Read The Devil for Free Online Page B

rare
    species -
    ' Y o u ever heard of Sawyers in Salthill?'
    She gave me an odd look so I pushed,
    'What?'
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    KEN BRUEN
    She looked round her, like someone might hear, then leant
    i n , smelling of a really subtle perfume, said,
    'Jack, blow-ins - f r o m D u b l i n , I t h i n k , but very
    dangerous. Stay well away from them.'
    A n d she was gone, w i t h that expression like she'd already
    said too much.
    T i p p i n g is not the practice in Ireland. Like zip codes, we
    haven't quite got that far. But you know, fuck it, I left twenty
    Euro, then paid the bill.
    As I headed out Cecily shouted,
    ' G o d mind you w e l l . Jack.'
    Somebody needed to.
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    7
    'My soul was mortgaged so long ago.'
    K B
    N o t sure what exactly to do, I headed for the park where the
    girl had been found.
    The L o r d and I don't do a whole lot of biz these days. As
    Patrick H a m i l t o n wrote, 'Those w h o m G o d has deserted are
    given a bedsit and electric fire in Earl's Court.'
    Nun's Island was a long spit from Earl's Court, but the
    deal was much the same.
    Solitary.
    I'd tried, even went to Mass for a bit, but it didn't pan
    out. The collection dish had been passed round and it had
    an edict on it:
    ' N o coins! Notes only.'
    I'd been tempted to write a note to put in there.
    A n d I'd been on my knees in the Claddagh church,
    begging G o d to spare the life of my beloved surrogate son.
    He didn't.
    So I figured I'd muddle through and not bother G o d a
    whole lot. He seemed to have important issues, like
    tsunamis, starvation, etc. to be attending to.
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    KEN BRUEN
    Do I sound bitter?
    Like the Americans so nicely put it,
    'Fucking A . '
    A n d as if G o d had indeed heard these ruminations, who
    should come shambling along but my o w n clerical nemesis.
    Father Malachy.
    My mother was a bad bitch.
    A n d pious with it.
    Gave my dad a dog's life.
    That I was, in her words, 'a public disgrace' just added to
    her martyrdom.
    On my dad's death, she leaped into w i d o w h o o d w i t h glee.
    The black clothes, the Masses said for h i m , the whole
    sanctimonious shite we'd been tolerating for generations.
    Some of these widows get dogs or, better yet, a tame
    priest.
    She got the priest. Father Malachy, a chain-smoking nasty
    bastard who delighted in every fuck-up I had.
    A n d fuck, there were plenty of those.
    But you know, the w o r m turns. He got himself in
    some serious trouble a while back and came to me for
    help.
    I helped.
    Was he grateful?
    Was he bollocks.
    Seemed to resent me more than ever, proving the old
    adage, they w i l l never forgive those who help them.
    He looked much the same. Nicotine emanating from
    every pore, his black suit ringed w i t h dandruff, his eyes as
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    THE DEVIL
    unforgiving as any guard in Guantanamo Bay. He stopped,
    exclaimed,
    'I thought we'd seen the back of y o u . '
    I asked,
    ' Y o u missed me?'
    He snorted.
    I thought that was some novelistic flourish that literary
    writers used when they were aiming for the Booker.
    But no, that's the sound he made. He said,
    'Weren't you all set for America?'
    I gave him my best smile.
    'I couldn't leave without saying goodbye to you . . .
    Father:
    Let sarcasm scald the last w o r d .
    He lit an unfiltered cig from the butt of the previous one,
    inhaled deeply, coughed like his lungs were about to come
    up, said,
    ' Y o u broke your sainted mother's heart and you haven't
    an ounce of repentance in y o u . '
    We'd reached the park, close to the fire station and
    bordered on the other side by Flaherty's funeral parlour.
    A l l the eventualities covered, you might say.
    The Guards had cordoned off the park and that fore-
    boding white tent for a murder scene was in place, w i t h
    masked and white-suited personnel milling around.
    For a moment, M a l a c h y seemed almost human, said,
    'The poor girleen, they asked me to administer the Last
    Rites but tis way too late for that.'
    I asked h i m if he knew who the girl was.
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    KEN BRUEN
    He was still