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      The Mysterious Press

      an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

      New York

      Copyright © 2013 by Ken Bruen

      Jacket design by Marc Cohen/MJCdesign; Jacket photographs shot glass © Masterfile; paper © jupiterimages/Getty

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

      Published simultaneously in Canada

      Printed in the United States of America

      eBook ISBN: 978-0-8021-9396-4

      The Mysterious Press

      an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

      154 West 14th Street

      New York, NY 10011

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

       www.groveatlantic.com

      Disclaimer:

      Purgatory is a work of fiction. While the real-life crimes referred to in the novel actually occurred, their chronology has been condensed in order to maintain a greater level of suspense and continuity in the actions of the characters in the story, who are entirely fictional.

      For

      Michael and Ollie Crowe

      Derek Hynes

      Part 1

      The Men

      The skateboarders had that peculiar blend of Irish self-­consciousness, dumb persistence. The unusually good weather in early January had led to a makeshift ramp that was ambitiously steep and high. The Council would have removed this but had its hands full with the Occupiers, who had a large tent perched to the left side of Eyre Square.

      Too, the skateboarders kept the locals from lynching the Council over various charges.

      Water

      Refuse

      Home

      And just about damn everything else.

      Three Guards were deemed sufficient to watch the growing crowd for what was rumored to be a spectacular attempt.

      A double flip in midair from Joseph, a sixteen-year-old whiz flier from Tuam. He was small. Undistinguished, with the revamped grunge look that owed more to the new poverty than to fashion. Quiet seeped as he took his run at the ramp. A slight ah from the crowd as he accelerated faster than they’d expected, then he was airborne, high above the ramp, left the board, was in mid-turn when the single shot rang out.

      He seemed to hang for a moment, the top right side of his brain scattering in a slow mist, then a loud scream from the crowd as his body hurled to the concrete.

      Two people were hurt in the panic.

      A skater had the presence of mind to steal the almost-famous board.

      1

      “Your crazy daughter is on our short list.”

      “There’s nothing wrong with her.”

      “She talks to people who aren’t there.”

      “No she doesn’t, she only listens.”

      —Carol O’Connell, author of The Chalk Girl

      My life seemed to have reached a time of calm. New home, new(ish) habits, new people.

      Prize bonds.

      Who knew?

      Who the fuck knew?

      A staple of my father’s generation. People bought them for their family’s future. The Lotto and lotteries of every ilk came down the greed pike and these forgotten bonds languished in drawers or the pages of family Bibles never opened.

      I had, owing to a threat to my father’s reputation, rummaged among his few possessions.

      Kept in a Lyons Tea chest, his few papers scorched my heart. A certificate of loyalty to the Knights of Columbanus, an Inter-Counties semifinal medal in hurling, now as tarnished as the country. A fade to faded picture of the family at

      Get this

      The fucking beach.

      Not exactly a Californian scene. Didn’t evoke a Beach Boys theme.

      No.

      My parents, in their street clothes, with a summer concession of my father’s, sleeves rolled up. My mother was wearing what might have then been called

      A summer frock.

      Save they didn’t do seasonal.

      She wore the same item in winter, with a cardigan added. She did have her one habitual trait.

      The bitterness.

      Leaking from her down-turned mouth to every resentful fiber of her being. I was maybe eight in the photo, an ugly child who grew to embrace ugliness as a

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