The Killing of the Tinkers by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

they hate us.”
    “Ah.”
    “Lend me a fiver, Jack.”
    I did. Said “See you soon” and headed off. Walked slap into my mother. She looked above my head, which read pub. Hardly a halo. Her skin was, as ever, unlined, as if life never touched it. Nuns have the same deal. Estée Lauder take note: check out nuns. The eyes, you look into hers, you see the Arctic, ice blue. Always the same message:
    “I’ll bury you.”
    She said,
    “Son.”
    Aware of my Guinness breath, broken nose, I said,
    “How are you?”
    “You’re back.”
    “I am.”
    Then silence. Her type thrive on it. Reared on the game, backed by the booze, I could play. Waited. She caved. Said,
    “I could buy you a cup of tea.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “The GBC, they do lovely scones.”
    “Not today.”
    “You didn’t think to write?”
    Same old tune, whine on. I said,
    “Oh, I thought to write. I just didn’t think to write to you.”
    Landed home. She sighed. They ever put together an Olympic event for that, she’s a shoo-in. All the time people hurrying by, oblivious to us. I said,
    “I have to go.”
    “That’s all you have for your own mother?”
    “No, actually, I have this.”
    Ripped the pouch from my neck, put it in her hand. I was going to add,
    “You can put it with my father’s heart.”
    Why gild the lily?

“Summer sang in me.”
    Edna St Vincent Millay
    Sweeper collected me on time. In a white van, spotlessly clean. I got in the passenger seat, four young men in the back wearing black tracksuits. I said,
    “Lads.”
    They said nothing. Sweeper put the van in gear, eased into the late evening traffic. I said,
    “I got you a present.”
    He was well surprised, went,
    “What?”
    I passed over the package. He undid the bag, one eye on the road, said,
    “Elvis Presley!”
    “Like you, he’s the boss.”
    Chorus of amused approval from the back. We were turning at Nile Lodge. He said,
    “They live in Taylor’s Hill.”
    “Must have a few bob.”
    He looked at me, asked,
    “No relation?”
    “What?”
    “The Hill…Taylor’s?”
    I shook my head, said,
    “I’m the wrong side of the tracks.”
    He mulled over that, asked,
    “You ready?”
    “For what?”
    “Doing as you’re told.”
    “Mmmmmmmmm, that’s always been a problem.”
    “Try.”
    “Well, I’ve always been trying, God knows.”
    The quiet section of the Hill, not a pound from Threadneedle Road, we stopped, pulled into a lay-by. Sweeper nodded and the lads slipped out like phantoms. I asked,
    “The Tiernans, they own this house or what?”
    He gave a grim smile.
    “Inherited, neither of them married. They get videos, curries, lager and party on. No women. The cream of Irish manhood, batchelors and proud of it.”
    I said,
    “You’re married, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, with young children, but don’t talk of family now.”
    “OK.”
    “When the light flashes, we go.”
    “One last question.”
    “What?”
    “Why do they call you Sweeper?”
    “We clean chimneys.”
    “Oh, and as we speak, what are the lads doing?”
    “That’s two questions.”
    “You’re counting?”
    “The lads are preparing the way.”
    “I see.”
    “You will.”
    The light flashed. I had the 9mm in the waistband at my back, like in the best movies. Jeez, I didn’t even know was it loaded. Didn’t feel it was the time to ask. The house was mock Tudor, acres of ivy obliterating the front. The door was opened, and I followed Sweeper. Down a hall littered with spares, bicycles, stripped down engines. Into a huge living room. The lads were in possession. Two sat on a fat guy on the floor. A skinnier version was sitting in an armchair, a knife held to his throat. Both the men were in shorts and singlets. Sweeper said,
    “The fat one on the floor is Charlie; the other, the brains, is Fergal.”
    Hearing his name, Fergal smiled. A bruise was already forming on his cheek. He spat, said,
    “Taylor, you stupid cunt.”
    The lad on the left smacked a fist in his