The Guards A Novel

Still stinging from his unceremonious ouster from the Garda Siochana-The Guards, Ireland's police force-and staring at the world through the smoky bottom of his beer mug, Jack Taylor is stuck in Galway with nothing to look forward to. In his sober moments Jack aspires to become Ireland's best private investigator, not to mention it's first-Irish history, full of betrayal and espionage, discourages any profession so closely related to informing. But in truth Jack is teetering on the brink of his life's sharpest edges, his memories of the past cutting deep into his soul and his prospects for the future nonexistent.Nonexistent, that is, until a dazzling woman walks into the bar with a strange request and a rumor about Jack's talent for finding things. Odds are he won't be able to climb off his barstool long enough to get involved with his radiant new client, but when he surprises himself by getting hired, Jack has little idea of what he's getting into.Stark, violent, sharp, and funny, The Guards is an exceptional novel, one that leaves you stunned and breathless, flipping back to the beginning in a mad dash to find Jack Taylor and enter his world all over again. It's an unforgettable story that's gritty, absorbing, and saturated with the rough-edged rhythms of the Galway streets. Praised by authors and critics around the globe, The Guards heralds the arrival of an essential new novelist in contemporary crime fiction.

Ken Bruen has been an English teacher in Africa, Japan, Southeast Asia, and South America. He lives in Galway, Ireland.

It's almost impossible to be thrown out of the Garda Siochana. You have to really put your mind to it. Unless you become a public disgrace, they'll tolerate most anything.

I'd been to the wire. Numerous
Cautions
Warnings
Last chances
Reprieves

And still I didn't shape up.

Or rather sober up. Don't get me wrong. The gardai and drink have a long, almost loving relationship. Indeed, a tee-total garda is viewed with suspicion, if not downright derision, inside and outside the force.

My supervisor at the training barracks said,

"We all like a pint."

Nods and grunts from trainees.

"And the public likes us to like a pint."

Better and better.

"What they don't like is a blackguard."

He paused to let us taste the pun. He pronounced it, in the Louth fashion, "blaggard".

Ten years later I was on my third warning. Called before a supervisor, it was suggested I get help.

"Times have changed, sonny. Nowadays there's treatment programmes, twelve-step centres, all kinds of help. A spell in John O' God's is no shame any more. You'll rub shoulders with the clergy and politicians."

I wanted to say,

"That's supposed to be an incentive!"

But I went. On release, I stayed dry for a while, but gradually, I drank again.
It's rare for a garda to get a home posting, but it was felt my home town would be a benefit.

An assignment on a bitter cold February evening. Dark as bejaysus. Operating a speed trap on the outskirts of the city. The duty sergeant had stipulated,
"I want results, no exceptions."

My partner was a Roscommon man named Clancy. He'd an easygoing manner and appeared to ignore my drinking. I had a thermos of coffee, near bulletproof with brandy. It was going down easy.

Too easy.

We were having a slow duty. Word was out on our location. Drivers were suspiciously within the limit. Clancy sighed, said,

"They're on to us."

"Sure are."

Then a Mercedes blasted by. The clock hit thermo. Clancy shouted,

"Jaysus!"

I had the car in gear and we were off. Clancy, in the passenger seat, said,
"Jack, slow down, I think we might forget this one."

"What?"

"The plate . . . see the plate?"

"Yeah, so what."

"It's government."

"It's a bloody scandal."

I had the siren wailing, but it was a good ten minutes before the Merc pulled over. As I opened my door, Clancy grabbed my arm, said,

"Bit o' discretion, Jack."

"Yeah, right."

I rapped on the driver's window. Took his time letting it down. The driver, a smirk in place, asked,

"Where's the fire?"

"Get out."

Before he could respond, a man leaned over from the back, said,

"What's going on?"

I recognised him. A high profile TD. I said,

"Your driver was behaving like a lunatic."

He asked,

"Have you any idea who you're talking to?"

"Yeah, the gobshite who screwed the nurses."

Clancy tried to run block, whispered,

"Jeez, Jack, back off."

The TD was outa the car, coming at me. Indignation writ huge, he was shouting,

"Yah brazen pup, I'll have your job. Do you have any idea of what's going to happen?"

I said,

"I know exactly what's going to happen."

And punched him in the mouth.


Copyright 2001 by Ken Bruen