by Ken Bruen
He paused, added, 'Or a coffee?'
My drink history was known to all and sundry. I said, 'Why not?' and we began to walk towards St Joseph's Church. Before we got a chance to speak, a Guard's car passed, the cops giving us the cold scan.
Stewart watched them cruise slowly by and after they'd passed he said, 'They never let you move on.'
Amen.
His flat was near Cook's Corner. The pub there, almost a Galway landmark, had a FOR SALE sign, but then what hadn't?
Cook's Corner is literally the centre where three roads cross. You can walk down Henry Street, the canal murmuring to you on both sides, or turn and head north to Shantalla, literal translation being 'old ground' and still home to some of the best and most genuine people you could ever hope to meet. Or you could retrace my path, back to the hospital. There was a fourth option, but no one ever mentioned it; a fourth road that was there, but never alluded to: the route to Salthill. Years ago, it led to Taylor's Hill (no relation) and housed the upper classes. You had money or notions, you lived there. So it was never referred to by the people, money and notions not being on the agenda. But times, they were a-changing and Cook's pub was about to open the door to all sorts of speculators suddenly taking an interest in what had always been described as the poor man's part of town.
You think I'm kidding?
There were three charity shops on this patch alone.
We went into a plain two-storey house and he opened a door on the ground floor, said, 'Welcome to my humble abode.'
I never believed people actually used such clichés. What was next, Mi casa es su casa?
I have seen houses and apartments of all descriptions, and lots of them were bare, due to poverty or neglect or both. Shit, I grew up in one. We had a few sticks of furniture, and one particularly rough winter we used the kitchen chairs for the fire.
You think I'm talking about Ireland in the last century – would it were so. My father worked hard, but there were times the work just wasn't there. My mother would put his best and only suit in the pawn. That same pawn shop is now located in Quay Street, the trendiest area in our new rich shining society.
Stewart's place was the barest accommodation I've ever seen, and I've seen Thomas Merton's cell in photos. There was one chair, hard back, a tiny sofa, and two framed quotations on the wall.
Stewart was amused at my reaction.
'Bare, eh?'
I let out my breath, went, 'You moving in or out?'
He spread his hands in a futile gesture.
'Prison teaches you lots of stuff – sheer random cruelty, for one, and that's just the wardens; and, more importantly, the bliss of nothing. I've been studying the Zen Masters, and with a bit of time I'll be still.'
I wanted to go smart arse, say, 'Still what?'
But said, 'The only Zen I know is pretty basic.'
He waited and so I muttered it:
'After the ecstasy
The laundry.'
He laughed, there was actually a little warmth in it.
'Trust you, Jack. That is so typical of what you'd choose.'
I could have argued the toss, but the truth was, I couldn't get past Cody. I could see him the first time he'd offered me the business cards, his whole face a light of eagerness and desire to please. A shudder hit me and my whole body began to shake.
Stewart went, 'Whoa there, big guy. Take a pew, I'll get you something.'
I sat on the hard chair, naturally – keep it rough – and Stewart reappeared with a glass of water and two pills.
'Take these.'
I held them in the palm of my hand and said, 'I would have thought you'd had enough of the dope business.'
The insult didn't faze him. He motioned for me to take the stuff and I did, washing it down with the water. He said, 'I'm out of the trade but I keep some… essentials here. I got out of prison, but that doesn't mean I'm ever free of it. I wake in the night, covered in sweat – I'm back there, some thick gobshite from the middle of the bog trying to stick his dick in my backside. I don't think I need to explain panic attacks to you, Jack.'
Carve that in Connemara stone, or better yet, Zen it.
His mobile rang and he said, 'Gotta take this. You just sit there, be still.'
What's the biblical line? Be still and know?
Know, as the Americans say, 'It sucks.'
I zoned out, went away to that place of white nothingness. The mind shuts down and there's a slight humming to be heard, and if you could see your own eyes, they'd have that nine-yard stare.
Then Stewart was back, I looked at my watch and nearly an hour had passed. I was mellow, laid back, tranquillized, thank fuck, feeling no pain.
I stood, moved to the wall, read one of his framed quotes. It went:
'The fundamental delusion of reality is to suppose that I am here and you are out there.'
The attribution was to some fellah named Yasutani.
I said, 'Deep.'
Stewart considered it, then said, 'At the risk of repeating myself, I think that describes you also.'
Whatever those pills were, they were the bloody business. I felt relaxed, a concept that was as alien to me as niceness, and my mind was clear. It wasn't till then that I realized how burdened it had been with fear, grief and worry about Cody. Can you be saturated with sorrow, seeped in sadness, a walking mess of melancholy?
I was.
I asked, 'You ever hear of Craig McDonald?'
He simply stared at me.
'He was a newspaper editor in Ohio and became a bestselling novelist. He wrote a novel about pain that would pull the teeth from your skull,' I said.
He thought about it, then said, 'Your kind of book.'
I sighed. 'Reading about it makes you feel you're not alone.'
He handed me a vial of pills. 'More of the same. You get the rush of panic, you drop some of those beauties and you'll, like, chill.'
He used the American expression with more than a hint of malice.
I said, 'You've been pretty damn helpful to me.'
He shrugged and I had to know, asked, 'Why?'
He was surprised, took a moment to gain composure then said, 'You proved my sister's death was not some drunken accident, so I owe you.'
I didn't want that. 'Hey, pal, you paid me, paid me well. Debt's cleared, done deal, you can move on.'
He smiled, a tinge of sadness in there, and said, 'You probably won't accept this, you being such a hard arse and all. The front you like to project – nothing gets to ol' Jack Taylor. Me, I see you different. I like you. Sure, you're a pain sometimes and, God knows, you got a mouth on yah. But bottom line, you're that rarity, you're a decent human being. Flawed, oh fuck, more flawed than most, but you're not cold. And trust me on this, after my time in Mountjoy I'm a goddamn expert in the sheer coldness of the human condition.'
Some speech.
I made to go, said, 'You give me more credit than is warranted, but… thanks.'
He handed me a card.
'My phone numbers. You want to talk, get into some Zen, I'm around.'
I had to know. 'You still peddling dope?'
It hurt him and he winced a little. 'Like I said, you've a mouth on you, but am I dealing? Sure, but not dope.'
He wasn't offering any more so I shook his hand, which amused him, and I was out of there.
The drunk and the dealer, a match made in a moment of surreal tenderness. But what do I know? Tenderness is not my field.
I muttered aloud, 'Still…?'
As Zen as it gets.
14
And upon this cross…
Next day, I got a call from the nurse I'd befriended at the hospital and she told me the details of the funeral and suggested, with apprehension in her tone, 'Mr Taylor, maybe it would be better if you don't attend.'
I was lost for a reply, felt like I'd been walloped in the face.
She rushed on, 'His parents, they… er… they are demanding that you be… kept away.'
I
tried, 'I understand.'
I didn't.
She was a good person and they are as rare as common courtesy. I said, 'Thank you for being so helpful.'
Her last words were, 'We know you loved the boy. We see patients neglected all the time, but you came every day and you obviously didn't do it out of duty. God bless you, Mr Taylor.'
Fuck.
I'd have dealt better with outright antagonism, if she'd read me some warning act, threatened me not to go. Kindness only confused me. And she was wrong, I didn't visit Cody solely out of love. Pure guilt was there too and I hated every moment of it.
I was in my apartment, the bottle of Stewart's pills in my hand, when a knock came at the door. I put the pills on the table and answered.
Ridge.
She looked rough, as if she hadn't slept in days. She was in uniform. I hadn't often seen her in the Ban Gardai rig-out and she cut a poor figure of authority, like a little girl playing at cops. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she – could it be? – she reeked of booze.
Ridge?
I said, 'Come in.'
She did, walking like she was carrying the weight of the world. She sat down on the sofa, sank into it.
I asked, 'Get you something – a tea, coffee, glass of water?'
Took her a moment to answer and I thought she'd nodded off, then she said, 'I need a drink. What you got?'
The years she'd busted my balls about alcohol. The lectures and rants about my drinking, and now she wanted a drink from me?
I couldn't help it, snapped, 'You want a drink from me?'
She said sadly, 'Who would understand better?'
Ridge had said some rough stuff to me over the years, but this, this reached me in ways I didn't even want to analyse. I wasn't sure how to deal with a Ridge who was vulnerable.
She said, 'The death has thrown me.'
Now I was, to borrow her word, thrown. She didn't even know Cody.
I shouted, 'You didn't even know him.'
She sat up, turned to look at me, asked, 'Him? What are you talking about? It's not a him – it's the boy's sister, Maria.'
My blank look infuriated her and she nigh shouted, 'The crucified boy. You've forgotten him already, even though you promised to look into it. Well, don't bother. His sister, Maria, they burned her, in her car. Only her driving licence and teeth identified her. Everything else… everything else… was burned to a… fucking crisp.'
The room danced in front of me. I couldn't take in what she'd told me and I had to lean against the wall for balance.
She stood up, concerned now, asked, 'Jack? Jack, you all right?' And put out her hand.
I brushed it away, took some deep breaths and began to ease down a bit.
She backed off, then asked, 'You said him. Who were you talking about?'
My throat was constricted, as if something was lodged there.
Finally I managed, 'Cody, he died. Yeah, the little bastard just packed it in, and guess what? – you'll love this – the family don't want me to attend the funeral. How do you like them apples?'
She slumped back in the sofa and said, 'You'll have to go and buy me some alcohol, you hear me.'
And why the fuck not?
The world had turned so nuts, it made a sort of Irish demented sense. I said in a cheerful party voice, 'Yeah, I will. You just relax your own self and I'll do what I'm best at, buy the hooch.'
The off-licence guy knew me, and as I loaded a basket with vodka, mixers, Jameson, he eyed me warily. I threw in peanuts and crisps and asked, 'How much?'
He knew I'd been dry for quite a time and seemed about to say something till I glared at him, daring him to go for it. I'd have dragged him over the counter. He rang up the stuff.
As I paid him I said, 'Isn't it wonderful I'm not smoking?'
He didn't answer.
The bollocks.
My mobile rang. I pulled it from my jacket. My ears were acting up – what wasn't? – but I heard, if badly:
'Jack, it's Eoin Heaton.'
He sounded drunk.
'The fuck do you want?'
He was stunned, I could hear it in his gasp, and he said, 'I found the dog-nappers.'
Jesus.
Dogs, now?
I said, 'And what, you want a medal? Try to remember you used to be a Guard. Use some initiative, solve the frigging thing.'
There was a note in his voice I should have caught. He said, 'But Jack-'
I didn't let him finish, said, 'And try not to be bribed, OK? Isn't that why they fucked you out of the force?'
I got back to the apartment and plonked the bag of booze on the table.
'I wasn't sure what to get, so I got everything.'
She waved her hand in vague dismissal, so I opened the vodka, poured a glass I'd have considered healthy, added some mixer and handed it to her. She grabbed it, downed half, let out a deep sigh. I swear, I could feel the stuff hit me own stomach. I went into the kitchen, made some coffee, got two of Stewart's pills and washed them down.
Bizarre aspect of addiction: even though you know the pills will help you, mellow you on down, you'd trade them in a second for the sheer blast, the instant rush of raw alcohol.
I went out to Ridge, sat in the chair opposite her, asked, 'When was the girl killed?'
She was staring at her glass, empty now, with that expression I'd had so often. How'd that happen?
She said in dead monotone, 'I've been on duty for forty-eight hours straight. I heard the medical guy say she'd been torched – that's the word he used, like American television.'
I didn't offer her another drink. I'd done my part. She wanted to get plastered, she could do it her own self.
I said, 'So it's obvious someone is targeting the family. There's no drug connection, no vendetta we've turned up.'
Then a thought hit me.
'Did you get anything on the other brother?'
She had her notebook out, the heavy job I'd carried all those years I'd been on the force. It gave me a brief pang for the past. She was scribbling fast.
She said, 'Yes, his name is Rory. He's in London, but we haven't been able to contact him yet.'
I'd been leaning into her and she suddenly pulled back, asked, 'Why are you stuck in my face? You deaf or what?'
I decided this was not the time to share my latest cross with her.
She was up now. As she buttoned her tunic she said, 'I'm going to get right on this.'
I cautioned, 'Shouldn't you get some sleep? I mean, they see vodka on your breath, not good.'
She had that face of pure ferocity, said, 'Fuck them.'
I liked her a whole lot better.
I indicated the booze. 'What am I going to do with this?'
Her eyes were like coal. 'You'll think of some use.'
I liked her less.
15
'Cross me, and I'll kill you.'
Old Galway threat
The girl was fingering the small silver cross she wore round her neck. She knew neither her father nor brother understood the significance the cross had held for her and her mother.
Her mother had been a fervent Irish Catholic, and marrying an Englishman only intensified her passion. Over and over she'd told the girl, 'Christ died on the cross for our sins, and the world will try to crucify you if you allow it.'
Logic didn't play a large part in this. If you have the Irish faith, massive guilt and a personality disorder, you're ripe for symbols. Her mother had fixated on the crucifix, her home ablaze with writhing Christs of every shape and size. Only the girl truly knew where this obsession had originated. She'd never told before and she wasn't about to share now. They were men, they'd never understand.
The girl stood up. She'd been kneeling, praying, not to a Catholic God but to this new dark power that so energized her. She moved to the mirror, saw the silver cross shine around her neck, and from the corner of her eye saw the now familiar flame light up the corner of the room.
Whoosh.
When she
turned to look directly at it, it was gone.
She smiled.
The cross was Celtic, given to her on her sixteenth birthday by her mother, who had said, 'Never forget the cross.'
Her mother's secret, the whole reason for the cross, came vividly into her mind. She could see it like a scene from a movie. She'd been twelve, always hanging out of her mother's arms, and one evening, home early from school, she'd found her mother sobbing in the kitchen, an empty bottle of sweet sherry on the sink. Her mother never drank and in that state she'd hugged her daughter, told her how before she'd met the girl's father she'd had an abortion, said it was like being crucified, the sheer agony of the procedure.
Then she'd added, 'I pay every day of my life for that sin.' And she'd grabbed her daughter's wrist harshly, hurting her, and warned, 'If anyone ever does real damage to you, there's only one way to atone. Do you know what it is?'
The girl, terrified, had shaken her head, tears running down her face. Her mother had said, in a voice of pure ice, 'You nail them to the cross, as Our Lord was, and drive the nails in with all the passion that Our Saviour decreed to us.'
Thursday evening, I killed a man.
Least I think I did.
Certainly gave it my best shot.
I'd gone to the pictures – sorry, I just can't say movies. Sideways had been getting tremendous reviews – Paul Giamatti had that hangdog expression I so identify with, a Woody Allen for the new despair. But all the wine drinking got to me. I was never a wine buff, I liked me booze fast and lethal. I was starting to taste Merlot in me mouth, and of course with my dodgy hearing, despite the Dolby digital stereo, I had difficulty catching all the dialogue. So I baled.
As I left, the ticket guy asked, 'Didn't like it, huh?'
He had one of those Irish faces that are boiled – red cheeks, lobster lips, pale skin, and still the American accent.
'I liked it too much.'
He gave me a look, the one that says, 'Old dude, already safoid (Irish for mental).' And said, like he'd been born in Kentucky, 'Whatever stirs your mojo.'
Fuck.
A light drizzle was coming now. Nothing major, just enough to remind you that you were in the land of baiste (rain). I was wearing item 8234, me old Garda coat. Like me own self, it had been burned, beaten and trampled on, and still hung in there. I turned up the collar and was debating getting a takeaway kebab. Thing is, with that you really need a six-pack.
