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From the other side of the room it was another of his riffs on a Gothic kind of impressionism, sheer crags and soaring peaks, barren slopes, a blowsy sunset bleeding across a wine-dark sea. But carrwokeel always, up close, as the image dissolved, each stroke was a vivid scar etched into the skin of something savage that foe almost ready to snarl, the frame doubling as the bars of its cage. Even the proverbial blind man could see, by means of braille, that the artist in Finn was not a happy man. He painted in oils, and thickly, leaving a texture so crude it was as if he worked from a palette of blood, bile and coarsely grained gunpowder, a gritty and glutinous blend that you feared to examine too closely lest a spark of light, the faintest transference of heat, cause some raw and lurking quality to spontaneously combust.
He favoured for inspiration Oscar Epfs, but for me his landscapes were crude variations on early El Grecos or Caravaggios, men who had harrowed a hell of their own making, and where his canvases lacked for technique they offered a banked rage, the tensile pause in the moment before the world exploded from the frame. Finn had found his metier inside. All the hours of the day to devote to his craft. Too fanciful to say that every artist paints out his own soul, but even my untrained eye could tell that Finn was so engaged, for better or worse. Whether it was good or bad art was almost incidental: Was it worth money?
Yes, with the inevitable caveat of caveat emptor. Too unsettling, always watching it from the corner of your eye as it prowled the frame, snuffling and growling and poised to spring. Me, I have other plans. Last summer I took a wee wander, had a look at some show houses, these villa developments. One place, I got chatting with the site manager, right? That place is a gusher ready to blow. Bastards have cost me nearly three hundred grand already, and counting. This time last year he was offering nine hundred grand for the PA, the sixteen acres. Go with someone else. At the start he had a marina attached, dock-space going with every unit along the quays.
Keeping all the old brick, the facades, he reckoned the yupniks eat that shit up with a spoon. Get yourself a solicitor, put some space between you. Get the solicitor to play hardball.
Gillick is my solicitor. Herb was looking for some Motown. Some Smokey if you have it. See you in ten. He arrived in a hurry, though. When he ploughed head-first into the cab he must have been doing damn near sixty miles an hour. The stench of the Saturday night riots in Hell. My guts bubbled and yawed. I stumbled across to the deepwater for a smoke, hands shaking Finds local sluts for sex in carrowkeel hard it took three goes to dig the makings out of my back pocket. Bear had stopped barking, although now and again I could hear him scraping, a low whine. I finally got a cigarette rolled, stuck my face in the smoke. When my guts finally stopped sloshing around I rolled another smoke and went back to where he lay.
Hunkered down, fingers clamped on my nose. Shuddering now, the quake taking its own sweet time to settle, aftershocks rumbling. I kissed one knuckle and touched it to what remained of his left shoulder. I spent the eternity or so it took the ambulance to arrive looking for something that might do for a slim jim, this before it occurred to me to wonder if Finn might have left his Audi unlocked. I was cursing him for a feckless fool, aloud, when I realised I was only doing it out loud because I knew there was no one around, never was, not that late down at the PA. Two minutes, some loosened wires and a couple of sparks later and I was mobile again. But it would run. The guy in charge seemed competent, solid, so I drifted away.
I rolled it down. If you start feeling sick, dizzy, tired, any way off, pull over straight away. Should take about an hour out and back. I pulled out of the PA yard and headed for town. Two of the bedrooms had been converted into actual office space, which left two-thirds of the penthouse for the director of Fine Arte Investments, aka Finn Hamilton, to call his own, rent-free. That perk was impressive enough, given that a four-bed penthouse in the heart of town could be pulling down anything up to fifteen hundred a month, but the office address allowed Finn to claim practically every aspect of its upkeep as a tax write-off.
No matter how I started out it always fell apart when I got to the part where I said his name. I gave it another thirty seconds or so, then dug out my phone and dialled her number. It rang out, went to her answering machine. Call me back whenever you get this. If she was in there with all the lights turned off, sitting in the darkness with her hands cradling her belly, staring blindly into the void where her future used to be. Not that it mattered, any insurance hike or replacement would come out of my end. The deal we had was, anything that happened on my watch was my call. Just one more fucking thing … I drove north out the Bundoran Road.
I felt horse-kicked and brutalised, heart pounding, mouth dry. The Furies unleashed and Gonz in the vanguard, teeth bared and monstrous in a pitiless snarl. Finn had been the only one to understand. Said his own dreams were full of kraken and creatures half-shark and half-squid, surging up from the dark depths to snatch him from the shore, drag him down. Neither of us had needed a therapist to pick through the entrails. How to live with it, though. Nothing in the textbooks about that. No clues to be deciphered from the clipboards they consulted, no hieroglyphics printed in invisible ink between the lines of their endless questionnaires.
I was wallowing, yeah. Anything to keep my mind off what was to come, the standing before a mother, a widow, with the worst words she would ever hear. And then the long crawl into the deep dark hole and the pulling over of the earth to deaden every sight and every sound that might remind me I was still alive. The pretty little church with its lights all ablaze and somewhere in there W. McIlhatton ya blurt, we need ya, cry a million shaking men, and what rough beast, his hour come round, slouches towards a mother to break her heart … Sweating now.
The Audi veering across the white line. I sat up in the seat and flipped my smoke out the window, reached for the stereo and pumped the volume. Hoping for a little distraction. Shuddering from a bad case of the grace of Gods and but fors. No sense to it, no logic. Except that was Finn.
Was already diving for a gun when I pulled the trigger. Gillick is my homo. Call me back whenever you get this.
A two-piece jigsaw, no way of making it fit. Now my future is all behind me … Maybe Herb was right. The part-time philanthropist, he called Finn, the rich kid dabbling in poverty for the photo ops and tax-breaks. It was perfect for Herb that Finn was into skiing, snowboards. Or Connaught, as the locals called it. The townland is still there, the pretty little village of Manorhamilton in the county of Leitrim, although these days the rack-rents are called austerity measures and we scarf McBurgers rather than scabby black spuds. The point being, the Hamiltons and their carpet-bagging Anglo-Irish ilk had only been in Ireland for five hundred years. Around here, that just about qualifies you as a blow-in.
A faux-Georgian pile, of course, although to be fair to the Hamiltons, it was only faux because the original Georgian structure had been torched back in during the IRA campaign to ethnically cleanse Ireland of Protestants, and specifically those of the land-owning class. But the Hamiltons were a hardy breed, perennials.
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The kind to thrive on slash-and-burn. The Audi purred up out of the small wood of oak and sycamore into a carrowkee, dell, smooth lawns running from the forest fringe to either side of the house and curving up and behind to form a steep-sided bowl. A round loop of gravel had fallen short of lassoing the house and had had to slurs itself with an oblong fountain instead, a trio of arrow-pinging cherubs perched on its rim, a Mexican stand-off in marble. The obligatory Merc was parked out front, a shiny black Lexus tucked in behind, and one of those ridiculous urban jeeps, a Rav4.
Spotlights popped on as I cleared the trees, bathing the house with a bluey glow. Squared-off and stolid, exuding a hunched defiance despite its three storeys. Red ivy put a blush on the functional grey stone but had the perverse effect of emphasising the austere lines and harsh angles. Wide steps narrowed to a front porch under a portico that had been swiped along with the Elgin marbles. The flowerbeds were neater than a double gin. I hauled up the wide steps.
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