Читать книгу Purgatory - Ken Bruen - Страница 17

10

Draw a picture of my soul and it’d be a scribble with fangs.

—Gillian Flynn, Dark Places

Souls in purgatory are supposed to be on day release.

I was arranging my DVDs on a shelf, mug of coffee in my hand, cigarette on my mind.

Stepped back, looked,

Game of Thrones, Series 2

Breaking Bad, Season 4

Treme

Weeds, the whole seven seasons

Conspiracy: The Wannsee Conference, The Final Solution

Damages, Series 4, with John Goodman.

You put John Goodman in a series, I’m there. On the coffee table, strewn almost casually, was

Matter of Heart: The Extraordinary Journey of C. G. Jung Into the Soul of Man. Visitors would be impressed. The empty walls sneered,

“What visitors?”

A heavy book, and I’m talking actual weight,

Gitta Sereny, Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth.

I intended to give this to Stewart, all 800 pages of fine, tight print.

And speak of the devil, my mobile rang.

He said,

“The statue was found in the canal.”

Took me a moment to catch up. I snapped,

“No hello, you know, the Zen niceties?”

He was ready.

“The sarcasm, Jack, it gets old, like you. Ridge is still in a coma; how’s that for fucking nice?”

Rang off.

Shook my head. His language was way down the shitter now.

Saint Laurence O’Toole, the patron saint of Dublin, whose heart was preserved since the twelfth century.