Purgatory by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

offer, it’s a one-shot deal.”
    I said,
    “As opposed to One Direction.”
    We were standing in Quay Street, crowds of people swarming, the constant search for the craic, Irish party time. Involved gallons of drink, some blow, and who knows, that evasive all-encompassing fulfilling moment. No sign of the brutal economic austerity. Drinks on the Titanic indeed. Reardon’s mobile shrilled again. He moved into Kirwan’s Lane to take it. I moved with him but with enough space for privacy. And saw,
    Top of the lane, Ma.
    The Feebs.
    First, I thought it was an urban illusion, the booze, rush of Quay Street but, no, here they were, myth on foot. Five teenagers, green T-shirts with
    The Feeb
    Logo.
    F.B.I.
    Fucked
    Boozing
    Irish.
    The logo on the green T-shirts now being sported by a new phenomenon. A gang of feral, vicious teenagers who specialized in urban mayhem, inner-city terrorism. They were underage, but the courts seemed reluctant to send them to the young offenders units, owing to the lack of money available for staff. Knowing this, the Feebs were growing bolder.
    Looking indeed feral, up for it. Three guys, two girls, the guys holding bottles of cider and wine spritzers. Moving with intent.
    To us.
    I nudged Reardon, who, engrossed in the call, waved me off. The gang moved closer, one of the girls making sucking noises. They spread out; bad idea. I pulled Reardon’s arm, snapped,
    “Pressing matters!”
    He looked up and, I swear, smiled. Grasping the drift instantly. First guy said,
    “Hey, fuckheads.”
    Reardon laughed, said,
    “Love it.”
    And he was moving. Took out the first guy with a kick, moved to the second, a chop.
    Down.
    The third, two rapid slaps, then to the girls,
    Said,
    “Ladies.”
    Moved.
    Lashed, with his open hand, the ears of both, swung round, sank his trainer in the arse of the first, looked at me, asked,
    “Want some?”
    * * *
    Five hangover pills. A cure is a blessed reprieve but a loaded gun, too.
    Next morning, the hangover phoned it in.
    The pills kicked ass. I vaguely remembered hitting some late-night clubs and, oh fuck, scoring some dodgy coke off an even dodgier dopehead. Getting home, I was wired and drunk, bad combo, watched TV.
    I kid thee not, a documentary on teenage pajama girls. That went viral. The two girls, featured, wear pajamas, in and out, all day.
    Smoke forty fags
    Use the c-word incessantly
    Drink strong cider
    Search for any . . . any kind of drugs
    And were both
    Fourteen years old.
    In deep shit at school
    No job prospects
    Worked at being hard
    As in
    “Hey c . . . what’cha looking at? Want yer head kicked in?”
    And yet, maybe it was the Jameson, they seemed to possess a sweetness that they fought like little bees to hide.
    This was Ireland’s youth.
    And I do recall wanting to weep.
    Oh.
    And swearing off
    The drink.
    Stewart had always tried to rein in the worst excesses of Jack’s temper. Jack was so . . . extreme. Truly believed that the courts gave out the law, and alleys dispensed justice. He favored the latter, with a hurley. Over the years, Stewart had been part of some horrendous violence but never, Jesus, God forbid, gratuitous, and fuck no, never got a kick out of it. He was beginning to suspect, albeit reluctantly, that there was a part of Jack that relished acting outside the law.
    And, whisper it,
    . . . liked the rush.
    He’d seen the light, a dullness become radiant, as he lashed into some thug. More, he seemed now to seek out the cases where it would end in a purity of bloodletting.
    With Zen, his martial arts iron training, stepped up, he was trying to purge his own self of the charisma of violence. The dark thrill of control, meting out punishment. But the last twenty-four hours had shaken him. He loved Ridge.
    No question.
    They’d shared a house on the last case, seen the horrors up close and personal, and together shared the bond of futile attempts to redeem Jack. Only Stewart’s feelings for his dead sister even came close