The Emerald Lie (2 page)

Kernan was skeptical, rightly so in light of my history.

I had left Ireland as often as the government did a decent thing. He asked,

“They serve Jameson there?”

I let that slide.

Then the semi-frivolous

“What are you reading, Jack?”

“Jason Starr, Gerard Brennan, Hilary Davidson, Eoin Colfer.”

“And music?”

“Johnny Duhan and Marc Roberts.”

“TV?”

“Lot of documentaries.”

Enron

The Armstrong Lie

Paul Kimmage,
Rough Rider

Meet the Mormons

Conspiracy

And of course,
Spiral, Luck, Orange Is the New Black, The Killing
(Season 4), and revisited some movies:

Killing Them Softly

The Insider

I then tore the arse out of the government over medical cards, water charges, and all the other despicable acts they laid on us daily. We finished up after that and, of course, a day later I would think of many witty wise remarks I could, should have said but, like the Church, it was all smoke. As Kernan prepared to leave, he stopped, asked,

“Whatever happened to that girl, Emily, you were hanging with for a bit?”

Indeed.

Green hell.

Phew-oh.

Where to begin?

Times are, a person comes into your life and maybe enriches it, or adds to it, then there are those who simply disrupt your balance. The third kind blitzkrieg into your existence and shatter every possible level of your being.

Such was Emerald/Emily, and many other aliases in between. Half girl, most ways lethal woman. A homicidal, compassionate,
funny, mad bitch of a dervish who truly defies easy categorization. Think Becky Sharp, crossed with Scarlett O’Hara, sprinkled with Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander, and topped off with Carol O’Connell’s Mallory.

Even thus, I sell her short.

Not one day did she appear in the same guise, never mind the same personality. She told me she laid out identities on her bed in the morning like clothes and slipped into whatever character was waiting. Be it

Helpful

Murderous

Hilarious

Maddening

Aggressive

And true, she got me out of all kinds of deep shite and as she did so, dropped me into chasms of utter dismay. My pup Storm was a gift from her. She may or may not have killed her father and a psycho who had torn my previous dog to bits.

I felt for her:

Love

Hatred

Affection

Consternation

Admiration

And she preyed on my mind like mild paranoia. Then she simply upped and disappeared, leaving an e-mail address

…
[email protected]

During the time she’d been in my life, she crossed paths with my ex-friend and ally Garda Ridge. Newly promoted to sergeant. They had gone to it like soured sisters, and on points I’d have to concede that Emily won. Ridge only referred to her as

…
psycho bitch.

Like that.

Not a whole lot of love riffing. Emily’s father, a nasty piece of shit, had been a major player in academic circles and was suspected of multiple assaults, perhaps even murder of young students. He was found with a nail in his head. For a time I was lead suspect and Emily provided a highly dubious but unbreakable alibi. Further not endearing her to Sergeant Ridge.

I strongly suspected that one dark day Emily would be back on the scene. Something about the Galway air had lodged in her bones and she sure did love to mind-fuck the city. Too, her alcoholic mother still lived on the outskirts of town, not that Emily actually gave a sweet fuck about her but she did like the family home. Had said,

“I’d like to inherit the family residence.”

Surprised, I’d replied,

“Didn’t really figure sentiment in your agenda.”

She gave that laugh that no matter how infuriating she was, you couldn’t help but warm to her. She had looked me right in the eye and said,

“I want to see it burn.”

While I was in mid-interview, the Grammarian was adding the letter
i
to his murderous list. This time, he offed a teenager at the Galway docks. A cruise ship had tried to dock but the port couldn’t handle the size and the two hundred or so shop-anxious passengers who might have been ferried to the shore to satisfy their retail mania had to simmer on deck as the rain came lashing down and this cost the city a small fortune in lost sales. The Dublin council would come in for another whipping but this was par for its muddled course. An asshole running the council refused to budge on the Garth Brooks concerts, stonewalling the five concerts due to give the country a badly needed uplift.

There was even a personal plea by Garth, who begged the Taoiseach, saying,

“I will crawl on my hands and knees if that is what it takes but let the people have a party.”

Enda Kenny, as was now his wont, showed total scorn for the population and rebuffed the offer in just about as rude a fashion as he could muster.

And … with that knowing smirk he usually reserved for when he was threatening us with the water charges. It would cost the nation nigh on fifty-six million in lost revenue, not to mention the goodwill of close to a million voters.

The teenager mentioned above had pushed an elderly man, sneering,

“Outta my way, yah old fuck.”

The Grammarian had moved right in and shot the idiot in the back of the head. And strolled away. He was dressed in a blue overall and carrying a clipboard. The ultimate disguise.

Superintendent Clancy had gone ballistic.

“In front of a cruise ship of Yanks?”

… as if that were the real crime.

Ridge was given a whole new arsehole after he had reamed her and told her to catch this perp or go back to uniform.

The Galway Races came and I backed a horse named Road to Riches who won at six to one, giving my account in Bank of Ireland some credibility. I meanwhile continued to walk the dog and had taken a new and odd route to reading. I was letting each book lead to another direction. For example, the Lance Armstrong book led me to
Double Down
, a fascinating account of the 2012 U.S. election. Which brought me to Joe McGinniss’s book on Sarah Palin, which led me to
Freakonomics
, and thus back to Nick Kent with his superb book on music,
Apathy for the Devil.

I don’t quite know what this speaks to regarding my state of mind save to suggest I was befuddled but highly engaged.

And then I collapsed. Right on Shop Street. The frigging shame. One minute I was considering having a pint in Garavan’s then next I am on my back, staring at the gray sky, wondering,

“How the fuck did that happen?”

Result, I spent three days in hospital. My only visitor was my next-door neighbor. The Guards had come round and told him my arse was stretched. He brought grapes, if not of wrath, at least of thoughtfulness. And

Essential.

“A bottle of Seven-Up.”

Yeah, right.

It was in that bottle but was 58 proof. He said,

“A pick-me-up.”

And he was taking the dog for walks and feeding the mite. Said,

“He’s pining for you.”

I smiled, said,

“He’d be the first.”

He gave a rueful nod, then,

“Sure that’s not so.”

I managed to sit up despite the line of tubes and shite they had trailing out of me, said,

“Not self-pity, it’s just that every close friend I had got burned.”

He laughed.

“Sounds like you’re warning me off.”

“Fuck no, you mind my dog, you are gold, my man.”

True that.

I had a serious fright on my second day in hospital, the doctors saying they had to do some tests. You hear that, don’t make plans. Did I worry?

Did I fuck.

I had two crushed fingers, fucked hearing, a limp, and damn nigh every addiction guaranteed to shorten your days. So, no, optimistic I wasn’t. Would I go the Walter White route and undergo heavy treatment?

Nope.

I hadn’t the balls but I did bargain.

You grow up Catholic, you still think you have options. I said to God,

“Give me a reprieve and I’ll …”

… What?

“Go to confession.”

Phew-oh.

Nearly enough to wish for a bad result.

I got the good news.

Clear.

Not that I didn’t get the full-on lecture: change habits; eat vegan; no booze, cigs, or indeed anything worth breathing for. Winding up, the doctor said,

“You should be dead, the way you have treated your system. You are one lucky man.”

I smiled, said,

“Oh, yeah, lucky, that’s me.”

They used to say that any day you can wake up and eat a boiled egg you are ahead of the game. I hate fucking eggs. On my way back from the hospital, I stopped at the cathedral, looked in vain for a list of confession times. In my youth, Saturday night, the whole town lined up for the ordeal of weekly confession. Everyone tried to avoid Father Healy. He was one biblical bastard and you never got out without the very wrath of God in your ears. And he was loud. You’d hear, as some poor bollix withered in his box,

“You beat your wife, you neglected your children, you disgrace the very faith you profess.”

Then there was Father Neill, a soft touch. He let you off with a quiet penance of six Hail Marys. You could see the lines outside his box, no one at Healy’s. I was staring at a confessional when a priest approached. In his late fifties, he looked cowed. Most did nowadays. The lynch mob wasn’t exactly at the gate but hovering. He asked,

“May I be of some service?”

This new gentle diplomacy was hard to stomach. When you’d grown up with Gestapo-like fucks ruling the parish, it was difficult to turn on sixpence. I said,

“Don’t they post times of confession anymore?”

He gave a sad smile, said,

“It’s called the sacrament of reconciliation now.”

I shook my head, asked,

“And does it, you know, reconcile?”

He nearly smiled but bit down on it, put out his hand, said,

“I’m Father Thomas.”

“Jack, Jack Taylor.”

A light in his eyes, then,

“Weren’t you recently in the paper?”

Fame.

Or if a priest recognizes you, perhaps infamy. I nodded, and he indicated I could sit … or maybe kneel because those days were long over. He said,

“Perhaps I could help you?”

I was already planning how to get the fuck out of there without fuss, said,

“Thank you for your time …” (I just couldn’t use
Father
) “Tom.”

“Thomas.”

I nearly laughed, snapped,

“Still with the corrections I see.”

He caught himself, tried,

“I didn’t mean … what I wanted to offer was if you wished me to hear your …”

Now he didn’t know what to call it. I let him off, said,

“Naw, I figure I’ll live with the gig I’m playing.”

I reached into my wallet, handed over a rash of notes. He made a feeble gesture of protest, said,

“There’s no need, I haven’t done anything.”

I was at the door when I said,

“And right there is the reason you guys are hiding out.”

I dipped my hand in the holy water font but it was empty. Seemed apt.

I’d barely got to Salmon Weir Bridge where all the fish had long since ceased jumping, poisoned like the country, when a homeless guy approached, with, I have to say, attitude, thinking,

“This shuck came out of the church, got to be good for piety.”

Figured wrong.

He pushed,

“Gimme something for a meal.”

“Why?”

Stymied him but he rallied.

“Because I’m suffering.”

“Me, too,” I said.

I was having a breakfast of sorts in the GBC. Still the only oldstyle restaurant in the city and with prices that were reasonable. The cook, Frank Casserly, came out to say hello and asked,

“Fry-up?”

Indeed.

This was

Two sausages

Two fried eggs

Two rashers

And thick-cut slices of bread.

No black pudding or beans.

My doctor would have had a coronary. Sometimes you just have to fuck with a diagnosis. My food arrived as a man approached my table. He asked,

“May I join you?”

Looked at my food, said,

“Not really.”

He sat, said,

“I won’t need long.”

I had just started on the bacon when he slid a manila envelope across the table. I snapped,

“Hey, if I wanted company I’d have brought my dog.”

He was in his late fifties, good suit, remnants of a tan, groomed silver hair, but an air of pain, as if he’d been recently bereaved.
That look I know. I finished the food, began on the tea, than picked up the envelope, asked,

“Is this going to piss me off?”

An expression lit across his eyes, fleeting but I saw it, utter horror. He said,

“It’s my daughter, Karen.”

A beautiful girl in a graduation mortarboard and gown, had that classic Irish look, the dark eyes, dark hair, and bold expression. I said,

“She’s a beauty; is she missing?”

I kept my tone neutral, as if it mattered not a jot.

He said,

“My name is Tom Shea, I run the accountant firm near the courthouse.”

I knew them, players.

Then he reached into his jacket, produced a sheaf of photos, said,

“This is her …”

A beat.

“After.”

I did not want to see. I knew it would be bad and I knew even more that I did not want any part of it. I had enough money not to have to worry for a time and I was so wrecked by the last years of

Utter devastation

That I had no energy for anything but walking the dog. He whispered,

“Please.”

Fuck.

I took the photos and scanned them, my breakfast rebelled, tried to repeat, I said,

“Holy Jesus.”

They were bad; no, awful in the biblical sense. I had seen mutilations, batterings, torture, but this was new.

New in its complete