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CHAPTER 1

Tom Darcy was giving it large about van Graal, the new manager of Man United. He wasn't shouting.

Yet.

But he was very loud and verging on aggressive. Like this:

"You have to remember Ferguson wasn't successful when he started."

His companion, a small man with a small tone, nodded, staring into his pint, hoping it might help.

It didn't.

Darcy finished his third Jameson, belched, said,

"See, managers do be playing the long game."

A man farther along the bar, dressed in a black denim shirt, black jeans, visibly blanched. He had a long slender face with a slight scar above the right eye and it seemed to twitch now in annoyance. He lifted his tonic water, took a bitter sip. He wanted a double gin but it could wait. Duty must. Darcy said, more roared,

"Gotta point Percy at the porcelain."

The man didn't look but he was fairly sure that Darcy winked. He took a deep breath then followed Darcy. Darcy was zipping up then moved to wash his large hands. He clocked the man enter but he knew not to make eye contact in a men's lavatory.

Thought, "WTF?" As the man stood right by the basin, he snapped, "Help yah?"

(Not full on but enough to let menace spill over the tone.)

The man seemed to focus, as if collating thoughts, then, "The Yahoos that make up this city, they can tell you the offside rule but as to what a split infinitive is? Forget it. Now when you were rather haranguing your comrade at the bar, you said ..."

He paused, as if ensuring he got it correct, then, "Do be!"

Darcy laughed, a mix of relief and disbelief, this punter was simply another nutter in a city chockablock with madness. He leaned back, mocked,

"Dooby do bee do."

The man lashed out with his right hand, throwing Darcy back against the wall, intoned,

"You cretin, you mock? Grammar is with us from the fifth century BC, from India. You probably think the great subcontinent gave us bus conductors and curry. When language is corrupted, it is but a small step to chaos. Look at

X Factor Fifty Shades of Grey chick lit and ..."

He had to catch a breath, such was his indignation, then,

"Texting."

He grabbed Darcy by his hair and began to systematically smash his face against the porcelain bowl, and in an almost singsong voice, said,

"I before e but not after ..."

He was still reeling off the rules as his hand released the limp body, which slid to the floor. He looked down at it, as if surprised to see it, then, sighing, pulled himself together, said,

"The center cannot hold."

He took a single white card from his jacket, laid it almost reverently atop the destroyed face. It had one letter, in bold black:

A

Extra adverbs, used for emphasis, are called intensifiers.

E.g. ... he was very dead.

Superintendent Clancy was as close to apoplexy as it is possible to get short of a brain hemorrhage. Lined before him was the Murder Unit. Among them was the newly promoted Sergeant Ni Iomaire, Ridge. A former ally of Jack Taylor, a rarity in the Guards, openly gay and feisty. Her friendship/alliance with Jack had cost her dear in the past but two years of no contact had fast-tracked her career. Behind her back, she was called, to rhyme with Inspector Gadget,

Inspector Faggot.

Clancy too had once been a close friend of Jack's but was now his archenemy. He roared at the collected detectives,

"A second murder, the week before the Galway Races?"

The Races mattered; the killings, not so much. He said,

"And the only lead is the cards he leaves on the bodies?"

He had to check his notes, read,

"An a and an e? The sweet Jesus is that about?"

Ridge said,

"Vowels, sir."

He gave her the Look. He'd picked it up from watching The Armstrong Lie. He said in an icy low tone,

"Don't fucking tell me he's working through the vowels?"

Pause.

"Is he going to start on the frigging consonants next?"

The second murder had happened on the promenade in Salthill. In full view of crowds. Many ... many witnesses described the killer as

White Tall Short Muslim A woman A gang!

Had a small scar under his eye.

A man had been standing right on the edge of the footpath, arguing with somebody, and when the other person left, he'd been approached by a figure who said some words to him, then literally

... threw him under the bus.

One witness said,

"It was as if he was waiting for the No. 24 from Eyre Square, then pushed hard and the victim went under the wheels. The pusher had stopped for a moment, then casually walked over and dropped a white card on the mangled remains, turned, and sauntered away."

Clancy said,

"Whatever else, he's a brazen bollix."

Now the super glared at his troops, asked,

"So, thoughts?"

A thick former hurler from Thurles tried,

"He knows his bus times."

And another wag threw in,

"Least we know the buses are running on time."

Not smart.

Clancy had left his sense of humor in 1988. He snapped at the wag,

"Take your smart mouth and canvass all the houses along the prom, and I mean all of them."

A groan.

This was usually a tedious task for a uniform. Now Clancy asked,

"Any more bright sparks?"

Ridge ventured,

"Do the cards tell us anything? Prints, where they were bought?"

A nod from Clancy, then,

"Get on it."

I had been given a Labrador pup after my last case. I'd given him a red-and-white bandanna for the Galway team and for Willie Nelson. He whimpered if I didn't wrap it around him at night. I was going to name him Boru for a departed friend and so he might choose his battles carefully but then, like my life, went with

"Storm."

Not so much in a teacup as in situ.

In truth I had determined to stay detached from him, not to spare the love but to keep at a distance, like modern parenting. Not that I was necessarily a cold cunt but to protect myself. There was a previous dog whose horrendous death I had to keep at a remove even today. I was still raw from the discovery in my home of his torn remains.

But dogs ...

Go figure

Have other plans.

Slowly Storm had melted away my resolve. Most evenings we went to feed the swans and round off that walk by sitting on the rocks and staring at the Atlantic Ocean. The whole of Galway Bay before us, I'd take out my flask of Jameson, have a few considered nips, and I'd be able to let my breath out. Storm slowly chewed his rationed treats. Finally I'd light my one and only daily cigarette, stare at the horizon, and yearn.

For what?

Fuck knows?

Storm would place one paw on my knee. Such tiny gestures signifying, if not hope, then a slanted comfort. Ease from left field as it were. To my back were the remnants of Seapoint. Once a vast ballroom, it was the center of all the social outlet in the city, home to the show bands. A whole generation had grown up with them, my generation, dying slowly and forever.

The Royal The Capital Dixies And even the wonderfully non-PC The Indians.

Man, I loved those days.

A singer from Belfast then, no Van but David McWilliams, had a fine tune,

"The Days of Pearly Spencer."

Summed it all up.

Then.

That the PC brigade were still pursuing the Indians to change their name was a measure of just how much we had lost our sense of fun over the years.

An elderly Bohermore woman summed it up:

"You're afraid to open your mouth these days."

As Israel and Hamas continued to add to a daily number of deaths and no sign of peace, yet another airline went down, Putin continued to wreak havoc in the Ukraine, Bill Clinton was yet again accused of affairs, the country tried to delight in five Garth Brooks concerts. But one asshole councillor in Dublin managed to derail them, depriving the people of the only hope of a bit of fun they'd had in years. Not to mention the loss of fifty million to the country in revenue.

Enda Kenny, our leader, was the most despised man in the nation. He smirked daily over water charges, Garth Brooks, and just about any issue that was of note to his population.

Our former tone of humor was now replaced by an all-prevalent fear as medical cards were canceled, bankers walked free after hugely expensive trials, but one woman stood tall. An ordinary housewife, she had been systemically abused as a child and for fifteen years sought redress. Even after the supreme court turned her down, she persisted with frail strength all the way to the European Court of Justice.

And won.

A small brave lady.

The government set up a committee to gauge whether she merited an apology.

A collective,

... for fucksake

From everybody: well, everybody of basic human decency.

Just before the Galway Races kicked off, I got a call from the arts editor of the Galway Advertiser, Kernan Andrews, asking me to do an interview. Kernan was one of the good guys. He was doing a series, "Faces of Galway."

I figured I was under the subheading:

"Battered Faces of Galway."

What the hell, I'd get to sit down with Kernan, sink a few, shoot the shit. We arranged to meet in Garavan's. Grab the snug there and have if not privacy at least a certain amount of atmosphere. I recently had a new neighbor, an ex-army guy and — whisper it — British army.

Why you would retire to a Republican stronghold was beyond me. But he kept a low profile and his accent under wraps. We had shared a dram or two and he seemed to like Storm real well and when I had to get out alone, he would always be delighted to mind the pup. His name was

Charles Stokes.

He was usually addressed as Doc.

A good, no-frills UK name.

He'd done a stint in Northern Ireland and knew I had, let's say, dealings over the border, but we had reached our own separate peace and, whatever flags we flew under, we had an appreciation of fine malt and Jameson. I brought the pup over to him early on the Friday morning, said,

"Believe it or not, I'm being interviewed."

He was tall with a shock of steel to white hair, riveting stare with nigh on nonbreak hold. He adopted a very dry droll sense of humor. Said,

"Not helping with enquiries, one hopes."

I handed over the pup's dinner bowl and his cherished bandanna, said,

"Nope, an actual bona fide gig."

He rubbed the dog, said,

"Talk as if you believed it."

"Always end the name of your child with a vowel so that when you yell the name will carry." (Bill Cosby)

As I said, Kernan is one of the good guys. Looks like a roadie for a heavy metal band and beneath a mellow, affable facade beats a mind as smart as a whip. We met in Freeneys, a slice of old Galway, unchanged and in the window they sell fishing tackle. I'd managed to procure for him a signed Barcelona shirt with the 2010 team names. Cost me ... oh, some serious weight. In truth, I'd traded my 1963 All Ireland Galway Football shirt for it.

Phew-oh.

Loved that shirt, was even signed. Kernan greeted me warmly.

"So glad you agreed to do this, Jack."

He was dressed as always as if en route to the ever-running Dylan tour. I'd worn my all-weather Garda coat, item 1834, that the Department of Justice even now wrote demanding back. I said,

"Buddy, hear my answers and then see how glad you are."

He smiled. My acid tongue was part of the reason he liked me. The bar guy, Willy, knew us and asked,

"What will it be, lads?"

Sparkling water for Kernan and Jameson back for me. The gig lasted two hours and I haven't said so much since Charles Haughey was shunted from office.

I list some of the more pertinent questions.

K: "So, Jack, any heroes?"

J: "...Once, in my naive days, I thought a lot of Lance Armstrong."

"You're kidding."

"Sure, it wasn't so much I knew a lot about cycling but I did, in an old Galway way, admire endurance."

Kernan let that slide, tried,

"How would you like to be remembered?"

"As a fine hurler."

Kernan ... sigh.

The interview had some key questions.

"What are you reading now?"

"Cycle of Lies, Juliet Macur, and Wheelmen, the definitive accounts of the whole doping mess."

Kernan had opted to create an interview that balanced the solemn with the fun, as in,

"Where do you get your ... um ... distinctive wardrobe?"

"The charity shops."

Then,

"Have you still got passions?"

"Sure, books, my dog, and a new fascination with the Tour de France."

"What is your most prized possession?"

"My father's hurley, hewn from the original ash."

"Do you still play?"

"Only in the alleyways and back streets and not a referee in sight."

"Where do you stand on the Church?"

I laughed.

"More like the Church tries to stand on me. I see them as the ecclesiastical wing of Enron."

I pronounced the last word wrong to draw out the sense of nonsense.

"Is there a significant other in your life?"

Here he paused, gave a small smile, warned,

"And I don't mean your dog."

"The person I am in most contact with is the Inland Revenue bollocks."

"Will you ever leave Galway?"

I went with the half-formed truth.

"In Corsica, there is a lovely town, Bastia, and I have made inroads there with a man named Sabatini to buy a small villa."

Kernan was skeptical, rightly so in light of my history.

I had left Ireland as often as the government did a decent thing. He asked,

"They serve Jameson there?"

I let that slide.

Then the semi-frivolous

"What are you reading, Jack?"

"Jason Starr, Gerard Brennan, Hilary Davidson, Eoin Colfer."

"And music?"

"Johnny Duhan and Marc Roberts."

"TV?"

"Lot of documentaries."

Enron The Armstrong Lie
Paul Kimmage, Rough Rider Meet the Mormons Conspiracy

And of course, Spiral, Luck, Orange Is the New Black, The Killing (Season 4), and revisited some movies:

Killing Them Softly The Insider

I then tore the arse out of the government over medical cards, water charges, and all the other despicable acts they laid on us daily. We finished up after that and, of course, a day later I would think of many witty wise remarks I could, should have said but, like the Church, it was all smoke. As Kernan prepared to leave, he stopped, asked,

"Whatever happened to that girl, Emily, you were hanging with for a bit?"

Indeed.

Green hell.

Phew-oh.

Where to begin?

Times are, a person comes into your life and maybe enriches it, or adds to it, then there are those who simply disrupt your balance. The third kind blitzkrieg into your existence and shatter every possible level of your being.

Such was Emerald/Emily, and many other aliases in between. Half girl, most ways lethal woman. A homicidal, compassionate, funny, mad bitch of a dervish who truly defies easy categorization. Think Becky Sharp, crossed with Scarlett O'Hara, sprinkled with Larsson's Lisbeth Salander, and topped off with Carol O'Connell's Mallory.

Even thus, I sell her short.

Not one day did she appear in the same guise, never mind the same personality. She told me she laid out identities on her bed in the morning like clothes and slipped into whatever character was waiting. Be it

Helpful Murderous Hilarious Maddening Aggressive

And true, she got me out of all kinds of deep shite and as she did so, dropped me into chasms of utter dismay. My pup Storm was a gift from her. She may or may not have killed her father and a psycho who had torn my previous dog to bits.

I felt for her:

Love Hatred Affection Consternation Admiration

And she preyed on my mind like mild paranoia. Then she simply upped and disappeared, leaving an e-mail address

... greenhell@gmail.com

During the time she'd been in my life, she crossed paths with my ex-friend and ally Garda Ridge. Newly promoted to sergeant. They had gone to it like soured sisters, and on points I'd have to concede that Emily won. Ridge only referred to her as

... psycho bitch.

Like that.

Not a whole lot of love riffing. Emily's father, a nasty piece of shit, had been a major player in academic circles and was suspected of multiple assaults, perhaps even murder of young students. He was found with a nail in his head. For a time I was lead suspect and Emily provided a highly dubious but unbreakable alibi. Further not endearing her to Sergeant Ridge.

I strongly suspected that one dark day Emily would be back on the scene. Something about the Galway air had lodged in her bones and she sure did love to mind-fuck the city. Too, her alcoholic mother still lived on the outskirts of town, not that Emily actually gave a sweet fuck about her but she did like the family home. Had said,

"I'd like to inherit the family residence."

Surprised, I'd replied,

"Didn't really figure sentiment in your agenda."

She gave that laugh that no matter how infuriating she was, you couldn't help but warm to her. She had looked me right in the eye and said,

"I want to see it burn."

While I was in mid-interview, the Grammarian was adding the letter i to his murderous list. This time, he offed a teenager at the Galway docks. A cruise ship had tried to dock but the port couldn't handle the size and the two hundred or so shop-anxious passengers who might have been ferried to the shore to satisfy their retail mania had to simmer on deck as the rain came lashing down and this cost the city a small fortune in lost sales. The Dublin council would come in for another whipping but this was par for its muddled course. An asshole running the council refused to budge on the Garth Brooks concerts, stonewalling the five concerts due to give the country a badly needed uplift.

There was even a personal plea by Garth, who begged the Taoiseach, saying,

"I will crawl on my hands and knees if that is what it takes but let the people have a party."

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Excerpted from "The Emerald Lie"
by .
Copyright © 2016 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.
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