The Ghosts of Galway by Ken Bruen

Author:Ken Bruen
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2017-11-23T05:00:00+00:00

PART 2

A bespoke girl

Tailormade, as it were,

Would require one vital quality.

(A sense of humor,

Because she was going to fucking need it.)

I was in Crowe’s pub in Bohermore when a guy burst in, said,

“Two Guards have been shot.”

Mad conversations erupted and Ollie shouted,

“Quiet, I’ll turn on the radio.”

Utter silence as we heard that two Garda had been killed, a massive manhunt was under way. The killer, or killers, were not yet identified and no one had claimed responsibility. The names of the fallen Guards were being withheld until relatives were informed.

All eyes turned to me.

Once a Guard, always a Guard.

Even a disgraced one like me might have some in.

I took out my phone, said,

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Scattered shouts of

“Good man.”

There is a kind of horrified delight in unveiling tragedy and a dark thrill at bearing witness.

I called Owen Daglish, just about the only contact I had remaining in the Guards.

Ridge had been my go-to gal for so long but she wasn’t answering my calls these days.

Owen began,

“Jesus Jack, you can’t be calling me.”

He was a piss artist of epic scale and still managed to stay on the force. He kept his head down and was a hell of a manager of the hurling squad. To manage hurlers, you needed to be ferocious and drink didn’t hurt in adding the layer of aggression.

He took a deep breath, said,

“Seriously Jack, this is not a good time, all hell is breaking loose.”

Time to fake him out.

I said,

“Me heart is broken with the shootings.”

He was taken aback, asked,

“You know, then?”

I gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Superintendent Clancy and I may seem at odds”—to put it fucking mildly—“but we go back a ways.”

He bought it, said,

“I know you were once close to Sergeant Ridge and I am truly sorry for your loss.”

WTF?

I remember mimicking,

“Sergeant Ridge?”

He said,

“Yes, died at the scene, and the young recruit Murphy died en route to hospital.”

* * *

The double funeral was held on a bitter cold Thursday. Crowds lined the street.

I have only vague recollections of the whole awful event. Trying to offer my condolences to Superintendent Clancy, who snapped,

“You don’t belong here.”

I indicated Ridge’s coffin, asked,

“Does she?”

Yeah, I know.

Beyond lame.

At the graveside, Father Malachy intoned,

“Man is full of misery.”

And I shouted,

“Aw, don’t say that.”

I got into a minor scuffle with the priest and, phew-oh, they threw me out of the cemetery.

Got to be a first, barred from the graveyard.

Guess it would be cremation then.

My mobile shrilled and in my utter madness I half thought it might be Ridge. It was Emily, who went,

“Wassup?”

Jesus.

I said,

“I’m kind of fucked here, Em.”

“Where are you?”

“At Rahoon Cemetery.”

She laughed, said,

“Don’t let ’em bury you.”

I met her in what used to be the River Inn. That there is not a river within a spit of that pub is neither here nor there. Like so many other pubs, it was now under new management and called

The Sliding Rock.

No, me neither.

There is a sliding rock in Shantalla. A Galway landmark to generations of children but now more in use with the ubiquitous drinking schools.

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