The Magdalen Martyrs
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Серия: Jack Taylor #3
- Год: 2003
- Язык: английский
- Год: Brandon
- ISBN: 978-0-86322-302-0
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Magdalen Martyrs». Краткое содержание книги:
I stood up, said,
“Hate to drink and run.”
“You’re going?”
“No wonder you’re a policewoman.”
“But don’t you know that Superintendent Clancy’s aunt was a nun in the laundry?”
I tried not to show my surprise, and she said,
“See, you do need the guards.”
“Honey, it’s a long time since I needed anything from the guards.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Believe me, it’s what I do best.”
“To her way of thinking, such mishaps were intimately connected to
the intelligence of the recipient. Violence happened to people who,
unlike her, did not have the common sense to avoid it.”
Louise Doughty, Honey Dew
Two days later, I was drink free hut drug ridden. The double dose of pills had me mellow beyond mantra. Spring was heavy in its promise, and despite a nip in the wind, people were in shirtsleeves. I was wearing a tie-dye T-shirt. Not by design but atrocious laundry. Women over the years had patiently explained the colours you never mix. Dutifully, I wrote the instructions down. Then washed the list.
So, a once splendidly white T had slugged it out against navy and... women forgive me... pink.
As in life, white lost.
Not a complete disaster as the logo had been near erased. Once it had read,
I WAS A GUARD.
NOW I’M A BLACKGUARD.
I was sitting on the rim of the fountain. To my right, was the statue of Padraic O Conaire. His head was back. Yeah, he’d been decapitated, the stone whisked to Northern Ireland. Eventually, the culprits were caught, the piece returned.
If not the finest hour for the Guards, it remains among their most popular.
A drinking school was in full song near the public toilet. Sounded like “She Moved through the Fair”, to the air of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Not an impossible task, simply weird. On Eyre Square, since the Celtic Tiger roared, weird was down-right commonplace.
Add to it, the conglomerate of Italian, Spanish, Irish, American and, I swear, Serbo-Croat, you had lunacy on tap.
A woman detached herself from the pack, approached me, said,
“And a good morning to you, sir.”
“Howyah?”
She was encouraged by my answer, moved closer. Her age could have been twenty-five or sixty from the ruined face and dead eyes. Her accent had the burr of Glasgow, which was no longer on her agenda. She asked,
“Price o’ cup of tea, sir?”
“Sure.”
Surprised her. When you surprise a wino, you have got a few moves left. I reached in my pocket, took out the change, handed it over. She took it fast. I asked,
“Ever hear of Padraig?”
I meant the late head wino.
She glanced over at Padraic O Conaire, asked,
“Who’s he?”
“He wrote MAsal Bheag Dubh.”
“He what?”
“Never mind.”
“Got a smoke?”
“Sure.”
I produced a pack of reds, shook the pack, and she grabbed two, tore the filters off. A match from nowhere and she was engulfed in smoke, asked,
“Are you a social worker?”
“Hardly.”
“A guard?”
“Not any more.”
“Want a ride?”
I laughed out loud. Blame the drugs.
I thought about Casey, Bill Cassell’s muscle. The giant who had delighted in my humiliation. The Sicilians say, if you’re planning revenge, dig two graves. One for yourself.
As Melanie sang in the hopeful years,
“Yada, yada.”
Or they say revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I was cold all right.
A nun skipped by, trailing piety. If I asked her, she’d go for company policy, incant “for it is in forgiving that we are forgiven”.
I’d answer,
“Bollocks.”
Stood up, stretched, felt almost light. I’d unwrap the gun, polish the handle. I had Casey’s routine down pat. It simply remained to take the next step.
Shoot him.
“Only a small crack... But cracks make caves collapse.”