Swine flu continued to stalk, slow but deadly, across the land. The death toll higher than the government would admit. But hey, they had good news: we’d only a year to wait for the vaccine.
And just to add a kick in the balls, they said,
“It will be administered according to priorities.”
Meaning the likes of me, and such, weren’t on the top ten. I passed down by HMV, who were touting Season Three of Dexter, the serial killer who only kills the bad guys.
Maybe we could import him.
Then down past Abracadabra, the home of the drunkard’s beloved late-night kebab. I turned at what used to be Moon’s shop and is now the posh Brown Thomas, selling the latest Gucci handbag at the amazing price of only three thousand euros.
I doubt my late dad ever saw three thousand pounds his whole wretched life.
Passed Golden Discs, now closed (the lease had run out), and reached the Abbey Church. Recently renovated, it looked much the same except the price of a mass card had skyrocketed. I dipped my fingers in the holy water font, blessed myself and headed for St. Anthony’s altar. I lit a candle for Malachy and for my legion of dead and departed. The rate those I knew were dying, I could open my own private cemetery, issue loyalty cards, and, why not, air miles.
You want something from Saint Anthony, it’s real simple,
“Pay him.”
I did.
Shoved a large note in the slot and momentarily was lost for words,
So many dead.
The best and the brightest as always. I prayed for a little girl, Serena-May, who still tore the heart out of my chest.
Back when I’d been trying to find who killed Stewart’s sister, I spent a lot of hours with the Down syndrome child of my close friends Jeff and Cathie. The little girl filled me with wonder and yearning; I felt my life had some meaning. Her gurgle of delight when I read to her did what gallons of Jameson failed to do: it gave me ease. Her terrible death, literally in my presence, was a lament of such horrendous proportions that I had a complete breakdown and was in a mental hospital for months. Some things you never reconcile and Serena-May was my daily burden of love and care, crushed beyond all recognition.
I prayed for Cody, my surrogate son, dead because of me. Back in the time of the Tinkers, I’d taken on a young impressionable kid, one of those wannabe American young Irish who saw the world through a cinema lens. In the beginning, I’d given him literally errands to run but, over time, we’d developed a bond, so that I came to regard him as the son I’d never have. It was a time of richness, of joy, of fulfillment in my shattered life. And, what the Gods give….they sure as fuck take away.
Mercilessly.
He was cut down by a crazed sniper with a hard-on for me.
His loss was a cross I’d never climb down from.
Finally, I asked that I might find a modicum of peace.
It’s not what you read, or even study, it’s how you bend the material to shape and endorse your own dark designs.
– Caz, Romanian domiciled in Galway
The basement was lit by thirteen black candles. A flat slab of granite in the rough design of a headstone was supported by beer crates and acted as a table. Three ordinary kitchen chairs were placed thus:
Two on the right side.
One, almost forlorn, on the left.
Top of the table was an ornate throne, rescued from a theatrical shop-like most businesses, gone bust, and the throne had been dumped in the skip. It had been cleaned up and now was alight with velvet cushions and a decorative banner, proclaiming “The New Order.”
Behind, pinned on the wall were: A-a large swastika. B-a black-and-white reproduction of a school. C-a worn, battered T-shirt of one of the death metal groups.
On the right side of the table were two brothers, Jimmy and Sean Bennet. They could have passed as twins but Sean was actually three years older. They both had long black hair that they seemed to take turns in flicking out of their respective eyes. They came from one of the wealthiest, oldest Galway families and had inherited, aside from shitloads of cash: 1-Arrogance. 2-Entitlement. 3-Deep seething malignant resentment.
An Irish version of the Menendez brothers but it was unlikely they’d even heard of that infamous duo. They had a limited range of knowledge, like the product of all the wealthiest schools. They smoked continuously, Marlboro Red, and had identical Zippos, chunky ones with the logo:
Headstone.
Opposite them was the girl. Currently answering to Bethany. That changed as frequently as her mood. Her current look was Goth, deathly pale face, black mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and, of course, raven hair to her shoulders. As Ruth Rendell titled her novel,
An Unkindness of Ravens.
She was very pretty beneath all of the gunk and she knew it. More, she knew how to use it. She was twenty- three, burning with a rage even she no longer knew the motive for. She had embraced hatred with all the zeal of a zealot and relished the black fuel it provided.
On the throne was Bine.
Older than all of them and so intoxicated by power he never even thought of his real name anymore. In front of him was a small bust of Charles Darwin. Bine had studied and completely misunderstood what he read.
His crew were as he’d ordered, dressed in black sweatshirts, combat pants, and Doc Martens. With the metal toe installed. To his side was a wooden crate containing:
Six grenades.
Three assault rifles.
A riot of handguns.
Eight sticks of gelignite.
Two years, count ’em, two fucking years, to bribe, cajole, steal to assemble that arsenal. They were, he felt, almost… almost ready. He gestured to Bethany, said,
“Drinks.”
Like most raised in privileged fashion, he had no fucking manners.
A fleeting frown crossed her face but she rose, fetched the bottle of Wild Turkey, the inevitable bottles of Coke,
…. cos everything goes better with it, right
Brought them to the table, thinking,
“Same old macho bullshit.”
Jimmy, always anxious to please, fetched the heavy Galway Crystal tumblers and Bethany poured lethal dollops of the Turkey, with a splatter of Coke, handed the first to Bine.
He raised his, toasted,
“To chaos.”
As was the custom, they near finished the drinks on a first attempt and all managed to stem the
“Holy fuck” that such a dose of Wild demanded.
Bine, his cheeks aflame, said,
“To business.”
Sean stood.
Once, he’d sat while reporting and Bine slashed his face with the Stanley knife. Sean said,
“Attacks:
We’ve hit the old priest, the lesbian, and await your next target.”
Bine moved his finger, meaning
“Refills.”
That done, he almost seemed relaxed. He caressed his manifesto.
By mangling Darwin, he’d managed to convince them of the urgency of ridding the city of: the misfits, the
