Green Hell by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

over, touched my arm, said,
    â€œYou have taken on his speech patterns. Next you’ll be making lists.”
    Clumsily, I tried to cover the current list with my teacup. She continued,
    â€œJack has a dark, very dark magnetism. Alas, it obliterates those who stay drawn to it. Look at his closest friends . . . Stewart,”
    Pause.
    Dead.
    Then,
    â€œRidge . . . just out of hospital. Not to mention a long line of casual acquaintances, bartenders, street people, so-called snitches, even an innocent child. All Taylor-tainted and all dead or wounded. My own husband and, God forgive me, my own lost heart.”
    Fuck!
    I noticed she still wore the Irish wedding band, the Claddagh ring. The heart turned inward—for whom, Jack or her husband?
    I didn’t ask.
    Did ask,
    â€œDo you hate him?”
    She seemed quite astonished, took a moment to regroup, then,
    â€œNot so long ago it seemed as if Jack might be on the verge of happiness.”
    We both laughed nervously at such a notion. She continued,
    â€œAn American he met on a weekend in London. The affair apparently burned bright and rapidly. The high point was her impending visit to Galway. . . . Jack was aglow.”
    I went,
    â€œWow, hold the phones. She knew about his drinking, right?”
    She rolled her eyes, said,
    â€œMother of God, everybody and his sister knows that! There was another woman, hell-bent on destroying every aspect of Jack’s life and had somehow gotten hold of his mobile. The American arrived, no one to meet her at the airport, so . . .”
    She took a deep breath.
    â€œShe answered Jack’s phone, said,
    â€˜Jack can’t come to the phone,
    he’s about to come in me.’”
    I went Irish,
    â€œHoly fuck!”
    I ventured,
    â€œDo you still have some . . . um . . . residual feelings for Jack?”
    She laughed but not with any warmth, said,
    â€œResidual! Jesus, sounds like a TV repeat. How deeply fucked is the ordinary art of conversation by political correctness.”
    Her use of obscenity gave her words a blunt trauma and also affirmed that this line of questioning was done. She gathered her coat, asked,
    â€œWhat happened to your friendship with the bold Jack?”
    Taken aback, I considered some answers that might put me in a better light. This woman’s approval seemed necessary. I said simply,
    â€œI betrayed him.”
    She took a sharp breath, then,
    â€œPhew, that’s bad, no return there.”
    I asked,
    â€œHe doesn’t forgive betrayal?”
    â€œJack doesn’t forgive anything or anyone.”
    I reverted to American, said,
    â€œHard-core, eh?”
    She gave me a look, savored that, said,
    â€œThere is one person he can never forgive.”
    I wanted to guess, “Your husband,” but some discretion held my tongue. She had such a look of profound sadness, so I asked,
    â€œWho might that be?”
    â€œHimself.”
    Those who actually work say
    â€œI get wages.”
    Those who just think they work say
    â€œI’m on a salary.”
    (Jack Taylor)
    Jack had recently resumed drinking in the River Inn. He hung there as NUIG staff like to unwind near the university. After a grueling day of between one and two lectures. One guy dressed in a worn cord jacket with, and I kid thee not, patches on the elbows, was a regular. A man who’d read his John Cheever or watched one too many episodes of University Challenge . He liked to drink large Jamesons, no ice, no water. A dedicated souse. Jack knew him slightly from Charley Byrne’s bookshop, where he spent hours loitering in the Literary Crit section.
    Jack began to join him at the counter, freely buying him rounds, creating an artificial camaraderie through drink. The guy liked to talk a lot.
    A few sessions in, Jack slipped de Burgo into the chat, began,
    â€œProfessor de Burgo seems to be highly respected.”
    No one pisses on academics like their colleagues. The guy didn’t