If
You are in need of a dark blessing.
Ghost.
The spirit or soul of a deceased person
Appearing to the living.
An apparition.
A mere semblance or shadow.
Ghost word, word having no right to existence.
In “Thunder Road” Springsteen sang of
The ghosts of all the girls
He used to know.
Ghost words, most of Jack Taylor’s speech, drunk or sober.
34
I took the decision to rest up.
Had Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s load me with books:
The Hermit, Thomas Rydahl,
The Drifter by Nicholas Petrie,
Anything by Jason Starr and Hilary Davidson.
For viewing,
I had
HBO, The Night of,
The Australian series,
Glitch,
The brilliant Spotless,
Final episode of The Fall for the shocking violence, which sang to the seething menace of my heart.
And of course the heresy of bottled stout,
And bottles of Jay.
Pack of Red Marlboro if the nicotine raises its alluring head,
And was all set when the doorbell rang.
Fuck
And sweet
Fuck again.
Sheridan, the super cop.
Bearing all kinds of biblical bad news.
Like this.
He was dressed in a brown duster like Kevin Costner in Tombstone.
Had the stones to pull it off. Black 501s in way better shape than mine, a “Granddad” sparkling white T-shirt, and those fine boots he’d sported before. Around his neck was a Cimino scarf.
Somehow I seriously doubted he walked the spiritual path. He pushed past me, said,
“Get us some booze, partner. We sure as shit are gonna need it.”
I was mildly amused as opposed to homicidal, which is always a relief. I asked,
“You channeling the Old West?”
He asked,
“Like it?”
I think he meant the outfit, so I said,
“A shade Village People.”
He laughed and I remembered he did that a lot yet never seemed amused. He said,
“And you, my friend, are still doing the homeless attire.”
Touché.
I poured us two healthy Jays and waited.
He launched,
“Your neighbor, Doc? Took the express train from Dublin.”
From?
I asked,
“From?”
He downed the Jay, gulped, said,
“Sorry, under.”
WTF?
He saw my shocked face, put up his hand, cautioned,
“Whoa, don’t get into the drama just yet, there’s more.”
I sat, shock lashing at my heart, nodded.
He said,
“That old girlfriend of yours.”
Paused.
Took out a notebook, read,
“Anne Henderson?”
I hung my head in horror and he continued,
“Yeah, Annie took the long swim on the small beach beside Renmore Barracks. Renmore? That’s how you guys pronounce it, am I right?”
He lit a cig from a soft pack of Camels, blew a near perfect ring, then said as he removed a tobacco bit from his lip,
“Here’s the weird thing, Jackie. She left her clothes neatly folded on the sand with a green emerald on top.”
Drew long on the cig, then,
“Probably fake. The stone I mean, you think?”
In Galway, close to the old docks,
There is, they say,
A ghostly apparition of young Celia Griffin
Who never made it to
The coffin ships
Sailing to America
To escape the famine.
She was six years old.
35
I went to the Protestant church and, feeling alien there, I pondered revenge.
I thought of
Anne
The pup
Doc
Ridge.
Especially Ridge.
And all the grief lashed upon my life.
I could as the Yanks say
Suck it up.
Turn the other cheek and thus be a humble and better person.
Fuck that.
I could embrace the darkness and wreak havoc on them all.
Later in the day, I met with a notorious psycho/arms dealer who owed me for a serious favor I had done for him years ago. I handed him two names:
Alexander Knox-Keaton,
Joe Tyrone.
I told him,
“Make them suffer first.”
The others?
Oh, they required a personal touch.
I shot Hayden in the back of the head.
I went to his address at 18, Mansfield Road.
Piece of shit lock on the door and any noise I made was drowned by a crashing din from his front living room. He was sprawled on a sofa, a bong in his hand and numerous cans of special brew strewn on the floor. He was watching the video game
Mafia 3.
How’d an old goat like me know that?
I read the cover.
I stood behind him, visions of the love of my life, Anne, dead in the cold water of the Renmore inlet. I put the gun right against his skull,
Pulled the trigger.
Said
“Game over.”
I used my phone to take his picture with the gem showing clearly, sent it to Emily with the text
“Game on.”
Emily was waiting in my apartment, dressed like Cat Woman, a cig trailing smoke in her left hand and one of the dueling pistols in her right. She for the first time said not one word.
I picked up the other pistol, said,
“Here are the rules of the duel.”
Shot her in the face.
Said,
“I lied.
There
Are
No
Rules.”
The
Fleeting
Ghost
Of
Happiness
36
You’d think I would have sunk into a sodden mire of depression and guilt.
Right?
Nope.
I hit a time of utter joy and near love.
Sister Maeve’s sister, home from America, contacted me,
And,
Lo and fucking behold,
She was gorgeous and lovely and all sorts of unbelievable things.
Sweet Lord above.
I was near delirious with anticipation and expectancy and the endless possibilities.
Two weeks into this,
We were having dinner in the Galleon, the sound of the Atlantic Ocean right outside the window. We were toasting our crazy new love when a man approached.
Picked up my lady’s glass of red wine,
And threw it in my face.
Snarled,
“You piece of shit, what did you say to my daughter?”
I realized he was the father of Lorna Dunphy, the unbalanced girl who had harassed me to find her nonexistent brother.
He saw the recognition cross my face and then he spat in my eyes, roared,
“Yeah, my beloved angel hung herself from that tree in Barna Woods.”
Call it shock but in my peripheral vision, through the plate glass window, I saw them come as if from the ocean itself.
Line