Headstone (3 page)

his manifesto.

By mangling Darwin, he’d managed to convince

them of the urgency of ridding the city of:

the misfits,

the handicapped,

the vulnerable,

the weak,

the pitiful.

Bethany thought it was a crock, but Bine gave her a

cold icy channel for her rage, so she acted as if she

bought into his motives. And though she despised

herself, she had such a lust for him she was

prepared to go along with whatever frenzy he’d

envisaged. It sated her need to have to lash out

alone.

Bine said,

“James?”

Jimmy leapt to attention, went and got the nose

candy, a mini headstone, with cocaine done in nice

consecutive lines and, naturally, presenting a fifty-

euro wrapped note, offered the gear first to Bine.

He did three lines fast, moved the stuff to Sean,

who did similar, then Jimmy, and, finally, Bethany.

She didn’t give a proverbial toss that they were as

chauvinistic as the very society they decried, she

did four lines just to fuck with the system.

She smiled as the dope jolted and at their almost

boyish cries of “Sweet Jaysus,

Darwin rocks,

Bring it on muthahfuckahs.”

She watched Bine carefully, even as she felt the

icy dribble down her own throat. Christ on a bike,

that was A-1 dope, she was in danger of speaking,

such was the potency. She knew the K could take

him either way:

magnanimous

or

malevolent.

He caught her stare, asked,

“The knife?”

She produced the new Japanese blade he’d

ordered, serrated edge and as sharp as a bishop

avoiding child molestation allegations.

He studied it, asked,

“And this for whom?”

She bit down, said,

“As you desire.”

Fuck, even to her own self she sounded like a

wench in an Elizabethan drama or, worse, a bad

Russell Crowe medieval romp. He moved his

finger along the edge, letting the fine blade draw

blood, sucked at it, the blood on his lips, his eyes

on fire, and she knew, sex would be rough, and

violent, and the stupid bollix, he’d probably bring

the knife to their bed. Men and their macho toys.

He said,

“Mmmm………in keeping with our strategy, I

want a retard, but I want him gutted.

Can you do that?”

She wanted to say,

“How fucking difficult can it be, kill a

handicapped person?”

Went with,

“When do you want it to happen?”

He smiled. If warmth had ever touched that

expression, it had long since fled. He had his teeth

filed down to points, adding to the sardonic effect.

He said,

“As soon as you find a suitable dribbling idiot.”

She wanted to say,

“Have you been in the pubs in Quay Street

recently?”

But irony was not his strong point.

He suddenly leapt to his feet, the Japanese knife

curled in his right hand. He said to Sean,

“More drinks me-finks.”

Sean knew when Bine tried to speak Brit, shit was

coming down the pike. And hard. He poured the

Wild into Bine’s tumbler, trying to disguise the

tremble in his hand. Bine began to move down the

table, humming,
We are the champions.
Stopped

behind Jimmy, who began to turn till Bine laid a

hand on his shoulder, asked,

“Why does the priest live?”

Almost a metaphysical question.

Before Jimmy could mutter some answer, Bine

leant forward, slashed his cheek from eye to

mouth. Blood gushed onto the headstone. Jimmy

gasped, raised his hand to stem the flow.

Bine said,

“Let it bleed.”

Cue to Bethany, who moved to the sound system,

put on
Exile on Main St
. As Jagger began to moan

and Keith laid on the heavy thump, Bine moved

back to the map of the school, said, “December

Eight, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception,

they’ll be having their special treat of turkey in the

canteen.”

Swung around, eyed his crew, said, as he literally

cackled,

“A turkey shoot.”

God holds unique plans for those who

label others

……………..handicapped.

—Jeff , dad of Serena-May

Tom Reed had been born with Down syndrome.

“Mild,”

the doctor had said.

Tess, Tom’s mum, nearly screamed,

“Fucking mild to you, you golfing bastard!”

And sure enough, the doc was due on the links in,

like, jig time, so he didn’t have a whole lot of time

to mutter the platitudes. The woman was whining

blue murder and he wanted to say,

“You’ll get used to it.”

She never did.

Never.

When her husband heard, he did what was

becoming more common: he fucked off .

Permanently.

Then the legion of social workers, with the

Gestapo suggestions, “Give him up for adoption.”

Right.

They were just lining up to grab a child with DS.

Ten grand bought them a cherubic dote from Russia

or the third world. Tess was brief in her response

to the suggestions.

“Fuck off.”

She raised Tom with every ounce of spirit and guts

she had. Got him through school, then a job in a

warehouse. Sometimes, the Gods there be cut a

poor bitch some slack, not much but a thread. The

lads in the warehouse were all from Tess’s

neighborhood, Bohermore, one of the few real

communities in the city. They watched out for him.

He began as a messenger boy, then over the years,

thanks to the lads, he learned to drive a forklift and

that was one shit proud day for all.

Not to mention the extra few euros it brought into

their home. Tom was tall, unusual for his

condition, with dark hair, the eyes of a fawn, and

the nature of an angel. The day he got to drive the

forklift, he literally ran home to tell his mum,

shouting, “Mum……Mum, I got me license, I can

drive the big machine.”

She wiped her tears away, said,

“So, takeaway curry tonight and your favorite

movie.”

“
Die Hard Th ree
.”

If only she knew how ominous that was.

Truth to tell, Tom would watch anything with

Bruce Willis. Tess watched him as he watched the

movie, wondering if he thought he was Bruce

Willis?

Their life wasn’t exactly easy but they relished

what they had, primarily each other.

Friday evening, Tom got his wages, and had his

ritual in place. Go to Holland’s shop, be polite to

Mary, buy the big box of Dairy Milk for his mum,

and then walk home. In Holland’s, a girl, looking

through the postcards, smiled at him and he

blushed. Got his purchases and left. He walked

along Eyre Square and headed up Prospect Hill; he

always quickened his pace when he came to the

alley that led to St. Patrick’s Church. It had

shadows and he didn’t like those. Then the

customer from the shop, the pretty girl, appeared,

asked,

“Could you help me please?”

His mum had instilled in him the virtue of always

helping people. But the alley?

The girl had a lovely smile, said,

“I dropped my mobile in there and I’m afraid to

look for it by my own self.”

Bruce Willis would help.

He entered the alley and immediately got a

ferocious wallop to the back of his neck. Two

young men stood over him, the girl right in front,

She said,

“Chocolates. Oh, I so love sweetness.”

Tom was getting to his feet, dizzy but still able to

stand, protested, “Those are for me mum.”

One of the young men, with a livid fresh scar,

lashed out with his Doc Marten, smashing Tom’s

teeth, and the other asked,

“Oh, did that hurt?”

And delivered a ferocious kick to Tom’s crotch.

Tom threw up all over the girl’s boots. She said,

“Jesus wept, I just cleaned them.”

Tom was on his knees, still retching, and the girl

knelt down to his level, asked,

“You wanna go home to your momma, that it?”

He muttered miserably and the girl said, “But the

chocolates, we can’t waste them.”

One of the men grabbed Tom’s head and forced

open his mouth, the girl ripped open the

cellophane, grabbed a fistful of the sweets and

shoved them into his mouth. Then she produced a

knife, Tom knew it as a Stanley from work, and she

said,

“Little trouble digesting all of them you greedy

boy, let me help you.”

And slit his throat in one practiced movement. The

other man took the box of Dairy Milk, scattered the

remains over Tom’s falling body, said,

“Sweets for the sweet.”

The girl bent down, waited till Tom bled out, said

as he gurgled, “Christ, keep it down.”

Then rifled through his jacket, found his pay

packet, said,

“Payday.”

They didn’t glance back as they strolled from the

alley.

If you woke up breathing

Congratulations!

You have another chance.

—Graffiti on the wall of the Abbey Church

Tom Russell’s powerful new album had his

stunning song

“Guadaloupe,”

sung by the ethereal Gretchen Peters.

It was unwinding in my head as I crossed the

Salmon Weir Bridge. Looked in vain to see a

salmon leap.

Nope.

Into our third year of the water remaining:

contaminated,

poisoned,

lethal.

The bottled water companies continued to rake in

the cash. No recession for them. The rest of us

poor bastards continued to boil the water.

Grudgingly.

A Garda car swerved into the cathedral car park.

Call it instinct,

I knew they weren’t stopping to light candles.

A Ban Garda got out.

Wearing sergeant stripes.

Ridge.

Or in Irish, Ni Iomaire.

The uniform suited her. She looked kind of regal.

Seeing her, the late winter sun bouncing off the

gold buttons on her tunic, I felt the old pang. The

deep regret I’d been kicked off the Force. Ridge

and I went back even further than Stewart. We

weren’t friends. More’s the Irish pity.

Fate seemed to continually throw us together. I

admired her. Not that I’d ever tell her. Her family

had been scarred by alcoholism and she had an

inbuilt loathing of alkies. My last case, she’d

received a serious beating but appeared to be

recovered. Insofar as you ever get past such an

event. I had a limp, a hearing aid, more broken

bones than a nun has polished floors.

Ridge was gay and then married an Anglo-Irish

landowner with the imposing name of Anthony

Hayden-Hemple.

He regarded me as a peasant. Their marriage was

truly one of convenience. He had clout, played golf

with my nemesis, Superintendent Clancy, and

played bridge with the elite of the city. He needed

a mother for his teenage daughter, Ridge wanted

promotion.

Deal done.

Seemed to be holding.

Sort of.

She leant against the car, her face expressionless. I

said,

“Think you may have missed the noon mass.”

She threw a brief glance at the church, said,

“Wouldn’t hurt you to go the odd time.”

I gave her my best smile, full of bullshite and

malevolence, said,

“I’ve just been in the Abbey, lit some candles for

all sinners.”

She seemed to have many replies to this but let it

slide, said,

“You’ll have heard about Father Malachy.”

I said,

“I’ve an alibi.”

Now her annoyance surfaced, she spat,

“Don’t be such a thundering eejit.”

And a shadow of rage and compassion caressed

her face as she said,

“And the other attack?”

“What?”

She looked at me, asked,

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

But the temporary feeling of whatever had fled and

she snapped,

“What am I? Your private source of information?

Buy a bloody paper.”

To needle her, I asked

“How is your husband?”

Leant heavily on the last word. She said,

“He’s away on business.”

I moved to go, said,

“Give him my love. I’m on my way to see

Malachy. You think he’d prefer grapes or a pack of

cigs?”

She shrugged, cautioned,

“This is Garda business, stay out of it.”

I loved that, the tone of authority, the sheer