Free The Magdalen Martyrs by Ken Bruen Page A

to have in about five minutes tops.

 
    “Should I call Peter Mailer? I think not. Ever since he was cured of
alcoholism he has acquired another compulsion. He stares deeply into your eyes
and even the most trivial conversational opener provokes him into orgies of
sincere nodding. I ascribe this to group therapy.”
    Nigel Williams,
Fortysomething
    The new day, mildly tranquillized, I crept into Nestor’s. Jeff was on the phone, waved his hand. Was this . . . dismissal? . . . a barring order? . . . what? The sentry swirled his half empty glass, said,
    “Second case of foot and mouth in the North.”
    “Right.”
    I didn’t want to lean on it so added nothing. Jeff finished the call, said,
    “Jack, what can I get you?”
    Very worrying.
    When you’ve fucked up big time and the fucker is being nice, search for a weapon. I said,
    “Coffee’s good.”
    “One coffee coming up.”
    It did.
    He said,
    “Grab a seat, I’ll bring it over.”
    Ominous.
    I sat, took out a virgin pack of reds, cranked up. Smoking as if I’d never stopped. Jeff came over, put the coffee down. Asusual, he was wearing black jeans, boots and black waistcoat over long-sleeved granddad shirt. He asked,
    “You hear about the young student?”
    “Which one?”
    “Who got capped on Eyre Square?”
    “What about him?”
    “The funeral’s today.”
    “Oh.”
    “The reason I mention it is, we’ll catch the overflow, and I know you don’t do crowds too good.”
    “You got that right.”
    As I said, my head was up my ass. If I’d gone to the funeral, I’d have had all the answers.
    I stood.
    The speakers had kicked in and I’d vaguely registered a woman singing the blues. Not singing them as much as living them. I asked,
    “Who’s that?”
    “Eva Cassidy,
The Fields of Gold
album.”
    “Ace, she ever comes to the Roisin, I’m there.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You don’t?”
    “Cancer took her out. She was thirty-eight.”
    “Bummer.”
    I finished the coffee and headed off.
    The sun was out and spring was knocking on heaven’s door. A drinking school near the toilets, in chorus, shouted,
    “Fucker.”
    Me?
    Near the statue of Padraic O Conaire, three teenage girls were sitting at the fountain. As usual, some wag had throwncolour into the water, and a technical kaleidoscope rose above their heads. They were singing,
    “You make me whole again.”
    A number one for Atomic Kitten, at the top of the British charts.
    The song finished and I joined the crowd in applause. A young girl tugged at my sleeve, hope bright in her eyes, asked,
    “Are you Louis Walsh?”
    “Me? No . . . sorry.”
    She looked devastated. I asked,
    “Why’d you think I was?”
    “You look old.”

I
could have simply rung Bill, said,
    “I found her. She’s at this address.”
    Did I? Did I fuck?
    If I had, perhaps the whole show would have been wrapped there and then.
    Or . . . unravelled.
    But I had a burn for Bill. It was a long time since any emotion had fuelled me. I fed the hatred with playback of the gun barrel against my forehead. My hands would clench till the nails gouged into the palms. My teeth hurt from clenching them.
    Man, it felt good.
    Love or hate, go the distance with either, and whatever else, you are fucking electric. Crank it up a notch and sparks light your brain. Course I know, the brighter the glow, the more spectacular the crash. Nothing lights the sky like those shooting stars. Sat in my room, polished the Heckler & Koch. It is true: a weapon is the great equaliser. Is it ever?
    In my head was Psalm 137. Boney M had a massive hit with part of it, back when the guards were my reason for being. Inthe psalm, the poet begs that he may be made happy by murdering the children of his enemies. Its music cries out with bloody restitution.
    Course, if you’re still familiar with Boney M, you are too far gone for any serious treatment.
    It was ridiculously easy to find Bill’s hired help, the guy who’d brought me to him