said,
'Fascinating as that is, what the fuck does it have to do
w i t h this?'
Fie gave me that patient look, said,
'Fie smoked maybe five cigarettes, one after another, and
then crumpled the packet and threw it on the ground. Y o u
k n o w I hate litter and I went to pick it up.'
Jesus, w o u l d he ever get to the frigging point? I said,
'Flooray, you get the G o o d Citizen of the M o n t h award.'
Fie ignored that, said,
'Green packet, American . . . Salem's.'
'I've no idea what this means.'
Fie shrugged, said,
'Except that something seriously weird is happening here.'
'Yah think?'
W h i l e he was Googling so well, I handed h i m the red
card, said,
'Track this, genius.'
D i d n ' t take long. He let out a breath, said,
'It's an invitation to a black M a s s . '
I asked,
' A n y R S V P ? '
186
THE DEVIL
He closed the laptop, sweat visible on his forehead.
I figured to cut him some slack. Told him he should be
getting back to his lady and said,
' M a r y . . . h o w was it?'
'It's A i n e , and it was great till you called.'
I apologized and thanked h i m for coming over.
He nodded, asked,
'What w i l l you do now?'
' B l o w out the candles.'
At the door, he cautioned,
'This is very bad karma, Jack. Y o u should walk - no, run
away, right now.'
Running has never been me strong point. The limp didn't
help.
I bundled the carcass in a bin liner, dropped another
X a n a x , washed it d o w n w i t h a shot of Jay, put my gun in
my Garda coat.
I had a concert to attend.
The Devil's M i n i o n s were ending their set when I got to the
Roisin D u b h .
The guy w h o ' d acided me was the lead singer, and fuck-
ing bad he was.
I knew the barman, pushed a fifty note across to him,
said,
'Seamus, tell the lead singer there's some hot babe in the
alley panting for h i m . '
He asked,
'This going to come back on me?'
187
KEN BRUEN
I let go of the fifty and he took it.
The back of Roisin's borders the canal. D a r k and ominous
at that hour.
I hadn't long to wait.
The side door opened and he emerged, the sweat on his
face gleaming in the d i m streetlight, his gig or the promise
of a blow job lighting him up.
I shot h i m in both knees, from behind, then caught him as
he fell, picked him up and threw him in the canal.
I hefted the bin liner, threw it in too.
Like the very last lines of Under the Volcano. They'd
thrown a dead dog into a hole after the consul's body. It
gave, I felt, a nice literary touch to the proceedings.
On my way home, I found a phone box that hadn't been
vandalized.
R a n g the Guards, said a man was drowning in the canal.
I didn't mention the dog.
H e ' d had his day.
N e x t day, I went to see the tinkers.
Once treated as the dregs of our caring society, they'd
moved up a notch since we started to resent the non-
nationals. N o t a huge leap for them, but they were getting
less abuse than before.
I'd w o r k e d a case w i t h and for them, and thus was
regarded as close to clan as an outsider is ever going to get.
As a child, I remember, every M o n d a y the skin woman
w o u l d come, collecting discarded potato skins to feed her pigs.
Little d i d she know, the fucking skins were our dinner
1 88
THE DEVIL
most days.
She did this for years.
After her death, it was disclosed that she never had any
pigs.
I went to see her sister. Peg, w h o it was claimed had the
gift of the sight. Yeah, I know, H B O already have the series.
Before Ghost Whisperer, Crossing Over, Sixth Sense, before
all that, she was quietly dispensing such things as she
intuited.
H e r caravan was perched on the football field in the
Claddagh.
Recently, asbestos had been discovered there and house
prices had plummeted.
Guess she didn't see that coming.
But I was clutching at straws.
She lived alone and, unusual for a traveller, not a dog in
sight, or even a pig.
I came prepared.
Bottle of Jameson,
dozen cans of Guinness,
carton of cigs,
'Fascinating as that is, what the fuck does it have to do
w i t h this?'
Fie gave me that patient look, said,
'Fie smoked maybe five cigarettes, one after another, and
then crumpled the packet and threw it on the ground. Y o u
k n o w I hate litter and I went to pick it up.'
Jesus, w o u l d he ever get to the frigging point? I said,
'Flooray, you get the G o o d Citizen of the M o n t h award.'
Fie ignored that, said,
'Green packet, American . . . Salem's.'
'I've no idea what this means.'
Fie shrugged, said,
'Except that something seriously weird is happening here.'
'Yah think?'
W h i l e he was Googling so well, I handed h i m the red
card, said,
'Track this, genius.'
D i d n ' t take long. He let out a breath, said,
'It's an invitation to a black M a s s . '
I asked,
' A n y R S V P ? '
186
THE DEVIL
He closed the laptop, sweat visible on his forehead.
I figured to cut him some slack. Told him he should be
getting back to his lady and said,
' M a r y . . . h o w was it?'
'It's A i n e , and it was great till you called.'
I apologized and thanked h i m for coming over.
He nodded, asked,
'What w i l l you do now?'
' B l o w out the candles.'
At the door, he cautioned,
'This is very bad karma, Jack. Y o u should walk - no, run
away, right now.'
Running has never been me strong point. The limp didn't
help.
I bundled the carcass in a bin liner, dropped another
X a n a x , washed it d o w n w i t h a shot of Jay, put my gun in
my Garda coat.
I had a concert to attend.
The Devil's M i n i o n s were ending their set when I got to the
Roisin D u b h .
The guy w h o ' d acided me was the lead singer, and fuck-
ing bad he was.
I knew the barman, pushed a fifty note across to him,
said,
'Seamus, tell the lead singer there's some hot babe in the
alley panting for h i m . '
He asked,
'This going to come back on me?'
187
KEN BRUEN
I let go of the fifty and he took it.
The back of Roisin's borders the canal. D a r k and ominous
at that hour.
I hadn't long to wait.
The side door opened and he emerged, the sweat on his
face gleaming in the d i m streetlight, his gig or the promise
of a blow job lighting him up.
I shot h i m in both knees, from behind, then caught him as
he fell, picked him up and threw him in the canal.
I hefted the bin liner, threw it in too.
Like the very last lines of Under the Volcano. They'd
thrown a dead dog into a hole after the consul's body. It
gave, I felt, a nice literary touch to the proceedings.
On my way home, I found a phone box that hadn't been
vandalized.
R a n g the Guards, said a man was drowning in the canal.
I didn't mention the dog.
H e ' d had his day.
N e x t day, I went to see the tinkers.
Once treated as the dregs of our caring society, they'd
moved up a notch since we started to resent the non-
nationals. N o t a huge leap for them, but they were getting
less abuse than before.
I'd w o r k e d a case w i t h and for them, and thus was
regarded as close to clan as an outsider is ever going to get.
As a child, I remember, every M o n d a y the skin woman
w o u l d come, collecting discarded potato skins to feed her pigs.
Little d i d she know, the fucking skins were our dinner
1 88
THE DEVIL
most days.
She did this for years.
After her death, it was disclosed that she never had any
pigs.
I went to see her sister. Peg, w h o it was claimed had the
gift of the sight. Yeah, I know, H B O already have the series.
Before Ghost Whisperer, Crossing Over, Sixth Sense, before
all that, she was quietly dispensing such things as she
intuited.
H e r caravan was perched on the football field in the
Claddagh.
Recently, asbestos had been discovered there and house
prices had plummeted.
Guess she didn't see that coming.
But I was clutching at straws.
She lived alone and, unusual for a traveller, not a dog in
sight, or even a pig.
I came prepared.
Bottle of Jameson,
dozen cans of Guinness,
carton of cigs,
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