Green Hell Read Free Page B

think she “got the right guy.”
    She had moral indignation, I had rage but, more important, I had the hurly.
    The priest was crying.
    A tear of hatred trilled down his cheek. The thin man noted it was quite lovely.
    They were standing two feet apart—the man of law and the man of God.
    As the tear dissolved into the thick beard, the big man wiped it away, then looked up into the thin man’s eyes with loathing and slowly whispered,
    â€œ God . . . damn . . . it. ”
    The thin man couldn’t contain himself. He was grinning openly,
    Was it a thrill to hear this man of the cloth taking the name of the Lord in vain?
    â€œ I knew then the bitch was mine. ”
    (From The Murder Room by Michael Capuzzo)
    Later, when I was asked about the essential difference between Jack,
    A wild Irish fucked-up addict.
    And me,
    A WASP wannabe academic.
    I was able to summarize it thus:
    I liked to quote Beckett.
    Jack quoted Joan Rivers.
    And an ocean of misunderstanding flowed between the two.
    Much has been said of Jack’s propensity to violence. Not long after I’d found a place to rent, in Cross Street, just a drunken hen party from Quay Street, Jack announced,
    â€œI’m treating you to dinner.”
    His version:
    Fish ’n’ chips from Supermac’s on Eyre Square. It was relatively early, 7:30 p.m. on a slow Galway Wednesday. Come four in the morning, when the clubs let out, it became a war zone. We were in line behind a young couple. Dressed for a night out, the guy in a smart suit, the girl in a faux power suit but without the confidence. The girl was asking,
    â€œPlease, Sean, I just want chips, no burger.”
    The guy’s body language was flagging . . . volatile.
    They got their order and the guy grabbed her portion of chips, mashed them into her suit, said,
    â€œNo burger, no fuckin eat.”
    I glanced at Jack, his body was relaxed, no visible sign of disturbance. For one hopeful moment, I prayed he might not even have registered the incident. We got our fish ’n’ chips, then Jack added,
    â€œA carton of your hot chili sauce.”
    I said nothing.
    We got outside, the couple were standing at the Imperial Hotel, the guy jabbing his finger into the girl’s face. Jack said,
    â€œGive me a sec.”
    Ambled toward them, not a care in his stride, the chili carton oozing steam from his left hand.
    He said something to the girl, who stepped back. He slapped the chili into the guy’s face, gave him an almighty blow to the side of the head, asked,
    â€œYou want fries with that?”
    I don’t know any form that
    doesn’t shit on being in the most
    unbearable manner.
    (Samuel Beckett)
    It’s quite a good idea: when words fail you,
    you can fall back on silence.
    (Samuel Beckett)
    He looked like the kind of gobshite who’d spent his
    Life
    (pause)
    being mildly amused.
    This was Jack’s verdict on a guy selling flags for Down Syndrome Ireland. The “mildly” brought to crushing effect the contempt he felt.
    I asked Jack,
    â€œThe violence, the almost casual way you rise to it?”
    He had the granite flint in his eyes, which cautioned,
    â€œTread very fuckin lightly.”
    Clicking back and forth on the Zippo, he held my eyes, coldly said,
    â€œFor starters, you don’t ‘rise’ but descend to violence.
    Let me paraphrase:
    â€˜Some are born to it
    and others
    have it thrust upon them.’”
    Wearying of his semantics, I asked,
    â€œAnd you, which category are you?”
    His eyes slid off me, dissing me curtly, said,
    â€œTake a wild fuckin guess, hotshot.”
    Reaching into his battered all-weather Garda coat, he slapped a single sheet of paper before me, said,
    â€œRead.”
    Four names:
    Siobhan Dooley
    May Feeney
    Karen Brown
    Mary Murphy
    He said,
    â€œAll students of de Burgo.”
    Then abruptly standing up, he said,
    â€œGet yer arse in gear.”
    â€œFor?”
    â€œAn