Peter Boyne was sweating profusely, but joy mixed with adrenaline coursed through his body. He muttered,
“Oh, my beauty.”
He slid the side door open, threw the body inside, didn’t dare look around but moved quickly, got in the driver’s seat, and slowly pulled away. He hit the music deck. Queen blasted forth,
“We Will Rock You.”
“Too fucking right.”
He shouted.
Punched the air in victory.
As he disappeared in traffic, a lone schoolbag lay on the path, like a discarded wish.
In Irish folklore three kinds of silence are identified:
Silence through fear,
Silence through choice,
Silence of compassion.
“I only understood the third.”
19
Lockdown.
In a whirl of grief, rage, frustration,
I barricaded myself in the apartment.
“Some are born to endless night.”
My mind was a cesspool of
Remorse
Recrimination
Revolt.
Any word beginning with R, especially revulsion. Blocked out the world. My phone turned off. Sipping on Jay, trying to measure out how drunk I intended to get. Watched
Fargo 3.
David Thewlis, in a performance to rival Billy Bob Thornton in series one. This was indeed the time of Noah Hawley, his novel Before the Fall winning a shitload of awards, his early books reissued, and Legion receiving rave reviews in its first season.
A line from his early novel The Punch spooling in my head:
“Different bullets, same gun.”
The Hound of Heaven was no longer simply snapping at my heels but in full sit on my chest, heavy as death. I read a long account of the failed attempt by Andrew O’Hagan to write the bio of Assange, then followed that with a book of the twelve marines who guarded Saddam in his last months before he was hanged.
Nearly laughed in an insane fashion that Saddam had a special liking for Mary J. Blige.
You mutter,
“Like dude, seriously?”
Reread the classic horror by Anne Siddons, The House Next Door.
Then I turned my phone on and hell reared up on its ferocious legs and howled.
I heard hysteria, writ large, the weeping and keening of tears. I was as aforementioned, not in the best set of patience, snarled,
“Cut the drama, I can’t hear you.”
Marion.
A moment as she composed herself, then,
“It’s Joffrey, they’ve taken him.”
WTF?
I took a second to focus, then did the ice gig, asked,
“Who? Who took him?”
“We don’t know. He’s been missing for three days.”
I managed to stay on the cool vibe, asked,
“Where are you?”
“I’m staying with Maeve. I flew home as soon as I heard. Oh, God, Jack, what will I do?”
Like I had a clue but the even tone was working, so I said,
“Come over here. I will get right on it.”
“Oh, thank you, Jack, and I’m sorry the way I spoke to you last time.”
Me, too.
But
“Just get here. I’ll be making calls.”
What, I’d call the Guards?
Gave me time to shower, clean up the debris of my bender, did some lines of coke to fly right, wore a crisp new white shirt, the camouflage of the seasoned drinker. It near blinded me in its brightness and those fucking pins they put in them left my fingers shredded. The shakes, sure, but the coke was kicking its ass.
As I did the mop-up, I saw the cover of the DVD.
Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.
Yeah.
Shows how nuts I’d been for those lost days. It was brilliantly bonkers and had Dominic Cooper whom recently I’d watched as Preacher,
With Joe Gilgun
Giving a master class in demonic craziness, playing, wait for it,
Irish vampire who was also a dope fiend and boozer.
You don’t need to be way out there to appreciate these dark insane series but it doesn’t hurt.
Maybe I’d watch
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
Finally, a way to watch Jane Austen without being bored shitless.
Then, oh Lord,
A sheet of paper with this in barely legible writing:
Kiki Taylor
Room 37
Meyrick Hotel
Ph. 577821
Two feelings colliding:
Horror at what I might have said if I did call her.
Kind of fucked-up delight that she still used my name.
How utterly lame was that?
I checked myself in the mirror, the white shirt did help but the eyes...
Seriously fucked. I couldn’t answer the door in shades.
Could I?
She’d think Bono’s dad was staying with me.
I rang Owen, my Guards contact. He was not pleased, growled,
“The fuck, Jack? You can’t ring me every time you have a problem.”
I had to rein in my urge to blast him out of it.
I said,
“You don’t even know why I’m calling. It might be to ask how you doing?”
He sniggered, went,
“Yeah, like that would ever happen. I’m like the cop Dennis in The Rockford Files, used only for info.”
I was surprised he was familiar with James Garner but then guys of a certain age...
I asked,
“How are you, Owen, how are the family? The children must be big now.”
Deep sigh, then,
“My wife left me and we never had a family.”
Ah.
Before I could work any more insincerity, he said,
“It’s about that kid, right?”
“How’d you know I’d be asking?”
Bitter laugh.
“You’re riding his mother.”
I was nearly shocked at the casual crudity, but I asked,
“Any developments?”
He went quiet, said, after hesitation,
“It’s four days now.”
I tried,
“But you are looking?”
“The boy is dead, Jack.”
Pause.
“Or worse.”
Fuck.
I asked,
“Any leads?”
He sighed, said,
“All the usual suspects and some new names the public provided. There are even more crazies out there than you’d imagine.”
I heard him draw a deep breath. He asked,
“What’s up with you, boyo? You’re four days late to the party. What’s that about? Didn’t you give a fuck until now?”
Bollocks.
I tried,
“Um, I was attempting my own inquiries.”
Hoped to God that would fly.
It didn’t.
He laughed without a trace of humor, near spat,
“Jesus wept. You were on the piss. I fucking don’t believe it. Seriously? That’s a new low even for you, Taylor.”
Hung up.
I muttered,
“All in all, I think it went okay.”
The doorbell chimed.
Marion.
Looking like the wreck of many Hesperuses.
She didn’t quite fall into my arms but did wobble in near faint.