– Irish proverb
I walked down Quay Street, stepped into Cafe Du Journal. Real Irish place, right?
I half hoped I’d run into Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop but, no, the place was half empty. I got a corner table, old cop habit, so you can see who’s coming at you. Ordered a double espresso, a large Danish. I had no appetite but figured it would soak up the inevitable Jay. The sugar rush wouldn’t hurt either. Far end of the cafe was a Goth girl. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. They are harmless, do their gig, despite ridicule, and carry a continuous torch for The Cure.
I admire tenacity.
The girl, beneath the white makeup, the black eye shadow, black lipstick, couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was staring right back at me. She was pretty, in a sort of wounded way; even the Goth stuff couldn’t quite hide that. Her eyes, a deep brown, were boring into mine, so I asked,
“Help you with something?”
She moved from her table, took the seat opposite me, and, when she spoke, I noticed the stud in her tongue. How do they eat with that?
Maybe they don’t.
She said,
“You don’t know me.”
Statement.
I asked,
“Any reason why I should?”
Allowing a hint of force in there. If she was here to bust my balls, she’d chosen the right fucking day and the right fucking time to try it.
Her accent was the new cultivated Irish that spoke of: money, education, confidence, and fuck you.
As alien to me as a Brit.
She said,
“You put my brother in the mental hospital.”
As lines go, it’s a showstopper.
I asked.
“What?”
She took my spoon, asked,
“May I?”
Cut a corner of my Danish, said,
“I like sweet things.”
She’d thrown me. The only person I knew for sure I’d put in the home for the bewildered was my own self. Then,
Jesus Christ.
Years ago, a young man had been beheading swans. I’d nailed him and, yeah, he came from a good family, meaning cash and clout. No jail time, sent to a hospital. She asked,
“Coming back dude? The booze hasn’t destroyed all the brain cells?”
I’d met most brands of psychos during my career as a half-arsed investigator. They all shared the same total lack of empathy. Not so much they lacked a human element, more like they were a whole other species. A highly lethal one. But that kid, he’d used a samurai sword to decapitate the swans. What I most recalled was the absolute glee in his eyes. He didn’t so much enjoy his deeds as revel in them. I’d used a stun gun to knock him back into the water. The swans had gone for his eyes. He lost one. Every fiber of my being had been to let him drown. But I’d dragged him out. I’d hoped never to see the creep again.
Years later, he’d turned up,
“ Cured,” he told me.
The medicine hadn’t been invented to rewire his kind. They simply changed their act. The deadly impulse even more honed and ferocious than ever. He’d then vanished from my radar. I always knew he was out there and I was unfinished business. I said,
“I remember him; he told me he was a student.”
She gave me a look of pure defiance, said,
“He got his degree.”
I couldn’t resist, said,
“Long as it wasn’t as a vet.”
She pushed the Danish back, said,
“It’s stale.”
I said,
“So….?”
“He’s missing.”
I wanted to say,
“He was born missing,” but went with
“And I should care… why?”
“I want you to find him.”
I laughed, said,
“I’m the very last person he’d want on his case. You never gave me your name.”