneath it.
    They were not regulars at the Wanderer, and nobody of their acquaintance frequented it. All Dempsey knew was that the Irish were not among its ethnic regulars, which was enough for him. It was out of town, off the beaten track. It was Elsewhere. That was precisely why they had chosen it, for there were now few places where it was truly safe for them to show their faces. The tiredness around their eyes, the strain lines around their mouths, were recent additions. These were hunted men.
    ‘You want another?’ said Dempsey.
    ‘Nah, I don’t think I’ll be able to finish this one.’
    ‘Why did you order it, then?’
    ‘Politeness. I didn’t want to see you drinking alone.’
    ‘But I am drinking alone, ’cause you’re not drinking at all. What’s wrong with you?’
    ‘I don’t like drinking too much before a job.’
    ‘From what I can see, you don’t like drinking after a job either. You don’t like drinking, period.’
    ‘I can’t handle it the way you can. Never could. The hangovers kill me.’
    ‘You can’t get a hangover on two beers. A child couldn’t get a hangover on two beers.’
    ‘Still, we have a job.’
    ‘A job? We don’t have a job. We’re errand boys delivering a message. A job is different. A job has purpose, and a quantifiable outcome. A job has a reward at the end of it. This is a waste of my talents.’ He corrected himself. ‘Sorry, “our” talents.’
    ‘Go have a smoke. It’ll kill some time.’
    ‘I’m trying to quit.’
    ‘Then why are you carrying around a pack of Camels?’
    ‘I said I was trying to quit. I didn’t say that I had. Anyway, do you see me smoking? No. I’m not smoking. I’m just toying with a box.’
    ‘It’s a thing, a, you know, a displacement activity.’
    ‘Where the fuck did you learn words like “displacement activity”?’
    ‘I’m trying to improve myself.’
    ‘The only way is up.’
    ‘Just have one, will you? Stop playing with them.’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Dempsey, and he meant it, but still he kept moving the pack.
    Ryan looked at the clock above the bar.
    ‘You think that clock is right?’
    ‘If it is, it’s the only thing in here that’s right. Even the jukebox is crooked, and there isn’t a straight edge in the place. Fucking disgrace, is what it is.’
    ‘It’s old.’
    ‘It’s not old. Castles are old. France is old. This place isn’t old. It’s just badly built. It’s a hole. It’s worse than a hole. A hole is just empty. This is a hole with junk piled up inside it and deadbeats propping up the walls.’
    ‘It’s old for around here,’ said Ryan.
    ‘You have shares in it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Does your old man own it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Your mom turn tricks in the men’s room?’
    ‘No. She couldn’t make enough here to cover the cab fare.’
    ‘Then what’s it to you if I criticize it, especially if it’s true?’
    ‘It’s nothing to me.’
    A couple in their late twenties at the table behind them laughed loudly and made a joke about Harvard and MIT. They looked too well dressed for the Wanderer, and even without the joke it was clear that they were slumming it for a night. The woman wasn’t bad-looking, but her face was a little too