“Shit, it’s signed.”

“By Fred or Gore?”

I was impressed by the question. He came out of the bedroom with a stack of mags, said,

“Hard-core S and M, gay, fetish and the perennial favourite, pain.”

“Not proof though, is it?”

“Proof’s overrated.”

“Not in court.”

“That’s what you think. Do you never watch The Practice?”

We rummaged some more but found nothing further. As we left, I put the Vidal book in my pocket. Keegan said,

“He’s going to miss that.”

“I know.”

“And the half weight of grass?”

“You took the dope?”

“Or vice versa.”

That evening, I was stocking the bookshelf. I’d been on another visit to Charlie Byrne’s and come away laden. I wasn’t anal retentive, didn’t need those volumes alphabetically or in neat alignment. No, I liked to stir it. Put Paul Theroux beside St Vida. That was wicked. Line Pellicanos with Jim Thompson, Flann O’Brien with Thomas Merton. Over the past six months, I’d read House of Leaves, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and discovered David Peace.

To hand was Anne Sexton’s poems To Bedlam and Partways Back. Another writer whose suicide and life of derangement threw shadows of dark identification. The doorbell went. Sweeper nearly fell in the door. His eye was blackened, bruising on his face, suit torn and blood on his hair. He limped to a chair, said,

“A whiskey please, Jack Taylor.”

I made it large. He gulped it down and I gave him a cigarette. I said,

“You fought in your suit?”

“This was not a challenge.”

“Something else, was it?”

“Something else, you might say that.”

He fixed those dark eyes on me, asked,

“How do you feel about us tinkers?”

“You have to ask?”

“Today…yes.”

“I’m working with you and glad to do so.”

Those eyes unwavering.

“And if we lived next door, Jack Taylor, how would that be?”

“Lively.”

Gave a short smile.

“Let’s see how true that is.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Come on.”

The van was parked in the alley, huge dents on its surface. I asked,

“Jeez, what happened, people hurl rocks or something?”

“Exactly.”

He put the van in gear, asked,

“You know what a halting site is?”

“Where they place the clans, like a camping ground.”

That amused him. He muttered,

“Camping ground, how ordinary that sounds.”

The stench of condescension leaked from the words. I said,

“Hey, Sweeper, ease up with the tone. Whatever happened, I’m not part of it. I’m with you, remember?”

A bitterness worked its way down from his eyes to his mouth, caused a tic to vibrate above his lips. He scratched at it, said,

“You’re from the settled community. No matter how outlaw you think you are, you’re part of them.”

I let it go but I didn’t fucking like it. Shook out a cig. Sweeper ordered,

“Light two.”

The child in me wanted to roar,

“Buy your own.”

I lit them, handed one over. He said,

“I’ve offended you, Jack Taylor.”

“Don’t sweat it, pal.”

He concentrated on his driving. The nicotine joined the cloud of tension. He pulled up at Dangan Heights and we got out. He nodded towards the valley, said,

“Look.”

Mainly I could see smoke. I said,

“Fires, bush fires. So what?”

“That’s the…camping ground.”

Focusing, I could see people, wandering stunned through the haze. Men, limping, were vainly ferrying water in a futile effort to douse the flames. Children, barefoot, were crying, clinging to mothers. Not a caravan was untouched. Those not aflame were overturned or charred. I asked,

“Where are the guards?”

He snorted with derision, asked,

“You listen to the news, right?”

“Sure.”

“Did you hear anything about this?”

“No.”

“Because it’s not news.”

“Who did it?”

“The upright citizens you’ll find in church.”

I thought of my mother, didn’t argue. I looked at his hair, his clothes, said,

“You were there.”

“Yes, but I arrived late. Not that it made any difference. I did stop two from castrating one of my cousins.”

“It sounds like Soldier Blue.”

“It sounds like Ireland today.”

“What will you do now?”

“Rebuild. It’s what we always do.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He clapped my arm, said,

“Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

“Could I go down, help somehow?”

“A settled person would not be welcome today or for many days.”

We drove back in silence. At the house, I said,

“Call me if you need anything.”

“I need one thing, Jack Taylor.”

“Name it.”

“Find whoever’s killing my people.”

I had no idea how to get Ronald Bryson. Shooting him was the most attractive idea. Proof, some bloody proof. I could pray, of course, but held little store in that. Whatever else, I didn’t think faith would nail the bastard. So I did what I do when I’m stuck. I read. Call it escape, I call it calm. My most recent find was Robert Irwin. A joy to my heart, a Cambridge scholar and wild drug user. Him I’d have liked on a pub crawl. How could it miss? His brilliant crazy work, Satan Wants Me, had just been reissued. Set in swinging London in 1967, it’s beyond definition. So taken was I, I had got Vinny to track down An Exquisite Corpse, about surrealism in 1930. They don’t have to be read in the west of Ireland with a line of coke and a large tumbler of Black Bush, but Christ, it sure enriches the rush.

My strategy on finishing those was to revisit James Sallis. In particular, his Lew Griffin novels, and then I’d be in the perfect zone for embracing mayhem. The phone went. I gulped some Bush and picked it up.

“Jack!”

“Laura?”

She was weeping, gasping for breath. I said,

“Take it slow, hon, I’m here. Just tell me where you are.”

“In a phone booth on Eyre Square.”

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”

I found the kiosk and a near hysterical Laura. When I opened the door, she jumped. I said,

“It’s OK…shhss.”

I cradled her, and a woman passing glared at me, her eyes shooting venom. I said,

“I didn’t do it.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Laura pushed a crushed package to me. The Zhivago logo. She said,

“I got you a present, Jack.”

That nearly killed me. Put that feeling on top of rage and you’re holding high explosive. I got Laura to a bench. A wino was slumped at one end, humming softly. Sounded like a Britney Spears tune.

Go figure.

I asked,

“What happened, darling?”

“I was talking to Declan in Zhivago and I saw that man.”

“Which man?”

As if I couldn’t guess. She said,

“The English fellah who came to your house.”

“Bryson.”

“He followed me out of the shop.”

“You should have told Declan, he’d have put his shoe in his hole.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

And so evil flourishes and spreads because decent people don’t want to make a fuss. She continued,

“He spooked me. I’d got as far as Faller’s when he caught up. He said, ‘Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d like you to deliver something to our Jack, could you do that?’

“I said I would and he spat in my face.”

I wiped her face as if the spittle was still there. I felt near blind from fury. Lifted her up, said,

“I’m going to bring you to some friends of mine, OK?”

She clung to me, pleaded,

“So you won’t let him hurt me, Jack?”

“I guarantee it, sweetheart.”

I got her to Nestor’s. Jeff was tending bar, the sentry in his usual slot. I put Laura in the hard chair, walked to the counter. The sentry asked,