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Overview
As sharp and sardonic as it is starkly bleak and violent, Galway Girl shows master raconteur Ken Bruen at his best: lyrical, brutal, and ceaselessly suspenseful.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802147936 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 11/05/2019 |
| Series: | Jack Taylor Series , #15 |
| Pages: | 288 |
| Sales rank: | 492,051 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.70(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
A Galway girl Doesn't necessarily believe she Is the best catch of all. It's more that she'd love You to prove She isn't.
The first Guard was killed on a Friday.
The new Garda superintendent Mary Wilson (who was more than a little sick of the Supremes jokes) declared to the assembled Guards,
"This is horrendous."
Owen Daglish, a long-serving, not to mention long-suffering, sergeant, muttered,
"Not much escapes the bould Mary."
Sheridan, a loan to the beleaguered Galway station, gave him a look, said,
"Watch your mouth, Sonny."
Sonny!
Owen had a good ten years plus fifty pounds on the American.
American is used loosely as Sheridan gave the impression of being a Quantico guy but other elements, such as his fucked-up accent and Irish cynicism, pointed to a more likely Irish heritage but he was nevertheless, as he liked to cut it,
"A very influential swinging dick."
The Galway guys put it in their own tribal accent.
Like this:
"A prick."
Sheridan belonged to a new offshoot of Special Branch whose brief ranged wide and definitely included counterterrorism.
His pet obsession was Jack Taylor, the so-called PI who was on the periphiery, as he mauled the term, of so many recent violent deaths and yet stayed one beat ahead — or perhaps behind — an arrest.
It was a new young ban Garda named Nora McEntee who discovered the note at the murder scene. The forensic guys, horrified at the sheer violence of the scene, focused on the body and, owing to the pressure for rapid results, overlooked the most basic item.
The wastepaper basket.
Nora had been left to secure the scene as the professionals treated her like shite, with,
"Don't touch anything, girlie!"
You fucking believe it?
Girlie!
This was after she'd been told to grab some coffees for the teams, and the edict,
"Don't fuck up the pastries."
She sneered quietly at these macho blokes fussing over pastries.
How freaking gay were they?
Did they share the treats with her?
Or even refund the twenty euros for the designer java?
Did they fuck.
She'd picked up the trash basket out of curiosity and, lo and behold, a sheaf of parchment, curled at the edges. To age it? Or add grim authenticity?
Unfurled the paper and, smart girl, wearing crime scene gloves,
Read,
Unconsciously admiring the beautiful handwriting, in bold Gothic script,
Ta bronach orm
When Wilson, the super, read this she was not pleased, especially as she had to ask the novice ban Garda, the aforementioned Nora McEntee, to translate.
None of her close-knit team, the favored ones, spoke a word of their native tongue. Time was, you didn't speak Irish or, worse, didn't play hurling, you hadn't a Protestant prayer of joining the Guards.
But now, as the writer Charlie Stella put it,
"Fugget about it!"
Best intoned in New York hard vowels.
Nora duly obliged, translated,
"I am sorry or, actually, I am heartbroken."
Snicker from one of the bright sparks with,
"Geez, really, which is it?"
Wilson, more than miles beyond patience, sent him to traffic on the Headford road, the roundabout nightmare. He resigned.
Shortly after, thanks to his utter contempt for people, he rapidly became a rising star in the charities racket.
Nora McEntee looked at the framed photos of Guards who had died in the line of duty.
End of watch, as they say in the U.S.
She was gripped by the portrait of ban Garda Ni Iomaire.
Ridge.
She was Nora's hero.
Ridge had been noted for:
Being gay, in an obscenely misogynist force;
Her utter dedication;
Her fearlessness;
Her patience with new recruits.
Nora had gone to her a few times and she always said the same thing:
"Never back down and never, ever let the bastards see you are vulnerable."
She had also introduced her to
Kai tai yung.
A ferociously vicious form of self-defense that mutated in Galway from what had been a benign form of tai chi. To a Guard on the Galway streets when the clubs let out at four in the nasty morning and the fast-food joints were shutting their doors, gentleness was about as useful as a nun's rosary beads.
The blot on Ridge's almost brilliant career had been her relationship with Jack Taylor, a notorious drunk and former Guard. Despite repeated warnings, she had stayed in his corner even as her personal feelings toward him soured.
And soured fiercely.
Taylor had been MIA for many months after the death of his daughter.
Nora felt he was far from done. As Ridge had once said, "Taylor always turns up, no matter how fucked he is, and God knows few do fucked like him, but he somehow drags all his bedraggled act in some form of together and shows up."
Ridge had gone silent for a bit, then added,
"There is something to be said for a man who does always show up. Not a lot, but you know something."
In those broken words Nora detected a kind of twisted admiration.
On any given Day in Galway You will hear at least one busker mutilate the Words of "Galway Girl."
But, if you listen carefully,
Sincerity Sometimes overcomes The sheer banality Of the performance.
Twyford
Makes the very best toilet bowls.
I know because I spent so much time lying on my back, under the bowl, having the first drink to be sick enough for the second one to stay down.
Hopefully.
It had been four months Since my daughter had been shot dead Right before my very eyes.
I missed Christmas.
In the sense it came and went and I lay under the bowl, if not the volcano. Then, mid-January, I began to cut back, no reason, maybe just sick of being sick.
Was even trying some exercises to restore some feeling to my shattered body.
If there are exercises for grief I don't know them.
I was living in an apartment off the Salthill promenade. I could look out across the bay, but now the once wonderful yearning I'd had was no more.
Years, years of that odd yearning, and I had never quite known for what it was I yearned. But now, no more mythical or mystical shite.
In a fit of blind rage and, yes, booze, I grabbed my favorite books, stumbled down to the beach, and began to fling them out across the ocean.
Pathetic?
You betcha.
A few days later, I was attempting to sip some coffee and not to smoke, least until the day grew up. A knock at the door. I shouted,
"Fuck off."
More banging.
Right.
I pulled the door near off its hinges, muttering, "What."
A young female guard, ban Garda. And, oh Lord, she looked like a teenager.
Pretty, but something in the eyes, hint of granite.
She asked,
"Jack Taylor?"
I let out a frustrated breath, said,
"You're at my door, you obviously checked before you came, so unless you're a complete ejit take a wild guess."
She backed up, her body tensed, said,
"There is no need for that tone."
I turned, went back into the apartment, sat and stared at the ocean. She followed me in, with extreme care. She stood before me, said,
"I was a huge admirer of Sergeant Ridge."
I felt the guilt kick in, harsh, hard, and merciless, bit down, and said,
"How wonderful for you."
Threw her.
She had perhaps been schooled in how to deal with the likes of me but it wasn't working. I snapped,
"What do you want? You liked Ridge, so fucking what?"
She gazed around, seeking something to help. There was nothing, just my wall of hostility, but she did try, asked,
"There are no books?"
I laughed, said,
"You'll make a fine detective."
She held firm, said,
"You'll have heard of the recent death of a Guard."
I said nothing.
She did some figures in her head, trying to make a decision, then,
"The man was Ridge's uncle."
I was surprised. I tried,
"I'm sorry to hear that."
She glared at me and looked uncannily like Ridge. I asked, as I moved toward the door,
"Was there something else?"
She shook her head, asked,
"Is that it, you're sorry?"
I felt tired, opened the door, said,
"You need to go now."
She considered, then,
"They're right, what they say about you, that you're ..."
She searched for some scotching term, settled on,
"Pathetic."
She was out in the hall. I shut the door as she was gearing up for more.
I thought,
"Nice wee girl."
Moved to the window, watched as she strode away from my apartment. A man got out of a car, crossed the street, walked right up to her, shot her in the face.
"We pursue all criminals With vigor.
But if one of our own Is murdered We will pursue With a ferocity Of thundering devotion."
Superintendent Mary Wilson
Scott looked at himself in the mirror.
Saw:
Young man in his twenties,
Blond hair,
Scar along his left cheek, not blatant but noticeable, Muscular build.
He said,
"No psycho vibe there."
He lived in a house off Taylor's Hill. His father, one of the first prominent Guards in the country, had bought it before the Celtic Tiger disaster.
Had said to Scott,
"When you join the Guards, you can live here, then just a smash 'n' grab to the station."
That was a vague attempt at humor. His father could be accused of many things and, indeed, in his long career, was accused of most, but humor, no.
He had serious plans for his retirement; death never occurred to him. He was washing his prized Audi when a thundering heart attack canceled his plans.
The funeral was a grand affair.
Lots of
Dignitaries,
Clergy,
Top brass.
Scott had to force himself not to puke when they handed the national flag to his mother after the burial. One of the numerous elite guys took Scott aside, whispered,
"Look, sorry you didn't make it onto the force."
Pause.
"But apply again. Maybe we can view you in a more favorable light."
Scott stood back, gave the man his practiced stare, the one he believed was ice. He asked,
"You think maybe if I work very hard, shite on everyone, perhaps one day I might be like you, a sad cunt?"
The obscenity shocked the man. He'd heard almost every epithet in his long career, but in a graveyard? He tried with,
"I'm going to cut you some slack seeing as the day it is."
Scott laughed, an eerie echoing sound among the headstones. He said,
"Cut me some slack? Dude, you are so far up your own arse you look like you couldn't cut air."
The man looked round for some of his troops. Nope, not a one; gone to the pub already. He decided to try the trusted older statesman gig, put his hand on Scott's shoulder, said,
"Son, you are troubled, I get that. Now go home and say your prayers."
Scott leaned back, made a gurgling throat sound as if he were drawing his very heart up, then spat full face on the man, said,
"Pray that."
Scott didn't immediately hit on killing Guards but the incident in the graveyard set the basis. In one of those weird moments of serendipity, he was stopped by a Guard ten minutes after leaving the cemetery, driving his father's Audi.
Was he speeding?
Yeah, okay, a bit.
He pulled over and the Guard ambled toward him, did the circular finger motion as seen on cop shows. Scott resolved to bite down, keep it together.
The Guard asked,
"License and insurance."
Fuck.
Scott tried,
"I'm coming from my dad's burial."
The Guard was chewing gum. Were they allowed that shit?
Asked,
"Did I ask you where you'd been?"
Scott felt that resolve dip a little, said,
"See, it's my father's car and —"
The Guard cut him off with,
"Out."
Just that.
Designed to intimidate.
Scott began to open the door and the Guard slammed the door against him, then pulled Scott from the car, body-slammed him against the bonnet, muttered,
"Pup, think you own the world."
Then cuffed Scott, who said,
"Ah, for fuck's sake."
Scott was duly booked, appeared in court, got banned from driving.
He glared at the judge,
"I didn't do anything."
The judge threw in six months for what he called impertinence.
Scott was beyond outrage, screamed,
"You daft bollix, that's not impertinence, this is!" Launched into a tirade of abuse.
Got an extra six months.
Plus a beating from a Guard when they took him down.
All in all, he served fourteen months.
Jail changed him utterly.
Word was out that he was the son of a Guard, so daily humiliations, hidings, abuse were his lot. Eventually, he toughened up, did the gym and worked on perfecting a nasty streak, learned the power of a psycho rep.
If asked by a new guy,
"What did you do?"
As in, why are you here?
He said simply,
"Guards."
On the day of his release the warden gave him what he liked to think of as
The motivational speech.
A mix of self-help shite infused with smatterings of Dr. Phil, Reader's Digest nuggets of wisdom, and his own distilled philosophy of "no one is truly lost."
Scott stood before him, a sphinx of unknowing, waited.
The warden asked,
"So, young Scott, have you plans?"
Scott swallowed spittle, said deadpan,
"Yes, sir, a major plan of action."
The warden grinned, said,
"Splendid. Might I inquire further?"
Scott stared at him for a long moment, then,
"I am going to show the world my true worth."
The warden wavered, wondered if he was missing something, suggested,
"Do tell."
Scott was tempted but he did need his release, so said,
"Service to the community."
Ah.
The warden gave him bus fare, an envelope containing enough to maybe pay for a burger, stood, said,
"I wish you the best of luck, young man."
Scott said,
"Luck has very little to do with it. It's all about determination."
Again, the warden wondered if there was a subtext.
Outside Scott breathed the air, said,
"Determined? Oh, yes, to kill as many Guards as counts."
For two years Scott worked, if such a term can be used, as an escort. A new flourishing biz for the new flourishing older lady.
Or, indeed, gentleman.
Scott had the looks and the careful cultivated air of an abandoned puppy.
His plan was to acquire sufficient funds, a safe base to launch his enterprise, all the while stoking his homicidal obsession.
The business he was engaged in eroded any traces of humanity that might still have lingered. If prison had fueled his rage, the escort trade added utter contempt to the mix.
The most valuable lesson he learned was to charm in full sight.
Scott rewrote the old truism on how to succeed.
Like this:
1. .... Steal freely
2. .... Kill randomly
3. .... Get with a Galway girl
He stared at those lines,
Smiled, said,
"See? Sense of humor."
Then the brain wave:
A Galway girl.
Wait for it —
"Who is a Guard!"
He had studied all the serial killer books, novels, and decided to leave a cryptic note after each kill, give a touch of mystique, and get the media hot.
Later, he'd abandon the notes he composed in Irish for the simple reason he got bored with it and, more important, he ran out of Irish; his education in his native tongue had been sporadic at best.
Aibhealai
Is the Irish word For an exaggerator.
It's not much used as Irish people Never exaggerate.
The shooting of Guard Nora McEntee caused a huge furor.
The city was on high alert, media screaming for the culprit to be apprehended.
He wasn't.
As the only witness, I was dragged to the station,
Not
... to help with inquiries
But more to be bullied, intimidated, shouted at.
Sheridan, the supposedly supercop, led the interview, demanded,
"Taylor, why are you always on the scene of shootings?"
I went with a vague truth, said,
"I have no idea."
He leaned right into my face, and I said, very quietly,
"Back the fuck off."
He was delighted, spun back, shouted to the Guards gathered,
"Hear that? He's threatening a Guard."
Owen Daglish, playing good Guard, said,
"Cut him some slack."
Sheridan fumed, snarled,
"Let's throw him in a cell, let him stew."
I said,
"Not a great time to be alienating the public."
Sheridan asked,
"What does that mean?"
The Garda commissioner was up to her arse in an alleged conspiracy to discredit a whistle-blower; the media were out for more dirt on the inner workings of the top brass.
Wilson, the super, breezed in, ordered,
"Cut him loose."
She looked at me, said,
"Try not to get in the way of the investigation."
I gave her my sweetest look, which is a blend of guile and deranged ferocity, said,
"Yes, ma'am."
The press were outside and Kernan Andrews of the Galway Advertiser shouted,
"In the middle of it again, Jack?"
I said,
"Buy me a pint and get an exclusive."
Kernan was too clued in for that old play.
I headed up Shop Street, gave a homeless guy a few euros, he asked,
"What will that do?"
"Ease my conscience."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Galway Girl"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Ken Bruen.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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