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  How cold is that?

  I gave up explaining that I was experiencing a parent’s worst nightmare…

  the loss of

  a child.

  Nope.

  Didn’t wash.

  The sixth Jack… Cross, I went for broke and already, we’ve had all the shite about writers going too far and I was mentioned as the prime perp…. The crucifixion, a year before, in Belfast, they had done exactly what I described.

  Jack’s surname was a personal joke; Taylors Hill is the snotty area of Galway, a place

  Jack would never have been allowed to visit.

  I never expected Jack to go global…. In my view, he was too Irish, too parochial, too damn perverse to have a wide appeal.

  But I wrote him as he was whispering in my ear, and the first book, it was like I knew him.

  And I do.

  Alas.

  The alcoholism is based on my late brother, a man of true warm spirit, my best friend, and he died a vagrant in the Australian outback, so I knew of what I wrote.

  And when they come back at me about Jack being so angry?

  Gee, wonder where that comes from.

  The Irish, we laugh and drink our merry way, fueled by Guinness and Jameson and

  never a worry in the world.

  What a load of bollocks!

  I fucking hate that.

  Alcoholism has destroyed the best and the finest of our race, as Jack is fond of quoting.

  Most of our literature applauds the culture of drinking.

  Jesus Wept.

  I thought,

  “What if there were a series of books showing the sheer havoc and misery that drink causes?”

  Whoops.

  Wouldn’t play well if you wanted Irish Awards or the Irish Tourist Board to endorse you.

  And they having serious Euros to invest in the appropriate Irish writer.

  And you know, I said, like I’ve said to me cost so many times,

  The fook with that.

  Here’s the irony…. Seven books in, the tourist board calls me, would I be open to showing Japanese tourists Jack’s Galway?

  If that isn’t irony?

  I was thinking, maybe have them beaten up with a hurly, get a real taste of Jack’s city.

  Our national sport is hurling, a cross between hockey and homicide, and it’s fast, brutal, skillful, and I grew up with it.

  A perfect hurly is made from ash, honed by an artisan, and sometimes has metal bands on the end.

  It’s a little like a Louisville slugger. I have two of those, sent to me by two of the best writers in mystery today.

  A hurly has a swoosh like the slugger and that same lethal intent.

  When I was in Texas last year and got to hit a few, they asked,

  “Where did you learn to play ball?”

  I didn’t.

  I played hurling.

  I’m asked,

  “How much of me is in Jack?’

  The rage and reading.

  Absolutely.

  And… sure… some of the beatings.

  The booze?

  ’Tis a sad tale, but I don’t drink Guinness or, god forgive me, even Jameson.

  … Horror, I drink Bud….

  Jack would indeed take a hurly to me.

  The ordinary people of Galway, so beloved to Jack’s heart, they shout at me from cars…. Jack has been a teetotaler for three books.

  “Give the poor bastard a drink.”

  Writing Jack has been all I know of heaven and hell. It drains me to write him, and I hope to Christ he’ll stop talking to me.

  It’s too personal, too harrowing.

  I write another series on UK cops…. The main character is Brant, and writing those books is a vacation, a breeze… pure fun… or a short story… more time in the sun, but Jack…

  Otto Penzler once said to me,

  “Bruen, what is it with you, you get us to love characters and then you kill them?”

  Indeed.

  I read on one of those blog discussions, the big no-no is… don’t kill a child.

  Gotcha.

  Let me go classical here a moment, a little learned, or pseudo, if you prefer, or as our Irish teenagers in their new American tones say,

  “Like, whatever.”

  There is a quote from Aeschylus that is the real motivation behind Jack Taylor, at least for me. It best helps me write him.

  Pain that cannot forget

  Falls drop by drop

  Upon the heart

  And in our own despair,

  Against our will,

  There comes wisdom

  Through the awful

  Grace of God

  The key word for me there is always… awful.

  With Jack, I wanted to see just how much suffering you can inflict on one human being

  Till he finally breaks.

  Alcohol

  Cocaine

  Despair

  Depression

  Betrayal

  Suicide

  Murder

  Jack’s been there.

  Did quit smoking, though.

  Not that he’s happy with it.

  And those lists?

  I’ve been asked so often,

  “What’s with the bloody lists?”

  I’ve studied chaos, damn, lived it most of me life, and one response to it is to make lists.

  Try to impose order on a world spinning more and more out of control.

  The later books, the lists got dropped, editorial decision more than anything else.

  And quoting other mystery writers.

  Because I love to. Not just my favorites, but also ones less known that maybe readers might pick up.

  In Priest, I changed direction, went with simply Pascal’s Pensées. Jack steals it from a library in a mental hospital. Nothing else quite seemed to fit the mood of the book.

  While I was planning the series, a couple of things were crystal clear in my head.

  Jack would always go down the dark streets of the history we’d kept under wraps, like the Magdalen laundries. I grew up right beside them and knew firsthand of the horrors therein.

  It was an Irish series, so there had to be a priest, a recurring character, but I didn’t want your lovable Barry Fitzgerald gombeen of The Quiet Man. I wanted a flawed human version to whom priesthood was simply a job, and one he didn’t especially care for.

  When I was a child, the country was so poor, for many the only hope of education was by joining the priesthood. Callow youths, like cannon fodder, they went, as it was their mothers’ wish.

  What an awful burden to lay on any child. No wonder they went nuts.

  Fr. Malachy would always be Jack’s nemesis and, like the best of enemies, they even joined uneasy forces for Priest.

  I knew from the off that this series was going to get me into all sorts of shite in Ireland and so went completely for broke.

  Jack’s mother.

  Like Italians and the other Europeans, we love our mothers…. Never no mind she might be the biggest bitch who ever walked the planet, Irish boys love their mammy.

  Fook that.

  Jack loathed his mother and never tried to hide it. She was everything that is worst about our country.

  Pious

  Sanctimonious

  A hypocrite

  And a mouth on her

  And worst of all… long-suffering, though she instigated most of the suffering.

  Jack was having none of it, took her on from the get-go, and it seemed natural her staunchest ally would be Fr. Malachy… a match made only in the malice of Ireland.

  Naturally, readers presumed Jack’s mother was based on my own, as if even I have that kind of cojones.

  My mother was once asked what she thought of the series, said,

  “I never read him.”

  Nor did she.

  Ever.

  Bitter?

  Not really.

  I grew up in a house where books and reading were r
egarded as not only a waste of time but a waste of money.

  God forbid you ever waste money.

  My mother, Lord rest her, said,

  “Ken lives in a separate room from the rest of us.”

  She was right.

  By one of those odd coincidences, when Jack’s mother had a stroke, so did mine, so all that Jack experienced then is based on what I was going through.

  It’s been eerie with the series like that.

  The Killing of the Tinkers, I had a young psycho beheading swans. The swans are to Galway what the apes are to Gibraltar, though a little more attractive to look at.

  My publisher was horrified, said,

  “You can’t do that!”

  Notice how often that crops up in my career.

  You can’t.

  You daren’t.

  You shouldn’t.

  I refused to back down, and just before the book was published, some lunatic began disemboweling the swans.

  I sent my publisher the article, and he said,

  “Okay… long as it’s not you doing it.”

  I confuse people, not deliberately, but they read the books, thank god! (How Irish is that?) with the darkness, ferocity, brutality, and then they meet me and I’m mellow, easy to be with, and they’re a tad bewildered.

  A tad

  is my nod to my UK readers, the two of them.

  I reserve my murderous intent for my work.

  Which brings me along to the violence I’ve been crucified for.

  I never dwell on it, but it’s there, explicit, and no doubt about what happens. It’s ugly, fast, and very intense.

  As all violence is.

  Last November, I was at a book launch. A guy walked up and broke my jaw with a hurly.

  Now, that is one very bad book review.

  Will Jack do similar?

  Already has.

  Many times.

  And that led me to the accusations of being pro-vigilante, a fascist, a supporter of all kinds of violent organizations.

  You live in Galway, as I do, every single day, our latest horror, some thug walks free after raping an old lady, a seventy-nine-year-old nun, and the perp walks free, is given therapy, and in one ludicrous case, sent to Spain for a holiday.

  I would love to say this is Irish exaggeration, but even in the past two years, my own personal history, a drunk driver who killed someone dear to my heart walked free because of personal problems.

  The old people in Ireland used to say,

  “Me blood boils.”

  Jesus.

  Mine wept… freaking buckets.

  So, I put it on Jack.

  Let him deal with it.

  And he does.

  Usually with a hurly.

  Jack believes as I do.

  “Law is for the courts; justice is administered in alleys.”

  Controversial?

  Of course.

  In a society where there are no longer consequences, a hurly is a good edge.

  One of me best friends, a doctor, has fretted for years about my views on so-called justice and the tone of my books.

  He was, he said, my friend,

  “Despite your, um… odd ideas.”

  Three weeks ago, his daughter was very seriously mugged and he came round, not looking for solace, but for my hurly.

  When I put Jack out there, I figured maybe three books, and lo and behold, I’m on number seven….

  The bastard won’t go away.

  Cross, the sixth, went another direction, had to if the series was to stay fresh and challenging.

  More of a thriller element than any of the previous. It also showed the dying of the Celtic Tiger. We were plunging into recession after eight years of living it on the hog, and hog is the perfect term. It made us, indeed, greedy at the trough, and suddenly, they were taking it away. The sheen was off the tiger and we were… fook, in maybe financial trouble.

  We reacted like any child that you spoil and then take away the toys. We reacted very, very badly.

  Still do.

  And Jack, no longer shopping in charity shops, might have to return to them.

  And,

  He’s getting old.

  Losing his hearing.

  Has the limp.

  You ask,

  Jesus, how much longer can he go on?

  Indeed.

  Would the only woman in his life, Ridge… and of course, the only constant female in Jack’s life, who’s gay…

  take over the series?

  No.

  She doesn’t even read that much.

  When should a series end?

  Simple.

  When it’s stale.

  When you are no longer all that bothered by what happens to the main character. Jack is way past his sell-by date and if he gets through one more book, no one will be more surprised—or relieved—than me.

  I’ve been truly amazed by the response to Jack.

  The New York Times said he was as likely to give you a slap in the mouth as give five Euros to a homeless person.

  I kind of liked that.

  Brian Widenmouth, a fine online reviewer, suggested that Jack was already dead!… and this was all in look-back. Long as he didn’t think I was dead too.

  An Irish reviewer said I must have been a cop… had to be.

  And you have to mention the movie.

  In limbo hell.

  Fookit.

  The first serious offer wanted a happy ending….

  And I said,

  “Happy?”

  I don’t do fooking happy.

  Shite, I don’t even do nice anymore!

  Then the casting… Now, that was fun.

  My mate of over twenty years David Soul was keen but couldn’t quite get that Galway accent.

  My only suggestion, and you know how much they take notice of the writer’s idea.

  Yeah.

  Right in the bin.

  But I always saw it being shot in black-and-white.

  Color… in Jack’s life?

  Naw, he’d reach for the hurly.

  The first offer to film The Guards was from a UK company, and they wanted it to be shot in Brighton, with Brighton Pier substituting for Nimmo’s Pier, a recurrent landmark in the series. Not only is it in the Claddagh, but it’s literally the last outpost before America and also the scene of Jack’s first real murderous act, the drowning of his erstwhile friend.

  I couldn’t agree. The number of actors, etc., in Galway who could sure use the work would never forgive me. And The Guards is such a Galway novel.

  The bookstores:

  Kennys,

  Charlie Byrne’s,

  Dubray’s.

  All pivotal to Jack’s daily life.

  And the pubs, like McSwiggan’s, where a tree literally grows in the center of the pub, the question arising, Which came first, the tree or the pub?

  As negotiations went back and forth, a ferocious storm hit Brighton and washed away the pier.

  God spoke, if not last, at least loudest.

  Jack would have loved the irony.

  Next serious offer, they wanted a happy ending.

  What?

  And sink the whole series on the very first book?

  I don’t do happy, as I’ve said, and neither, by Christ, does Jack.

  Research?

  I was assured by the son of a retired top Guard that I must have been a cop, and this has frequently come up. I take it as a compliment and I think, too, the fact that I was a security guard at the Twin Towers has muddied the truth.

  The title of my new stand-alone, Once Were Cops, will only cloud it further.

  I’m very good friends with a Ban Garda, a female Guard, and all of Ridge, her attitudes, comes from this source.

  A nice sidebar, I decided to have the Ban Garda in my books wear tiny pearl earrings, and I’m not saying it’s a direct result, but recently, I notice they are indeed wearing said items.

  In the beginning with Ridge, even
I wasn’t entirely sure why she was so hostile and combative, and I woke one morning and knew.

  She was gay.

  Not that I’m saying being gay means the above, but being gay in a strict, traditional, macho organization like the Guards will certainly embitter you.

  In the new Jack, Benediction, he comes up against gay bashing, and yet again I had to battle to keep one particular scene, against the cry of it not being realistic.

  You guessed it, not one hundred yards from my home, a young gay man was beaten into a coma by gay haters and no, I wasn’t involved.

  Superintendent Clancy, Jack’s former partner in the Guards and great friend, is now his bitter enemy, and they regularly collide, with Jack taking the worst of it.

  The final showdown, if such it is, comes in the newest Jack, the eventual head-to-head that has been simmering for six books.

  As I wrote that scene, one song would not leave my head:

  Springsteen’s “The Price You Pay.”

  For a time, Thomas Merton and a pint were all Jack seemed to need, not always in that order, but you get the drift.

  Jack soured on Merton, as he did on so many others.

  In The Guards, Jack comments that he is so laden down with deaths, he feels like an old cemetery. Just about anyone who gets close to him is getting buried.

  I was delighted that St. Martin’s, when they began the American publications, never asked for the language or tone to be Americanized. They went with all the Irish-ism’s, and I am so grateful for the chance they took on that.

  A question I’m rarely asked and would have seemed obvious:

  What do I think of the Guards?

  I have the height of respect for them. They are still unarmed, and the new breed of criminal is armed to the teeth.

  Every weekend, when the young folk go on the piss, young girls go into the water, usually in the canals and usually about three in the morning. Young Guards plunge into that freezing water and rescue them.

  And how do the Guards feel about me?

  Mmmmm…

  When The Killing of the Tinkers was published, a parcel came through my door, a solid silver Zippo with the Garda insignia on it and a note that read,

  “We don’t always approve of what you write,

  but keep it up.”

  It’s not exactly an endorsement, but, you know, it sure made my day. And what impressed me most?

  It was primed, fueled, flinted.

  You might say,

  Good to go….

  As is Jack, for one more run at it.

  Or, perhaps… limp at it.