Read The Killing of the Tinkers for Free Online
Authors: Ken Bruen
all about him. To my eternal shame, he was dead for two years before I heard. God might forgive me, it’s the business He’s in. I won’t. The presiding priest was my old nemesis, Fr Malachy. He was a friend of my mother’s and loathed me. He smoked Major cigarettes, which had a brief fame when Robbie Coltrane smoked them in
Cracker
. True coffin nails, stronger than
poitín
and twice as lethal. He’d aged badly, but what smoker hasn’t? Malachy approached me, said,
“You’re back.”
“True.”
“I’d kill for a cig.”
“You quit?”
“Good heavens, no, I left them in the vestry. The altar boys will steal them.”
I offered the soft red pack. He gave me the look.
“And when did you start?”
“Forgive me, Father, you want one or not?”
He did, tore the filter off. I lit him up and he ate lungfuls, said,
“Shite.”
“Nice language for a priest.”
“I hate those things.”
“So stop.”
“Not cigarettes…funerals, especially this crowd.”
“All God’s children surely.”
He slung the cig, said,
“Tinkers are nobody’s children.”
He was gone before I could respond.
Needless to say, I was first at the hotel. As a better man than me put it,
“Fair fuck to them for letting the tinkers in.”
Recently the tinkers had hit back after years of discrimination, successfully suing pubs that denied access. The publicans had to regroup. As someone who’s been barred from most establishments, my heart does not bleed. I stepped up to the counter. The barman looked like Robbie Williams. I could only hope his manner was different. He said,
“Good afternoon, sir. Are you with the funeral party?”
“I am.”
“The bar is free until two thirty. What can I get you?”
“A pint and a Jameson chaser.”
“Would sir like to take a seat? I’ll bring it over.”
I nibbled at the peanuts. Of all things, I was thinking of two authors. Tommy Kennedy had introduced me to them. Walter Macken, as fine then as now, and Paul Smith. Time was, on my shelf were
Esther’s Altar, The Stubborn Season
and my sad favourite,
Summer Sang in Me
. Not too long ago, I’d found his
The Countrywoman
in a Lambeth library. Published in 1961, for me, it beats hands down either
Strumpet City
or
Angela’s Ashes
. Through Paul Smith, I discovered Edna St Vincent Millay, a mega bonus. The barman bought the drinks, said,
“Good health.”
“Whatever.”
The pint was as near perfect as I’d experienced. Got to agree with Flann O’Brien, “A pint of plain is your only man.” Washed over the cocaine like a rosary. As a young guard, I went to see Eamonn Morrissey in
The Brother
and I was supposed to see Jack McGowran in
Waiting for Godot
. Got pissed instead. What a mistake. Took a hit of the Jameson and was as close to heaven as it gets. The travellers began to trickle in. Sweeper came over, said,
“Don’t be alone.”
“Is that like an imperative? Tell me, what did you do with the hand?”
“Buried it.”
I took a hefty swig of the drink. Burned like a bastard, which was good. The place was hopping now. I said,
“Great crowd.”
“We honour our own. No one else will.”
“Sweeper, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to know what to call ye.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Travellers, tinkers, gypos…what? I’m very uncomfortable with
tinkers
.”
“It’s what they call us.”
“I didn’t ask you that, did I? What do I term you?”
“The clans.”
“Hey, that’s good.”
A faraway look came into his eyes. He said,
“After the Great Hunger, if the clans fell out, they’d set fire to each other’s abodes, so we got fired.”
A number of voices called him and he snapped back to the present, said,
“I must away.”
“Away to the clans.”
He gave the small smile. I had another drink and realised I felt at ease among them. I could have drunk me a river but I had to keep some semblance of focus. Told myself,
“The case is straightforward. All I have to do is find
Cracker
. True coffin nails, stronger than
poitín
and twice as lethal. He’d aged badly, but what smoker hasn’t? Malachy approached me, said,
“You’re back.”
“True.”
“I’d kill for a cig.”
“You quit?”
“Good heavens, no, I left them in the vestry. The altar boys will steal them.”
I offered the soft red pack. He gave me the look.
“And when did you start?”
“Forgive me, Father, you want one or not?”
He did, tore the filter off. I lit him up and he ate lungfuls, said,
“Shite.”
“Nice language for a priest.”
“I hate those things.”
“So stop.”
“Not cigarettes…funerals, especially this crowd.”
“All God’s children surely.”
He slung the cig, said,
“Tinkers are nobody’s children.”
He was gone before I could respond.
Needless to say, I was first at the hotel. As a better man than me put it,
“Fair fuck to them for letting the tinkers in.”
Recently the tinkers had hit back after years of discrimination, successfully suing pubs that denied access. The publicans had to regroup. As someone who’s been barred from most establishments, my heart does not bleed. I stepped up to the counter. The barman looked like Robbie Williams. I could only hope his manner was different. He said,
“Good afternoon, sir. Are you with the funeral party?”
“I am.”
“The bar is free until two thirty. What can I get you?”
“A pint and a Jameson chaser.”
“Would sir like to take a seat? I’ll bring it over.”
I nibbled at the peanuts. Of all things, I was thinking of two authors. Tommy Kennedy had introduced me to them. Walter Macken, as fine then as now, and Paul Smith. Time was, on my shelf were
Esther’s Altar, The Stubborn Season
and my sad favourite,
Summer Sang in Me
. Not too long ago, I’d found his
The Countrywoman
in a Lambeth library. Published in 1961, for me, it beats hands down either
Strumpet City
or
Angela’s Ashes
. Through Paul Smith, I discovered Edna St Vincent Millay, a mega bonus. The barman bought the drinks, said,
“Good health.”
“Whatever.”
The pint was as near perfect as I’d experienced. Got to agree with Flann O’Brien, “A pint of plain is your only man.” Washed over the cocaine like a rosary. As a young guard, I went to see Eamonn Morrissey in
The Brother
and I was supposed to see Jack McGowran in
Waiting for Godot
. Got pissed instead. What a mistake. Took a hit of the Jameson and was as close to heaven as it gets. The travellers began to trickle in. Sweeper came over, said,
“Don’t be alone.”
“Is that like an imperative? Tell me, what did you do with the hand?”
“Buried it.”
I took a hefty swig of the drink. Burned like a bastard, which was good. The place was hopping now. I said,
“Great crowd.”
“We honour our own. No one else will.”
“Sweeper, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to know what to call ye.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Travellers, tinkers, gypos…what? I’m very uncomfortable with
tinkers
.”
“It’s what they call us.”
“I didn’t ask you that, did I? What do I term you?”
“The clans.”
“Hey, that’s good.”
A faraway look came into his eyes. He said,
“After the Great Hunger, if the clans fell out, they’d set fire to each other’s abodes, so we got fired.”
A number of voices called him and he snapped back to the present, said,
“I must away.”
“Away to the clans.”
He gave the small smile. I had another drink and realised I felt at ease among them. I could have drunk me a river but I had to keep some semblance of focus. Told myself,
“The case is straightforward. All I have to do is find