Green Hell (6 page)

Jack began to join him at the counter, freely buying him rounds, creating an artificial camaraderie through drink. The guy liked to talk a lot.

A few sessions in, Jack slipped de Burgo into the chat, began,

“Professor de Burgo seems to be highly respected.”

No one pisses on academics like their colleagues. The guy didn't disappoint, muttered,

“Cock of the fucking English Department.”

Gently prodding, needling, Jack brought the prey to play, said,

“A firm favorite of the ladies, I hear.”

Bingo!

The torrent opened, accompanied by a huge “umph.”

“Ladies' man, my arse. He lines up all the naive starry-eyed first-year students, grooms them, and then . . . in his words . . .”

He took a hefty belt of the Jay, as if what was coming needed lubrication, certainly artificial strength, said,

“Nails the cunts.”

Jack bit back his own ice-cold fury, asked quietly,

“How does he get away with it?”

No hesitation.

“Connected. The Garda super, half the city's movers and shakers, they're his golf buddies.”

Jack wondered how much he could reveal of what Sister Maeve had told him of the condition of the girls, went with,

“I've been told those girls are in a bad way.”

He nodded ruefully, said,

“Time back, I'd a bottle of Old Midleton, a real fine vintage, got buried into it with the professor, and recklessly observed, ‘Jesus, you could kill one of those girls.'”

Jack said,

“Bet that rattled him.”

He glanced up at the TV. Sky News was reporting on 25,000 lost in the Philippines typhoon. Some horrors are of such magnitude you can't grasp them. He shook his head, seeing but not assimilating. He said,

“De Burgo laughed, said, ‘One can always dream.'”

Then he abruptly stood, glared as if Jack stole something from him, said,

“I don't think I want to talk to you anymore.”

Jack sat for a time, his mind careering amid nails, typhoons, and stray snatches of conversation from other drinkers. Their main topic was the appointment of Martin O'Neill as Ireland's new manager with the red-hot announcement of his assistant, Roy Keane.

Keane was a tornado of a whole different caliber. The government was pleased, took the spotlight off its cancellation of medical cards for children with Down syndrome. Jack ordered another pint, watched the slow build of the black, and thanked some deity for at least one unchanged staple.

Next on my list of Taylor trails was Ban Garda Ni Iomaire. Female Guard Ridge. Now a sergeant, she'd only recently returned to duty after a horrific accident. My data were meager. She was gay, combative, and once a close Taylor ally.

Now, she was simply elusive. I'd left messages, called the station, and hit a brick wall. Finally it was Aine who tracked her down. They attended the same gym. She agreed to meet me in Java coffee shop. I'm not sure what I expected. A woman who not only survives in the Guards but gets promoted, well, she was hardly going to be a shrinking violet.

The first surprise was her size; she was small, almost petite. She moved with a grace due perhaps to her kickboxing training. A large gash across her forehead testified to the gravity of her recent accident. I was sitting and rose as she approached. She snapped,

“Spare me the gallant shite.”

Oh, boy!

She sat, leveled hard brown eyes on me, asked,

“You a Jack fan?”

I stammered,

“Um . . .”

She ordered,

“You pushed to meet me and now what, you're shy? Jesus!”

Oh, Lord, another ballbuster. I decided on diplomacy, asked,

“How are you after the accident?”

Big, big mistake.

“Accident! Do you know me? No, so why would you give a toss as to how I am or do you mean the train wreck that is Taylor?”

It was probably too late to run. So, haltingly I told her of my project, the book on Jack and my plan to interview those who know him.

She appeared to be only half-listening as she ordered herbal tea. The waitress was having some difficulty with this, asked,

“You do know this is called Java? The hint is in the name, meaning, ‘Hello?' We serve coffee.”

Before this escalated, I put in my two cents, said,

“Chamomile is good.”

No kidding, they both glared at me. Ridge said,

“You hear anybody ask you?”

Maybe they were sisters! Certainly related in animosity. We waited until her tea came, she didn't touch it, just fixed me with that stare, the one that says,

“Let's hear it, asshole.”

I asked,

“How would you describe Jack?”

“A feckless drunk.”

OK.

I waited.

Nothing further.

I tried,

“But he did have a certain measure of success. I mean . . . with your assistance of course.”

She rolled her eyes, then,

“Cases got solved despite him, not because of him.”

I felt frustration building but strove for an even tone, asked,

“So why did you hang in there all these years?”

Her body language altered, not a lot but a modicum less of steel. Maybe chamomile is underrated. She said,

“Time was, I thought the light shone stronger in Jack than the darkness. I believed he was running from the ugliness, the brutality. But I was wrong. All the time, he was courting it until finally it became not a part of him but all of him.”

I said,

“Wow, that's a bleak picture.”

She was done, stood up, said,

“He's a bleak man.”

Desperate, I asked,

“Surely there is at least one redeeming feature?”

She seemed to consider that, then,

“He knows who he is. If that's a point in his favor, then he's even more fucked than I've said.”

She had reached the door when a thought hit her. She came back, leaned over the table, got right in my face. She was proof that sheer physical intimidation has less to do with build than intent. She said,

“You want, as you Yanks say . . .”

hissed this,

“. . . a sound bite?”

She let me taste that, then,

“A blurb, isn't that what they call them? Hell, you could even use it as a title, Jack Taylor is

a

Spit

in

the

Face.”

Then she was gone.

I wiped at my face as if spittle had landed there.

The only difference between

a rut and a grave

is the dimensions.

(Jack Taylor)

Aine was hugely excited, called me to say we had to meet, she had great news.

OK?

We meet in Crowe's, she ordered a vodka, slimline tonic. I had a pint of Smithwick's. I loved Guinness but, oh man, that sucker sits in your gut like lead. She looked, oh, my God, so darn pretty, and all lit up, gave a glow to eyes already on fire. I went,

“S'up?”

The Budweiser ref was lost on her. She gushed,

“Guess what?”

“You won the Lotto?”

Seemed to be an Irish response.

“No. Professor de Burgo offered me a position as a research assistant and he'll help me return to college as a mature student.”

I felt fingers of ice sneak along my spine. Before I could say something reckless, she said,

“I knew you'd be delighted for me. It means I can talk to you properly about your work.”

I wanted to protest,

“Jack is my work.”

But went with,

“What about your job?”

She lit up even more.

“Oh, sweetheart, that is so you. Concerned for my welfare.”

Uh-huh.

She continued,

“I can still keep my day job and do the research in the evenings.”

Halle-fuckin-lujah.

More.

“The professor has great admiration for you.”

Yeah . . . right.

Her effusiveness was not catching. I tried for something that wouldn't sound sour, sound lame, I went with,

“I wonder why he chose you?”

Her expression changed and not for the good. She snapped,

“What does that mean?”

This is where a smart guy folds his tent. But no, dumb ass had to push it.

Like this,

“Just seems odd that with all the hundreds of students actually there, I mean, who are like, you know, really students?”

Oh, fuck!

She was on it, repeated, with venom,

“Really students!”

You're in a hole, stop friggin digging. I dug.

“You know what I mean. It's not like you're an obvious Lit type.”

Sweet Jesus, did I say that aloud?

She stared at me for a long moment, as if really seeing me, then literally drew back, gathered her things, said,

“Fuck you.”

And was gone.

The barman came by, asked,

“Anything else?”

“Something seriously amnesiac.”

Jack was listening to a very drunk guy who was in mid-­monologue. The diatribe had begun in a vaguely promising manner, with even flashes of a sub-Proust/Joycean flavor, but was deteriorating fast.

Like,

“So, Jack, I'm asking you, there's this guy on
I'm a Celebrity
. . . the fuckin awful jungle reality show. This bollix has got a ten-thousand-euro Rolex and, I kid you not, he's an adult but he cannot read the time.”

He stops, astounded by the lunacy and bewildered by the Jameson. Shook his head, continued,

“. . . What's with the world, Jack, like we're celebrating the culture of ignorance. That wanker Simon Cowell says the secret to success is being lazy and lucky.”

He stared at a fresh pint, a Jay as old outrider, puzzlement on his face, like

“How'd that happen?”

Shrugged, reached for one.

A low rumble came from the man's stomach and an almost rictus crawled down from his hairline. Jack knew that gig. Had borne lonely witness to it his own lonely self, a thousand times over every brand of toilet bowl on the planet. Jack looked around, no one else noticed and certainly no one cared.

He said quietly,

“Incoming.”

The man vomited all over the counter. A small volcano of Technicolor gunk. A piece of green testified to the last attempt at food. People were backing away fast, exclaiming,

“Aw, for fuck's sake.”

Or

“There goes the neighborhood.”

Jack turned to the barman, said,

“Now that's a Kodak moment.”

Aine refused to answer my calls. I even fell back on the hackneyed gesture of flowers. They were returned. Sat on my coffee table, slowly dying. My mother had believed if you slip an aspirin into the water, the flowers will last.

Right.

Like my life, they withered. In studying Jack, I had fallen into the most obvious trap for a biographer. I was too close. Worse, in many ways my life was now imitating Jack's. I had alienated my few friends, driven away my girlfriend, and, oh, sweet heaven, not only was I talking like him, I was steadily drinking like him. To some, strolling into a pub, having the barman holler,

“The usual?”

is some lame sign of arrival.

The fuck with that.

See, even the cussing.

A more worrying trait was the anger. Close up I had witnessed Jack's volatile temper. When in doubt, he lashed out. The gauge was permanently set at aggressive.

I found a new simmering rage developing daily. All my brief life, I had been the mellow dude, my mantra,

“Whoa, let it slide, buddy.”

I'd discovered a curious phenomenon about living alone.

The utter stillness.

If you don't move, nothing does. The very air seems to be suspended. Then you walk the length of the apartment, it's as if you are part of that atmosphere and it closes behind you. No wonder people crammed their homes with kids, TV, radio, dogs, other people. Noise to break that eerie silence. Jack punctuated it with Jameson. I was beginning to understand a little more of what drove him.

I'd been almost feverish in my compulsion to contact Aine. Had been to her apartment probably a few more times than was prudent. Her roommate finally said,

“Just fuck off.”

And, too, I probably sent more texts than was appropriate. Worse, I'd been to her mother's house. Oh, Gawd, wish I hadn't. The woman was polite but adamant, advised,

“Time for you to move on, son.”

Still. I thought, if I could see her. . . . Hung around the college until a porter finally asked me my business. I didn't play that well and though he didn't actually lay hands on me, he did say,

“Don't let me catch you here again.”

How did this even happen? I was a successful American doctoral candidate with a prestigious scholarship and I was skulking around like a love-torn puppy.

Not cool, dude.

Then the oddest thing. I had been out all day, paying utilities, soaking up the Galway vibe, even spoke to Jimmy Norman, the coolest DJ on Galway radio. The guy had, get this, a cordon bleu, a master's degree in business, a daily show on early morning radio . . . and . . . a pilot's license. The whole new man . . . seriously? And when I had coffee with him, he amazed me with his knowledge of local politics. I felt I was becoming, if not one of the players, at least the guy who knew them. Then, on to the
Galway Advertiser
to meet with Declan Varley, the editor, and Kernan Andrews, the arts/entertainment, go-to guy. All these dudes were young, smart, clued in, and a testament to the whole new generation of Irish who bowed down to freaking nobody. I was pumped, wired on possibilities. To be American in Galway was still to be blessed with remnants of Kennedy afterglow. On the fiftieth anniversary of JFK's death, it was still currency to be a Kennedy. Man, I played that gene card.

Got back to my apartment, buzzing, the endless possibilities, and then . . .

Something off.

Stood in the middle of my living room, sensed the air had been disturbed. A new presence had, oh, so slightly, altered the air. I checked thoroughly. My iPad, TV, all there. The sense of an intruder was almost palpable. I didn't know what to make of it. I also didn't know that by this stage Aine had been dead for two days.