She said,
“So, I could like shoot you, and the law would be on my side.”
He acknowledged this with a slight nod, then tried,
“But you’d never know what you missed in the sack.”
She laughed, a nice dirty sound, then,
“Cheeky bugger, aren’t you?”
And so it began:
Raw sex;
Violence (which they both enjoyed);
Revenge, a joint aim;
Hatred for Jack Taylor for different reasons but close enough;
A feel for chaos.
Jericho told him about being at the Burning Man festival,
Which he knew jack — no pun intended — shit about.
And meeting
The love of her crazy life:
Em/Emerald/Emily.
Becoming her lover, ally, all-round bestie.
They’d done acid at the Joshua Tree because of some weird fucked-upness of Em’s about U2, and there Em had baptized her
... Jericho.
Emerald had called her Jericho because of a fairly bad movie but more of that later. She liked to throw in the U2 reference as it made her seem a little dim, which kept the enemy off balance, and for Jericho everyone was the enemy.
Taylor killed Em.
Taylor killed Stapes’s dad.
So,
Not rocket science, they had a common motive.
They’d bring in Scott because he was already killing Guards and, mainly, his bollixed mind suited their vague general plan of just fuck everything and have crack doing it.
Crack in the Irish meaning of fun but they were open to dope of any hue.
Of course they were.
After a particular bout of sex, more violent than intimate, Stapes was lying back in bed. Jericho said,
“I had a sister, Gina, adored by my family.”
She let out a sigh, said,
“Glorious Gina, my daddy called her.”
Stapes sat up, indicated the chain around her neck, the two G’s on it, figured,
“So that’s the two G’s, eh?”
She lashed out with ferocity. He saw the serpent that lurked behind those eyes. She hissed,
“Don’t be fucking absurd.”
He nearly said,
“Or maybe gone girl.”
But thought she might well slit his throat—
Which is exactly the thought she was entertaining.
Emerald had said to Jericho,
“Gather a few allies, lure them with whatever it takes,
Then fuck them over.”
Jericho, still not fully in Emerald’s mind-set, asked,
“Why?”
Emerald had given her a radiant smile, said,
“Because it feels so good to see them burn.”
Jericho had only one real fear:
Crows, ravens, hawks.
When she’d pushed her sister into traffic, a jet-black crow had settled on her windowsill.
Scared the living hell out of her.
Those beady eyes.
At similar moments of her violent acts, of which even she’d lost count, a dark bird would appear like clockwork at her window.
No amount of rationality could rid her of the ice freeze fear the birds inspired.
She’d told Emerald, who didn’t blow it off, but said,
“Witchy shit.”
14
Not that he was alone.
He also had his library, of course.
After Astrid died, he filled the void
Of words unspoken
With the new silence
Of books unread.
Ireland was gripped by three issues,
Burning ones.
1. Four Irish/Ulster rugby players, after a horrendous three-week rape trial, were found not guilty.
The girl who made the allegations was subjected to interrogation that was as vicious as it was cruel.
2. The coming referendum on abortion.
The abolition of Section 8, as it was known.
Ferocious feelings on both sides.
And daily, as No and Yes supporters clamored to be heard, you could sense a terrible violence simmering.
3. Big Tom died.
Who?
You might ask.
The godfather of Irish country music.
He was the very essence of the gentle giant.
His major hit, way back when a song meant something, was
“Four Country Roads.”
Put the sweet small town Glenamaddy on the minds of an older generation, the generation who would never understand Tinder, or indeed would never want to.
Tinder for the fading generation was simply something to light fires.
Of course, the new meaning set something ablaze, too, and nothing about it had a single thing to recommend it.
I met Owen Daglish in Garavan’s; he looked wrecked.
I didn’t think it was the right time to ask,
“How ya doing?”
Another Guard had been killed, so I went with,
“What can I get you?”
Large Jay and a pint.
Me too.
We were leaning on the counter like almost normal guys.
Popped in for a quickie after work.
That wasn’t us.
Never had been,
Never would be.
We drank with little joy but fierce determination.
Owen looked fucked: red eyes, black sacks beneath, unshaven, and a vibe of rage that rose in wings above him. This was a time to tread very easy, so I went,
“Man City won the premier.”
Fuck, he is a United fan, right city, wrong team.
He glared at me, near spat,
“Ah, we fuckin’ handed it to them.”
Should I encourage this, have a wee lad’s back-and-forth about Mourinho versus Pep? But a guy in his twenties, all aglow with piss and vinegar, nearly pushed Owen aside as he barked,
“Barkeep, bottle of your best white, some clean glasses.”
Silence.
Garavan’s is not the pub for such shite.
Bad as it was, the guy then produced his iPhone and addressed it loudly; they’re always loud, these guys.
The bar guy, Sean, not the most tolerant person, looked at the wine order, asked,
“You sure you’re in the right place?”
The fellow did that quizzical face of
You for real?
Owen had had enough of this bollix practically shouting in his ear, reared back, snarled,
“Get the fuck out of my space.”
The phone was put away as, get this,
The guy took a fight stance, demanded,
“You want to take this outside, asshole?”
Sean laughed in dismay, I near choked on my Jay, and Owen... well, Owen did what thirty years of playing hurley taught him. He did the minor swerve that is like manic choreography, and without actually moving from the counter he punched the guy fast, hard, accurate in the gut.
Then he turned to me, asked,
“Whose round?”
Many drinks later, I dared to ask,
“Did you know the Guard who was killed?”
He sighed, said,
“He’s the fourth. Some fucker is on a spree. This time witnesses, who as you know are as reliable as a nun on steroids, said there were two of them, shooters I mean, and they all agree one was a woman.”