The Ghosts of Galway Read online

  THE

  GHOSTS

  OF

  GALWAY

  Also by Ken Bruen

  Once Were Cops

  Sanctuary Cross

  Priest

  The Dramatist

  The Magdalen Martyrs

  The Killing of the Tinkers

  Funeral: Tales of Irish Morbidities

  Shades of Grace

  Martyrs

  Sherry and Other Stories

  Time of Serena-May/Upon the Third Cross

  Her Last Call to Louis MacNeice

  Rilke on Black

  The Hackman Blues

  A White Arrest

  Taming the Alien

  The Guards

  London Boulevard

  Blitz

  The McDead

  Vixen

  Dispatching Baudelaire

  The Dead Room

  American Skin

  Bust (with Jason Starr)

  Calibre

  A Fifth of Bruen

  Slide (with Jason Starr)

  Ammunition

  The Max (with Jason Starr)

  All the Old Songs and Nothing to Lose

  Headstone

  Purgatory

  Green Hell

  The Emerald Lie

  THE

  GHOSTS

  OF

  GALWAY

  A Jack Taylor Novel

  Ken Bruen

  The Mysterious Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2017 by Ken Bruen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  FIRST EDITION

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: November 2017

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2733-4

  eISBN 978-0-8021-8884-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title.

  The Mysterious Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Jacket design by Cindy Hernandez

  Jacket photograph © selimaksan/iStock/Getty Images Plus

  For

  Des and Gerry Bruen

  The respectable branch of the clan

  and

  For

  James Casserly

  and

  My beloved brother-in-law

  Mark (PJ) Kennedy.

  Plus Eva Devin.

  These extraordinary people

  Gave extraordinary light to our respective lives.

  The bed of heaven to you three.

  Peadar Ryan, extraordinary guard.

  CONTENTS

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Over and over I had been replaying a conversation with my

  Once friend,

  Former ally,

  Now bitter enemy

  Sergeant Ridge.

  Not for the first time, I was in a very dark place. A failed attempt at suicide, a deadly diagnosis on my health, and the continuing forward March of Trump.

  I figured I would mend some fences, try to get my friendship with Ridge back on track.

  And I mean if your health is fucked, surely your friends/enemies might cut you some slack.

  Right?

  Nope.

  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 and stayed hopeful.

  Ridge was curt on the phone, a real cold cunt.

  Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch, I asked to meet her.

  Met her in Garavans 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.”

  (Emily/Emerald/Em, a psycho punk storm of murderous intent who had taken a weird shine to me and was a continuous thorn in Ridge’s sense of justice.)

  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.”

  Later, a tinker woman I gave a few euros to asked me,

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  I said,

  “Only the ones provided by Jameson.”

  She chided me.

  “Don’t mock. Ghosts are swirling all ’round you and soon will flood your life.”

  PART 1

  “A dog when injured

  crawls off to an isolated place

  lies low until the wounds, if not healed,

  at least covered over.”

  A failed suicide is a sad, sad fucker.

  The final chapter of Alvarez’s The Savage God, perhaps the best account of suicide, details the author’s own attempt at the desperate act.

  For me, the years of fuckups, pain, mutilation, grievous loss would, you think,

  … Lead to wisdom?

  Like fuck.

  Led me

  To

  A

  Job as a security guard.

  Suicide by boredom.

  If I was to continue aboveground, I needed money. My last outing, adventure, case left me not only spiritually bereft but broke.

  The ad for security guards sought those with a military background or police force experience. Some fancy dancing with my CV and I actually looked if not respectable at least not outright criminal.

  The guy who interviewed me said,

  “If you can walk and don’t have an outstanding warrant you’re in.”

  My first assignment was protecting a warehouse on the docks. I had a torch and phone which, I guess, if thieves attacked, I could resort to foul language. Mostly the job was dull but that suited me just fine as I had more than enough action in past years to satisfy the most jaded adrenalized junkie. Plus, I could read and be paid for doing so. The ideal job. A guy I knew back from the States who had worked security in New York and who was armed told me,

  “Jesus Jack, first I thought, gifted. I need never fear assholes no more, but then I’d get home and play the sad whining music, you know, the why did she leave me dirge stuff? They give you a free razor blade when you purchase it. Then I’d get depressed and want to kill myself and had the gun in my lap!

  “But what if I missed? And was lying wounded for days?”

  The first month, I was on nights and liking it, no need to talk to anyone, I was all out of conversation. Clocking out the Friday, end of my shift, a supervisor was waiting and said,

  “Taylor.”

  I nodded and he said,

  “The head honcho wants you to meet him.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, said,

  “No idea. He only this week went through the employee files and seeing your name asked for you.”

  “Who is he?”

  He took a deep breath, then,

  “Alexander Knox-Keaton, from some, somewhere in Ukraine.”

  Ukraine!

  With all the waves of migrants literally throwing themselves into the ocean to flee Syria and other deadly regimes, Ukraine seemed to have momentarily dropped from the headlines, but it was nice to know one of their people was living it large.

  I said,

/>   “Not exactly your expected Ukraine name. I’d have expected something more

  … Slavic?”

  He sneered.

  “Fucking get you, Mr. Knowledge. Shame you are wasted on this piss poor excuse of a job.”

  I didn’t rise to the bait. Oddly, since my failed suicide, I felt less inclined to kick the living shit out of assholes.

  He said,

  “Here is his address and you are to report to his mansion tomorrow at noon.”

  I echoed,

  “Mansion?”

  He gave me the look, the one that cries,

  “Dumb shit”

  Said,

  “You will see and be sure to wear a suit.”

  “I only have my funeral one.”

  He sneered.

  “Might well be just that.”

  “They spent the afternoon butchering horses.”

  (Matthew McBride, A Swollen Red Sun)

  Early on the morning of October 1 a reveler, staggering home, went,

  “What the fuck?”

  He was standing or rather swaying at the top of Eyre Square. If he had been of a literary bent,

  He might have intoned,

  “Doth mine eyes deceive me?”

  But being hungover and a moron, he uttered,

  “WTF.”

  In the middle of the square was the body of a horse. A bright chestnut already showing extreme rigor mortis. The drunk added,

  “In all me born days …”

  He moved down to take a closer look but a sudden spasm doubled him and he projected a line of vomit that would cause CSI all kinds of headaches. He wiped his brow and swore,

  “That is my last drink. Ever.”

  He didn’t of course stop drinking but he did avoid Eyre Square for a long time. He also stopped backing horses.

  I dressed to, if not impress, then to make a statement. That being,

  “I’m fucked.”

  So my now very battered Garda all-weather coat, scuffed Doc Martens, a once white T now in shades of washed gray, and my fade to faded 501s.

  The man from Ukraine had his mansion near the golf links. I had as a child worked as a caddy, thus ensuring a lifetime aversion to the sport.

  I let his name swirl in my mouth to get a sense of it.

  Alexander

  Knox-

     Keaton

  No way was this his real name but I could care less. His house was a glass affair, screaming two things:

  Money.

  Bad taste.

  A car, BMW, with two occupants, either bodyguards or the local cops. Which, depending how much juice you had, could be both.

  I stopped to survey the house and, with Galway Bay at my back, let out a deep sigh. I was bone tired, tired of assholes and stupid money. I lit one of my now five a day rationed cigs and blew the smoke toward the monstrosity of glass. Then muttered,

  “Let’s rock and moan.”

  Headed for the door. Opened as I reached it, a young Filipino woman in maid’s uniform said,

  “Mr. Taylor?”

  I nodded and she stepped aside to let me by.

  In the hallway was a huge tapestry of what appeared to be a page from The Book of Kells.

  The maid led me to a study, ablaze with books, the walls lined with beautifully covered volumes and they had that look of being well used. Not for show then. But that rarity. A working library. Thick heavy wooden furniture that you might imagine carved from a line of oaks but, too, seemed to be lived in. An open fireplace had a raging inferno going on.

  Few things as comforting as that. Like an echo of the childhood you only ever read about. The maid withdrew and I examined the books up close, nearly missed hearing the door open behind me, turned to see a man who reflected the grandeur and solidity of the room. A man over six feet tall and power oozing from every pore. He was wearing a tweed suit, very Anglo-Irish of the ’50s, and, I shit thee not, a cravat, adding a slight P. G. Wodehouse vibe. He had a full head of well-darkened hair and a face that testified to the use of money and force. His age was a well-preserved seventy or a very fucked forty.

  He held out a big hand, calloused and creased so not just a sightseer. Boomed,

  “Mr. Taylor.”

  I took his hand and was relieved he wasn’t one of those bonecrushing idiots who think that means anything other than

  “Bollocks.”

  I said,

  “Jack, please.”

  He smiled, revealing one gold tooth among the very best cosmetic dentistry. He said,

  “And I am Alex.”

  Then,

  “Sit, sit and let me treat you to a shot of Slain whiskey.”

  Made at Slain castle and promoted by Lord Henry Mount Charles himself and not due to hit the market until late 2017.

  Was I impressed?

  Yeah, a little.

  Taking a heavy tumbler of Galway crystal, I sank into an armchair. Inhaled a smoky whiff of the drink. Fucking marvelous. He asked,

  “How are you finding the job?”

  Tell the truth or kiss arse?

  I said,

  “Has me bored shitless.”

  He laughed, seemed actually amused. Then he asked,

  “The Red Book, this is known to you?”

  His English had that tight careful air of the second-language perfectionist. Almost a clipped precision and you nearly hear the translation occur. I said,

  “Apart from Mao’s little red one, no.”

  He topped up our glasses and then,

  “You are, I believe, an …”

  He paused to taste, savor, the next word,

  … Aficionado

  A conniver of books?

  Conniver?

  I said,

  “I like to read but a bibliophile? Hardly.”

  He liked that word, could see him store it. He continued,

  “The Book of Kells. This you know?”

  “Know is hardly the description but, yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

  He settled himself into the chair opposite me, composing some lecture he’d prepared.

  Began,

  “It was written around AD 800. It is a book of the Gospels. No one knows who wrote it but it is believed to be a series of monks.”

  He paused.

  I said,

  “So?”

  He gave what can only be described as a wolverine smile, said,

  “A rival book came out shortly after, decrying the Gospels, and is generally regarded as the first true work of heresy.”

  Let me digest that, then.

  “Known as The Red Book, the Church of course denies its existence. It is sometimes known by its title in Irish but, alas, that pronunciation is a little beyond me.”

  I supplied,

  “An Leabhar Dearg.”

  He was impressed, said,

  “I am impressed.”

  I said,

  “Fascinating as this little side trip down a Dan Brown alley is, what has it got to do with me?”

  “I want you to get the book.”

  I stood up, said,

  “Thanks for the drink and the chat.”

  He said,

  “Here.”

  Offering a check it seemed like. Well, fuck it. I am always going to look at one of those suckers.

  Gasped.

  Went,

  “You are shitting me.”

  He said,

  “I am told you are dogged in your dedication to a case and that, somehow or other, you get results.”

  This was patently untrue.

  But was I going to argue? A gift horse is what you throw a saddle on and shut the fuck up.

  He continued.

  “You are familiar with the term rogue priest?”

  I nearly laughed, wanted to ask,

  “Nowadays, is there any other kind?”

  But went with,

  “Indeed.”

  “The curator of sacred manuscripts and other treasures in the

  Vatican recently died and his assistant, a Father Frank Miller, took the opportunity to not only quit his vocation but also abscond with The Red Book.”

  If he was expecting a comment, I didn’t have one. He continued.

  “Mr. Miller is now hiding out in Galway and has offered the book for sale.”

  I said,

  “So buy it.”

  He sighed.

  “Would it were so easy but Miller is, as they say, gun shy.”

  This term would come back to haunt him.

  “I want you to negotiate with him.”

  I said,

  “I don’t really do well with priests.”

  “Ex-priest.”

  “Whatever. I am sure you have better people to deal with him. I am quite likely to end up beating the shit out of him.”