Outside, I offered,
“Nightcap?”
He sighed, said,
“Told you about friends.”
I near shouted,
“Lighten up. It’s a drink, not a fucking commitment.”
We went to the Quays, ghosts of drinks past, bitter and recriminatory. A few guys, sitting at the bar, nodded, not in a friendly fashion, more the
“We see you”
Irish warmth with cunning outrider. We had us some shots of Jameson. Reardon holding the shot to the light, saying,
“See why it is you do this shit.”
He didn’t.
I said,
“No, you don’t.”
He wasn’t bothered, lazily asked,
“You get on with anyone?”
A young guy passed.
“Jack?”
A total
As in, total stranger. I said,
“Good to see you.”
He was lit up, like Ecstasy, with intent, rushed,
“One Direction are number one in America.”
Jesus.
Reardon gaped at him. The kid said,
“Like, hello, not since the Beatles, so this is, like, huge, you know?”
Reardon looked at me, then,
“That makes me feel old, so fuck can only guess how ancient you’ve got to be feeling.”
I shucked into my jacket, said,
“Been fun but, you know, enough.”
He walked out with me, palmed me a phial, said,
“You got five pills there. Ease that hangover right easy tomorrow but, like my job offer, it’s a one-shot deal.”
I said,
“As opposed to One Direction.”
We were standing in Quay Street, crowds of people swarming, the constant search for the craic, Irish party time. Involved gallons of drink, some blow, and who knows, that evasive all-encompassing fulfilling moment. No sign of the brutal economic austerity. Drinks on the Titanic indeed. Reardon’s mobile shrilled again. He moved into Kirwan’s Lane to take it. I moved with him but with enough space for privacy. And saw,
Top of the lane, Ma.
The Feebs.
First, I thought it was an urban illusion, the booze, rush of Quay Street but, no, here they were, myth on foot. Five teenagers, green T-shirts with
The Feeb
Logo.
F.B.I.
Fucked
Boozing
Irish.
The logo on the green T-shirts now being sported by a new phenomenon. A gang of feral, vicious teenagers who specialized in urban mayhem, inner-city terrorism. They were underage, but the courts seemed reluctant to send them to the young offenders units, owing to the lack of money available for staff. Knowing this, the Feebs were growing bolder.
Looking indeed feral, up for it. Three guys, two girls, the guys holding bottles of cider and wine spritzers. Moving with intent.
To us.
I nudged Reardon, who, engrossed in the call, waved me off. The gang moved closer, one of the girls making sucking noises. They spread out; bad idea. I pulled Reardon’s arm, snapped,
“Pressing matters!”
He looked up and, I swear, smiled. Grasping the drift instantly. First guy said,
“Hey, fuckheads.”
Reardon laughed, said,
“Love it.”
And he was moving. Took out the first guy with a kick, moved to the second, a chop.
Down.
The third, two rapid slaps, then to the girls,
Said,
“Ladies.”
Moved.
Lashed, with his open hand, the ears of both, swung round, sank his trainer in the arse of the first, looked at me, asked,
“Want some?”
* * *
Five hangover pills. A cure is a blessed reprieve but a loaded gun, too.
Next morning, the hangover phoned it in.
The pills kicked ass. I vaguely remembered hitting some late-night clubs and, oh fuck, scoring some dodgy coke off an even dodgier dopehead. Getting home, I was wired and drunk, bad combo, watched TV.
I kid thee not, a documentary on teenage pajama girls. That went viral. The two girls, featured, wear pajamas, in and out, all day.
Smoke forty fags
Use the c-word incessantly
Drink strong cider
Search for any. . any kind of drugs
And were both
Fourteen years old.
In deep shit at school
No job prospects
Worked at being hard
As in
“Hey c. . what’cha looking at? Want yer head kicked in?”
And yet, maybe it was the Jameson, they seemed to possess a sweetness that they fought like little bees to hide.
This was Ireland’s youth.
And I do recall wanting to weep.
Oh.
And swearing off
The drink.
Stewart had always tried to rein in the worst excesses of Jack’s temper. Jack was so. . extreme. Truly believed that the courts gave out the law, and alleys dispensed justice. He favored the latter, with a hurley. Over the years, Stewart had been part of some horrendous violence but never, Jesus, God forbid, gratuitous, and fuck no, never got a kick out of it. He was beginning to suspect, albeit reluctantly, that there was a part of Jack that relished acting outside the law.
And, whisper it,
. . liked the rush.
He’d seen the light, a dullness become radiant, as he lashed into some thug. More, he seemed now to seek out the cases where it would end in a purity of bloodletting.
With Zen, his martial arts iron training, stepped up, he was trying to purge his own self of the charisma of violence. The dark thrill of control, meting out punishment. But the last twenty-four hours had shaken him. He loved Ridge.
No question.
They’d shared a house on the last case, seen the horrors up close and personal, and together shared the bond of futile attempts to redeem Jack. Only Stewart’s feelings for his dead sister even came close to the elusive love he swore he didn’t need. Prison had scorched granite into his being, had to, to survive. Found that same shell vital for an entrepreneur.
Dragon’s Den?
He rented them the fucking den.
Sources, the fuel of information, were key. Lots of minor characters, like those in a novel, chorusing the narrative, spurring the impetus, never less than essential. Bit players in the clubs, pubs, street of Galway.
And, oh, they loved to talk.
Tell a story.
Any story.
And sometimes, the truth was in there, just a wee bit tangled. As in the late call to his mobile last night. The voice saying,
“Brennan, father of the brat who stole the statue of Our Lady, he’s the one who fucked up Ridge.”
Click.
The line went dead. Google search. Brennan, a beaut. Thug city
In a suit.
If a good one, Louis Copeland no less.
Brennan had come quietly from Dublin, smartly avoiding the roundup of the original psycho drug dealers.
The General
John Gilligan
The Monk
And had kept under the radar as those larger-than-life scumbags went national, prompting
Movies
TV documentaries
Countless tabloid fodder.
With the creation of CAB, the special unit to nail those guys on their illegal assets, Brennan had fled to the west, gradually seeping into the Galway geography like vile limestone. His only son, the statue stealer, was a grave disappointment to the would-be Irish drug lord. Built an empire of dirt and dope, and had an eejit heir.
Seemed karma right.
Brennan, in his sixties, still a formidable physical presence and, like Jack, favored a hurley for his ad hoc boardroom meetings. Rumored to have recently taken out a rival dealer with two mighty wallops to the guy’s head, shouting,
“Come on the Dubs.”
Didn’t make him any more appealing despite his support of the capital’s team. In the few available photos from Google, he looked like Gerard Depardieu without the Gallic charm. An eye for the ladies, was said to be proud of his fuck pad. A penthouse over the Bridge Mills. What his wife thought was not recorded. But going on Brennan’s reputable temper, she wasn’t likely to be saying a whole bunch.