... because he backed off.
She got Daniel into the car then pulled smartly out of there. I barely saw her face but I could have sworn I saw the beginning of a smile.
Okay, showtime.
I went around to the back of the house, jimmied the back door easily — no security but, then, when the monster is within, who needs locks? Into a cluttered hall, took a deep breath, took the revolver from my jacket, moved forward. Could hear Stanley screaming on the phone to, I presume, Child Services.
“... What the bloody hell do you mean you didn’t assign anybody, this is outrageous.”
I tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
He whirled around and I used the butt of the gun, broke his nose. He fell backward, the phone clattering on the floor. I said,
“That is a Galway hello.”
I picked up the phone, a voice leaking from it, like this:
“... Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”
I said,
“Please hold, your call is important to us. For customer service, press 1.”
Reed was holding his nose, blood cascading along his impressively white shirt. He managed to focus, accused,
“I know you.”
I gave him my best smile, a blend of bitterness and devilry, said,
“You probably recall me best on the ground with your fucking shoe in my face.”
He said,
“The ferry.”
Then tried to figure out how to join the dots. Shaking his head, he said,
“I’m guessing the lady from Child Services wasn’t... from them?”
“Not much gets by you, unless you count the broken nose.”
He looked around, weighing his options, then,
“So what’s the plan, hotshot? You planning to shoot me?”
I pulled the hammer back, not for show as much as I relished the symbolism of that solid clunk, like a candle you light, thinking it carries significance. I said,
“Well, it is real simple. You leave town or you stay and see what I will do next.”
Not sure what he would do but laughter wasn’t part of any scenarios. There was no way in hell this pervert was leaving the house but I wanted to fuck with him, let him believe he had a chance to bail.
He laughed.
Said,
“Daniel, the boy?”
I nodded.
“You think I... snatched him?”
Superciliousness leaked all over his tone and the broken nose added a shade of bravado he was adopting. I said,
“All I know is you are done with him.”
He stared at me as if I were a moron, asked,
“Shit, you really don’t get it, do you?”
I moved toward him and he raised his voice, near screamed,
“Yah dumb fuck, they sold him.”
Stopped me and I tried to focus. He pushed,
“That’s right, Sherlock. I paid cash money for the little honey.”
I felt my world tilt and a dangerous mist danced before my eyes. I said,
“You really need to shut the fuck up right now.”
And he laughed.
Sneered.
“A day or two, tops! I’ll buy another, hell, maybe twins.” Adopted a cockney accent — “Buy one, get the second free!”
My mind in hyperdrive, I raised the gun to his face.
“Go on,”
He taunted.
“I dare you.”
Storm clouds your judgment, and herein
I phoned Ridge. The doctor had gotten in touch with me again and implied that maybe... just perhaps...
His diagnosis was off the mark a tad.
Now did I go and tear his fucking head off?
Or
Buy him a crate of Jameson?
No. I rolled the dice.
Didn’t go to hear yet another verdict, decided to act as if I was still under the death sentence.
Why?
Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch.
I met Ridge in Garavan’s and completely out of character, she ordered a large vodka, slimline tonic. I went with the Jay. She was dressed in a soft green sweater. You might even stretch and suggest, emerald?
White jeans that dazzled in their brightness, but there the shine ended.
She looked fatigued.
Well, fucked, actually.
I said,
“You look terrific.”
Got the stare.
She said,
“This Emily? Nothing about her is kosher.”
I laughed, mimicked,
“Kosher? Seriously? From a west of Ireland woman?”
She slammed her glass on the table, her very empty glass, said,
“One way or another, I will get her, and if you are any part of that, it will be a joy to do you too.”
I considered telling her my fifty-fifty chance of being out of the game. Would I get a break, some sympathy, maybe even a shot at repairing our tattered friendship?
I said,
“I have not been feeling well.”
She was on her feet, spittle leaking from her mouth. She fumed,
“Well? Are you kidding me? You haven’t been well for twenty years and what on earth are you telling me for?”
I tried,
“Because of our, um, you know, history?”
She gave a short bitter laugh, moved to the door, then, as parting,
“You could die tomorrow, I could give a fucking toss.”
I sat completely still, then muttered,
“All in all, I think it went okay.”
The storm.
I dressed as if my life depended on it.
You might term that sarcasm if I had any juice left. I put on my Garda all-weather coat and, underneath, a thick white Aran sweater. I didn’t want to be cold.
Dead is one thing, but cold? No, fuck that. The oft-threatened storm was blowing hard and bitter. The streets would be deserted.
Good.
I put a bottle of Jameson in my right pocket. The gun carefully in my left pocket. It is the attention to the little things that make the scene. I wore my Doc Martens, scuffed and worn like my wasting, withered soul. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, said,
“Dying to meet you.”
I was tempted to wear a snazzy emerald scarf that Emily had left behind. Give me that raffish rakish air. Said,
“Guess that would be like
... An
Emerald
Lie.”
You think?
As I strolled down the quiet streets, the wind howled like embellishment and not a busker to its name. A man emerged from the small alley that runs beside Eason’s bookshop. He was huddling against the storm, stopped, greeted,
“Jack? Jack fucking Taylor?”
I wanted to say,
“As I live and breathe.”
But, you know, too facile.
He asked,
“You going to a funeral?”
Now I laughed, said,
“You are a man of deep discernment.”
He went,
“What?”
I moved past him and he shouted,
“How are you fixed?”
Meaning, have you money to spare, to lend or give?
I handed him my wallet and he went,
“Is this a joke?”
I said,
“With a killer line.”
Nimmo’s pier was at the very end of the Claddagh, overlooking the bay, and not one swan to be seen. During fierce weather, you would see swans huddled against the walls of the dock. Not a one.
Like the monkeys deserting Gibraltar perhaps?
I managed, despite the ferocious wind, to reach the end of the pier and braced myself against the wall. One of the things I have loved about cinema is the long tracking shot. I imagined a lens framing a small figure, stark against the granite...
And then the camera pans away, higher and higher, like desperate hope, showing a futile figure in a futile coat, signifying nothing of note or comment.