The Devil (4 page)

w h o ' d given C o l i n Farrell a free card for life for their fare.

After the pub, he'd always fancied a kebab.

I crossed at Holland's newsagents and moved on up to

Supermacs.

G a l w a y owner, and fat chips.

W h a t more could you ask?

I went to the counter and reckoned a burger, the big

fucker, w o u l d bring me levels up, not to mention the fun it

w o u l d have with my cholesterol.

A pretty girl in the Supermacs T-shirt said,

' H o w are you?'

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O K , I k n o w they're told to be polite, but this?

She added,

' Y o u don't remember me, and me thinking I made such an

impression on y o u . '

The college student I'd talked to, w h o luckily was wear-

ing a name tag. E m m a .

I gave my best laugh, tried,

' E m m a , h o w are you? Didn't recognize you in uniform.'

D i d she buy it?

D i d she fuck.

Said,

'Yah divil yah, you read my name tag.'

I ordered the burger and she told me to take a seat and

she'd be right over.

Worked for me.

It was busy, always is, and I had to share a table w i t h a

guy in a bad-fitting suit, munching d o w n on the Philly Steak

Sandwich, w h i c h was new to the menu, like his life

depended on it.

He had the look of somebody w h o ' d got all the bad news

there is and recently. Without preamble, as grease dribbled

from his mouth, he launched,

' K n o w w h y the country is gone to the dogs?'

I had a feeling he was about to tell me.

H e did.

Said,

'The fucking non-nationals, you k n o w they get free

medical cards? I've worked all me fucking life, do I have

a medical card?'

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KEN BRUEN

I was guessing no.

But thank Christ, his mobile rang, with one of those awful

tunes you can download, hke a baby crying.

He muttered,

'Right away.'

Then, grabbing the remains of his Philly, he stood up,

said,

'Fuckers won't give y o u two minutes for lunch, and yeah,

a non-national.'

The careless bigotry, n o w more prevalent, was like a slap

in the face.

E m m a arrived w i t h the burger and chips, said,

'I added French fries cos you need fattening up.'

I barely stopped meself from correcting her.

French fries?

Chips.
Jesus.

But as the Brits say,
that would have been a tad churlish.

No doubt about it, I was channelling Evelyn Waugh.

I thanked her and then her face fell, literally, as she said,

'Poor N o e l , what an awful way to die, the poor creature.'

I could hardly bite d o w n on the burger. I asked,

'What are the students saying, anything to do with Mr K ? '

She shook her head, said,

' N o one's saying anything, and not a light or a sight of Mr

K since.'

She motioned to me to eat my food, saying,

'It w i l l be stone c o l d . '

I gave it a shot and asked her,

'You're a bright girl, E m m a . W h a t do you think?'

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THE DEVIL

She looked at her watch. The place was really jamming up

and she stood, said,

' M i n d the darkness. E v i l rarely appears that on the

surface.'

I'd have to hook her up w i t h Stewart.

I'd never seen h i m with anybody. But then he's never seen

me with anybody either.

I liked her, she was that new bright shining face of Ireland,

w o r k i n g to pay her way through college, smart, confident

and no one's inferior.

My generation, we'd been raised Church-beholden and

afraid, and wouldn't have recognized self-esteem if it bit us

on the arse.

If we'd had a mantra, it w o u l d have been,

'Expect nothing, and by Christ, you're entitled to even

less.'

I got outside. The part of the burger I'd eaten had lodged

in me stomach like a bad prayer.

I took out my mobile, ruefully thinking,

'If I'd gotten to America, I'd be calling it my cell phone.'

Stewart answered on the second ring.

I asked,

'Are you going to Ridge's . . .' I had to swallow hard and

then spit it out. 'Soiree?'

I could hear h i m laughing and I waited.

He took the hint, said,

'Yes, I'm invited, and w o u l d you be needing a lift?'

'If you don't m i n d . '

I let my resentment pour ail over that and he said.

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KEN BRUEN

'I'll pick you up at seven, and try to be a bit sober.'

He hung up.

Anthony Bradford-Hemple, n o w isn't that one hell of a

name?

No way you're going to be w o r k i n g in a fast-food joint

w i t h a name like that.

Ridge's husband.

I was afraid to join up their names. Hers in Irish, Ni

lomaire.

Jesus, you'd need a prompt card to spit it out.

A n d worse, I'd been the one who hooked them up.

H i s daughter, Jennifer, was being threatened and her pony

was stolen. I'd got Ridge to check it out, thinking I was

helping her away from a dire place she'd reached.

And so, dear reader, she fucking married him.

I could understand her reasoning. As a gay Ban Garda,

she was already heavily compromised, and then having a

radical mastectomy, she was indeed all out of options.

Sure enough, she got her promotion, was n o w among the

ruling classes.

A n d mostly, I'd kept my mouth shut.

Comes a horseman, came the dreaded Friday.

I put on my new gear, leaving the jacket till last.

Studied me o w n self in the mirror, tried to persuade

myself that I looked like a slightly befuddled English

professor.

Didn't fly.

The doorbell went and there was Stewart, in a fucking

Louis Copeland suit. The k i n d of suit, you r o l l in the gutter

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with it, you come to, that suit is brushing you off, saying,

'You're a player.'

He looked at my gear, said,

'Wow.'

My temper wasn't at its best. I'd only dropped one X a n a x

and one shot of Jameson and it wasn't mellowing me out at

all.

I said,

'That is one flash suit, three grand or so, I'd guess.'

He gave his enigmatic smile, said,

'You're close.'

I deliberately moved across the r o o m , glancing briefly at

the nuns' convent - they'd be starting evening rosary -

poured a large Jameson and asked,

'Get you something.' I'm fresh out of that decaffeinated

tea, alas.'

He settled himself on the sofa, like a cat, total relaxation,

and I pushed,

'What is it y o u do again, since you stopped pushing dope,

that affords you the suit?'

He didn't rise to the bait, rarely d i d , said,

'Jack, I have all sorts of interests and if you ever want to

get your act together, I'd be delighted to have you along.'

I looked at my watch, said,

'We'd better get this over w i t h . '

He got to his feet, his suit without a crease or crinkle, and

added,

' Y o u might have fun.'

As we headed out I said.

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KEN BRUEN

'Yeah, and I might get to America someday.'

H i s car was the new sleek Datsun, grey. Accessorized his

suit. He turned the key and pulled effortlessly into the traf-

fic. He hit the tape deck or iPod or whatever and we were

blasted by music. I listened in silence for five whole minutes

- I know, I counted out the time - and finally asked,

'What on earth is that?'

He turned it up a notch, said,

'Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.'

There are some lines there is just no reply to.

Ridge's new home was one of those huge sprawling

monsters, so beloved by the Anglo-Irish when they ruled the

land.

Once impressive, no doubt, but badly in need of repair.

A n d a bastard to heat.

We drove up a tree-lined path to the main entrance. I

asked,

' H o w many acres y o u figure he's got?'

Without a beat he said,

'One hundred and fifty-eight.'

' Y o u checked?'

He gave that familiar half-smile, said,

'I check everything.'

Didn't add,

'Reason I have the suit and the car.'

The whole place was lit up, and a bevy of cars were

already parked. Stewart reached into the back seat, grabbed

flowers and bottles of wine. He looked at me, asked,

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THE DEVIL

' Y o u didn't bring anything?'

I waited till I was out of the car, said,

'Brought y o u . '

A girl in a maid's uniform welcomed us and offered to

take our jackets.

N o .

Led us into a large room, w i t h maybe fifty people already

lashing into champagne, a huge chandelier overhead and the

walls hned w i t h paintings.

We were offered canapes and champagne. I took a glass

and Stewart asked for some water.

Ridge emerged from a throng of people, looking radiant.

I've seen her look

like shite,

lost,

angry,

hurt,

but radiant, never.

A blue silk gown made her seem like a beauty.

She hugged Stewart, thanked h i m for the lovely flowers,

then turned to me, said,

'Well, you tried.'

I was a bit taken aback, asked,

' Y o u don't like the jacket?'

She hugged me, a rare and rarer event, and said,

'It's so . . . y o u . '

The fuck was with that?

There was Anthony Bradford-Hemple and a tall bald-

headed man. She told us that her husband was deep

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in conversation w i t h a very important prospective cHent.

Something about h i m .

The man feh my stare, turned, and I felt a chill. Bald or

not, it was the guy from the airport, K u r t .

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5

'The Divil knows his own.'

O l d Irish proverb

Jesus wept.

I was rooted to the floor.

The blond locks had been shorn, but it was h i m .

The fuck was going on?

Champagne on top of X a n a x and the shots of Jay w o u l d

screw w i t h anybody's head. Right?

Ridge was pulling at my sleeve, going,

'Jack, are y o u O K ? '

I focused, shook my head and asked her,

'The guy w i t h your, er . . . husband, w h o is he?'

She threw a fast glance at Stewart. The one that

asks,

' D o we need to get him out of here?'

Stewart was no help and she finally said,

'That's C a r l Franz. He's arranging for Anthony to turn

our home into a tourist resort. He is so amazing.'

K u r t . . . o r maybe Carl?

C a r l with a K, Fd bet.

M r K ?

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KEN BRUEN

Fuck, champagne really does meddle w i t h the brain

sockets.

Before I could arrange any of those fevered thoughts into

cohesion, they were approaching. I braced meself, resolved

to
go with the flow.

Anthony was all Anglo-Irish cordiality, warmth without

conviction, went,

'Jack, so delighted you could make it. M a y I introduce

you to an esteemed prospective business partner, Mr Franz.'

K u r t put out his hand, manners counting most. He said,

'Jack, I've heard so much about you. A wicked pleasure to

meet you in the flesh.'

I took his hand, and felt nothing.

Everybody's hand conveys something.

Sweat,

tremors,

warmth,

cold.

H i s . . . zip, nada, like white space.

A n d oh my sweet L o r d , I remembered the old people

saying,

'Shake hands w i t h the D i v i l , you feel nothing.'

I asked,

'We met before?'

He gave me the eye-fucking look, smiled, said,

'Alas, I don't think so. I'm sure I w o u l d remember.'

The tension was palpable and I could see even Anthony

looking - what is it the Brits call it? - nonplussed.

But as the story of me bedraggled life, I went w i t h it.

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reckoning if tiiey are willing to m i n d fuck,
bring it on, yah

bollix.
I asked,

' Y o u ever heard of a Mr K ? '

He gave a tolerant smile to the others, like he could go

along w i t h nonsense, said,

' N o . Is this a lacking on my part.''

The odd twisted teeth had been fixed, or maybe I was just

way off me fucking head.

He let go of my hand and, as luck w o u l d have it, the bell

sounded for dinner. Ridge grabbed my arm and said, in no

uncertain terms,

'Time to eat. Jack.'

A n d pulled me away.

I didn't look back. I could feel his eyes boring into my

head.

Ridge whispered,

'What on earth are you doing? C a r l is our bail-out

money.'

I shrugged her arm away, said,

'I met the bollix before and trust me, he is the worst news

you ever encountered.'

She was l i v i d . Nothing's quite like the fury of an

Irishwoman crossed. She hissed,

'Don't you dare make a scene! Y o u taint everything, but

you won't do it here.'