and at nigh ten Euro a pack, I was hurting.
Plus a fresh salmon I'd bought from one of the local
'snatchers'. H o w fresh was it going to be from our n o w
perennially poisoned water?
I knocked on her door, on the E v i l Eye symbol where most
people w o u l d have their spy hole.
She opened the door slowly. If you're a tinker, you always
answer slowly. Stared at me, said,
'Jack Taylor.'
1 8 9
KEN BRUEN
I handed over the booty/bribe, said,
'I need a reading. Peg a gra:
She waved me i n .
A tall woman, had to be near eighty now, her hair neatly
styled, and those piercing blue eyes, cataracts forming but not
dulling the sheer intensity. She had that regal bearing some
women achieve no matter what shite comes down the road.
Wearing a Connemara shawl, the real deal, hand sewn
and passed from one generation to another.
L o n g skirt that swished as she moved.
H e r sole jewellery was a miraculous medal, gold of
course.
The caravan was spotless, and devoid of furniture save for
two hard-backed chairs, one wooden table and a narrow
bed, neatly made.
Z e n , in fact.
Like most of her generation, she switched from Irish to
English at w i l l . Like the song goes,
and speak a language
that the foreigner does not know.
We sat, she opened the Jay, poured liberal amounts in
heavy G a l w a y crystal tumblers, toasted,
'Dia agus a Mhathair leat: (God and H i s H o l y M o t h e r
with you.)
I said,
'Leat fein: (You too.)
The neat Jay burned like false hope.
190
THE DEVIL
She cracked two cans of the Guinness, pushed one across.
'Ta an doireachdeas leat: (The darkness is upon you.)
N o fucking around, then.
I told her the whole story.
She never interrupted, just sipped from the Guinness, her
eyes glued to my face.
Finished, I sat back, knackered, and took a long swig
from the Jay.
She asked,
' D i d you take money from him?'
Fuck.
Tricky ground.
I scratched the card he sent me, w o n the big one, but I
could easily have lost . . . right?
Didn't fly.
If I lied to her once, I was history.
I told her.
She nodded, said,
' H e owns yer arse.'
I asked,
'What w i l l I do?'
She reached behind her for a pack of Sweet A f t o n .
They still made those suckers?
My dad used to smoke them.
L o r d rest h i m .
I remembered the lines of the Scottish poet Burns on the
front.
Reading me expression, she said,
'Deanamh caitheamh to'bac dubthal thremous leat:
191
KEN BRUEN
Sounds freaking ominous, right?
It's the current government warning on packs and tells
you that terrible things w i l l happen to you if you smoke.
N e x t , she produced an o l d box of Swan matches, offered
both to me.
R o u g h .
I hadn't smoked for three years.
Fucking quitting was just one of the many afflictions I've
endured.
But to refuse?
Couldn't.
Bolhx.
I took two out, handed her one, fired us up.
The smell of sulphur was like a bad joke.
Coarse, no filters on these babies.
The real deal.
She took a deep drag.
M e too.
Christ Almighty, they kicked like a demented G u a r d on
late-Saturday-night drunk tank.
H e r face, impossibly lined, seemed to suck into itself.
My first inhalation had me dizzy.
Delicious lethal delight.
In answer, finally, as to what I should do, she said,
'Rith: (Run.)
Took me a moment to catch the twinkle in her eye.
She asked,
' D o you believe in the Devil?'
'I believe.'
1 92
THE DEVIL
She extended her palm and it took me a moment to catch
up.
Cross her hand with silver.
Like all the shite I'd paid a fortune for wasn't enough?
I found a two Euro coin, not silver but jeez, w h o was
keeping count? I placed it dead centre in her palm and she
closed her hand, intoned,
'Uber,
ubris,
iosa:
A lot of other stuff I didn't grasp, seemed a blend of Irish
and Latin.
She commanded,
' O n your knees.'
I did as she told me.
She rose, stood over me, then pulled a small phial f r o m
her pocket and began to sprinkle it over me. Said,
' H o l y water.'
O r
Plus a fresh salmon I'd bought from one of the local
'snatchers'. H o w fresh was it going to be from our n o w
perennially poisoned water?
I knocked on her door, on the E v i l Eye symbol where most
people w o u l d have their spy hole.
She opened the door slowly. If you're a tinker, you always
answer slowly. Stared at me, said,
'Jack Taylor.'
1 8 9
KEN BRUEN
I handed over the booty/bribe, said,
'I need a reading. Peg a gra:
She waved me i n .
A tall woman, had to be near eighty now, her hair neatly
styled, and those piercing blue eyes, cataracts forming but not
dulling the sheer intensity. She had that regal bearing some
women achieve no matter what shite comes down the road.
Wearing a Connemara shawl, the real deal, hand sewn
and passed from one generation to another.
L o n g skirt that swished as she moved.
H e r sole jewellery was a miraculous medal, gold of
course.
The caravan was spotless, and devoid of furniture save for
two hard-backed chairs, one wooden table and a narrow
bed, neatly made.
Z e n , in fact.
Like most of her generation, she switched from Irish to
English at w i l l . Like the song goes,
and speak a language
that the foreigner does not know.
We sat, she opened the Jay, poured liberal amounts in
heavy G a l w a y crystal tumblers, toasted,
'Dia agus a Mhathair leat: (God and H i s H o l y M o t h e r
with you.)
I said,
'Leat fein: (You too.)
The neat Jay burned like false hope.
190
THE DEVIL
She cracked two cans of the Guinness, pushed one across.
'Ta an doireachdeas leat: (The darkness is upon you.)
N o fucking around, then.
I told her the whole story.
She never interrupted, just sipped from the Guinness, her
eyes glued to my face.
Finished, I sat back, knackered, and took a long swig
from the Jay.
She asked,
' D i d you take money from him?'
Fuck.
Tricky ground.
I scratched the card he sent me, w o n the big one, but I
could easily have lost . . . right?
Didn't fly.
If I lied to her once, I was history.
I told her.
She nodded, said,
' H e owns yer arse.'
I asked,
'What w i l l I do?'
She reached behind her for a pack of Sweet A f t o n .
They still made those suckers?
My dad used to smoke them.
L o r d rest h i m .
I remembered the lines of the Scottish poet Burns on the
front.
Reading me expression, she said,
'Deanamh caitheamh to'bac dubthal thremous leat:
191
KEN BRUEN
Sounds freaking ominous, right?
It's the current government warning on packs and tells
you that terrible things w i l l happen to you if you smoke.
N e x t , she produced an o l d box of Swan matches, offered
both to me.
R o u g h .
I hadn't smoked for three years.
Fucking quitting was just one of the many afflictions I've
endured.
But to refuse?
Couldn't.
Bolhx.
I took two out, handed her one, fired us up.
The smell of sulphur was like a bad joke.
Coarse, no filters on these babies.
The real deal.
She took a deep drag.
M e too.
Christ Almighty, they kicked like a demented G u a r d on
late-Saturday-night drunk tank.
H e r face, impossibly lined, seemed to suck into itself.
My first inhalation had me dizzy.
Delicious lethal delight.
In answer, finally, as to what I should do, she said,
'Rith: (Run.)
Took me a moment to catch the twinkle in her eye.
She asked,
' D o you believe in the Devil?'
'I believe.'
1 92
THE DEVIL
She extended her palm and it took me a moment to catch
up.
Cross her hand with silver.
Like all the shite I'd paid a fortune for wasn't enough?
I found a two Euro coin, not silver but jeez, w h o was
keeping count? I placed it dead centre in her palm and she
closed her hand, intoned,
'Uber,
ubris,
iosa:
A lot of other stuff I didn't grasp, seemed a blend of Irish
and Latin.
She commanded,
' O n your knees.'
I did as she told me.
She rose, stood over me, then pulled a small phial f r o m
her pocket and began to sprinkle it over me. Said,
' H o l y water.'
O r
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