Green Hell (3 page)

Daily Mail,
September 2013

Headline:

250 Sex Fiends on the Run: Convicted Paedophiles and Every Hue of Sex Offender Have Disappeared or Broken the Terms of Their Release

On page 19, above a tiny paragraph, almost lost amid reports of Miley Cyrus's sexual antics, was this:

22 New Vocations to the Priesthood

Jack would ask,

“And those are connected . . .”

Pause.

“How?”

One of the rare to rarest times I was with Jack and not in a pub was over coffee in McCambridge's. Black for Jack and decaf latte for me, earning me full derision. He said,

“What's the friggin point? Without caffeine, it's like Mass without Communion; there's no hit.”

I had no answer. My iPad was before me, the famous photo of Beckett as my screen saver. His face almost as lined and ruined as Jack's. I asked,

“You read Beckett?”

Gave me a long look, then,

“If I say no, you'll write me off as pig ignorant, so let me assume a literary mask and say, ‘I don't read him, I savor him.'”

I nearly smiled, he said,

“Ol' Sam was a Bushmills guy.”

When I didn't rise to whatever bait he was trolling, he continued,

“See, Catholics are the Jameson guys. Bushmills is for the other crowd.”

He reflected on his own words, added,

“You might say black Bushmills is for . . .”

Paused.

“Black Protestants . . . and, trust me, we aren't talking about skin color.”

The evening I accompanied him on “the bit of business,” he was dressed in a black tracksuit, carrying an Adidas holdall. I tried to go light, said,

“Promise me there's not an AK47 in there.”

“Nope, just a simple hurly.”

He led me down past Spanish Arch, parked himself on a bench facing the Claddagh Basin. He motioned for me to sit. Time passed to the sound of gulls and a vague turmoil from a Quay Street hen party. Finally I asked,

“What are you waiting for?”

He nodded in the direction of a small group huddled close to an upturned boat, said,

“A fairly regular drinking school, doing no harm to anyone save themselves. Over the past few weeks, some young guy appears, drops a homemade Molotov among them. No one's been killed . . .”

He took a deep breath,

“Yet.”

I had my laptop, about to open it, paused. Sounding more priggish than I intended, I said,

“Surely a case for the Guards?”

He snickered. I never actually thought there was a sound to match the word. There was. But damn it, I persisted,

“And why are you here? Indeed, why are we here?”

Lord, I sounded like a frat boy!

Jack said, in a low tone,

“They hired me.”

Oh, sweet Lord, I guffawed,

And worse,

“And they'll pay you in what . . . Buckfast?”

As to what would have gone down, I'll never know, but out of the Spanish Arch shadow a man appeared, moving fast, almost a blur. His arm raised, holding a bottle, a bottle ablaze, moving toward the school. Jack was up, hurly out of the bag, and amazed me with the speed.

Whoosh!

I could hear the knee crack and the guy was down. Jack kicked the bottle aside, reached into the guy's jacket, pulled out a wallet, shoved it into his own pocket. Jack never saw the second guy, came flying from his blind side. Without even thinking I decked him with the laptop. Jack turned, said,

“No spam, eh?”

The first guy was whimpering, pleaded,

“Didn't mean no harm, just a bit of fun.”

Jack said,

“You need to have that broken nose looked at.”

The guy touched his unblemished nose, managed,

“What . . . ?”

As Jack swung the hurly.

We were in the bar at Jury's, it being the nearest. I was having a large Jameson to stop my trembling. Jack? He was having fun, asked,

“How's the laptop?”

“Dinged but working.”

He raised his glass, said,

“Like the mighty fool.”

He flipped through the guy's wallet, saying,

“This kid likes cash.”

Three hundred euros. Then a driver's licence, he read,

“Owen Liffey. The fuck is named after a river and worse, a Dublin river.”

I could feel the drink warming me, even starting a buzz. As if reading me, Jack said,

“It's why we drink it, kid.”

Then he suddenly whirled around, his eyes traveling the length of the bar, an odd expression lighting his face. I asked,

“Seeing a ghost?”

He turned back, said,

“Yeah, sort of. I was only ever in here once. I was laden with a case,
The Killing of the Tinkers
. I wanted some downtime, a pub where I knew no one.”

He gave a brief laugh, then,

“Who am I going to know drinks at Jury's—Chris de Burgh? There was a guy, right at the end of the bar, sinking what I think you call boilermakers.”

“Sure, a shot and a brew.”

His eyes flashed, he asked,

“Did I ask you for a definition? I know what the fuck it is. You have yet to learn the one essential mode of Irish survival.”

I shot,

“Always buy your round?”

He sighed, said,

“Never under any circumstances
interrupt
a story!”

A few tense moments followed, then he resumed,

“The guy was a take-no-prisoners drinker. Serious, sure, methodical. I'm not sure how, but we got talking. He'd spent time in a jail in South America. . . . Like an eejit, I said, ‘Well, least you got back.' The guy stood up, gave me one of those looks that plays a reel on your soul, said, ‘It's what I brought back with me that's the worry.'”

I waited until I was sure he was finished, asked,

“Did he mean he picked up some . . . like, disease?”

“Only if the soul can be afflicted.”

Outside, I was saying good night when Jack handed me the three hundred euros, said,

“Give it to the drinking school.”

Whoa, hold the goddamn phones. I asked,

“Why don't you?”

He was moving away toward the water, said,

“I don't want to encourage them.”

I didn't see him for a week. I'd moved into a small apartment in Lower Salthill. The rent was about the same as the national debt. I was still hamstrung between my Beckett dissertation and a book on Jack. Something about Galway had seeped into my bones and I almost felt that I belonged. I was brewing coffee, arranging my papers on a small table when the bell went. Opened the door to Jack, he said,

“I bring gifts.”

I asked,

“How did you find me?”

“The postman told me.”

I was outraged, asked,

“Are they allowed to do that?”

He raised his eyes, said,

“Jaysus, lighten up . . . are you askin me in?”

I stepped aside.

He handed me a bottle of Jameson and a cross which seemed to be made of reeds. He said,

“Saint Bridget's Cross, keep your home safe.”

I was moved, covered with,

“Does it work?”

He sat in my only armchair, said,

“Time ago I gave a home owner a solid silver cross.

A burglar buried it in his chest.”

Where do you go with such a tale? I went to my excuse of a kitchen for the two mugs I owned. One had the logo “667.”

I handed it to Jack, who said,

“I get it, the neighbor of the beast.”

He uncapped the Jay, poured lethal amounts. I said,

“I'll get some water.”

He growled,

“Water this and I'll break your neck.”

Skipped the water.

Jack knocked his back, said,

“Slainte amach,”

I sipped mine. He looked around, said,

“Need to get Vinnie here, from Charley Byrne's Bookshop, furnish the place.”

I said,

“I have a Kindle.”

“And may God forgive you.”

It was a few days later, I decided to drop the dime on Jack. To, as the Brits say, “grass him up.”

To be what Jack would have spat,

“A treacherous informer.”

The scourge, no less he claimed, of Irish history.

Syria continued to be torn asunder by Assad. Despite repeated evidence of the use of chemical weapons against the rebels, the world dithered and demurred. Obama condemned the regime but still took no military action. The United Kingdom voted against intervention. Syria burned alone.

Niall Horan of One Direction reached the Rich List. This news pushed Syria from the front pages. It was not difficult to understand Jack's lament,

“Nobody gives a tuppenny fuck.”

By reporting his projected threat against de Burgo, I felt I was at least trying to give “a good goddamn.”

. . . his unshaved head and unwashed look

Made me think of a man who has gone into

another country. One where a person can be

dissolute without penalty, only to return home

and find everything he owns in ruins.

(
Light of the World
by James Lee Burke)

I made an appointment to meet with the top guy, Superintendent Clancy. He'd recently been named

Super Cop

and won the highest award the precinct can bestow on a Guard.

A sad irony that he had once been Jack's best buddy. They'd trained together at Templemore, been holy terrors on the hurling field, and always

“had each other's back”

until

Jack's drinking had him disgracefully bounced from the force while Clancy climbed the ranks, awash in glory.

Over the years they'd become bitter enemies. The golden friendship steeped in envy and bitterness. Who ever thought he'd save Jack from the fatal action he was planning? It had, if you will, a poetic symmetry.

I met the super on a Monday morning. An air of gloom pervaded the Garda station as Ireland had just lost one-nil to Austria, shattering any slim hope of World Cup qualification. The manager, an aging Italian, Giovanni Trappatoni, had resigned. Over five years he'd received ten million! Read it and weep.

Plus, a golden handshake of 500,000 euros. His tenure, according to Jack,

“Reached a new low in Irish soccer.”

I was led into the super's office by a tank of a Guard who had, he said,

“A sister in Boston.”

He didn't ask if I knew her but it was there, hovering. Over and over in Ireland, I'd had this experience and saw the look of incredulity when I didn't know the aunt, niece, brother in just about any state of the union.

Clancy was behind a massive oak desk, strewn with files and papers. Dressed in full blue, he had a riot of decorations on the tunic. A big man, swollen even larger by good living, but with a brute force emanating, cautioned,

“Don't mistake flab for weakness.”

He stood up, extended a huge meaty hand, said,

“Always glad to welcome a Yank.”

Then to the other Guard,

“Tea for our visitor or would you prefer coffee? We even home-brew the best Colombian.”

And he waited.

I realized this was a joke and, a little behind, tried a smile, said,

“I'm good, thank you.”

His eyes crinkled and, to my horror, I realized more humor was coming.

He said,

“Better be good or we'll feel your collar.”

He came around the desk, gave me a resounding thump on the back, said,

“Just kidding. Sit your arse down and let me know how I can be of service.”

I was beginning to veer toward Jack's antipathy. I said,

“Um, it's a little delicate and may even sound far-fetched.”

He hovered over me, boomed,

“Trust me, lad, we've heard it all here, so spill. . . .”

And, alas, spill I did.

All.

The very mention of Jack had him on high alert. He listened without interruption until the whole sad, sordid saga was spent.

Moved back behind his desk, put his size twelves on the desk, said,

“Taylor is a drunk, a fabulist, he even believes some of his own fantasies. Much as I'd like your . . .”

Pause.

“Yarn to be true, it's horseshite. Even Taylor, with all his dodgy dealings and, dare I say, nefarious enterprises, not even he would quite stoop to such a lunatic scheme.”

He stood up.

I was being dismissed and, hate to admit, shamed. My cheeks burned. Clancy said,

“And let's face it, sonny, if you're his friend, he's even more bollixed than I thought. But, tell you what, if you ever get something solid—like date, time, location, give us a call. We live to serve.”

I'd gotten to the door, feeling as crushed as a Beckett character in a garbage bin, when Clancy said,

“If you intend to reside a while . . .”

He let contempt pour over that word, then,

“It might behoove you to remember that we tolerate most shenanigans on this proud little island of ours but . . .”

He stared me full in the face,

“But we fucking loathe informers.”

Later that day, a female Guard named Ridge, recently returned to the force after a horrendous accident, dropped the dime on me. To Jack!

It is biologically impossible for a human being to remain conscious in the face of such a potent weapon of narcolepsy as a modern . . . politician. Boring, snoring, Rachel Reeves isn't the only dull MP.

(Stephen Pollard, editor of
The Jewish Chronicle
)

Even if you're a brain surgeon, you're allowed to

be interested in your appearance.

(Alexandra Shulman, editor in chief of British
Vogue,
reassures women that it's all right to be clever and talk about frocks)

When I'd ventured to Jack my idea of writing about him, he said,

“Jesus, get a fuckin life.”

Undeterred, I continued and carefully (very), I'd ask him questions. He snapped,