A Meeting of Minds
A Tale of Sancho (and Wayne Talisman) Occult Investigator
By Garvan Giltinan

This is my city.

Like all cities, it has its good and it has its bad. Or so Bono says.

This is a hard city.

This city is dark…especially around five after daylight savings time kicks in.

That’s a joke.

The darkness of this city runs deep to its heart. It’s in the name for feck’s sake. Dublin. Dubh Linn. "Black Pool" or Black River." I’m talking about the Liffey, of course. Whoever named this town could’ve at least warned the poor bastards settling it that the river was not only black, but stank something nasty.

Stinks of arse on a hot summer day. Thank god we don’t have many of those.

Except today. Damn Irish heat wave. An oxymoron if ever I heard one.

And like any dark polluted city and its dark polluted water, you’ll find that shite floats on, and up to the surface.

On the day I met "him," something else floated to the surface of the great, green stinking vain of this fair city. Father Billy O’ Burn was a big fella when he was alive. Fat git, some liked to say. Fat perverted git. On this heated day in July, he bobbed bloated and pungent against the mossy dock. Carved into his back was what looked like a big red pentangle, washed clean now from the water. An old knacker spotted him in the wee hours of morning under Butte bridge as she held her babby and scabbed a few pence from passersby heading to work.

Micky, my gicker licker, bi-sexual garda friend from Finglas called me as soon as he heard about the floater. My office was just over on Mary’s street (not the most scenic part of Dublin; in fact it’s still the place that health codes and Celtic Tiger money forgot) so I had time to grab a quick coffee in a skuzzy little chop where they all know my name and headed over. Walking down Mary’s street on a warm summer day, one realizes quickly that Irish people were not meant to exist in the sun. Clad in tee-shirts, my fellow Irishmen were nothing more than pasty-arsed sun reflectors. Give me the dark clouds and shadows any day. Ya can keep your sun. Thankfully we were still in early morning and the only people on Mary’s Street at the moment were stiffs in suits contemplating the drudge of the work day. A few were even trying to find a dealer who could sell them a bit of reefer – and more exotic -- to help see them through the work day.

As I walked along the quays toward Butte bridge, Redser came bobbing up beside me. Redser, recently out of prison for selling hash on Grafton street to an uncover garda, was working for me as an assistant. Where he slept last night, I don’t wanna know. Before he said anything, he sneezed twice. Redser was one of the few people who could actually catch a cold in the summer.

"What’s up? Where ya goin’? he asked, the extra two stone he acquired in prison rippling and perspiring through his U2 tee-shirt. "I was headin’ over to the office and I saw ya."

Heading over to the office, my arse. Three hours late. Not that there was much to do. Plus, I wasn’t paying the bastard. It was the principle of the thing. You come to work on time. Me da may be an arsehole, but he thought me that. Work equals respect.

"Micky called. They’re pullin’ a priest out of the Liffey and he thinks it’ll interest us," I said, not breaking stride.

"Jaysis. Not more of this voodoo shite…Look, Barry…"

I snapped my head sharply, and gave him my look. Redser was always a cynical bastard.

"Wayne, sorry. I forgot," he said, attempting to placate me.

"You forget? You work for him…me. Wayne Talisman. It’s written on the feckin’ door of the office."

"It’s just that I haven’t gotten a pay slip yet. Maybe when ya slap a few euros on the desk every Friday, I might be able to remember your new feckin’ name."

"Ya can always feck off and work at Dunnes."

Redser was quiet for a moment. "I’m tryin’ me best. You know I’ve been tryin’ me best. Those books ya gave me: really interestin’ as a matter of fact. I’ve talked to a few people who’ve said there may be somethin’ in what your sayin’ about the occult and all that shite. There’s one thing in there that says something about usin’ the energy from a corrupted religious figure…" He stopped talking for a second as I kept walking. Ignoring him. He continued: "I’m just sayin’ that makin’ a bit of cash at the same time wouldn’t be half bad either."

The money thing was a bone of contention, I understood that. But when you’re starting a business like this one, a business that asks people to contemplate the idea of the supernatural for a moment, it takes time to build a cliental. A C.V. Shite, I’d’ve settled for just one case. So, I thought maybe this fat, dead priest with a pentangle carved into his back would work out.

As for the name over the door of my office: Wayne Talisman, Occult Investigator; the moniker has caused much consternation and complications in my life. Not just from my fat, ex-con friend. Everyone is skeptical of my spectral and "occult" investigations. Da still doesn’t talk to me. Thinks I’m a feckin’ eejit. Ghost buster he calls me. Ma talks to me like I’m a two year old that’ll – any day now -- grow out of squiting his nappy.

I’ve been at this twenty odd years, for Christ’s sake…

Sorry. Venting.

Anyway, on the day I met "him," Redser and myself were heading toward Butte bridge and the crime scene I just mentioned.

"Where’s the skinny bitch?"

Redser was referring to Scully, my albino whippet. Who, like myself, is psychic. I left her at the office, as she had been a little sick this morning, having had a particularly lucid vision of an undead, fourth dimension plunger demon. Or something like that.

"She’s at the office. Oh, yeah, by the way, she puked on your geansai."

"Jaysus, that dog… I’ll feckin’…"

Butte bridge swarmed with people all vying for the best view of father O’Burn’s corpse.

Mickey, my garda friend saw me standing at the edge of the crowd and pushed his way through. He had a sympathetic-- or was that an apologetic -- look that I couldn’t at first decipher.

"I called as soon as I heard the details. I know how ya like this kinda weird shite, an’ all," he said, looking over his shoulder and back into the tightening crowd. "All that occult stuff."

I could see the ambulances at the other side of the crowded quays and saw how prominent the police presence was. "Only now there’s someone else here," he continued. He cast an appraising eye over my fat friend Redser. Redser smiled back, not really picking up on the flirt.

"What do ya mean, there’s someone else here?" I asked, trying to scan through the crowd and the quays beyond. Who, other than Dublin murder squad could be interested in this?

"Some fecker that’s as f’ed up as you. Mexican or something.

"Mexican?" Redser said, a little disgusted. "Feckin’ Spanish. Comin’ to our city, stealin’ our women…"

I ignored Redser. But I was intrigued. Another person who dabbled in the occult -- here in Dublin? The Irish may be laden down with legends and fantastic mythologies of fairies, Pukas, witches and vampires and the like, but when it actually comes to admitting or acknowledging the existence of these entities, they’ll tell ya go bite their bollix.

"Apparently, ‘cos there’s been so many cases lately we have a division in the garda squad that deals with these things now. Anyways, his name is Snatcho or somethin’…"

The crowd parted for a second and he was revealed. He had the frame of a bull fighter. A thick handlebar mustache edged a strong mouth, while a hard, acne pocked countenance spoke volumes of experience and suffering. He looked like a hard-ass. A long, well wore, Pale Rideresque duster coat hung about him like an old friend. When it opened he looked like a magnificent bird of prey. A dented, aged gold pentangle adored the lapel of this uniform, and the spurs on his leather boots clicked as he shifted his weight.

He really blended on the streets of Dublin.

I hadn’t been in the business long. But when one does what I do, and one gets deeper and deeper into the research one has to do in this highly specialized occupation, certain names pop up out of dark corners. Mexican. Mickey had said this guy was Mexican. It couldn’t be. ‘Cos this guy was a feckin’ myth; a legend.

"What’s wrong?" Both Mickey and Redser asked in unison.

"Sancho," I said, mesmerized by the figure in front of me. "His name’s Sancho."

From the corner of my eye I caught Redser following my gaze. "Who? Him? Shite! He looks like Magnum P.I. But without, you know, the looks and a skin problem."

"I was gonna go for John Holmes or some other 70s porn star," Mickey said, matter of factly. "It’s the tash."

I continued to stare. "I’ve only heard stories…" At that moment, Sancho’s eyes locked with mine, and a connection was made. I know, sounds a little homoerotic. But what can ya do. I was staring straight into his eyes. Sancho. The name alone caused a shiver to slide down my spine and my heart to race. He beckoned me with a finger.

"Feck," said Redser. "I think he means you."

I hesitated only a second. Next thing I remember, I was standing beside Sancho and staring down at the fat naked back of Fr. Billy O’Burn. The only thing I could think to say was "So, is he dead, or what?"

"You have the gift," he said.

"You’re talkin’ about the whole psychic thing, right?"

"Yes. And you have an albino whippet with the same abilities."

"That’s pretty good."

"Meirda. That was a guess, actually." He pointed down at the desecrated body of Fr. Billy O’Burn. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yeah," I answered, saying no more—trying to sound enigmatic. I glanced once more at the body. There was something wrong about the cuts on his pale flesh, but I couldn’t put a finger on it.

"We need to talk, my friend," said the Mexican as he glided past me.

"Okay. But what about…him?" I said, gesturing to the body.

"Oh, that. I already know who did that. Is there someplace we can go? I’m starving?"

"I have an office on Mary’s Street."

"Is there a McDs on Mary’s Street?"

"I don’t think so."

"We need to stop for something with meat. It’s not for me…it’s for my little friend."

So many jokes, so little time, I thought. "Oookay," I said instead. The confusion was cleared up as soon as we had gotten a greasy burger from a skuzzy chipper not far from my office, and headed back in my small, dark, noiresque office. Redser tagged along asking Sancho inappropriate questions about the style of mustache and making lewd references to porn movies of the 70s. Apparently a staple in his wing at Mountjoy.

Bars of slatted light cut our features as our small group entered the office. Sancho glanced around and nodded in approval. I could hear Scully barking in the bog. She’d locked herself in again.

I moved toward the blinds, but stopped myself. This was some great atmosphere. I left them closed.

An acrid smell cut through our nostrils. At first I thought Redser had farted and I turned to box the fecker’s arm. The smell gained olfactory mass and singed my nose hairs.

That’s when Tom Frost appeared out of the ether. Obviously, we didn’t know who or what is was at first. He looked like an ugly, mutated bat, born of mixed rodent heritage.

Redser nearly shat himself. "Holy shite!! he screamed, and stumbled backward against the still open door. He landed in the hallway outside the office, teetering on the edge of the stairs.

I stood staring at the little shite…sorry sprite, as his talons grabbed the Big Mac from Sancho’s outstretched hand and noisily devoured it in seconds. Sancho introduced this ugly rodent as his heterosexual life partner.

Another bark from Scully caused us all to jump. I could hear her thoughts. Well, we do have a psychic connection. Me and my wippet.

After the initial shock of seeing Frost appear out of the ether, I skirted around the mangy imp and opened the door to the bog. Scully came bounding out and stopped dead in the center of the room, sniffed the air, and, locking stares with Frost, barked twice and went silent. Her head cocked questioningly to the left and right. Both she and Frost continued to stare at each other. Frost moved closer.

"He’s not gonna eat her, is he?" I cried, and jumped between Frost and my albino wippet. Scully growled and bite my arse. "Jaysis! Teeth. Bitch." Seconds later, Frost and Scully were on the floor, engaged in a wrestling bout.

Frost screamed: "She’s got my ass. Make her stop, make her stop."

I glanced over at Sancho for his reaction. He threw his eyes to heaven and tutted -- I assumed at his little friend -- as if this were not a new occurrence.

"This is feckin’ great," Redser said. "What’s the bets on the little flyin’ rat?

Sancho looked embarrassed. "I’m sorry, but riding the ether makes my winged friend a little...like…"

"A pussy!" Redser interjected. My fat, ex-con friend always had an un-pc way with words. Sancho glared intensely at Redser for a moment.

Frost looked up ignominiously from his ass kicking. "Hey! No fair."

Frost was now on his back, holding Scully back at arms length, while she snapped at him.

"She’s a little territorial," I said, trying to make the best excuse I could for my dog’s behaviour.

"Ya think!" I heard Frost yell. His little wings flapped in Scully’s face like a spastic flamenco dancer’s fan as he tried to right himself.

"Let them fight," Sancho grinned, unconcerned, and pointed to my poorly constructed desk.

It was then I remembered to be awe struck again. I stared at the large Mexican until he smiled and sat down at my desk, his large trench coat flowing like bat wings over the chair.

"We have things to discuss, my friend. You have the gift of second sight," Sancho said.

"Kicked in about a year ago. My granddad had it. Or so he said. Me da and ma think it’s a load of bollix…Wait a second. Did you say you know who killed Fr. O’Burn?"

"Yes. I have been following this case for a while now."

Redser threw his eyes to heaven and wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead. Jaysis, Dublin was going to be humid today.

"What case?"

"There have been three murders so far in the city within the last month. All of them priests, with pentangles carved into them."

"Wait, wait. When did all this happen? I’ve heard about the murders, but didn’t realize they were all priests."

"Cover-up. All of them were disgraced or attached in some way to some internal scandal in the church."

We were distracted for a moment by the screams going on around us. Frost was definitely not winning. "Not the beak! Not the beak!

Sancho smiled. "He’s fine. The exercise will do him good."

"So what have you found out about these murders?" Redser asked. I was kinda surprised to hear him join the conversation, as his voice gave no hint of sarcasm.

"The bodies were used ritualistically. But ineptly. An amateur committed these."

I was just about to say something when Redser butted in again.

"How can ya tell?"

Sancho stared intensely at Redser for a moment.

I looked over at Scully and Frost: Frost now straddled Scully’s back and she was bucking like a bronco trying to shake him off. Frost, by the look on his face, was not enjoying the experience.

"I’m gonna puke," he screamed. "Tell the bitch to stop."

Redser’s attention was now on Sancho and myself.

I turned my attention back to the impressive Mexican.

"The pentangle. On the priest."

"What about it?"

"What is the pentangle?"

"A five pointed star."

"The star carved into Fr. O Burn’s body had seven. As did all the other dead bodies which have popped up around this fair city of yours in the last couple of weeks."

I laughed a little at the revelation. Seven pointed star. Redser rushed to the bookshelf, pulled down a hardcover book and flipped it open. Strange, I thought. I didn’t think Redser liked books. I didn’t think Redser could read. Must’ve learnt in prison.

Sancho continued to stare at him. Then , dramatically, he pulled a map from an inside pocket of that big leather jacket and spread it out on the desk before him. "Bodies were found here, here…," he went on, pointing out the locations of the corpses until they formed a basic circle around the city. In the center, was Christ’s Church. "I have conjectured, that, if there were to be another murder, it would be found near this hallowed building. A focal point of spiritual energy--"

"Why Christ’s Church?" I asked. "I know a little of my Dublin history. The church was built in the 19th century in a European, neo-gothic style. Is it even old enough to harness that much negative power? I mean, yeah, it’s got a crap load of Christian history embedded in its walls, but…"

Sancho smiled. "Very good. It is important for people like us to understand the supernatural history and power of landmarks and locations. However, Christ’s Church was also built on the site of an earlier church. That church – and this is the rub of the problem – was erected on the ruins of a pre-Christian temple. The very location, if my records are right, of a massive power struggle between warring factions of light and dark – a multi-dimensional clash. So you see: your 19th century, neo-gothic landmark has a history that pre-dates Christianity."

Shite, I thought. I’m gonna have to brush up on that history. My head was starting to hurt.

Suddenly, Frost flew by, sweat poring down his…beak. Now, on his back was my yelping dog. She puked on Frost’s back.

Frost screamed, disgusted. Scully got a second wind and started snarling at Frost as they circled around our heads. I tried to ignore them, as Sancho continued with his speech.

"The church is a center for spiritual energy and a perfect portal for a cross over."

I listened intently. I was relatively new to this game, so I was a little out of my league. "A portal for what?"

Sancho stood and walked over to Redser. Redser stepped back a little as the large Mexican invaded his space. "Why not ask your chunky fat friend here."

Redser was about to say something when Sancho reached out and grabbed his arm. The book dropped to the ground with a thud. Redser let rip a high girly scream and yelled: "Bollix!"

Sancho reached over and clamped a hand around my hand, swung me around until I collided with Redser. I had to steady myself on my friend’s arm. It was at that moment, with our connected triad, I experienced my first three-way. The room started to spin, bounce and vibrate all at once. My body felt like some fecker was attempting to push nails of electricity through my sphincter, as my arse and body went into twitching spasms. Shapes formed and throbbed behind my eyes, attempting to break into my consciousness. Colours flashed and danced in my head. But I couldn’t let go of the Mexican’s grip. In fact, his hand seemed to squeeze tighter, as if it was imperative that the images flooding through my brain were to be seen, and I was being held in place until I had witnessed their revelation. It better be good.

Picture this: I am now slap-bang in the middle of a POV shot. A dark Dublin street. Street lamps shoot by kinetically, etching arcs across my vision. A figure, male, in a dark overcoat walks ahead of me, deliberately staying within the bars of lamp light.. Looking down at my hands I see a knife glinting. My breathing is heavy, laboured. I have a bit of a gut. How’d that happen, I think? The person in front of me turns and glances back. Smiles nervously. Jump forward in time: I stand above a naked body. Hairy arse. I sneeze twice and start cutting. Flash. The body disappears like a ghost over the edge of the quays and splashes into the Liffey below. Hands moist with dark and sticky liquid. I sneeze twice. Sneeze twice?

Redser broke the connection and fell backwards against the desk.

Sancho stepped toward Redser, his coat majestically unfolding like wings.

I looked at my hands and then at Redser. Son of a bitch! "You?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to see if all that shite actually worked. I was getting’ somewhere too. I only had one more body to get and I was golden."

"Apart from the fact a pentangle has five points and not seven, you were golden," I said.

"I was curious. Is that a crime?"

"No. But I believe murder is," Sancho chimed in.

"Well, there is that," Redser replied, as if he had just thought about what he had done. Bastard was always a little slow. "I just wanted to be loved." He paused a long moment. Then said, "Ya know, ya pray to your God and that doesn’t work. Ya steal, and that doesn’t work. Ya deal, and that doesn’t work. Ya pray to your God – again—and that doesn’t feckin’ work. This was just me tryin’ to find somethin’ that worked. And guess what? Surprise, surprise! It didn’t feckin’ work. Story of my feckin’ life."

He looked sad and kinda pathetic kneeling before me. Maybe he felt either myself or the large Mexican would provide him with answers to the riddles of his life.

Frost flew back into the office with Scully still on his back. Frost came in low and she jumped to the ground. She snarled, this time at Redser and pissed on his geansai – again.

Frost frowned, and attempted to pick the doggy kibble from his wings.

I sit at the same desk, in the same office. The intervening ten years have been harsh. My life as an occult investigator has taken a toll on my body and soul – and I’ve just discovered I have diabetes. The light splinters through the blinds cutting the darkness. My features. I think about Redser – who’s still locked up for serial murder, still fat, and still hates Scully. I visit the bastard once a week. But he’ll never get out. Most of all I think about Sancho. The image of that Mexican is seared on my brain. After he carted Redser away that Summer afternoon, he came back and stuck around for a couple of days, dispensing advice and the like. He crashed on the couch in the office and I slept in my swirly chair. We stayed awake until the wee hours discussing demons, death, incantations and my dog’s inability to hold down her food while riding the back of a elemental sprite.

Will we ever meet again, he and I? Who knows. I hear stories, rumors of his death. I hope for the best, but fear the worst. This job tears you apart.

The phone rings and I snap it up. Work’s in short supply these days. "Wayne Talisman, occult investigations," I say, with the requisite deep tonal edge that makes my throat tickle, but adds, I hope, some legitimacy to my personae.

I recognize the accent.

"Signor Talisman?"

It’s him.

"I need your assistance, my friend," he says, and mentions something about the Hellfire Club.

"Is Frost with you?" I ask, glancing down at Scully.

"Yes. He is here."

Scully’s ears prick up. She whimpers, and proceeds to vomit.

"I’ll meet you in an hour."