Cross by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

the phone directory, rang a travel agent, booked a provisional departure to New York from Shannon. Put the phone down and thought, 'You're really going to do this.'
    I was.
    Who would I say goodbye to? Most all I
knew were in the cemetery. I checked my watch. I wanted a drink to celebrate but stuck to my mad sensory deal. My head was a whirlwind of thoughts. They call it a racing mind, well, mine was accelerating at the speed of light. Thoughts of flight, like a shot of Crystal Meth, had galvanized my whole fragile nervous system. Mexico, I'd have to rethink that, as I
had only just read Kem Nunn's novel Tijuana Straits . He wrote that really bad shit happened down there and I wondered, would this be different from my current life?
    I would certainly be travelling light. What I owned could be put in an envelope and posted.
    First, I had to talk to the dead boy's parents
– I didn't want to, but if I was going to do this, then I had to visit. I'd have my coffee, strong, black and bitter, then head down and, if nothing else, extend my sympathies. I was sure that would make their day. Just what they needed, a total stranger saying how sorry he was and then asking them questions. Oh fuck, if only I was drinking – couple of drinks, I'd talk the hind leg off a donkey.
    Do the maths:
    Disturbing a family in mourning = two large Jamesons.
    Being a nosey bollix = many, many pints of the black.
    New life on the horizon = one bottle of something fast and lethal.
    Made mad sense to me, but then my excuse is I'm Irish and logic plays no part in my reasoning.
    My feelings were mixed as I headed for the Claddagh.
    The Claddagh is known worldwide because of the Irish wedding band: two hearts united and topped with a crown. In the centre is a heart. You wear the heart pointing out, you're looking for a partner; you wear it turned in, you're spoken for.
    The Claddagh is a unique piece of history, not only of Galway but indeed of Ireland.
Here you had a community of people living in almost an isolated village, nigh separate from Galway, even though the town was but a spit away. The main livelihood was fishing. Their boats were special, weighing anything from eight to fourteen tons. The men sailed all along the coast, and on their return their women, who made the nets, then sold the produce. Unlike other fishing boats of the
country, the singular feature of these was the open deck. They were known as 'Hookers'.
    Never ceases to amuse Americans.
    And more's the tragedy, this self-sufficient community ceased to exist in 1934 when their homes were demolished to provide so-called more sanitary dwellings. They didn't use the term 'progress' then, but it was the same spirit of change and obliteration as was running riot today.
    But the spirit, the sheer will of people from Claddagh, still exists, handed down through all these years, and even in a cosmopolitan city, Claddagh folk are their own distinctive breed.
    Me, I love the place.
    Used to be a time when feeding the swans was a real lift and not just for them. It was part of the Galway deal. And you'd look up, see Nimmo's Pier, and the ocean beckoning to you, calling you to a life that seemed ablaze with promise. On the horizon, the Aran Islands and a way of living that didn't entail hurry. But this was no longer a comfort zone for me. Too many scenes of violence and loss were tied up with the area.
    I walked quickly through. A guy sitting at the water's edge was alternately feeding the swans
and a greyhound. The dog was in bad shape, skinnier than a tinker.
    I said, 'How you doing?'
    Without looking at me he asked, 'Want to buy a greyhound?'
    'Er, not right now.'
    He shrugged as if it was my loss, added, 'This animal is a winner.'
    Yeah.
    I didn't want to delay, but some nonsense just has to be addressed, else you begin to believe that chaos really does rule. I asked, 'Why don't you race him your own self?'
    He gave a laugh clogged with bitterness and regret, said, 'My missus, she hates