Читать книгу Purgatory - Ken Bruen - Страница 11

4

She can be delicately morbid.

—Alice Blanchard, The Breathtaker

Purgatory is seen as hell light.

Rourke should have been a good-looking kid. Tousled blond hair like a character in a chick-lit novel, delicate build, but the eyes . . . the eyes contained an essence that had come from a place of eternal dread. They conveyed the black energy that drove on hate. He never wondered why he had more of this emotion than all others; he learned early to conceal it, used a knife charm to evade responsibility, and derived almost ecstatic bliss from the inflicting of pain.

His type does well in

The army

And

The church.

Now, late on a Friday night, thrown out of a pub on the Quays, he’d ended up near Nimmo’s Pier. He’d trolled here before, robbing gays, penny-ante dope dealers. He’d been downing the working stiff’s cocaine, vodka and Red Bull, not that Rourke and work had ever met. His acquittal was blurred in his mind, owing to the amount of booze he’d taken, and a hit of the new solvent doing the rounds added a level of confusion to his head.

All he felt was the usual compulsion to wreak damage. He moved to the end of the pier and looked up at the lone light hanging above the rim. The bulb was gone so he was in virtual darkness. Saw the figure weaving toward him and his body went into attack mode. Then a moment of confusion.

Was the figure moving very fast and . . . moving in a direct line toward him?

WTF?

Then thought,

“Good, come to Momma.”

Then a hand was reaching out and he felt the full voltage of the taser. His brain briefly registered

Born to Be Wild.

I was on a female mystery kick, reading only lady crime writers. My contribution to equality. Had asked Vinny to stack my new bookshelves with them.

He did.

I skimmed through the authors.

Sara Gran

Zoë Sharp

Margaret Murphy

Wendy Hornsby

Lynn S. Hightower

Megan Abbott

Cornelia Read

Alafair Burke

Hilary Davidson

Jan Burke

And was content.

A further two boxes were yet to be opened and I kept the anticipation of that for the dire days of February. The radio was tuned to Jimmy Norman and he was playing the new album from Marc Roberts. You could think that most was okay in my narrow world. Apart from a desperate yearning to get hammered but I knew how those demons roared. Could see clearly in my mind

The double Jameson

Two tabs of Xanax

Pack of Major.

Almost in sync, I scratched the patch on my left arm. Muttered not today; was reaching for a book when my mobile shrilled.

Stewart.

Said,

“Need to talk to you urgently.”

“Thought you Zen masters didn’t do . . . you know . . . urgency.”

He sighed, then,

“Jack, it’s serious, about the note you received.”

We met in Crowe’s bar in Bohermore. My choice. A sign in the window declared

Bohermore’s first Mayor.

Michael Crowe, one of the brothers who owned the bar, was indeed the mayor and a good one. Stewart was from a middle-class family, reared in Devon Park, which in my day said,

“You’re posh.”

Not really, but the notion was there, still lingered. Meant that Stewart didn’t know the family and Stewart made it his business to know almost all the players. I was sitting at the bar, groaning at a sparkling water, discussing hurling with Ollie Crowe, when Stewart arrived. In yet another fantastic suit. Coming in the swing door, he brought the sun with him. Ollie muttered,

“Hell of a suit.”

Moved off.

After the usual fandango about Stewart’s herbal bloody tea, we moved to a table. Stewart had a serious expression, laid out the clippings I’d given him, the note. Said,

“Take another look.”

“Why? I remember the damn thing and C33, or whatever the fooking number is.”

He leaned on the notes so I reached, took them. Made a show of concentrated interest. Stewart took a genteel sip of the tea, then said,

“Rourke, the guy due in court?”

I said,

“Sounds like a nasty piece of work.”

“Not anymore.”

“Why?”

“Apparent suicide, from the lonelamp post on Nimmo’s Pier.”

“Apparent?”

“I had a chat with Ridge.”

I sneered, bile leaking over my tone.

“And ye concluded what?”

“He’d been tasered first.”

I digested this, mulled over a few ideas. PIs are renowned for mulling. I said,

“Either way, the bad bastard is no loss; good riddance.”

Stewart never quite came to terms with what he saw as my cold heart. If he only knew the half of it. He asked,

“What about the note, the phrase Your turn?”

I had a longing for a short sharp jolt of Jameson, so intense I could taste it. Tried to shuck it away, said,

“Another eejit, the city is full of them; some of them are even running it.”

Stewart had that light in his eyes, meant he’d done some digging, gone that extra mile. He said,

“The skateboarder who was shot? He was dealing dope.”

I took the shot.

“You dealt dope.”

He took the hit, not well but ran with it, said,

“This guy dealt to schoolkids.”

I finally got it, did a double take, asked,

“You think somebody took out . . . killed . . . those wrongdoers?”

Made a mental note to seriously stop thinking in italics, added the dreaded word, in mocking fashion,

“Vigilante?”

He stayed the course, said,

“Worse.”

Surprised me, and before I could speak, he added,

“And I think he wants you to play.”