by Ken Bruen
My phone rang and I answered to my solicitor. He said a local auctioneer had asked if I'd consider selling my apartment. My initial reaction was no way, but for the hell of it I asked how much he was offering, and was near floored to hear the amount.
I went, 'For an apartment?'
I couldn't believe it.
He said, 'City-centre residences are like gold dust, and as an investment you can't lose.'
All my befuddled life I've made decisions on the spur of the moment, usually bad ones. Now I went, 'OK, let's do it.'
He was as surprised as I was, asked, 'You sure?'
'Of course not, but sell it anyway.'
I had long been thinking of making a major change to my life. If I continued as I was, Galway would kill me – it had very nearly done so already. Just like that, I decided to go to America. I'd said for years I'd love to go – now I could do it in some style, head down to Florida, find me a rich widow, lie in the sun.
Florida was in the grip of its fourth hurricane and I was planning to go there. Par for the course of my life. First I'd hit New York, soak up the city, then mosey on down to Vegas and then south. I might even go to Mexico. My heart was pounding, my palms covered in perspiration and I realized I was excited at the thought of a new life. God, how long had it been since I'd been worked up about anything? I'd look into the crucifixion deal for Ridge, see if I could solve it and then take off, leaving all that shite behind me.
I got out the phone directory, rang a travel agent, booked a provisional departure to New York from Shannon. Put the phone down and thought, 'You're really going to do this.'
I was.
Who would I say goodbye to? Most all I knew were in the cemetery. I checked my watch. I wanted a drink to celebrate but stuck to my mad sensory deal. My head was a whirlwind of thoughts. They call it a racing mind, well, mine was accelerating at the speed of light. Thoughts of flight, like a shot of Crystal Meth, had galvanized my whole fragile nervous system. Mexico, I'd have to rethink that, as I had only just read Kem Nunn's novel Tijuana Straits. He wrote that really bad shit happened down there and I wondered, would this be different from my current life?
I would certainly be travelling light. What I owned could be put in an envelope and posted.
First, I had to talk to the dead boy's parents – I didn't want to, but if I was going to do this, then I had to visit. I'd have my coffee, strong, black and bitter, then head down and, if nothing else, extend my sympathies. I was sure that would make their day. Just what they needed, a total stranger saying how sorry he was and then asking them questions. Oh fuck, if only I was drinking – couple of drinks, I'd talk the hind leg off a donkey.
Do the maths:
Disturbing a family in mourning = two large Jamesons.
Being a nosey bollix = many, many pints of the black.
New life on the horizon = one bottle of something fast and lethal.
Made mad sense to me, but then my excuse is I'm Irish and logic plays no part in my reasoning.
My feelings were mixed as I headed for the Claddagh.
The Claddagh is known worldwide because of the Irish wedding band: two hearts united and topped with a crown. In the centre is a heart. You wear the heart pointing out, you're looking for a partner; you wear it turned in, you're spoken for.
The Claddagh is a unique piece of history, not only of Galway but indeed of Ireland. Here you had a community of people living in almost an isolated village, nigh separate from Galway, even though the town was but a spit away. The main livelihood was fishing. Their boats were special, weighing anything from eight to fourteen tons. The men sailed all along the coast, and on their return their women, who made the nets, then sold the produce. Unlike other fishing boats of the country, the singular feature of these was the open deck. They were known as 'Hookers'.
Never ceases to amuse Americans.
And more's the tragedy, this self-sufficient community ceased to exist in 1934 when their homes were demolished to provide so-called more sanitary dwellings. They didn't use the term 'progress' then, but it was the same spirit of change and obliteration as was running riot today.
But the spirit, the sheer will of people from Claddagh, still exists, handed down through all these years, and even in a cosmopolitan city, Claddagh folk are their own distinctive breed.
Me, I love the place.
Used to be a time when feeding the swans was a real lift and not just for them. It was part of the Galway deal. And you'd look up, see Nimmo's Pier, and the ocean beckoning to you, calling you to a life that seemed ablaze with promise. On the horizon, the Aran Islands and a way of living that didn't entail hurry. But this was no longer a comfort zone for me. Too many scenes of violence and loss were tied up with the area.
I walked quickly through. A guy sitting at the water's edge was alternately feeding the swans and a greyhound. The dog was in bad shape, skinnier than a tinker.
I said, 'How you doing?'
Without looking at me he asked, 'Want to buy a greyhound?'
'Er, not right now.'
He shrugged as if it was my loss, added, 'This animal is a winner.'
Yeah.
I didn't want to delay, but some nonsense just has to be addressed, else you begin to believe that chaos really does rule. I asked, 'Why don't you race him your own self?'
He gave a laugh clogged with bitterness and regret, said, 'My missus, she hates dogs.'
Maybe she was the one stealing the Newcastle ones. He added, 'But I hate her, so it like, evens out, you know?'
On impulse I asked, 'Offhand, would you know why a person would snatch dogs from various houses?'
I thought he hadn't heard me or couldn't be bothered to answer so I moved on, but then he shouted, 'To eat them.'
Dare I say, food for thought?
I stood before the house, taking a moment to compose myself. The building was one of a terrace, small, rundown, with an air of poverty. I recognized it, as I'd grown up in one just like it. The small garden was well tended, some rose bushes defiantly facing the worst the North Atlantic had to throw. I popped a mint in my mouth. If you want the world to know you've been drinking, take one. It's like, Hello, I'm disguising the smell of booze. Even though I hadn't drunk, old habits die slow. Ask Sinn Fein.
I knocked once, then for good measure took another mint.
A man in his late sixties answered. He was small, with white hair and an air of defeat, black rings under his eyes.
'Mr Willis?'
He stared at me. 'Yes.'
I was about to launch in when he said, 'I know you.'
I waited, wondering if he was going to slam the door, but he gave a small smile, his mouth contracting, like it had forgotten how to.
'You're the man who saved the swans.'
And then before I could respond, he said, 'Please come in.'
He ushered me into a dark hall, then shut the door quietly. 'In here, please.'
A spotless living room, with a flamenco dancer poised on top of the television, testament to happier times, perhaps. A cabinet with a glass front held trophies, photos and a line of Reader's Digests.
He motioned for me to take a seat and said, 'I'll just get my wife. Would you like coffee, tea, or maybe something stronger?'
I declined, if not easily. I noticed a silver photo frame, the centrepiece on the cabinet, and moved closer. It showed three people: two young men and a girl. The dead man I recognized and the girl would be the sister, Maria, but the third? A line of T.S. Eliot ran in my head… something about a third who walks beside you. His hair was red but his resemblance to the other two was marked, he had to be a brother. I muttered, 'There is another brother?'
How had Ridge missed him? I'd need to check him out.
The silence in the house was unsettling. The father returned with a woman who looked even more defeated than him. Her body had folded in on itself.
She put out her hand and said, 'Pleased to meet you.'
Jesus.
I m
uttered some cliché about their loss and she nodded. I caught a glimpse of her eyes and wished to Christ I hadn't. If there is a step beyond anguish, beyond torment, she was there. We stood, an awkward trio, no one sure what to do.
So I tried, 'I hate to intrude, but I'm looking into the circumstances of John's…' And for the life of me I couldn't find an apt word – death, demise, murder, all too harsh.
Instead of asking me on what authority I was thus engaged, she said, 'We're very grateful.'
Out of desperation, I asked if I could see his room and the father led me to a small back room. He said, 'We haven't touched anything.'
A young man's room: the bed unmade, a bookcase with car magazines, a CD player and a rack of music. I stood there and wondered what the hell I was doing.
After five minutes, I went back to the couple and asked, 'What was John like?'
Got an outpouring of love and affection. He was an ordinary lad – played football, worked in a garage, had lots of friends.
The front door opened and a girl came in. I knew instantly she was their daughter, from the photo on the cabinet. Hard to fool a professional investigator.
The mother said, 'We'll leave you with Maria. She and John were very close.'
After they'd shuffled out, she stared at me and asked, 'How is this any of your business? Did you know John?'
I said I didn't, but that as the Guards weren't making any progress, I wanted to see if maybe I could help.
She digested that, asked, 'Are you being paid?'
'No, but…'
She wasn't angry, just confused.
'So you're just a good guy who goes round helping out, righting wrongs, that it?'
Before I could answer, she said, 'You're full of shit.'
I felt on firmer ground. Aggression suits me best, none of that polite tiptoeing, so I said, 'I'd have thought you'd welcome any help available.'
She studied me for a minute, not much liking what she saw, then said, 'Who gives a fuck what you thought? John isn't coming back. Would you do me a favour?'
'Sure, if I can.'
'Leave us the hell alone. Would you do that? Go play Superman with someone who gives a fuck.'
Then she walked me to the door, her body language saying, You're gone.
As she watched me begin to walk away she said, 'Another thing, Mr Taylor, the mints don't work.'
I knew that, right?
Back at my apartment, I put on Tom Russell's Road to Bayamon. There's a bitter-sweet song there, 'William Faulkner In Hollywood'. Made me yearn for a better life and I had to stop it mid track. Rang Ridge. She sounded her usual hostile self.
'What?' she grunted.
'Did you know a Guard, Eoin Heaton?'
A pause as she weighed up the reason I might be inquiring.
'Yes, I knew him. Why?' Her voice was dripping with aggression.
'They kicked him out, right?'
A sigh and then, 'Yes, he suffered from your complaint.'
I didn't need to ask what that was, so I tried 'Was he any good, as a Guard?'
She waited a beat, then said, 'They threw him out. How good could he have been?'
I wanted to shout at her, tell her to climb down off the bloody high horse, but instead asked – and I had to strain, no doubt about it, I was literally finding it hard to hear – 'What did he do, apart from drink? What were the grounds for dismissal, or are you sworn to secrecy?'
'He took a bribe to let a man off a drink-driving charge.'
I hadn't anything to say so she added, 'You probably approve of that, and think he was harshly dealt with.'
Enough, I thought, so I lashed out with, 'How would you know what I think?' Then I took a deep breath and asked, 'Did you know John had a brother? I've been to see the family, met the parents and the sister. I really think – and it's a strong feeling, a gut instinct – that you should find out about this brother. Can you do that? Anything, everything on him you can get.'
She was silent for a moment, then asked, 'You really think it's that important?'
'Absolutely.'
I at least had her attention and just before she hung up she said, 'OK, what's to lose?'
After I'd put the phone down, I was actually feeling pleased with my own self and realized that for once I was driving this whole gig onwards.
10
'I think you've forgotten me.'
Hostage Ken Bigley in a message to Tony
Blair, twenty-four hours before he was
beheaded.
I'd been bothered for some time by a problem I was trying to ignore, felt if I didn't acknowledge it, it would just go away.
Yeah.
My hearing.
With the television, I had to turn it to max volume, and my music, top level too. And when people spoke to me, I had to lean in close to catch what they said. You hit fifty, things are going to start to decay. Fact of frigging life. My eyes were still OK, but the life I'd led, it was a miracle I was still above ground. Lots of days, I wished I wasn't.
So I got out the telephone directory, found an ear specialist and made an appointment, straining to hear what the receptionist said. Jesus, if I lost me hearing… I already had a limp… how old was that?
No point in sharing with Ridge, she said I never listened anyway. I admitted to me own self – a thing I hated to do – I was scared. I was alone. Your Irish bachelor in all his pitiful glory, shabby and bitter, ruined and crumbling.
With a plan.
Christ Almighty, a plan. Me whole physical being was shutting down and I had a plan. Isn't that priceless? Here I was, on me last legs, and instead of planning for a retirement home, I was heading for America. Can you beat that?
You could say I was fighting back, showing fortitude in the face of fierce adversity, refusing to lie down, fighting the good fight. And anyone who knew me would savour this fine line of reasoning then utter, 'Bollocks.'
A morning shrouded in despair. In Irish we moan, Och ocon… Woe is me, with bloody knobs on. I'd been in deep depression for nigh on two weeks. No drinking, of course, not because I didn't want to or think it a good idea, but I didn't think I'd another round of so-called recovery in me.
Watched telly in betwixt times. The news was ferocious in its darkness.
Ken Bigley was beheaded. There are no words to describe how that felt, like seeing the Twin Towers get hit. The same disbelief, the same sick horror. I went into a further spiral of black dog and dreamed of dogs – yes, the Newcastle ones. They howled and bit at my ankles, barking for me to do something. The phone rang continuously. I jerked the plug out of the socket and I swear it still rang.
Odd times, people pounded at my door and I mumbled, 'Fuck off, I gave at the office.'
In such delusions, you always get to hear the phantom orchestra, like Malcolm Lowry described. Mine had one tune, over and over… 'Run', by Snow Patrol. I prayed that if I died – and it seemed highly likely – I wanted someone to play that at my funeral.
What a fucking song.
What a fucking life.
But if there was no one left to attend my passing, who was there to mourn me? Self-pity, of course, is the outrider of the DTs – and I was drenched in it. The country, too, was feeling pretty bad. We had rejoiced in our first Olympic gold medal for over thirty years, and sure, we made a huge deal of it. Who wouldn't? And then – you couldn't make this up – the horse failed the dope test. The frigging horse!
In a country where madness was respected and lunacy was a given, this was a step beyond.
When I finally got the strength to go out, shaky and paranoid, I met a woman who said, 'You know today is the blessing of the dogs?'
I stared at her and gasped, 'What?'
She seemed to think I should know and patiently explained, 'In the Poor Clare Convent, there's a special ceremony to bless the dogs.'
There are a hundred replies to this, all involving sarcasm and very weak puns, but all I said was 'Oh.'
I wondered if the dogs of Newcastle
might be safer now. Somehow I doubted it.
I went to Garavan's, and before the barman could pour my usual I said, 'Black coffee and sparkling water. Galway Irish water, if you got it.'
My father would have turned in his grave to know the day had come when we paid for water on an island surrounded by the bloody stuff and lashed by rain most days of the year.
If the barman had any comment on my long absence, he kept it to himself.
It was the day of my appointment with the ear guy, and I'd dressed for bad news.
How do you do that?
Dress down, dress black.
I wore me funeral suit, bought from the charity shop. It had a sheen from overuse.
The Crescent in Galway is our answer to Harley Street. Translate as cash – lots of. Old listed houses, covered in ivy and decay, with nameplates on the front. No titles like Doctor, it was all Mister, denoting a consultant and mainly denoting it was going to be expensive. As they said in town, 'That's the Mister you'll well fucking earn.'
These old crumbling houses are the last barrier in a town with modern construction run riot. The developers circled these properties, waiting for an opportunity – a death in the family, bankruptcy – any window to move, offer shitpiles of cash and get the place in their portfolio. Then they'll rip the guts out of it or raze it to the ground, and, presto, a new set of luxurious apartments, uglier with each successive purchase.
I liked these buildings as they stood: draughty halls, high ceilings, mildew in the corners, rising damp creeping along the walls, highly suspect floors, and the plumbing – don't even think about that. If you wanted to replace that, you'd need to win the Lotto. And cold – they were always freezing. It's a bizarre fact that the wealthy, the Anglo-Irish, all have houses that would freeze your nuts off. Accounts for why they are always dressed in Barbours and thick woollen scarves, and of course why they're always out fox-hunting.
The Mister I had my appointment with was Mr Keating. He was dressed in a tweed suit – no white coats for these boyos – and he treated me with mild disdain, bordering on sarcasm. He did a whole range of tests, and I swear, like the doctor who'd examined Cody, he did that tut-tutting sound I thought was confined to the novels of P. G. Wodehouse.
