The Devil by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page A

don't understand it.'
    W h o did?
    I don't k n o w if it's a particular Irish trait or what, but we
    can only dwell in the darkness for so long without trying to
    pull something w a r m out of the inferno. I said,
    ' L i a m Sammon is doing a mighty job with the team.'
    A n d he smiled.
    Football, hurling, our last barricades against the tide that
    is about to engulf us. But it only lasted a brief moment.
    He gave me a serious look, asked,
    'Jack, you're not involved in any of this? I mean, I heard
    you gave up all that PI stuff. This is way out of your league.'
    Then, almost to himself,
    'Way out of ours, too.'
    I gave h i m the old punch on the shoulder we used to use
    after a fine goal against the likes of D u b l i n , lied,
    'Are yah codding me? I'm getting ready to go to A m e r i c a . '
    He stared at my coat, and w i t h a tiny smile said,
    'They'll be wanting that back.'
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    I said w i t h fake levity,
    ' G o o d luck w i t h that.'
    He adjusted his cap, turned to head back to the carnage,
    said,
    'A cara, bhi curamach: ( M y friend, be careful.)
    I replied,
    'Agus leat fein: (You too.)
    A n d more's the Irish pity, neither of us heeded that benign
    blessing.
    A year after that encounter, he was found hanging in his
    garage, one year short of his retirement.
    But a lot of other malevolence was coming d o w n the
    G a l w a y pike before then.
    Somewhere I'd read:
    Good which is unused is prone to turn to evil.
    I'd gone back to my apartment; the snow had started
    falling heavily again.
    We don't do snow here. It's so rare, we're almost
    enchanted at the novelty.
    T i l l it starts fucking up transport, heating, our daily lives.
    Then we react.
    Badly.
    A n d as is our way, we blame somebody.
    I turned on the news, almost my penance at this stage.
    Banks failing.
    The Euro fucked.
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    A n d I nearly laughed. In the midst of all this they went
    local, showing h o w a new hotel was to be built on the site
    of the Connacht laundry.
    A n d h o w wonderful. It w o u l d have saunas, hot tubs,
    tanning booths.
    Oh Mother. Mo croi.
    I went to see how much was left of the Jameson.
    I had a real bad feeling it wasn't going to be enough.
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    8
    'Being unwanted is the worst disease.'
    M o t h e r Teresa
    N e x t morning, I was all over the frigging place.
    Me nerves were shot to ribbons.
    I wanted to get right on the Sawyer case, the girls bully-
    ing the D o w n syndrome child. But I knew I was too frazzled
    to do that w i t h any refinement.
    Beating the be-jaysus out of three children wouldn't
    exactly look good on me next American application.
    I had some coffee, real smart I k n o w when yer nerves are
    dancing jigs along the ceiling.
    D i d a X a n a x , muttered,
    ' D o some k i n d of fecking magic, w i l l ye?'
    It d i d .
    Took a time, but it got me there.
    The snow had eased and there even seemed to be a ray of
    bright sunshine on the horizon.
    As I got me all-weather gear on, I was even able to listen
    to some music.
    Counting Crows.
    Johnny D u h a n , of course, me beacon always.
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    A n d the truly angelic Gretchen Peters.
    Song on her album, 'Breakfast At O u r House', about the
    agony of divorce and it was too acute, too accurate, I had to
    stop it.
    The bells for the Angelus tolled.
    I stopped, blessed myself.
    I was probably one of the last people on the whole damn
    island w h o still took the time to say it.
    'The Angel of the Lord . . .'
    A n d like the song goes, took some comfort there.
    N o t from childhood, fuck no. But maybe from that
    vanished Ireland where people stopped in the streets, blessed
    themselves and said the prayer.
    We'd come a long way.
    A n d gained?
    Sweet fuck all.
    I tried not to think of that gorgeous girl E m m a and her
    heart torn from her body. The anger and rage literally
    steamed off me.
    I said aloud,
    'Get a bloody grip, son.'
    Then without another thought, headed out to the pub.
    Answers there?
    Course not. But at least I could be numb