Sanctuary by Ken Bruen Page A

the Statue of Saint Patrick. I wondered whether, with all the snakes we had in our society at the moment, he was as alert as he once was. Losing his grip, like all the other icons, heroes we once adored.
    They should get real honest and put the euro sign up there and then they wouldn’t climb the mountain, they’d fucking gallop. Barefoot or not.

 
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28

Dark Proposal
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    I was en route to meet Stewart when my mobile rang. I dreaded and hoped it might be the psycho nun.
    I heard a cultured male voice. ‘Mr Taylor, I do pray I haven’t caught you at a bad time?’
    The Anglo-Irish prick. As I tried to resurrect his name, he supplied it: ‘Anthony Bradford-Hemple here. I trust you remember me?’
    â€˜Sure, Hemple, I remember.’
    A slight intake of breath at my obvious rudeness. What did he expect?
Mr? Sir?
    He composed himself and said, ‘One tends to forget the somewhat acidic nature of your tongue, Mr Taylor. I have been rather remiss in not expressing mygratitude for your colleague’s splendid work on behalf of my daughter.’
    Colleague?
    Ridge.
    I said, with the same edge in my voice, ‘Glad to be of help.’
    â€˜I wanted to tell you how happy I am, and really, it’s all down to you. I’d never have had the sheer audacity to hope again, and now with Cathleen I’m rather dizzy with delight.’
    Who the fuck was Cathleen? Without thinking, I echoed meself with ‘Who the fuck is Cathleen?’
    He gave what the Brits call a ‘hearty chuckle’ and said, ‘Oh, do forgive me. She is probably more formal with you. I mean, of course, Ban Garda Ridge.’
    What the hell was he talking about? Was he hitting the port big time? I asked, ‘What are you on about?
    He gave a milder form of the previous chuckle, just as annoying. ‘Oh dear, I fear I may have jumped the gun. I presumed she’d have told you.’
    â€˜Told me what?’
    I swear, a triumphant note in his tone now. ‘I daresay I’d better let Cathleen spill the beans . . . Not really my place. Anyway, on Friday we’re having a little soirée to celebrate at my modest pile and would dearly love to have you in attendance. Nothing too formal, tie and blazer would be more than adequate.’
    And he hung up.
    I was standing in the middle of Shop Street by this stage, buskers to the right of me, mimers to the left, and I felt I’d wandered into a circus. The phone rang again. I was ready for him this time and was about to launch when I heard a woman’s voice.
    â€˜You were so kind to give me the feather.’
    I was too stunned to answer.
    She continued, ‘I have the child and soon it will be your turn, Mr Taylor – or should I call you Jack?’
    There was no malice or rage in her voice, which made it all the more chilling. More like she was telling me the shopping list was nigh done.
    I said, ‘You psycho bitch, I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do.’
    She made a sound – a laugh, a sigh, I don’t know. ‘No truer words, Mr Taylor. It will be the last thing you do. Alas, I had to smite my sinner brother for yet one more betrayal. It’s on your head, Mr Taylor, as is so much. But you have so very little time left in which to be a plague on what was once holy ground.’
    And she was gone.
    What the hell did she mean?
    I felt a shock of fear to my whole system. She had taken a child. Which child? Jesus, I had to find out and quickly. Which meant I needed to get round to see her brother without delay.

 
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29

My Brother’s Keeper?
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    As I ran to meet Stewart, the skies darkened. Who was it – Eliot? – who wrote something about what the thunder said. In Galway it said, ‘You’re fucked.’
    Stewart was all settled in for a chat and tea. I grabbed his arm. ‘We have to move and fast.’
    Probably didn’t fit in with his Zen gig but