Green Hell by Ken Bruen

inducing a coma over my whole bedraggled life.
    Back at my apartment I found Johnny Duhan had sent me a copy of his album
    Winter.
    The very first track might have been written by my own heart,
    â€œCharity of Pain.”
    I muttered,
    â€œGod bless your genius soul, Johnny.”
    Marc Roberts and Jimmy Norman, over the past week, had been giving extensive airplay to “The Beacon.”
    Serendipity?
    I dunno, but later in the week, my favorite band, the Saw Doctors, were due in the Roisin Dubh.
    Music, music everywhere and not a hand to hold.
    Och, ochon (woe is rife).
    â€œYou can run with the big dogs
    or sit on the porch and bark.”
    (Wallace Arnold)
    January 5: Horrendous gales and storms continued to lash the country.
    In Salthill, the sea roared over the promenade to submerge the Toft car park.
    It was surreal to see the cars floating in more than six feet of water. Homes, hospitals were without power. That evening, I risked a walk to see the damage. Headed for the cathedral. A vague notion that I might light some candles for all my dead . . . a long list.
    The church was closed. Priests lining up for sales, no doubt. I was about to turn into Nun’s Island when something caught my eye. A figure, outlined against the heavy church door, was kicking something repeatedly.
    A desperate penitent?
    I have never been troubled with minding my own business. I headed over, realizing it was a guy in his twenties kicking the be-Jaysus out of a tiny pup.
    I shouted,
    â€œHey, shithead, you want to stop doing that.”
    He turned, well turned-out in a North Face heavy parka, matching combat pants, and thick Gore-Tex boots. His face was tanned, well nourished. Who the fuck has a tan in Galway in January?
    He seemed delighted to see me.
    You believe it?
    Flashed brilliant white teeth that testified to seriously expensive dentistry. This kid came from money. He reached into his jacket, produced a large knife; it glinted off the heavy brass door handles. He said in that quasi surfer dude accent the youngsters (the stupid ones) have adopted,
    â€œYou want a piece of me?”
    He actually ran it as wanna. Whatever movie was running in his head, it had a definite x-cert. The pup, whimpering, tried to huddle more into the wall under the holy water font. The poor thing looked like a refugee from Bowie’s album Space Oddity, or maybe more Diamond Dogs .
    I said,
    â€œWhy don’t you come down here and we’ll see what we can do with the knife?”
    He literally leaped the five steps and I sidestepped, putting all of a right fist into his gut. I kicked him in the head as he crumpled. Then I caught him by the scruff of the neck, pulled him back up to the holy water font, pushed his head in it, said,
    â€œCount your blessings.”
    I counted to ten, pulled him out, reached in his jacket, found a fat wallet. Took that. I leaned down, gathered up the tiny bundle of terrorized pup, moved him into the warmth of my jacket. The guy was groaning, his eyes coming back into focus, and, swear to God, somehow he managed a malevolent smile, muttered,
    â€œYour ass is grass, dude.”
    With the heel of my Dr. Martens, I destroyed that fabulous dental art. I turned to go and, in fair imitation of his accent, said,
    â€œDoggone!”
    I called the pup . . . what else . . .
    â€œZiggy.”
    Over the next few days I spent a small fortune on vet treatment. I’d been feeding him, sparingly, from the finger of a rubber glove, blend of
    Sugar
    Warm milk
    Jameson.
    He was the quietest pup the vet ever encountered.
    I said,
    â€œHe has a lot to be quiet about.”
    He fitted in the palm of my hand, melting brown eyes and snow-white paws. He was, the vet said,
    â€œA cross between a terrier and a pug.”
    â€œA mongrel?”
    I said.
    The vet nodded.
    â€œLike myself,”
    I ventured.
    He didn’t disagree.
    The psycho’s wallet yielded a driver’s licence in the name of Declan Smyth.