Cross - Ken Bruen [18]
My phone rang and I answered to my solicitor. He said a local auctioneer had asked if I'd consider selling my apartment. My initial reaction was no way, but for the hell of it I asked how much he was offering, and was near floored to hear the amount.
I went, 'For an apartment?'
I couldn't believe it.
He said, 'City-centre residences are like gold dust, and as an investment you can't lose.'
All my befuddled life I've made decisions on the spur of the moment, usually bad ones. Now I went, 'OK, let's do it.'
He was as surprised as I was, asked, 'You sure?'
'Of course not, but sell it anyway.'
I had long been thinking of making a major change to my life. If I continued as I was, Galway would kill me – it had very nearly done so already. Just like that, I decided to go to America. I'd said for years I'd love to go – now I could do it in some style, head down to Florida, find me a rich widow, lie in the sun.
Florida was in the grip of its fourth hurricane and I was planning to go there. Par for the course of my life. First I'd hit New York, soak up the city, then mosey on down to Vegas and then south. I might even go to Mexico. My heart was pounding, my palms covered in perspiration and I realized I was excited at the thought of a new life. God, how long had it been since I'd been worked up about anything? I'd look into the crucifixion deal for Ridge, see if I could solve it and then take off, leaving all that shite behind me.
I got out the phone directory, rang a travel agent, booked a provisional departure to New York from Shannon. Put the phone down and thought, 'You're really going to do this.'
I was.
Who would I say goodbye to? Most all I knew were in the cemetery. I checked my watch. I wanted a drink to celebrate but stuck to my mad sensory deal. My head was a whirlwind of thoughts. They call it a racing mind, well, mine was accelerating at the speed of light. Thoughts of flight, like a shot of Crystal Meth, had galvanized my whole fragile nervous system. Mexico, I'd have to rethink that, as I had only just read Kem Nunn's novel Tijuana Straits. He wrote that really bad shit happened down there and I wondered, would this be different from my current life?
I would certainly be travelling light. What I owned could be put in an envelope and posted.
First, I had to talk to the dead boy's parents – I didn't want to, but if I was going to do this, then I had to visit. I'd have my coffee, strong, black and bitter, then head down and, if nothing else, extend my sympathies. I was sure that would make their day. Just what they needed, a total stranger saying how sorry he was and then asking them questions. Oh fuck, if only I was drinking – couple of drinks, I'd talk the hind leg off a donkey.
Do the maths:
Disturbing a family in mourning = two large Jamesons.
Being a nosey bollix = many, many pints of the black.
New life on the horizon = one bottle of something fast and lethal.
Made mad sense to me, but then my excuse is I'm Irish and logic plays no part in my reasoning.
My feelings were mixed as I headed for the Claddagh.
The Claddagh is known worldwide because of the Irish wedding band: two hearts united and topped with a crown. In the centre is a heart. You wear the heart pointing out, you're looking for a partner; you wear it turned in, you're spoken for.
The Claddagh is a unique piece of history, not only of Galway but indeed of Ireland. Here you had a community of people living in almost an isolated village, nigh separate from Galway, even though the town was but a spit away. The main livelihood was fishing. Their boats were special, weighing anything from eight to fourteen tons. The men sailed all along the coast, and on their return their women, who made the nets, then sold the produce. Unlike other