by Ken Bruen
I was standing next to Keegan as he hung up, asked,
“He’s leaving?”
“So he says.”
“I had a gun here; it’s gone.”
“No sweat, I’ll make him eat that, too.”
“I don’t think he’ll go yet.”
“Me neither.”
Keegan said he’d yellow-page it and have the house cleaned, told me,
“Go see your girl.”
“Thanks, Keegan.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s what I do, clean up shite.”
“I feel odd calling you Keegan all the time. What’s your first name?”
“You feel odd! Gee, that’s a pity, get over it.”
“All islanders, no matter what their ethnicity, live with a certain kind of longing.
It’s a type of travel that is kept in check by fear of the unknown world.
White people just make an aesthetic out of it. Living on an island is its own excuse to stay home and dream.”
John Straley, The Angels Will Not Care
At Roches, they were selling badges. I’d almost passed when the name struck me; pushed a note in the box, took two badges. Put one in my lapel and the other in my pocket. When I got to Nestor’s, Jeff was watching Sky News, said,
“Another recount, but I think Bush will get it. That or jail.”
The sentry asked,
“Is McGovern still alive?”
No one answered, so he added,
“I liked Carter because of the peanuts.”
Jeff said,
“The girl is fine. She’s upstairs with Cathy and the baby.”
He caught the glint of gold in my lapel, asked,
“What’s with the badge? Not the Pioneers, is it?”
I moved close, let him have a good look. It was two hands, the fingers barely touching. He asked,
“What’s it in aid of?”
I took a deep breath, aware that this could go horribly wrong, said,
“The Down’s Syndrome Association. Represents ordinary society reaching out to…”
I stopped, had put it across in the worst way. He said,
“I like it.”
I took the second from my pocket, said,
“Here.”
He held it in his hand, said,
“You took a risk.”
“You know me, Jeff, Mr Sail-Close-to-the-Wind.”
He pinned it on his shirt, said,
“ ’Preciate it.”
Upstairs everybody was hugging the baby. Cathy was watching with a wondrous expression. I asked,
“Everybody’s doing OK?”
Cathy smiled, said,
“Never better.”
Spent the afternoon there. I managed some slow pints, nothing major. I’d have crawled into a bottle of whiskey, but they’d have murdered me. So, took it easy. Cathy made stew that tasted terrific. Laura asked,
“How did you learn this, you’re English?”
“Well, I put everything in, heavy with the meat and potatoes, then I almost overcooked it, and Jeff said…add poitín.”
She pronounced it like a woman from Connemara. In my life of turmoil, it is so rare for me to be part of a domestic scene. Not that I didn’t want it. I did, but I wasn’t prepared for the small acts of devotion that lead up to it. My nature is essentially selfish, and to participate in family life you have to make room for others. Too, I’d mastered the art of sabotage. To paraphrase Oscar, each alcoholic destroys the image he craves. I wanted to be able to get drunk when I wanted and read till dawn if I wanted and wasn’t able to make the jump to forgo such things for the sake of company. And yet, how I yearned to be different. To sit in the warmth of family and just be easy. But that day, I was lucky. I knew how much I appreciated the moment. Thank God, I didn’t have to wait for the verdict of hindsight. The storms, ever present on my chart, seemed less threatening. As we were leaving, Cathy, unwittingly, verbalised the death knell, said,
“We should do this more often.”
I knew, sure as shooting, we never would. The awareness blunted but didn’t erase the glow. Laura linked my arm as we walked to Hidden Valley. She asked,
“Did you like the CD?”
Jesus, I’d completely forgotten her pushing the packet into my hand. I’d stuffed it in my jacket and never given it another thought. I said,
“I didn’t want to open it till we were together.”
“Oh, you’re so romantic, Jack.”
Yeah, right. I warned,
“The house is in a state.”
“Was it…him?”
“No, it was yahoos.”
The house was spotless Not a sign of the chaos. Even the bookshelf was stocked, even if it seemed to be all of McBain’s eighty publications. I said,
“Wow!”
“Jack, the house looks great.”
“Sure does.”
I couldn’t believe Keegan had restocked the bookcase. That impressed the hell out of me. I’d check the titles later. Joy is so random, you have to ration it carefully. I said,
“Let’s have a drink.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Let’s do both.”
We did.
It was good. No doubt, I was improving. I’d never be a hot gasp lover, but I was definitely focusing. What I lacked in expertise, I was compensating with energy. Lying in bed, I opened the Zhivago bag, looked at the CD, went,
“Oh, my God.”
She sat up alarmed,
“You don’t like it?”
It was Just Another Town by Johnny Duhan. I said,
“I love it, but it opens a box of memories I don’t know am I able for.”
Back in ’82, I was still in uniform, dating a girl from Boher-more. Man, I played that album to death. A track, “Shot Down”, was the very breath I inhaled. The girl would say,
“Are we having a Johnny Duhan day?”
Were we ever? And more than any decent person could bear. Over the dark years, I’d keep pace with each Johnny album. As his songs deepened, I spiralled ever down. Before the girl dumped me, she said,
“Don’t get me wrong, Jack, I like sad songs, but you…you need them.”
I knew she was right. There has never been an occasion when, if I encountered a brass band, I didn’t want to weep. Freud that. Later, when the CD was playing – I mean later, as in weeks on – and Sweeper was in the kitchen and “Just Another Town” was playing, he said,
“That’s the first time I ever heard my upbringing in a song.”
I gave him the thing, what else could I do? In the terrible months of soul darkness when these events had concluded, I went and rebought the whole Duhan catalogue. Only Emmylou Harris reaches me thus.
Back to the moment with Laura, I shook my head as if that would erase the memories, said to her,
“You couldn’t have got me anything better.”
“I was going to buy Elvis. Do you like him?”
“Hon, I judge people on whether they like him or not.”
She gave the most radiant smile. Times are now, I wish I’d never experienced her happiness. The pit opens and I rush headlong. She said,
“I wrote you a poem.”
I didn’t know how to respond, went for,
“You write?”
Trying to keep the astonishment from my voice. Shaking her head, she said,
“Oh, God, no; just this one.”
She reached over to her bag, took out a pink sheet of paper, handed it over solemnly. I opened it with a stone heart, mantra-ing,
“No, this will not touch me in any way.”
Read:
The love that hurts.
By
Laura Nealon, Galway, Ireland.
That first piece had me full fucked and I still had the poem looming. Focused.
My love I have lost
The love from the west
I long for the night
The night that will come
Upon my pillow I will
lie
My love beside
I long to touch
The love to watch
At your side
I love to breathe
I love to kill
By my love’s side
I wish to lie.
I don’t know much, but I knew I was going to need strong drink soon and a whole shipful. I said,
“It’s terrific.”
“I won’t write any more, it was just to…”
“Thanks a lot.”
After a while, she asked,
“Was your wife very smart?”
“She left me, how smart can you get?”
She let that dance, said,
“Cathy said she went to college.”
Cathy had a big mouth. I said,
“Yes.”
“To do what?”
Jeez, on top of the poem, I was perilously close to bluntness, said,
“A doctorate in metaphysics.”
She bit her lower lip, said,
“I don’t know what that means.”
I relented, said,
“Hon, the places I’ve been, the places I’m likely to be, it wouldn’t buy you a dry spit.”
She mulled that over, then,
“I’m not sure what that means either, but it makes me feel better.”
Sleep was creeping up on me. I said,
“Get some rest, hon.”
“OK, but in my job I make tons of money. I’ll give you some.”
Jesus!
She was gone early next morning. I had what they call an emotional hangover. Would settle for the booze variety any day. Leastways, you knew how to deal with it. An envelope had been pushed through the door. Opened it cautiously: a wedge, whole stack of large denomination. A note:
You’ll be short, don’t be.
Sweeper.
His handwriting was superb. Almost as if he’d used a quill; shit, maybe he had.
One of the first lessons you learn as a guard is hard men. They don’t teach this in the manual. You learn it on the streets. Every town has its quota. They are hard in the true sense. Ruthless, unyielding, merciless. Unlike the pub version, they don’t advertise their mettle. There’s no need. It’s in the eyes. The ones I’d encountered all shared one trait: a granite fairness. Never mind that it was their take on it, they stuck by it. Bill Cassell. Isn’t that a hell of a name? Nobody, and I emphasise nobody, ever cracked wise about the dictionary. He was a hybrid, a Galway mother and a father from hell. Bill had a fearsome reputation. The guards kept their distance. I’d gone to school with him. For years, he’d taken numerous beatings till he grew, and then he dished them out. Every teacher who’d ever thrashed him got a reprisal. Later, rather than sooner. He was a man of infinite patience.
There’s a pub on the docks called Sweeney’s, small, dark and dangerous. A chance dropper-in gets carried out. Tourists do not find it. I planned on a visit. Went to Dunnes and splashed out. Big time. I’d shopped in charity outlets for so long, I was truly appalled at real prices. But said fuckit; I had a stash. Shot through the shop like a mini Haughey. Balls, attitude and dubious taste. Four sweatshirts, three jeans, permacrease chinos, sneakers, white Ts, sports jacket. The assistant asked,
“Have you got a club card?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“I’m supposed to ask.”
I had no idea why I was giving her grief. You work for Dunnes, you have shovelfuls already. I handed over a small ransom, read her name tag, said,
“You’re doing a great job, Fiona.”
“How would you know?”
“Touché. You’ll go far.”
Brought the stuff home. Considered: for a villain meet, did you dress up…or down? Compromised. New navy sweatshirt, faded jeans and a fucked leather. Now if that wasn’t a mixed message, then my time in the guards was truly wasted. Transferred the Down’s syndrome pin to the leather. I looked like that wanker who advertises insurance for the over fifties. Had a quick listen to Johhny Duhan and I was set. Walking down Shop Street. I saw my mother looking in Taffes’ window. There was nothing in it, not a single item. I kept walking. At Griffin ’s bakery, I met the bookie I had once fleeced. The aroma of fresh bread was like hope. I said,
“How’s it going?”
He indicated his bread, said,
“I got my grinder.”
“That’ll do it.”
“You won’t be calling any time soon?”
“I hadn’t planned to.”
“Good news at last.”
A refugee asked me for my jacket. I said,
“It’s got sentimental value.”
“I don’t care, give it to me.”
Jesus.
The docks are full changed. When I was a child, it was a magical if forbidding zone. Equal part danger and temptation. Dockers were men of true stature. You might fuck with all types but never them. I was lucky to have met the very best of them. Luxury apartments, new hotels, language schools and leisure craft had overtaken the area. It might have been progress, but it was not an improvement. An oasis of old Galway was Sweeney’s. I think developers were too intimidated to approach the owners. I pushed open the door, inhaled the mix of fish and nicotine. Conversation died till they got a fix on me. Then, an audible sigh of ease and talk resumed. Bill had a table near the bar. He was alone.
For a man of fearsome reputation, he had a slight frame. Slighter now. The skin on his face seemed stretched to burst. As if someone had applied an undercoat, then forgot to add the finish. His eyes, still granite, were deep set in his skull. A glass of fresh orange juice in an old style glass stood before him. Pips floated near the surface. He said,
“Jack.”
“Bill.”
“Take a seat.”
I did.
Up close and personal, he looked like an Aids victim. He said, without moving, to the barman, “Pint for Jack.”
I asked,
“Can I smoke?”
He gave a dry smile, said,
“Course.”
The ashtray was advertising Capstan Mild. I shook loose a red, fired up with the Zippo. Bill put out a skeletal hand, asked,
“Mind if I have a look?”
I passed it over. He hefted it in his palm, said,
“Bit o’ weight.”
“Yes.”
“Want to sell it?”
“It’s on loan.”
“Isn’t everything?”
The pint came. Probably among the better poured. I said,
“Sláinte.”
For one awful second I’d nearly said,
“Good health.”
Bill let me savour the moment, then,
“What do you want, Jack?”
“Help.”
He stared at his orange juice before saying,
“I heard you did a number on the Tiernans.”
“Not friends of yours, I hope?”
“If they were, you wouldn’t be sitting there.”
The barman leaned over, said,
“You’re wanted on the phone.”
“Not now.”
Then back to me.
“You’re running around town with a cop.”
“I am.”
“Jesus, Jack, an English one.”
“He’s part Irish.”
“Bollocks.”
The word shook his delicate body. I asked,
“Are you sick?”
“Liver cancer.”
“Oh, God.”
“I don’t think God had a lot to do with it. Blame Sell-afield, least it’s English. What kind of help had you in mind, Jack?”
“There’s a girl, named Laura Nealon.”
“I know the family.”
“I want her protected.”
“Who’s after her besides yourself?”
“An English guy, name of Ronald Bryson, works sometimes with the Simon.”
Bill was shaking his head.
“What is it with you and the English? Y
ou spent years planning to go to London, all the time, London ’s coming to you.”
“You have a point.”
“OK, Jack, you know how this works or you wouldn’t have come. I’ll arrange what you ask. But I don’t need to remind you, there’s no free lunch.”
“Meaning I owe you.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want?”
“Who knows? You’ll get a call asking for a favour. It’s not negotiable.”
“I know how it works.”
“Be sure you do, Jack.”
The interview was over. I stood up, asked,
“How’s your mother?”
“Dead, thanks.”
In 1987, a garda training committee, its report on probationer training, defined for the first time a philosophy for the modern garda. The citizen expected police officers:
To have the wisdom of Solomon, the courage of David, the strength of Samson, the patience of Job, the leadership of Moses, the kindness of the good Samaritan, the strategical training of Alexander, the faith of Daniel, the diplomacy of Lincoln, the tolerance of the carpenter of Nazareth and finally an intimate knowledge of every branch of the natural, biographical and social sciences.
If he had all these, he might be a good policeman.
Parts of that had swirled through my dreams, and I slept till noon the following day. I was deep whacked. All the events of the preceding days had found voice and cried,
“Enough.”
I’d left messages for Keegan, Laura, Sweeper. To Keegan to say, “Thanks.” To Laura to say, “Let’s go dancing.” To Sweeper to say, “Nearly there.” The three messages contained only two lies. Cokeless, I’d got into bed with a hot toddy and one of the books furnished by Keegan. Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye by Horace McCoy, a classic of noir, though McCoy was best known for They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Halfway through the drink I was asleep. At least all I was burning was a bulb.
I took a long shower, blasted away the cobwebs. A glance in the mirror. Time to trim my beard, managed it without a tremor, progress of the slanted variety. Fresh sweatshirt, new jeans, and I was cooking. Downstairs to an envelope. Recognised the handwriting: Kiki. A bit of weight so it was going to be comprehensive; coffee first. I was feeling good not stupid. Two slices of toast with sizzling strips of bacon. Or rashers, as I’d told Keegan. Put that away, poured second coffee, lit a red and breathed Kiki. Opened the letter.
