Sanctuary by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

to the fridge, the gun held loosely in my hand, and took out the fresh salmon. I turned, gave him my best smile and said, ‘Change your diet. Need to get some meat on you, pal.’
    I took the fish with me.
    I headed along the Newcastle Road, the fish under my arm, until I came to the Salmon Weir Bridge, where I threw the salmon into the water.
    A young boy, maybe twelve, was watching me. ‘Is that fish still alive?’ he asked.
    I lied, said, ‘The water will revive him.’
    He gave me a look of total contempt. ‘The water is poisoned, it will kill him.’
    He gave one more look into the water, hoping against hope, I think, then turned back to me.
    â€˜You’re a very stupid man.’
    Few would disagree.

 
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15

Holy Water?
    Â 
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    Next morning, I woke to my first hangover in years and go figure, it wasn’t too bad. Sick stomach, sure, groggy head, par for the course. But nothing major. Not one of those biblical gigs where you swear,
Never again
.
    I didn’t think it was a whole new era. The real deal was coming down the pike but I was grateful for small mercies. I drank a half-litre of water, boiled the night before. It threatened to come right back up, then settled.
    I shaved and only cut meself once. My eyes were red and there was a grey pallor on my face but it could have been worse.
    I made some coffee and actually drank a cup. Ididn’t enjoy it much, but then I wasn’t exactly looking for that. I wanted the caffeine hit. Where was it written that enjoyment would be part of the deal?
    I dressed in a clean white shirt, cleanish jeans and a pair of Doc Martens I’d been breaking in for a while. Once you get past the new stage, few things are more comfortable.
    I went out and knocked on my neighbour’s door. He opened it cautiously. I said, ‘I paid a visit to the guy who beat you up.’
    He tried to read my face and then smiled. He had one of those radiant ones, like a child who still believes the world is good. ‘Did you hurt him?’
    â€˜I stole his fish.’
    He thought about that, then laughed. ‘That’s so
Godfather
. I love it.’
    I shrugged and as I moved away he shouted, ‘Party on, next Friday, bring anything but fish.’
    He was a hard guy not to like.
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    I was up and out by noon the next day.
    I started to walk along by O’Brien’s Bridge, my heart light. I’d just reached the junction where you turn into Market Street when I almost collided with Father Malachy. He was the most dedicated smoker I know and was shrouded in a blizzard of smoke, as usual. He had enlisted my help when he had been threatened and his life was in danger and we had almostreached a state of friendly hostility. But it didn’t last.
    I stopped and looked at him.
    â€˜Taylor, by the holy, . . . do I smell drink on you? Ah, you’re a hopeless case.’
    I grabbed his arm. ‘I helped you one time and you never paid me. You can pay me now by buying me a pint.’
    He was going to protest, but Ireland had changed so much. A guy manhandling a priest wasn’t going to bring the cavalry; in fact, it might well bring a lynch party.
    I said, ‘I need to talk to you.’
    I indicated the short cut along by St Nicholas’s Church and the pub across from it.
    He said, ‘I don’t think you want to go in that place.’
    I’d never been in. I knew it had changed hands many times, but then, hadn’t everywhere? When I stared at him, he said, ‘Your old friend works there.’
    â€˜Jeff?’
    Jeff was the father of Serena May and the last time we’d run into each other, he’d asked me if I was going after Cathy, his wife. Since then, I’d learnt that Cathy may have killed her own child. I wondered if he knew too. I said, ‘That’s not a problem,’ and dragged him in.
    A young barman was polishing glasses and twolone drinkers were sipping quietly at