Read Green Hell for Free Online Page B

else, I’d kick your fucking head in.”
    Aine shouted,
    â€œLeave him alone. I’ll call the Guards!”
    He turned to her and the manic rage seemed to ebb. He said,
    â€œJesus, the Guards! You two deserve each other.”
    He looked down at me, said,
    â€œYou sorry excuse for a man.”
    And then threw some notes onto the counter, said to the stunned barman,
    â€œBuy these two beauts a drink, something yellow,
    And weak as piss.”
    I would prefer to be in a coma
    and just be woken up and wheeled
    out onstage and play and then put back
    in my own little world.
    (Kurt Cobain)
    It was Aine who declared,
    â€œOK, if you’re going to do a book on that . . .”
    She faltered,
    â€œAsshole,”
    Then,
    â€œYou’re going to have to be the scholar we keep hearing you are.”
    I wasn’t sure where this was going, said,
    â€œNot sure where this is going.”
    She stifled her impatience, explained,
    â€œSources . . . research, talk to the people who know/knew him.”
    Made sense.
    Within a few days I had a list.
    Like this,
    Assorted barpersons.
    A woman named Ann Henderson, supposedly the one and only great love of his life. Of course, as used in Taylorland, the affair had ended badly with Ann marrying another Guard, an archenemy of Jack. Indeed, it was hard to find people who weren’t enemies of his, arch or otherwise.
    Cathy and Jeff, the parents of the Down syndrome child whose death was widely attributed to Jack’s negligence.
    Ban Garda Ridge, a sometime accomplice, confidante, and conspirator of Jack’s.
    Father Malachy. A close friend of Jack’s late mother and someone who’d known Jack for over twenty years. I was hoping he’d shed some light on Jack’s hard-on for the Church. In light of the recent clerical scandals, maybe hard-on was a poor choice of noun.
    A solicitor who’d haphazardly dealt with Jack’s numerous escapades with the Guards.
    There was a Romanian, Caz, whose name featured often but he’d apparently been deported in one of the government sweeps.
    The Tinkers were among the few who held Jack in some sort of ethnic regard.
    Father Malachy was the parish priest at St. Patrick’s, the church of note for Bohermore. I had called ahead and, on arrival, was met by a nun. She was so old that she was practically bent in two. I wasn’t sure if I should acknowledge her physique and stoop to her level. Jack would have said we’d bent down enough for the Church. She raised a feeble arm, pointed, said,
    â€œThe Father is in the sacristy.”
    I tried,
    â€œI don’t wish to disturb him.”
    In a surprisingly terse tone, she snapped,
    â€œAry, he’s been disturbed for years.”
    Then declared,
    â€œYou’re a Yank!”
    â€œUm . . . yes.”
    â€œI have a sister in San Francisco, with the Sisters of the Pure of Heart.”
    Wow, so many ways to play with that line. But she asked,
    â€œDid you bring something?”
    . . . Just an attitude . . .
    I said,
    â€œNo, should I have?”
    â€œAnd they say Yanks are flaithiúil (generous).”
    I headed down the aisle and she fired,
    â€œYou’re already on the wrong foot.”
    Every day is a gift. . . .
    but does it have to be a
    pair of socks?
    (Tony Soprano)
    Father Malachy was almost invisible behind a cloud. The effect was startling, as if a Stephen King fog or mist had enshrouded him. Then the stale fetid smell of nicotine hit like a hammer. He was in his late fifties, with a face mottled by rosacea, broken veins, and what I guess can only be described as lumps. He was dressed in clerical black, dandruff like a shroud on his shoulders. And I have to be mistaken, but the magazine he wiped off the cluttered desk seemed a lot like the National Enquirer .
    Surely not?
    He peered at me, rheumy-like, and, with not one hint of compassion, he snapped,
    â€œWhat’d you want?”
    I said,
    â€œI’m Boru