Green Hell (2 page)

The

Year

of

the

Understatement

Shadow Puppets

Even now, I'm not too sure how

Drunk

Coked

Crazed

Or

None of the above Jack was when he told me about “The Man Who Tortured Women.” Laid out that stark phrase like a flat hammer, turned to look at me, then,

“Anthony de Burgo.”

Then, bitterness leaking all over his words, he sprinted,

“Impressive name, huh? And fuck me, Tony's an impressive fellow:

Lectures in Anglo-Irish lit, has numerous academic essays, studies, and, get this, even slums as a hack noir novelist, to, as he said on
The Late Late Show
‘pay the light bill.' Oh, Tony's a droll bollix and no mistake. Even persuaded our Galway hurlers to line out for a . . .”

Pause,

“Spot of cricket.”

Jack took a deep breath, fired up a Marlboro Red with a heavy click of his Zippo, blew smoke, continued,

“What ‘spiffin fun' that was and all for charity. The guy is a media darling. How could you not love him, too? His looks got a brooding De Niro (circa
Mean Streets
) gig going. 'Cept every few months, he grabs a teenage girl, tortures her beyond imagining, stops a breath short of murder.”

Paused.

“Least so far.”

Sweat had broken out above his dark eyes. He reached for the Jameson bottle, hit his coffee with it, offered, I declined, he drank deep, I asked,

“Why isn't he in jail?”

Jack seemed to shudder, then shook himself off, said,

“Tony's a clever boy, very, very, clever, and he's got the hotshots in some Rotary-type club to keep him, if not decent, certainly free.”

I wasn't sure where this was going or even why he was laying it out. He saw my face, stubbed out the cig, said,

“Thing is, I'm going to take him off the board.”

Was I rattled?

Phew—oh! I avoided his eyes, asked,

“Why are you telling me this? Us Americans, we specialize in euphemisms. Who else gave the English language the richness of:

bought the farm

punched his ticket

deep-sixed him?

So like, you know . . . ‘take him off the board,' am I reading you correctly?”

He gave a short laugh, nodded.

So . . . so, I threw it out there:

“Kill him?”

Another nod.

Mystified, I reached for the bottle, poured a healthy dollop, drank, gasped, asked,

“Why on earth are you telling me?”

No hesitation.

“Because you are going to be my witness, my . . . how shall I say . . . last Will and Testament.”

The Jameson singing in my blood, I near shouted,

“You gotta be . . . I mean, like, seriously, fucking kidding me.”

He stood up, stretched, said,

“Kid, I never fuck around with murder.”

Lines from
Literary Heroine
(Anthony de Burgo)

Everybody's fuckin dead

of note

perhaps . . .

Later I would learn that
Literary Heroine
, a prose poem, was de Burgo's attempt at a “Howl-like” narrative. Jack commented,

“Tony likes to play, wordplay is just one facet.”

Did I believe Jack was seriously going to like . . .

Um . . .

kill a professor?

Shit,

I mean,

kill anybody?

Those first head-rush, adrenalized weeks of his company had me, to paraphrase Jack:

Be-fuddled,

Be-wildered,

Be-fucked.

As the Irish so delicately phrase it,

“I didn't know whether I was comin or goin.”

My proposed treatise on Beckett was put on a haphazard hold as I tried to find a balance in Taylor's world. A man who was as likely to split a skull with a hurly as hand fifty euros to a homeless person (providing he didn't have a rabbit, of course).

A week after this bombshell, Jack invited me to an “Irish breakfast.” We met in the GBC, Jack saying,

“The chef, Frank, he'll take care of us.”

I was about to order coffee when Jack went,

“Whoa, buddy, did I not say Irish breakfast?”

“. . . Um, yes.”

“Right, so we're having a fry-up and, fuck me, you cannot desecrate that with coffee, it has to be tea.”

I tried,

“I'm not real hot on like . . . tea.”

He mimicked what the Irish think is a passable U.S. accent.

“Get with the program, pal . . .”

It wasn't . . . passable. Not even close.

Heavens to Betsy, the food came.

Thick toast with a nightmare sledge of butter,

fried eggs,

rashers,

fried tomatoes,

and, apparently, the favorite of the late pope,

black pudding.

No doubt accounting for his demise. Jack explained the cups had to be heated and he stirred the tea with gusto, said,

“This is yer real hangover antidote.”

That, I truly had to take on trust. Jack ate with relish, me . . . not so much.

He asked me,

“Know the one beautiful sentence?”

Like . . . do I venture the clichés?

I love you.

I forgive you.

God loves you.

Et al. He said,

“Peace broke out.”

WTF?

He smiled, briefly, said,

“Not that you need to worry, peace for us is as likely as the government cutting the country some slack. You know the latest crack? Fuckin water meters in every house. The bastards think up new ferocious schemes to hammer an already bollixed population.”

I had to comment, went,

“Some turn of phrase you have there.”

A shadow, no more than a whisper of rage, danced across his eyes, he asked,

“Turn of phrase? Let me give you a real beauty.”

Like I had a choice.

“Lay it on me.”

He intoned,

“Catholic ethos is an oily and pompous phrase . . . that sounded like a designer fragrance.”

Jack reached into his jacket, pulled out a crumpled copy of the
Irish Independent
(Saturday, August 10, 2013), said,

“Here's what Liam Fay wrote:

‘
Fr. Kevin Doran is a medical miracle—and indeed, a miraculous medic. He sits on the board of the Mater Hospital's governing body. Doran extolled the rigorous moral code underlying what he proudly calls the Catholic Ethos.
'”

Jack had to pause, rein in his rage, continued,

“‘
In adherence to this uniquely righteous philosophy, he insisted the Mater will refuse to comply with the new law that permits abortion when a pregnant woman's life is at risk.
'”

I muttered “Jesus!”

Jack put the paper aside, said,

“Whoever else is involved, it sure as shootin isn't Jesus.”

I don't have a conflict of interest—

I have a conflict
and
interest.

(Phyl Kennedy-Bruen)

I'm caught staring at Jack's face. He is brutally tan, as if the sun had a vendetta, personal, and lashed him. He smiles, tiny lines, white, creaking against the parched skin, like whiteness trying to run.

He said,

“I picked up a new habit.”

No need to ask if it's a good one. With Jack, all his habits are bad, very.

Continued,

“During that heat wave, I'd take half a bottle of Jay, sit on the rocks near Grattan Road, and just . . . yearn.”

Back to the murder business, I asked,

“How come you know about those girls?”

Paused.

Gulp.

“And the Guards . . . don't?”

He shrugged,

“The Guards know, they just don't give a flyin fuck.”

Later I Googled Father Doran and learned his areas of expertise were, as Jack would list them:

The Supernatural

Angels

Saints

Fairies

and

Elves.

I thought,

“Fifty shades of demonic propaganda.”

Persisting,

“But you know him . . . how?”

He seemed distracted, looked around him, then snapped back, said,

“A little nun told me.”

Before I could recover from this ecclesiastical bombshell, Jack said,

“Thomas H. Cook wrote in his novel
Sandrine's Case
, ‘The sad thing in life is that for most people, the cavalry never arrived.'”

I managed to hold my tongue, not to be an academic asshole by saying,

“I don't read mystery novels.”

I instead managed to still stay in facetious mode, remarking,

“But you're the cavalry, Jack, that it?”

Came out even more sarcastic than I intended. He let that bitter vibe hover, then,

“Most ways, son, I'm more a scalp hunter.”

From Jack Taylor's Journals

Sister Maeve and I had a history, most of it convoluted, most of it bad. But a year ago, by pure luck and thuggery, I managed to return the stolen statue of Our Lady of Galway.

Back in the 1970s there'd been the phenomenon of the moving statues. Our Lady, literally seen to move in various “blessed” parts of the country, led to an almost hysterical reaffirmation of faith in the country. Quashed later by the clerical scandals. But for a brief time, there had been “Holy Ground.” Our Lady of Galway had been moved by a gang of feckless teenagers.

My success in this case put me briefly back in the Church's graces.

Sister Maeve came to me, told me of two girls who'd been savagely raped and beaten, tossed aside. We'd met in Crowe's Bar in Bohermore. Sign of the fractured times in that a nun in a pub didn't raise an eyebrow, mainly because she was dressed like Meg Ryan. She'd ordered a sparkling Galway water, to see, she said,

“The tiny bubbles shimmer.”

Two of her former students came to her. Amid sobs, fear, shame, and utter despair, they'd told her of their ordeal. How de Burgo, acting as mentor to their studies, had lured them to a flat on the canal. After, he'd thrown them out on the street, warning,

“Speak of this and you'll go
in
the canal.” Maeve had duly reported all to her Mother Superior, who said,

“Jezebels! Common harlots who enticed a good man.”

De Burgo was one of the prime movers in having extensive renovations made to the convent. Maeve, pushing aside her now flat water, said, in a very un-nun-like fashion,

“Who is going to besmirch the name of a man responsible for the central heating?”

Comfort versus truth?

No contest.

I asked Maeve,

“Why have you come to me, Sister?”

She considered her answer, then,

“Because you understand that justice is rarely delivered through ordinary channels.”

Something radiantly different in a tiny, holy nun letting loose her very own

Mongrel of War.

Whatever else I thought, I didn't think she “got the right guy.”

She had moral indignation, I had rage but, more important, I had the hurly.

The priest was crying.

A tear of hatred trilled down his cheek. The thin man noted it was quite lovely.

They were standing two feet apart—the man of law and the man of God.

As the tear dissolved into the thick beard, the big man wiped it away, then looked up into the thin man's eyes with loathing and slowly whispered,

“
God . . . damn . . . it.
”

The thin man couldn't contain himself. He was grinning openly,

Was it a thrill to hear this man of the cloth taking the name of the Lord in vain?

“
I knew then the bitch was mine.
”

(From
The Murder Room
by Michael Capuzzo)

Later, when I was asked about the essential difference between Jack,

A wild Irish fucked-up addict.

And me,

A WASP wannabe academic.

I was able to summarize it thus:

I liked to quote Beckett.

Jack quoted Joan Rivers.

And an ocean of misunderstanding flowed between the two.

Much has been said of Jack's propensity to violence. Not long after I'd found a place to rent, in Cross Street, just a drunken hen party from Quay Street, Jack announced,

“I'm treating you to dinner.”

His version:

Fish 'n' chips from Supermac's on Eyre Square. It was relatively early, 7:30 p.m. on a slow Galway Wednesday. Come four in the morning, when the clubs let out, it became a war zone. We were in line behind a young couple. Dressed for a night out, the guy in a smart suit, the girl in a faux power suit but without the confidence. The girl was asking,

“Please, Sean, I just want chips, no burger.”

The guy's body language was flagging . . . volatile.

They got their order and the guy grabbed her portion of chips, mashed them into her suit, said,

“No burger, no fuckin eat.”

I glanced at Jack, his body was relaxed, no visible sign of disturbance. For one hopeful moment, I prayed he might not even have registered the incident. We got our fish 'n' chips, then Jack added,

“A carton of your hot chili sauce.”

I said nothing.

We got outside, the couple were standing at the Imperial Hotel, the guy jabbing his finger into the girl's face. Jack said,

“Give me a sec.”

Ambled toward them, not a care in his stride, the chili carton oozing steam from his left hand.

He said something to the girl, who stepped back. He slapped the chili into the guy's face, gave him an almighty blow to the side of the head, asked,

“You want fries with that?”

I don't know any form that

doesn't shit on being in the most

unbearable manner.

(Samuel Beckett)

It's quite a good idea: when words fail you,

you can fall back on silence.

(Samuel Beckett)

He looked like the kind of gobshite who'd spent his

Life

(pause)

being mildly amused.

This was Jack's verdict on a guy selling flags for Down Syndrome Ireland. The “mildly” brought to crushing effect the contempt he felt.

I asked Jack,

“The violence, the almost casual way you rise to it?”

He had the granite flint in his eyes, which cautioned,

“Tread very fuckin lightly.”

Clicking back and forth on the Zippo, he held my eyes, coldly said,

“For starters, you don't ‘rise' but descend to violence.

Let me paraphrase:

‘Some are born to it

and others

have it thrust upon them.'”

Wearying of his semantics, I asked,

“And you, which category are you?”

His eyes slid off me, dissing me curtly, said,

“Take a wild fuckin guess, hotshot.”

Reaching into his battered all-weather Garda coat, he slapped a single sheet of paper before me, said,

“Read.”

Four names:

Siobhan Dooley

May Feeney

Karen Brown

Mary Murphy

He said,

“All students of de Burgo.”

Then abruptly standing up, he said,

“Get yer arse in gear.”

“For?”

“An appointment with the eminent professor.”

“What?”

“As an American high-flying student, you are meeting to discuss Beckett and the Galway Connection.”

Then he shrugged, said,

“Who the fuck cares, we just want to meet the lunatic.”

“We?”

He smiled, cold,

“I'm your concerned old uncle.”

“Can you do ‘concerned'?”

He was already moving, said,

“I can certainly do old.”

The University of Galway was teeming with new prospective students. Parents in tow, they were checking out their new home. It would be the one and only time the parents got a look in. Their role from now on would be twofold:

(1) Pay for books.

(2) Pay for bail.

De Burgo's office was in the old part of the building. I noticed Jack's limp was prominent and he said,

“Gets a sympathy vote.”

A secretary assured us we had to wait for only five minutes, would we like some water?

Jack said,

“With a splash of Jameson.”

She gave him a look that implied:

“Old guys, they still have some moves.”

Then we were told to enter Dr. de Burgo's chambers. Jack's face was granite. He looked as though he wished he still held a container of chili sauce.

De Burgo was engrossed in papers, pushed them aside with a sigh, came round the desk, hand extended, said,

“Welcome to my humble retreat.”

Whatever else he implied, humility wasn't in the mix. He looked like an Ivy League professor from Central Casting. Corduroy jacket over worn plaid shirt and, yes, patches on the sleeves. Pressed navy chinos, boat shoes, a well-tended goatee below deep-set eyes. Eyes that were burning with intensity. But, as Jack would say,

“Off.”

Definitely.

When he looked at you, a sense of unease slid along your spine. He motioned us to sit, then, like Mr. Laidback, perched on the edge of his desk. All was well in his academic principality. He said,

“Now Beckett, just recently I gave a lecture on the postmodern reliance of his language in relation to . . .”

Here he paused, made those air quotation marks, continued,

“The current idiom of Anglo-Irish usage.”

Silence hovered.

Then Jack said,

“Cut the shit, pal.”

Like a slap in the face. He turned, faced Jack, asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

Jack stood, looming over him, said,

“See this list of girls? Ring any postmodern bells?”

Shoved the four girls' names in his face. Took him a moment, then his face regrouped, he sprang from the desk, reached for the phone, said,

“I think security are needed.”

Jack, unfazed, asked,

“You going to surrender to them?”

I was up, grabbing Jack's arm, said,

“We'll be leaving.”

As we got to the door, Jack said,

“We'll be coming for you, fuckhead.”

And I got him as far as the secretary. On her feet, she asked,

“Is everything all right?”

Jack said,

“Your boss is a serial rapist, don't be alone with him.”

The critics assert that all of Beckett's characters are drawn from his early life in Dublin; the streets, bogs, ditches, dumps, and madhouses.

Beckett implied his people were the castoffs, the lunatics, the street poets, the “bleeding meat of the entire system, denizens of an urban wasteland.”

I thought how well the above could easily fit Taylor's world. After our train wreck meeting with the professor, we ended up in Garavan's. They still have the snugs where you believe you have a measure of privacy. Intrusion is the theme of Jack's exis­tence. We'd just settled with our drinks, a sparkling water for me, Jameson and the black for Jack. Jack had barely skimmed the pint's creamy head when a man burst in, plunked himself down beside Jack, gasped,

“I'm dying of thirst.”

He was in his very bad fifties, wearing a distressed pin-striped suit, a grimy shirt, and blindingly white sneakers. His eyes were dancing insane reels in his head. Jack got him a pint, laid back, asked,

“What's up, Padraig?”

The man, seeing my stare, gulped half the pint, nigh shouted at me,

“Hey, I used to be someone!”

Jack muttered,

“Didn't we all?”

Another swallow and the pint was gone. He glanced at me as if I wasn't up to speed, said,

“My wife left me.”

I said,

“I'm sorry.”

His head cocked, question mark large in his face, he asked, amazed,

“You know her?”

Staying tight-assed polite, I said,

“No.”

Spittle leaked from his lips, he near spat,

“Then why the fuck are you sorry!”

I had no answer. A light peered through his madness. He said,

“You're a Yank.”

No joyriding point on this statement. I agreed I was. He turned back to Jack, offering,

“Get the fuck into Syria, help those poor fuckers.”

Jack asked,

“What can I do for you, Padraig?”

His body language altered, then, positioning for the kill, he said,

“Two fifties, Jack.”

The description of a hundred taking the harm/sting away. Jack gave him twenty and Padraig turned to me, asked petulantly,

“Where's your contribution?”

I shrugged.

He turned back to Jack,

“God be with the days only rich Yanks came here.”

He lumbered to his feet, said,

“I'll have to go, the wife will have my dinner ready.”

And he was gone, trailing bile and disappointment.

I asked,

“Did his wife come back?”

Jack gave me a look, ridicule spiced with irritation, said,

“Jesus, wake up, he never had a wife.”

Needing more, I pushed,

“The pin-striped suit, was he in business?”

“Sure, if you count traffic wardens as business.”

Jack indicated we were done, shucked into his all-weather coat, asked,

“Want to tag along on a case this evening?”

Gun-shy by now, I asked,

“Will there be . . . ah . . . violence?”

He gave a sly smile, said,

“We can live in hope.”

A time would come when I'd tentatively ask Jack,

“Do you get a rush from . . . um . . . you know . . . the violence?”

He considered that, then,

“My friend Stewart, a Zen entrepreneur, ex–drug dealer, believed I'd become addicted to it.”

He said this without rancor, it was what it was, then added,

“Like greatness, some are born to it, then others, God help them, have it thrust upon them.”

I wish I'd realized what a rare moment that was. He was actually letting me in but I blew it, went the wrong way, said,

“Could you just walk away?”

Silence for a full minute, then,

“For a supposed scholar, you are as thick as two cheap lumps of wood.”

Attempting recovery, I said, conciliatory,

“I'd like to meet your friend.”

He laughed without a trace of humor, said,

“Good luck with that; they settled his Zen ashes across the Bay.”