Purgatory. Ken Bruen

are you looking at?”

      Pose she perfected every day of her miserable life.

      My mother wasn’t a simple bitch.

      She was more evolved, a cunning sociopath who hated the world under the guise of piety.

      Dead for years now, so did I finally, Oprah-like, come to understand and, yes, alleluia,

      Forgive?

      Yeah, like fuck.

      And, oh my God, she would spin in her grave to know those prize bonds were sitting there. There may not be justice but there is sure some cosmic twisted karma. Took a while for the bonds to be processed but, when they were, I was stunned.

      Cash.

      Lots of it.

      So.

      I stopped drinking.

      How weird is that? When I couldn’t afford it on any level, I went at it like a famished greyhound. Now, I quit?

      Go figure.

      Three months in, I was doing okay, not gasping, hanging in there and feeling a whole lot healthier. I’d been down this road so many times, but something had altered. My last case, I literally lost two fingers, and witnessed some events that shadowed me in a new way. I finally figured out booze wasn’t easing my torture but fine-tuning it. Would it last? Who knew?

      I was sitting in Garavan’s, just off Shop Street. It still resembled the old pubs: an Irish barman, snug, no bouncers, decent slow-pulled pints, and memories of the bearable kind. Pat, a middle-aged guy, was tending the pumps, brought me a black coffee, glass of sparkling water. He was off the booze his own self, so no gibes. Said,

      “I’m off the cigs.”

      He was an old-school smoker, mainlined nicotine. I said the usual hollow things, ended with,

      “Did you use the patches?”

      “Fear,”

      He said.

      Whether of health, economics, his wife, I didn’t push.

      Life needs a touch of mystery and not everything requires an answer.

      2

      Some people, I saw, had drowned right away. And some people were drowning in slow motion, drowning a little bit at a time, and would be drowning for years. And some people, like Mick, had always been drowning. They just didn’t know what to call it until now.

      —Sara Gran, The City of the Dead

      Purgatory is the pit stop en route to hell.

      The woman sat opposite me, didn’t ask, just sat. This used to happen a lot. People believing I had some inside track for finding things, people, solutions, and maybe answers. I’d found some answers, over the years, and they were always the wrong ones. Or right but for the wrong reasons. I’d given it up with the booze, the cigs, the Xanax.

      Before she could speak, I said,

      “No.”

      Knocked her back.

      Her mouth made a small O of surprise. I knew the gig.

      The touching photo.

      Some heart-kicking story.

      Her son/brother/husband

      Missing

      Was a great/caring/lovable

      Individual

      And

      Could I find him, what happened to him?

      The whole usual awful parade of misery.

      She tried,

      “But, they said, you care.”

      I said,

      “I don’t.”

      And I didn’t.

      Not no more.

      Sorry.

      My new home was a steal.

      Galway, in the boom years, the most sought-after location for housing in the country. Plus the most expensive. Now the new austerity, the bankruptcy, and you couldn’t give away property. I rented a two-bedroom, ground-floor, bright, open apartment in Merchants Road, not a spit from the Garda station.

      Flat-screen TV, modern kitchen for all the cooking I’d never do. Large pine bookcase. I’d given Vinny a shout at Charlie Byrne’s bookshop and he’d stacked the shelves. He knew my books, sometimes, even knew me. Plus, he’d handed me an envelope, said,

      “It was left in the shop for you.”

      No, he hadn’t seen who dropped it off.

      My name on a deep blue envelope, almost the color of a Guard’s tunic. Inside

      A photo of a young man, on a skateboard, high in the air, looking like an eagle against the sky. Then a piece from The Galway Advertiser which read

      . . . verdict due on January 10th in vicious rape case. Tim Rourke, accused in the brutal rape and battery of two young girls, is due in court for the verdict. Controversy has surrounded the case since it was revealed the Guards had not followed procedure in obtaining the evidence.

      There was more, about this being the latest high-profile case likely to be thrown out over some technicality. And still

      The bankers

      Developers

      Clergy

      Continued to fuck us over every way they could.

      A single piece of notepaper had this printed on it

      You want to take this one? Your turn, Jack.

      Signed

      C33.

      3

      “Right,” she thought, “I’m just having a little attack of metaphysics.”

      —Fred Vargas, The Chalk Circle Man

      Philosophy is for the man of private means.

      Stewart was more a reluctant ally than a friend. A former yuppie dope dealer, he’d been sent to jail for six years, hard full sentence. I’d solved the murder of his sister; he felt an enduring debt since. After his release, he’d reinvented himself as a Zen-spouting entrepreneur. And seemed to make shitloads of cash. Even in the depths of the current bleak economy. We’d been thrown together on numerous cases and he’d developed a strong friendship with my other ally.

      Ridge.

      Sergeant Ní Iomaire.

      A gay Guard, married to a bollix. She was currently out of the marriage but moving up the ranks, slowly, in the all-male hierarchy of the police. They seemed to believe I was redeemable.

      Not yet.

      Stewart was sitting in the lobby of the Meryck Hotel. It fed his posh aspirations and served herbal tea. A crime in any venue. Wearing an Armani suit, he sat at ease, like a cat with breeding. I was drinking black coffee, bitter as my heart. I showed him the note, article, photo I’d received. He gave his full focus. Said,

      “Let me check on this photo. It looks familiar.”

      Then he read aloud the message, which was

      “Your turn, Jack.”

      Looked at me, asked,

      “What do you figure?”

      I told the truth.

      “No idea.”

      He pushed.

      “And?”

      “And . . . nothing. I don’t care.”

      He let out a small sigh, stole a glance at my mutilated hand. I wore a glove,