A cocky, confused lieutenant from the Para’s First Brigade was tied to a chair. Not a whole lot unlike the one in my kitchen.
He was mocking his captors, going,
“Thick as planks, fucking Paddies.”
You had to admire his spunk if not his intuition. The men in that room, silent as mourners, had seen and done things that no man should ever witness. You wanted to scream at the mad bastard in the chair,
“Look, look at the men you’re throwing insults at.”
Their eyes had that granite, dead expression of
“We’ve been to hell and we’ve brought it back.”
And still, the Para continued to lash them with insults about Fenian bastards, papist morons.
The unit leader said to me,
“See that snooty bollix, he’s trained to withstand anything. And the stupid fooker believes his training will help him.”
He was chugging from a silver flask, handed it to me, grimacing as he swallowed his. I drank, near choked, but managed to hide it, and he said,
“The holy trinity, coffee, poitin, and Guinness.”
Lethal.
He asked,
“Got a watch?”
“Sure.”
“Look at it.”
I did.
He said,
“Fifty minutes is my record. I’ve bet the boyos I can get it down to forty-five minutes or all drinks on me tonight.”
He did.
The water gig was only part of it. The Para was freed from his restraints, covered in feces, urine, vomit, and shame. He fell on the floor among the remnants of his once fine teeth, scattered on the wood like bloody nuggets of careless cruelty. He begged, “Shoot me.”
We were then hustled out, fast, to a shebeen, one of the illegal drinking clubs of the Movement. Had us one hell of a night, ceili music and the rousing songs:
“ The Men Behind the Wire,”
“James Connolly,”
“The Girl from the County Down.”
None of it could erase the sound I’d heard as we reached the top step of the basement, on our way out.
A single shot.
You can’t… take… down a headstone.
– Fervent belief in the west of Ireland
December 8.
I checked the calendar, saw it was Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception’s Feast Day, and hoped to God she might lend a hand. Just in case, I doubled up on the Xanax. Two more in my all-weather Garda coat, nestling beside the Mossberg. A silver flask given to me by Laura, jacked with Jameson, and an amphetamine crushed to powder. Bring me up to speed so to pun. My heart was racing and my hands had a slight tremor. Fuck.
With the cocktail of stuff I had in my system, I’d either die, throw up, or settle.
My stomach was losing the plot, didn’t know did I want to be cranked, mellow, on fire, or what the blazes. Thank Christ. The Xanax won out over the questions that had been plaguing me:
Will Bethany tell? Will they be waiting in ambush for us? The pills whispered,
“Chill.”
I did.
Left the apartment, a freaking one-man army of pharmaceuticals and firepower. A half-arsed version of the American dream. In my mind were uncoiling the words of “Lookaway, Dixie Land.” Elvis hadn’t so much left the building as stormed out with murder aforethought. Limped across the Salmon Weir Bridge, not one salmon jumping, and that was a crying shame. Everything poisoned.
Cut by the Town Hall announcing a forthcoming Marc Roberts evening. I’d go if I was still mobile. Then into Wood Quay, turned into Eyre Square. Paused.
Might be the last time I’d see it. The Xanax said,
“Fuck it, you’ve seen it enough, drive on.”
I did.
Threw a glance at Debenham’s, soon to lay off ninety percent of the staff. Jesus. Came to the Meyrick Hotel and turned into Forster Street. About one hundred yards now from the designated killing zone.
My heartbeat had settled as I walked into the car park behind the school. I could hear the kids, the delighted shrieks of joy and childhood. As I found a place to crouch, hidden behind two cars, another school bus arrived, dispatching some of the special needs children. Most seemed to be Down syndrome. Tore and ripped at my shredded heart. I bit down, made her face go away.
My mobile shrilled, putting the heart sideways in me. Answered.
Stewart.
He was parked outside the school, where Bethany had divulged the two brothers would launch. He asked,
“You… OK, Jack?”
“Yeah, you?”
Pause, then,
“Nervous and alight with adrenaline.”
I said,
“Hush.”
Saw a white van turn into the car park, exactly as Bethany had told me. Crossed my mind to shout, like Sam Shepard in Black Hawk Down
….abort, abort, abort. I whispered,
“They’re here, bhi curamach.” (Be careful.)
He took the deepest breath I’d ever heard, replied,
“Leat fein.” (You too.)
Clicked off.
Lock and load.
The van opened, four figures spilled out, all dressed in black combat gear, and on the back of the jackets, in red… Headstone. I thought, fucking everybody advertises. A large combat bag was on the ground and they began to pull out its contents.
A fucking arsenal. Enough firepower to keep Afghanistan lethal for a year. The two brothers, Remington rifles, grenades, ran to the front of the building.
The remaining two:
Bethany, appearing strung out and spaced, held a shotgun in her thin arms. Then Bine…fuck, I recognized him. Ronan Wall, the swan killer, the psycho brat, shielded by money and upbringing, to get to this-massacre of handicapped kids.
Like fuck.
He was barking at Bethany and I felt a twinge of sorrow for her. She hadn’t told, had shown up, knowing we’d be waiting, and had that awful expression of the truly doomed, nigh pleading,
“Do it.”
Mr. Macho, having torn her a new arsehole, began to arm up. A bandolier of shells around his shoulder, a Glock in his hip holster, and the piece de resistance, the Remington Pump, in the neighborhood of my Mossberg but not as rapid. The guy loved hardware. Starring in his own movie, he racked the pump, pushing shells into the chamber like a good un. I was about to send his movie straight to video. He slammed the van door, then marched towards the back school door. I stepped out, said,
“Hi buddy.”
He turned around, stunned. His mind couldn’t quite collate the scenario. He said,
“Fucking Taylor, always fucking Taylor. The fuck is with you man, following me around?”
I said,
“I like swans.”
As they say in literary novels, a frozen tableau. The word tableau gives that careless hint of learning but not pushing it. Ronan finally got it, turned to Bethany, said,
“You cunt.”
Shot her twice in the face. I clubbed him with the Mossberg and he went down fast-not out, but dazed. I moved to Bethany, cradled her head in my arms for a moment, tried not to look at her devastated face, muttered,
“Thank you.”
If she heard me, she gave no sign, just a soft sigh as she let go of all the troubled existence her so short life had been. I felt a torrent of rage escape as I turned back to Bine/Wall/the fuck ever. He was reaching for the Glock on his hip. I kicked it effortlessly away, pushed his legs apart, stood over him, the Mossberg pointed at his groin, reached down, pulled his top aside, and tore my Medugorje chain from his neck. He said, spitting blood and teeth from where I’d clubbed him,
“What now, Taylor? You going to shoot me?”
Gave a harsh laugh, pushed his hand towards me, commanded,
“Help me up.”
I put my mutilated hand in his face, said,
“Alas…”
Added,
“All I can give you is… the index finger.”
I looked down on the concrete he was lying on, said,
“See that slab you’re on? Kind of like a headstone, you think?”