The Magdalen Martyrs by Ken Bruen

such an extent that locals began dropping in their clothes. No compassion from them. The girls had chalk complexions, and as they rarely left the building, they resembled the starched sheets they were cleaning. The lack of sunlight and the stifling conditions added to the look of utter hopelessness the girls shared. Known as penitents, they were expected to say the rosary as they worked. Visiting clergy reminded them of their fall from grace and how far they’d have to climb if redemption was ever to be achieved.
    Lucifer entered the laundry each time with an almost dizzying sense of power. Her eyes had become accustomed to the harsh emanations from the soap, bleach, steam and constant boiling water. The smell of perspiration and the stench of un-washed bodies only served to stoke her simmering rage. She hated these girls for reasons even she couldn’t understand.

Next day, before the funeral, I rang Bill Cassell. He barked,
    “What do you want, Taylor?”
    “Gee, Bill, what happened to Jack?”
    “Don’t fuck with me today, fellah.”
    “I found the woman.”
    Intake of breath, then,
    “Where?”
    “Newcastle.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    I did.
    He was silent as he digested the data. I said,
    “So, we’re quits . . . right?”
    “What?”
    “You said I could wipe the slate if I found her.”
    “Yeah, yeah, you’re clear.”
    I could have left it, but I wanted to needle the fuck, said,
    “You don’t sound so good, Bill.”
    “Casey got shot.”
    Push a tad further, asked,
    “Who’s Casey?”
    Low mean chuckle and,
    “Surprised you’ve forgotten him. Big guy in a white track-suit, held you during our last little chat. Course you never got to see Nev, and if you’re lucky, you never will.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yeah, some cowardly shite kneecapped him.”
    “That’s gotta hurt.”
    “Like you care.”
    “Any idea who did it?”
    “Well, I can safely rule you out.”
    “Why?”
    “Two reasons. One, you’re usually too pissed to aim your dick, and two, you haven’t the balls.”
    Click.
    Hard to say if I’d scored on that exchange. I was wearing the dark suit again, conscious that today Brendan Flood would be six foot under. His letter was beside my bed. I hadn’t yet been able to open it. Dropped two ‘hides and made some coffee. Turned the radio on. Bob Dylan was sixty.
    Finally got the Oscar for his song in
Wonder Boys.
    They played it, “Things Have Changed”.
    Had they ever.
    As the English say, and changed “irrevocably”.
    Good word, makes you feel educated. Best to use it sparingly.
    I would.
    Checked my watch, realised the ‘ludes had kicked as I’d forgotten to drink the coffee.
    Lit a cigarette.
    Took a breath, opened the envelope, my mind going,
    “And the winner is . . .”
    It began:
     
Jack,
    What can I tell you? I ran out of energy. When I ran out of faith, it was all over bar the shouting. No doubt you’ll hear the shouting at my funeral. That Magdalen business was just the final straw. Clancy and his crowd are keen to keep it in the past. As if evil can be ever put in the bin. That Bill Cassell doesn’t want to find the woman for any good reason. Watch him and your step. My wife gets the house and money. But us guards, we keep some in reserve. Go to AIB, Lynch’s Castle, Savings Account number 19426421, and you’ll get the land of your life. I’d have stayed longer if the hangovers were less tolerable. I don’t even mean the ones from booze. You’re the closest I ever had to a friend, and I’m not even sure I liked you. So, I’ve been dead longer than I thought. If I believed in God any more, I’d say, God bless you.
    I wish I could have been the guard you could have been.
    Slan.
    Brendan Flood
     
    I folded the letter carefully, put it in my wallet. Beside the photo of the girl with the brown ringlets, a relic of Padre Pio was riding back up. The Irish word for sadness is
bronach.
But it means so much more than that. It’s akin to desolation, and my heart