life.
Where no one reaches,
Where a voice which comes and goes mysteriously tells you
What you do not want to hear.
Recall what you would prefer to forget
And
What you do not want to know.
He is that profound abyss of
Your unbelief.
He is in that
Which you feel you have lost,
That you fear
1 79
KEN BRUEN
You will not find again,
And which you wish to possess.
Although
You would be ashamed
To admit it
To other people.
Fuck, maybe the M o r m o n s had been after all.
I nipped at the Jay to keep me focus sharp, me rage on
fire, thought of Serena M a y and the golden child she'd been.
A n d almost as outrider to her, Lee A n n Womack's 'I H o p e
Y o u Dance'.
My m i n d like a cobra, lashing all over the place.
Time moved on. My cocktail of booze and pharma-
ceuticals had zoned me out. Languidly, I reached to the
bookcase. Always wanted to be languid as opposed to
langers. Using the Dice M a n method of random selection,
Fd see what spoke to me.
Seamus Smyth, his second great novel. Red Dock.
W h a t the nuns did to the poor M a g d a l e n girls, the
Christian Brothers did to the boys, in the so termed
'Industrial Schools'. Translate as 'Concentration Camps'.
W i t h total C h u r c h approval.
The opening lines had me spitting iron.
Stewart appeared in the doorway and I came as close to
shooting h i m as I don't want to dwell upon.
He was wearing a T-shirt w i t h the logo 'Above the saddle,
no rider. Below the saddle, no rider.'
Was he fucking kidding me?
180
3
THE DEVIL
He Stared i n , disbelief writ neon, muttered in very un-
Stewart fashion,
' H o l y shite.'
I said languidly,
'Don't be shy, come i n . It gets, if not better, a whole lot
more interesting.'
He advanced cautiously, as if something was going to bite
him.
W e l l , he was safe enough from the dog, I reckoned.
H i s eyes remained on my gun till he saw the coffee table,
and it looked like he was going to throw up.
Guess Z e n didn't cover that.
I asked,
' A n y thoughts on where a sick bollix would stash the head?'
He managed to compose himself, asked,
'What the fuck happened?'
In nigh most of the years I'd k n o w n h i m , through
dope-dealer,
convict,
businessman,
Z e n pain in the arse,
that's if anyone ever knew h i m ,
he never swore.
Perhaps he felt no need, but n o w he was effing and
blinding like the rest of the country. Like a priest counting
the takings after Sunday Mass.
I laid out the whole gig, even the pictures that hadn't
developed.
He seemed mesmerized by the array of black candles.
181
KEN BRUEN
W h e n I'd finished, I asked,
'Is there a Z e n message to explain this?'
He said,
'Shit happens.'
182
16
7 smoked too much and had a sore chest. I had a host of
companion symptoms as well, niggly physical things that
showed up occasionally, weird aches, possible lumps,
rashes, symptoms of a condition maybe, or a network
of conditions. What if they all held hands one
day and lit up?'
A l a n Glynn, The Dark Fields
We didn't find the head.
I had a horrible feeling it w o u l d turn up in the most
appalling manner. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia.
Where was Warren Oates when y o u needed him?
I did find the crumpled napkin that C a r l had written o n .
Smoothed it out and read:
1. Sarah Goode.
2. Sarah Osborn.
3. Tibuta.
Handed it to Stewart, said,
' Z e n this.'
He went to my laptop, began to Google furiously.
My eyes strayed to the bookcase, to E d w a r d Wright's
superb novel. Damnation Falls. I thought,
' E d , buddy, you got that bang to rights.'
Stewart was making odd noises, maybe his mantra. Finally
he sat back and said.
185
KEN BRUEN
'Jack, you'd better take a look at this.'
It showed that on M a r c h 1st 1692, those three people
were arrested for witchcraft in Salem.
Stewart said,
'The night we went to Ridge's, C a r l was smoking some
k i n d of cheroots, but later, I saw him outside, smoking
cigarettes.'
I
Where no one reaches,
Where a voice which comes and goes mysteriously tells you
What you do not want to hear.
Recall what you would prefer to forget
And
What you do not want to know.
He is that profound abyss of
Your unbelief.
He is in that
Which you feel you have lost,
That you fear
1 79
KEN BRUEN
You will not find again,
And which you wish to possess.
Although
You would be ashamed
To admit it
To other people.
Fuck, maybe the M o r m o n s had been after all.
I nipped at the Jay to keep me focus sharp, me rage on
fire, thought of Serena M a y and the golden child she'd been.
A n d almost as outrider to her, Lee A n n Womack's 'I H o p e
Y o u Dance'.
My m i n d like a cobra, lashing all over the place.
Time moved on. My cocktail of booze and pharma-
ceuticals had zoned me out. Languidly, I reached to the
bookcase. Always wanted to be languid as opposed to
langers. Using the Dice M a n method of random selection,
Fd see what spoke to me.
Seamus Smyth, his second great novel. Red Dock.
W h a t the nuns did to the poor M a g d a l e n girls, the
Christian Brothers did to the boys, in the so termed
'Industrial Schools'. Translate as 'Concentration Camps'.
W i t h total C h u r c h approval.
The opening lines had me spitting iron.
Stewart appeared in the doorway and I came as close to
shooting h i m as I don't want to dwell upon.
He was wearing a T-shirt w i t h the logo 'Above the saddle,
no rider. Below the saddle, no rider.'
Was he fucking kidding me?
180
3
THE DEVIL
He Stared i n , disbelief writ neon, muttered in very un-
Stewart fashion,
' H o l y shite.'
I said languidly,
'Don't be shy, come i n . It gets, if not better, a whole lot
more interesting.'
He advanced cautiously, as if something was going to bite
him.
W e l l , he was safe enough from the dog, I reckoned.
H i s eyes remained on my gun till he saw the coffee table,
and it looked like he was going to throw up.
Guess Z e n didn't cover that.
I asked,
' A n y thoughts on where a sick bollix would stash the head?'
He managed to compose himself, asked,
'What the fuck happened?'
In nigh most of the years I'd k n o w n h i m , through
dope-dealer,
convict,
businessman,
Z e n pain in the arse,
that's if anyone ever knew h i m ,
he never swore.
Perhaps he felt no need, but n o w he was effing and
blinding like the rest of the country. Like a priest counting
the takings after Sunday Mass.
I laid out the whole gig, even the pictures that hadn't
developed.
He seemed mesmerized by the array of black candles.
181
KEN BRUEN
W h e n I'd finished, I asked,
'Is there a Z e n message to explain this?'
He said,
'Shit happens.'
182
16
7 smoked too much and had a sore chest. I had a host of
companion symptoms as well, niggly physical things that
showed up occasionally, weird aches, possible lumps,
rashes, symptoms of a condition maybe, or a network
of conditions. What if they all held hands one
day and lit up?'
A l a n Glynn, The Dark Fields
We didn't find the head.
I had a horrible feeling it w o u l d turn up in the most
appalling manner. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia.
Where was Warren Oates when y o u needed him?
I did find the crumpled napkin that C a r l had written o n .
Smoothed it out and read:
1. Sarah Goode.
2. Sarah Osborn.
3. Tibuta.
Handed it to Stewart, said,
' Z e n this.'
He went to my laptop, began to Google furiously.
My eyes strayed to the bookcase, to E d w a r d Wright's
superb novel. Damnation Falls. I thought,
' E d , buddy, you got that bang to rights.'
Stewart was making odd noises, maybe his mantra. Finally
he sat back and said.
185
KEN BRUEN
'Jack, you'd better take a look at this.'
It showed that on M a r c h 1st 1692, those three people
were arrested for witchcraft in Salem.
Stewart said,
'The night we went to Ridge's, C a r l was smoking some
k i n d of cheroots, but later, I saw him outside, smoking
cigarettes.'
I
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