The Ghosts of Galway, page 6
No wonder I drank.
Ghost No. 1, Jeremy Cooper, was back from his unexpected trip to the hospital. He had been stunned when the doctors told him his prognosis was bad, well … dire.
People react to such news in so many different ways.
Anger
Disbelief
Fear
All of the above.
Cooper wanted a cigarette.
His whole dream of ruling the city with his army of ghosts was just smoke in the Galway wind. Woody, his second in command, could see something was seriously wrong. His boss, his messiah, was weakened and, Christ, he looked sick. Cooper said,
“Our grand schemes are fucked.”
Obscenities from the master!
Cooper sighed, then,
“Get me a cigarette.”
That in itself was the sign of how things were. Previously, cigarettes were part of the list Cooper had banned. Not that Woody had stopped smoking; he’d stopped only in front of the boss. So he had to make a show of going to fetch some. He asked his own self,
“Fuck, now what?”
The ghosts were going to be famous and powerful and …
He tore open a pack of cigarettes, lit one, fumed in every sense.
He had managed to recruit ten followers, and what would he tell them now?
“Sorry guys, Armageddon is deferred.”
Traipsed back to Cooper, depression laying heavy on his mind. Cooper took a cig, fired up, then,
“Change of plan, if we’re going out, let us go out in style.”
Woody had no idea what this meant so said nothing. Cooper chucked the cig, said,
“Something major, have them gasp and exclaim, There be ghosts.”
Then Copper paused, thought. Said,
“At the hospital, I met a man who might be suitable for our plans. His name is Jack Taylor and, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you would find him in a pub.”
Woody felt a tinge of resentment, as if he was being considered less vital. Cooper caught the
Sense, soothed,
“I am blessed with you my man.”
Neither of them felt it carried much conviction.
Woody was in a quandary. He had so fervently believed the ghosts were the answer to everything but now Cooper was sounding very much like a guy who was quitting. Rage was simmering in every pore. He needed some fix to put him back on some meaningful track.
Confession.
His mother had gone faithfully every Saturday to be absolved for her sins. It didn’t seem to make her life a whole lot better but for a brief time she would be light and even singing. Fuck, he thought, a brief respite would be just fine.
Rang around the churches to see what times confessions were being held. Riled to find a tone of suspicion not to mention downright hostility from most of the churches. First lesson, it was no longer called confession but, get this,
“The sacrament of reconciliation.”
“But,”
He pleaded,
“Is it the same gig?”
Meaning,
“Will I be forgiven?”
The voice on the other end was beyond supercilious, sneered,
“I am hardly in a position to judge that.”
The sarcasm was loud and meant. Woody was enraged, said,
“Before I get forgiven, I’ll add you to my list of wrongdoing.”
Slammed down the phone. Eventually got times for the Cathedral. Headed up there.
Nervous now so stopped at the pub off Mary Street. A place where if you knew even one name of the Kardashians you were barred. Sunk two large Jamesons and, thus fortified, headed for reconciliation.
At the church, business was brisk. Post-Christmas blues providing a steady stream of folk keen to get something free, like forgiveness. Saw a young priest head into the confessional and thought,
Young is more likely to be accessible. The old codgers were holy terrors.
Got in there and began,
“Forgive me Father.”
Which was a bad start as he was at least twenty years older than the priest.
Then the booze hit and he amended.
“Whoa, hold the bloody phones, I forgive God.”
The young priest had been schooled in most situations but not this, he tried,
“I beg your pardon?”
Woody was having none of it, the Jameson flowing mad through his system. He echoed and mimicked.
“You beg my pardon? Too bloody right, mate, and you know what, I ain’t giving it.”
And then stormed out of the confessional, banged the door in as far as is possible in a church, ranted at the assembled penitents,
“Get up off your knees, have some fucking backbone.”
He was gone by the time the Guards arrived.
“Now that he was no longer subject to institutional rules governing brutality he felt free to hit people at will.”
(Kate Atkinson, Started Early, Took My Dog)
Back she came.
Emily.
Waiting in my apartment when I returned from walking the pup. The pup went apeshit with delight on seeing her so, no matter how I felt about her, it would always be tempered by the affection he felt for her. She was dressed like Jennifer Lawrence in American Hustle, all bad-ass grunge. I said,
“Nice to see you have no compunction about breaking into my place.”
Was she fazed?
Was she fuck.
Said,
“Mi cassia es su cassia”
She delighted in mangling language, any language. Then,
“Your neighbor is climbing Everest?”
She and Doc had had a brief, insane fling, which was a touchy subject for all of us. I asked,
“You guys are talking again?”
“Fuck no, I broke into his place.”
The last thing you ever did was ask her why, ever. She said,
“He might have to change them plans of glory.”
Now I had to ask,
“Why?”
She gave that smile of utter mischief, said,
“His tickets, itinerary?”
Made a whoosh with her hands, said in child’s voice,
“All gone.”
I shook my head, said,
“But you have to know he will have everything backed up on his laptop?”
The smile widened.
“No laptop, not no more, things we lost in the fire.”
“You set a fire?”
Wonderment now on her face, she said,
“No, you think I should?”
Man, she would exhaust a pope, and an infallible one at that. She said,
“The ghosts of Galway?”
“What?”
“Would be political shakers, tossers and losers really, I fucked one of ’em.”
“Where the hell is this going?”
Ignoring my question, she continued,
“That red book they think is some sort of magical oracle, I borrowed it from them.”
I said,
“I have not been so completely lost since the last episode of The Sopranos.”
She sighed dramatically, asked,
“You want the short version?”
“Please.”
The pup had given up and was snoring not so quietly in her lap. She said,
“The Red Book is supposed to be some sort of ecclesial time bomb. It isn’t, just a rip-off version of The Book of Kells. So a rogue cleric steals it, gets snuffed by the ghosts, and I relieve those idiots of it but they now have a new plan.”
I said,
“Let’s pretend I follow this. What is the ghost plan?”
She gave me the look that says
“For fuck’s sake.”
Then very patiently,
“They tried to get the attention of people by dumping animals in the square. Not a whole amount of interest so now they have devised a grand scheme.”
She rooted in her Marc Jacobs bag. I knew the bag as it said in bold letters Marc Jacobs. Produced a pack of Gauloises (they still made those?), then a chunky Zippo and fired up. In seconds we were on a Parisian boulevard and I asked,
“Thought you were into that whole new e-cig, vaping gig?”
Shook her head amid the cloud of French nicotine, said,
“That’s when I was a poseur.”
“And now?”
“I’m just a gal who got real.”
If ghosts there be
The ghosts of Galway
Are the whisper
You thought you heard
Along the wind that howls
From across the bay,
The wind that screams in the seconds
Before you wake
Touching you below
The shred of belief
You thought you had.
I was in the GBC, the old-style café off Eyre Square. Old-style in that they still treat you like you might matter. Frank Casserly is chef there for going on twenty years. If it is true that
Men cook to show off
And
Women cook so that people can eat
Then Frank is the exception to that. He cooks because it is his job. I had once rather foolishly asked him,
“Is it your vocation?”
Got the look and
“Don’t be a stupid bollix, Jack.”
Meaning I might be able to alter the stupidity but not the other.
I had just finished the neon nightmare of
Two fried eggs
Black pudding
Three rashers
Two fat sausages
Fried mushrooms
Thick white toast.
The carbs mutiny.
And supposedly the only real cure for a hangover. The thinking being that, if you can face that, how much were you hurting to begin with?
I came out and an outlaw shard of sunshine led me to beach on the square. Was lighting a cig, feeling if not optimistic, at least not suicidal. A young girl, fourteen at most, approached. She had that urchin look, like an escapee from a Dickens movie. The Orphan Annie vibe. Maybe Emily could adopt that for her next guise?
She marched right up to me, stated,
“Mr. Taylor.”
God only knew what she would want, so I snapped,
“Whatever it is you want or are proposing the answer is no.”
I felt almost righteous in my determination. She rocked back on her heels, said,
“How terribly rude.”
I waved her away, said,
“Whatever.”
She got right in my face, smelt vaguely of baby powder and good toothpaste, said,
“My teachers say I am advanced beyond my years and you, you, will do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”
I sighed, asked,
“And will you fuck the way off then?”
Stuck a finger in my face, said,
“Do not use that foul language to a young girl.”
Short of walloping her, she wasn’t going away. I said with deep resignation,
“Let’s hear your sad story.”
Now, hands on hips, she declared,
“Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Taylor. I had heard you retain a shred of decency.”
She’d heard wrong but I gave her my look of rapt attention. She took a deep breath, said,
“My little brother, Eamon, he is twelve, ran away from home, and I want you to bring him back.”
I shook my head, said,
“Go to the Guards.”
She gave me a look of scrutiny that only utter innocence can bestow and she saw nothing that promised the world would cut her any slack. She produced a battered purse, I think it might have had Our Lady of Perpetual Help on it, rooted in it, and came up with a handful of notes, said,
“I’ve been saving up for a bike but here, you take it.”
There are very few times I have much regard for my own self but right there I was verging on complete disgust. I asked,
“How much is there?”
She rolled her eyes, said,
“Hello, maybe nineteen euros.”
My cup finally overfloweth.
She added,
“I will need a receipt for that.”
Of course.
I asked,
“And your name?”
“Lorna.”
I muttered,
“Lorna Doone.”
Exasperated, she snapped,
“No, silly. Dunphy.”
I asked,
“Have you a photo?”
She produced a thick envelope, said,
“Everything is in there.
School
Age
Description
And my contact details.”
Paused
As if she heard something.
Then,
“I have to run.”
And run she did.
When I got back to the apartment I opened the package.
It was reams of blank paper.
I got on Google search and did indeed find her.
She was an only child.
I was walking the pup up the town and he didn’t much take to the mime artists. They spooked him.
Me too.
Heard,
“By the holy, Taylor.”
Father Malachy. My nemesis. The bane of my life in so many ways. We had a varied history and most of it bad. He stopped, cloud of nicotine over him, stared at the dog. Asked,
“Did you steal that poor creature?”
Low growl from the pup. He could sense my feelings instinctively. Not that he saw Malachy as a threat but rather a nuisance, like a bedraggled cat. Not to chase but to chastise.
Worked for me.
I said,
“Still smoking, eh?”
Ignored that, said,
“I’ve been thinking of your poor mother.”
Fuck, here we go.
I said,
“We all have our crosses.”
Looked like he wanted to wallop me, said,
“I think the poor woman was bipolar.”
Oh, man, I fucking laughed out loud, mimicked,
“Bipolar! Fucking beautiful, the greatest bitch to walk the earth and now it’s, like, oh, she couldn’t help it.”
He gave me a look bordering almost on pity, said,
“You are a bitter man.”
Just then, the girl Lorna Dunphy passed by, stopped, asked, no, demanded,
“Did you find my brother?”
Before I could answer, Malachy said,
“Lorna, run along now.”
And she did!
I stared at him and he rounded on me, near spat,
“Hope you haven’t been putting notions in that girl’s head?”
Jesus wept.
I said,
“She hired me to find her nonexistent brother.”
His eyes were on fire from rage and he accused,
“You took money from that poor creature?”
“Yeah, all of nineteen euros.”
He blessed himself, said,
“There is no end to your wickedness. That child suffers.”
I was all out of patience with the craziness that seemed to have infected the whole city, snarled,
“Let me guess, bipolar?”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand, said,
“You are a heartless excuse for a man.”
I ignored that, persisted.
“What is it with that girl, eh?”
He sighed, said,
“Like everyone else who has had dealings with you, she simply wanted one simple thing.”
I had to ask.
“What might that be?”
Like I could give a full fuck.
He said,
“To get your attention.”
Back at the apartment, I drew up a list of all the bizarre threads of my current life.
Who, what, were the ghosts of Galway?
What was the deal with the girl and the imaginary brother?
The Red Book.
Emily … Always Emily and her diffuse weirdness.
My former boss.
The dead ex-priest.
Sat back, looked at it.
Made no sense.
Tried to think how a thriller writer would throw out all these strands and then, presto, wrap them all up with a rugged hero, battered but unbowed, heading into an award-winning future.
I looked at the pup, asked,
“Got any ideas?”
He stared at the leash.
A pounding at the door put the heart sideways in me. The pup went into attack mode. I pulled the door open to a young Guard. I mean so young he seemed like a child in dress-up but what was old was his attitude. Already bitter and malignant, he near shouted,
“Are you …”
Consulted his notes.
“John Trainor?”
“No.”
Rattled him.
If it was in the notebook, it had to be true. He tried,
“Name?”
I said,
“Jack Taylor.”
Again with the notebook, then,
“Your neighbor was burgled, you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“Mind if I have a look inside?”
“Got a warrant?”
He had obviously watched lots of cop shows, asked in a tough tone,
“Wanna play hardball?”
“I want to know if you have a warrant. If not, fuck off.”
Kinda hardball.
He reeled back, lost for a moment. I said,
“Get Sergeant Ridge.”
“She know you?”
“She’d know where to look.”
And I shut the door. Heard him mutter about dog license. The pup didn’t seem too concerned.
* * *
Over the years, I’ve made one hell of a lot of bad decisions. If there was a bad way to do things, I was your guy. Whatever about the road less traveled, I always took the road to despair. Be nice to think I’d learned from experience.
Nope.
Now, as I surveyed the list of bafflements, I thought I really needed to know what the deal was with the girl who claimed to have a missing brother.
Lorna Dunphy.
Found where she lived easily. Or where her home was. Off Merchants Road. A small beleaguered section of old Galway that still hadn’t fallen to the developers. Put on my Garda allweather, black 501s, my Doc Martens with the steel toe caps, and figured I was ready for just about anything.
Figured wrong.
Met my neighbor Doc outside my door, asked,
“You think I stole your laptop?”
