by Ken Bruen
We moved to Cody's bed, he looked… dead, tubes everywhere, only a slight lifting of his chest indicating any life.
Whatever the hell that meant.
He did a full examination, going Mmm and tut-tutting, all guaranteed to put the heart crossways in you. Finally he was done and made some notes on a chart, then, 'He's healing well.'
A but hung in the air and I waited. I wasn't volunteering anything. Whatever he thought, he'd get to it, they always do, no point in adding to the sheet.
He sighed. 'His body has been subjected to an inordinate amount of…'
He was searching for a description so to cut to the chase I prompted, 'Punishment?'
I'd been beaten more times than I could count – with a hurley, an iron bar, fists, boots, and always with intent, so you could say I knew about that item. The shooting was like my Oscar, my highest pinnacle, all the others just building to the main event. The only slight deviation being, I wasn't the one who'd been shot.
Throw in the hammering from alcohol and you had the obituary card near complete. I'd picked the right word.
'Precisely.'
I figured we were done and got ready to leave.
He said, 'Alcohol is not conducive to the healing process.'
I tried, 'I don't think the kid is going to be hopping out for a pint any time soon, do you?'
He scowled – good word, that, a testament to my self-learning, fat fucking lot of good it did me – and snapped, 'Sarcasm is not really warranted. I didn't put the poor boy here and I'm doing my very best for him.'
Yada yada.
I wanted to shout, 'Do frigging better.'
He asked, 'Do you talk to him?'
'What?'
'We don't know for certain, but it's been shown that talking to a comatose victim helps the visitor, if nothing else, and who can say? Maybe he can hear you.'
What a load of bollocks.
I asked, 'What do you suggest – the football results, how Man U are faring, that Giggs is playing out of his skin? You think that might snap Cody out of the coma?'
God, I was so angry, a rage that threatened to engulf me.
The doctor caught it, said, 'You'll know best.' And strode off.
I know it was unfair, but, as they say, he was there and an easy target. Part of me wanted to call him back, apologize, but, nope, didn't do it.
When I got outside, I breathed a sigh of relief and muttered my old familiar mantra: 'This calls for a drink.'
I looked up at the darkening sky – summer was definitely done – and muttered to the God I no longer trusted, 'Couldn't I just have one day on the piss, and not have a hangover?'
I already knew the answer, but sometimes you pose the question just to keep your own self well and truly vexed.
8
The stations of the cross.
I was reading – trying to read – Bukowski, South of No North. My mind was going in a hundred directions, none of them good. Willed myself to concentrate, but couldn't do it. My mind filled with dread about Ridge and breast cancer, and Cody in the coma, was I going to settle down and read?
Yeah, like that was going to fly.
Put the book aside. This was not the best territory for me to be travelling. Checked my watch – thirty minutes to pub time. Somehow, I was holding it vaguely together, boozewise, though the urge to lash out was edging closer. The radio was on, playing tracks from Elvis Costello's new album The Delivery Man, which had a crazed duet with Lucinda Williams and a riot of guitars blowing rough alongside, then 'Heart Shaped Bruise' with my long-time favourite, Emmylou Harris. All you need to know is in the title, kicked the tattered remnants of any longing I still clung to. I stood, turned it off. My hearing was definitely on the blink. I could only do so much anguish before I went searching for a rope.
Looked out the window: a minor storm building, as America was being battered by the third hurricane in three weeks. This one, aptly called Ivan, was heading for New Orleans and I was heading for the pub. Storms of my own. Pulled on my all-weather Garda coat, item 8234. They still wrote me letters attempting to get it back.
Dream on, fuckers.
A slight perspiration on my brow as I walked down by Eyre Square. And for the sheer joy of it, I walked to Eglington Street. It's about fifteen minutes from my flat. I cut across the back of Eyre Square and came to it from the west end. The Lions Tower, known as the Bastion, used to be here and then became the site of the Garda barracks.
You can turn into Francis Street from there, and they have the best greengrocer's in the city. You can buy seaweed there, known as Crannog, supposed to cure all ails. I'd once tried it for a hangover and was as sick as forty dogs, but I can't really blame the seaweed. Americans were intrigued by this 'commodity' and were never quite sure if we were serious. Me neither. I think it belongs on the beach, washed up and abandoned.
The Sisters of Mercy had a school here and my mother and Nora Barnacle attended, though not, of course, at the same time. To hear my mother tell it, Nora was a 'brazen hussy'.
My bitter Mom's one and only review of Irish literature. She believed, as did many of her generation, that Joyce was 'a writer of pure filth'.
I moved quickly along that street, memories of my mother not being my favourite ones, and into Cross Street. I like that one, it has the office of the Connacht Tribune, and you want local news, that's the paper you need. There's a nice vibe here, and just along, parallel to Shop Street, is the situation for the Saturday market. But gee, guess what, they were talking about demolishing it and getting rid of the market. Galwegians would die before they let the fucks get away with this.
I hope.
I hit St Nicholas' Church, where they say Columbus prayed before setting off to find America.
Must have been some powerful plea.
And here I was in Shop Street, three minutes from the pub.
A guy stopped, said, 'Jack?'
I stared at him. Nope, didn't know him, but what had that to do with anything? Since the shooting, it seemed everybody knew me.
He was dressed from head to toe like an advert for American sport. A sweatshirt for the LA Dodgers, track pants with a stripe down the leg and a logo that read SUPERBOWL, plus the requisite Nike trainers. Perched precariously on his head was a baseball cap that read KNICKS KICK ASS. I have to say I was dazzled by the sheer amount of Americana. He wasn't young, so no excuse there, he was in his mid sixties, or else very badly blasted from drink or drugs or both.
He said, 'I was a friend of your mother's.'
Which meant he was no friend of mine. He registered my response and added, 'I mean your late lamented mother.'
He blessed himself, said, 'May the Lord give her peace. He certainly didn't give her much while she walked the earth.'
I was going to say that she didn't provide a whole lot of that commodity herself, but what was the point? He'd reckon I was bitter, which was true.
I asked, 'You stopped me for?'
He gave a well-rehearsed laugh – someone must have told him it was one of his best features. They lied.
I looked at my watch and he took the hint, said, 'Here I am delaying you. The thing is, I'm collecting for the under-fourteen football team, we want to get them some new gear.'
I stared at his outfit and asked, 'Will it bear any relation to what you're wearing?'
He was horrified. 'They play Gaelic. I mean, we have to support our national game.'
Before he could launch into some longwinded lecture on the history of hurling, I said, 'Tell you what, I'll put a cheque in the post, how would that be?'
Not good.
I was waving goodbye before he could formulate a reply.
Just before I got to Garavan's, someone else hailed me and I went Fuck off. There is only so much shite you can take in one morning and I was way past my quota. I got inside quickly. The barman nodded, no words, which was fine and I went into the snug. You are finally part of the furniture when not only do you not order anything but head for your
own seat and wait for the drinks to arrive.
As they did.
The pint looked like all the prayers I'd ever hoped to have answered. The Jameson, riding point, was its own glory.
I muttered, 'Doesn't get any better than this.'
How sad is that?
As the barman put the drinks down, I wondered if I should ask him his name. But then we'd probably get friendly and something terrible would happen to him. So I simply grunted and he asked, 'Did you see the pilot of Deadwood on Sky last night?'
I'd been in bed by nine, having taken another sleeper to ease the pain that had erupted in my heart. I shook my head.
'It was mighty, real dirty, wild, the language was ferocious. I counted fuck thirty times.'
Is there an answer to this? An answer that falls on any level of sanity? I didn't have it.
He added, 'You'd love it.'
Now is that flattering or asking for a slap in the mouth? I let it slide, resolving to catch the next episode.
I was about to leave when a guy walked in, looked round, approached me, asked, 'Can I get you a whiskey?'
I've seen many men, women too, wrecked by booze, their faces a testament to all that hell has to offer, but this guy, he was like those photos of Bukowski in his last days. Not good. Beneath the ruin, I'd hazard he was only thirty or so, but the red eyes had seen things that a century of hurt might accomplish.
I asked, 'Is there a sign out there that says, Gather here all ye nutcases – if you want to find a dog or just generally go bananas, then this is the shrine for you?'
He fixed bloodshot eyes on me and repeated, 'Dog? What dog?'
I knew this could go on for a time so I cut to the chase, snapped, 'Were you looking for me?'
The question seemed to throw him and he disappeared. I wrote it off to the weather – storms bring out the crazies like a call to the wild. A tabloid was on the seat beside me and I glanced at the headlines, the lead story being BRITNEY'S SECOND WEDDING NOT LEGAL! This covered most of the front page, and in a corner was a small feature on the British hostage in Iraq. He'd been kidnapped with two Americans who had now been beheaded – his fate was literally hanging on a thread. His family had begged Tony Blair to help. Before I could turn to page three, where the story was continued, the guy was back, a large whiskey in his shaking fist.
He said, 'Sorry, man. I had to, like, get straight, get my act together.'
His body was in tremors. If this was him in shape, God forbid I'd ever witness him falling apart. I resolved to change pubs – it seemed the whole flaming town knew I was available in Garavan's. What disturbed me was he was so like me. The state of him, I'd been there so many times, and in my current guise was but a drink or two from his terrain.
He put out his hand. 'I'm Eoin Heaton.'
I took his hand. It was drenched in perspiration and after I withdrew mine I had to struggle not to wipe it. I felt the identification you have for a fellow sufferer but I didn't want to know, and was about to gently dismiss him when he said, 'I'm like you.'
Fuck.
As if he read my mind. I made to stand up. I really didn't need this shit and if he was seriously fucked, well, too bad, tough luck and all that, but hey, not my problem.
He said, 'I was a Guard and they threw me out.'
I sat back down, my own sad career flashing before me. He asked, 'Didn't you hit a politician, smack him right in the kisser?'
And had thus begun my glorious descent into years of pain.
His face had lit up at the thought of my action, the first sign of vitality he'd shown. I could see he was at heart a decent character, tinged with naivety but with an essential – what's the word? – goodness, if there's such a thing any more in a world where a pop star's mad marriages garner more newsprint than the imminent beheading of a man.
I said, 'Well, I have some regrets about that.'
He was eager to agree with me, asked, 'You're sorry you hit him?'
'No, I'm sorry I only hit him once.'
He gave a loud laugh, tinged with hysteria, then stopped abruptly, stared at me, asked, 'What's wrong with your voice?'
I was conscious that it was more guttural than usual, like I'd sucked in granite, and it had been paining me a lot in recent days.
I said, 'You smoke a thousand cigarettes and drink enough rotgut whiskey, it plays hell with your diction.'
He was torn between feeling bad for mentioning it and a certain excitement at being so close to someone who'd been… at a shooting. His curiosity won out and he asked, 'What was it like, if you don't mind me asking, you know, to… have that happen to you?'
What do you answer? That it was fun, and is the reason why you're smelling of raw whiskey at noon or that you're suffering, as the doctors warned, post-traumatic stress syndrome?
I opted for keeping it light. 'It ruined me whole day.'
He was nodding, as if he could imagine.
He couldn't.
I didn't have any more to add so I asked, 'What is it you want from me?'
Got a nervous smile. He looked at his now empty glass, as if to say, How'd that happen?
I knew the feeling.
He said, 'Lemme get us some fresh drinks.'
I wanted to, and having a bone fide drunk to keep me company, it should have been ideal, but I had parameters to keep.
'No, not for me, I've got to go.'
He was disappointed. Not quite the response he'd been expecting. He said, 'Can you help me?'
I liked him, but not that much.
I said, 'Get yourself into rehab, call AA, there's all -'
He cut me off, horror on his face, near shouted, 'Not that kind of help, Jaysus. A few days in bed, some paracetamol, bit of grub, some kickback time, I'll be fine.'
I thought, Dream on, sucker and waited.
He sat up straight, said, 'I want to do what you do. You know, find stuff, work on cases.'
I could have given him the lecture, told him he was buying a bucket of grief, but as I got ready to launch, he pleaded, 'Jack, I need a lifeline. I got nothing, I'm dying here. If you give me something to hang on to, I'll get back in shape. I just need, like, a focus.'
And yet again I made the wrong decision. Should have just set him adrift but he got to me, the expression in his eyes, that lost desperate cry.
I said, 'OK, I'm going to give you a start, and if you manage it, we'll see if maybe you can help me on some other stuff.'
He grabbed my hand, gratitude pouring out. 'You won't regret it.'
I was regretting it already, cautioned, 'You haven't heard what it is yet. You might not be so grateful in a moment.'
His face expressed the belief that wonderful events were about to occur. It's a result of Jameson on an empty stomach, the illusion that all will be well. I told him about the disappearance of the Newcastle dogs and my being asked to check it. I took out my notebook, gave him the name of the man who'd asked for my help. He looked really sick, not just drink sick but the illness that rides with acute disappointment. Took him a moment to digest the information and then he near spat, 'Fucking dogs – you want me to search for a missing frigging animal?'
I shook my head. 'I don't want you to do a blessed thing, I already told you that, but you said you were prepared to do anything. Here's your chance to prove it.'
He was wringing his hands, a gesture I thought was purely confined to books, and said, 'OK, I'll give it a shot.'
He was so far gone that the awful irony of his words escaped him.
There was resignation in his voice, the troubles of the world in his eyes, so I countered, 'Hey, listen up, you're not doing me any fucking favours. You have something else going on, then go for it, don't let me keep you from better things.'
He was wiped, looked at me with the face of a five-year-old boy, said, 'I'm sorry, Jack, I… I'll get right on it.'
I gave him my phone numbers and when he continued to sit there I said, 'Well, get to it. You think the solution's going to pop its head round the corn
er?'
As he reached the door he said, 'I understand now what they meant.'
To be rid of him I asked, 'Yeah, what was that?'
'That you're a hard bollix.'
He was gone before I could reply.
The barman came in, began to collect the glasses, asked, 'Get you anything else?'
'No, I'm good. You know that guy who just left?'
He wiped the table down, said, 'Heaton? You'd need to be careful of him.'
'Because he's a drinker?'
He gave a short laugh and glanced at me as if he wondered was I kidding, the kettle calling the pot black. He said, 'Well, there's that, but I meant he used to be a Guard. Them fuckers never change their spots.'
9
A drunk kneeling before the cross,
dying of a hangover, says to God,
'Come down, lemme up there for a while.'
After the funeral of John Willis, his family shut down. At home were his parents and his sister, Maria. For a few days, neighbours called, bringing food, condolences and very little actually to say. The manner of his death, crucifixion, brought all comments to a halt. What was to offer in the comfort line?
'He's better off.'
'Time eases all pain.'
'Only a hundred shopping days to Christmas.'
It was easier not to call, so the house gradually became filled with silence. Maria was inconsolable. She felt especially bad as she'd always been closer to their older brother, Rory, who was in England. She was nineteen, and had her first car, a secondhand Datsun with a lot of mileage on the clock. Maria was a plain girl, and all the make-up in the world only seemed to scream, Christ, she's plain. But when she got behind the wheel, she felt like a player, like she was important. Even, sometimes, that she might be pretty. She worked for a local building firm and they'd told her to take as much time off as she wished. A Monday morning, she'd driven to Salthill, parked on the promenade and watched the ocean. She liked it when it was rough, the fierceness of the sea worked like a balm on her agonized heart. If she'd looked in the mirror, she'd have seen a girl sitting on a bench, a girl with dark hair and madness in her eyes. The girl was watching Maria with a ferocious intensity. From time to time the girl muttered, 'You're going to burn, bitch.'
