A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

Funeral Tales of Irish Morbidities

“Waste... Remains?”

Learnt

All there was to learn

of the wasteful

and

the wasted

what remains

isn’t always

the worst

that’s left behind.

Funerals can be fun. How’s that for a positive attitude. I was thought-feeding this when a shadow loomed above my dwindling pint (of stout). Sean, a second-hand bookseller. I knew him well... well in the Irish sense. I’d buy him a drink, and he’d tell me some secrets of the trade. The following one nigh on destroyed me. His name was Shaun after his year in America... but he’s over that now. I don’t remind him of it... often.

“A fella brought in five hardback Graham Greene’s today.”

“In good condition?”

“Pristine! Like they were never opened.”

“And?” (I had to ignore that pristine.)

“He was in a fierce state from drink. I offered him a fiver.”

“Did he take it?”

“He hemmed and hawed... sweated... shook, then snapt the fiver.”

“God bless Graham Greene. I suppose it’s a complete coincidence that he was a convert to Catholicism.”

Sean gave me a worried look. Vaguely satisfied I wasn’t needlin’ him, he continued. I was, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I was checking through the third book, and on page five there was a fiver... on page ten there was a tenner... on page twenty, a twenty...”

“Stop! Stop for Godsakes... I know alcoholism is a progressive disease, but this is cruelty itself.” Sean idled with his pint. I dunno what visions the glass yielded. An endless line of first editions... mebbe. I could stand it no longer.

“Okay... okay... tell me just this. How many pages in the book?”

“Two hundred and fifty,” and he laughed. Deep. I didn’t like him a whole lot then. But I had to know. Damnit. He knew that.

“Tell me the title then.”

“The Human Factor.”

“Oh, sweet Lord above... that’s vicious.”

I allowed myself to notice him sucking on the glass. Do it. Go to it, I thought. I knew I’d hear a story like that on the day of a Monday funeral. What else! I looked at my watch. I should be moving for the 6:15. A crowd would already be gathered at the morgue. I hate the Monday funerals. But I knew I either give this thing my whole attention or forget it. Due to my own naivety, I’d missed the nine o’clock removal from the church. Recently, I’d been practicing a bracing honesty. Deadly stuff! I had also neglected to touch the talisman I’d written above my bed. It’s a favourite G. K. Chesterton paradox. The one describing Elizabeth Barrett’s life at home with her bullying father.

Mighty stuff. But I’d forgotten to touch it and paid the price. The Irish town I live in is undergoing a crisis of identity. Who isn’t? It’s large enough to warrant the dubious title of city but retains a provincial flavour.

I had hardly hit the main street when I saw O’Malley. It was too late to avoid him. So we did the Irish dance of polite verbal hostility.

“How are ya, Dillon?”

“Not bad. And yerself?”

“Fine, fine! Have you time for a coffee?”

Everything in me roared— No. No way — not ever... so I said, “Yeah.”

I was suffering from a glut of self-improvement books. A galaxy of inspirational tones were having an adverse, not to mention perverse, effect on my behaviour. Terms like confrontation, face your fears, and best your neuroses had me dizzy with integrity. I bought the coffee. Black for O’Malley... like his nature. Whoops! A negative attitude. True though. O’Malley could never stand me. I decided to cut right through to this.

“You never liked me... did you?”

He nearly dropped the coffee in his lap. “Wot?”

“Let’s face it... (good, positive approach) you hate the living sight of me. Would you like me to tell you why?”

“Cripes! Have you taken drink?... anyway, why do you think I don’t like you?”

“Because you can’t understand why I don’t need a crowd, why I hang out on my own. My independence grates on your nerves. But the reason you most dislike me is because I never mention the money you owe me.”

“Ary... you’re as mad as a hatter. Everyone knows that.”

“What’s more, I can also tell you the reason I don’t like you. It’s a lot simpler...”

“Who the hell cares, you’re a bloody lunatic.”

“I don’t like you because you don’t like me.”

I got up then and left. Timing: it’s all in the timing. By evening the story would be all over the town. T’was too late now to catch the nine o’clock hearse. I heard O’Malley roar, “Ya bollix,” after me.

I notice nowadays that they like to spell this “bollix” in an up-market fashion. I’m a traditionalist and like the old forms. At least O’Malley had given me the old usage. Why didn’t that make me feel better. The story by tonight would lack the financial aspect. By now O’Malley might even have converted it to me owing him the money. My father operated on a different type of diplomacy. He’d have taken O’Malley behind the guards’ barracks and beat the living daylights outa him. One thing is certain, there wouldn’t have been any roaring of names after him. Traditional, up-market or otherwise. They buried my father in 1980. Shortly after I began my first faltering steps on the funeral philosophy, my Irish instincts ensured that logic would play no part in the formation of this. Obvious works of reference like The Tibetan Book of the Dead, I completely ignored. I knew instinctively that if the philosophy was to be practical, I’d have to steal, adapt, and plagarise wholesale. This I’ve done. The beauty was that familiarity could seem like the ring of truth. I had two fathers. The one who actually existed and the one I wish he’d been. In June 1980, I buried both. My mother is a non-runner. She died when I was three and is buried up in Louth. A fierce enough epitaph in itself. Drink killed my father. But in Ireland, very few died from drink. They die pist in car crashes, in drunken brawls, fall drunk from bridges, under cars while footless. But... the death certificates list coronary failures and other euphemisms which leaves other drinkers free to the business at hand. My father died in the horrors... screaming of funerals he’d never attended. This was relieved with rats and various low-life forms coming through the walls to him. I think he mentioned bank managers in there. He was sixty-two years of age and, moments before he died, he sat bolt upright, like the best clichés. I moved near for words of wisdom... words of comfort... mebbe. He grabbed my wrist. Many’s the one since who regrets the last error of judgement. He should have gone for the throat. The stench of his breath was woeful. But I was going nowhere. The grip was ferocious. Betwixt a mixture of spittle and venom he roared, “Get to the funeral...”

My then-girlfriend wasn’t big on funerals. Marisa. Not your usual Irish name. Her mother had notions of grandeur and some gothic romance she’d been reading lodged in her memory. Her brother was less fortunate. He’s Raoul Darcy. Try telling the knackers in the school yard you’re Raoul...

I met her ’round about the time I’d got my first funeral notched up. I was a novice then and fairly shaken by the grief of the family.

No stranger to drink myself, I went to The Weir for some oblivion. I was building towards heaven when she sat down. I took note without interest. Early twenties, blond hair, dark eyes, roughly 5’2” and thin to the point of anorexia. Turned-up button nose and a “friendly” mouth, as they say here. The hair was fresh washed and with new leather and baked bread, my favourite fragrance. I dismissed her.

“Bit early... is it?”

“Wot.”

“Early, like early to be getting legless. Don’t you have work then?” I played the gamut of responses,

   — mind yer own business

   — wot’s it to you

   — silence

   — a belch.

So I said,

“I’ve just come from a funeral.” She didn’t disappoint. Her face was a mix of concern and curiosity.

“Oh! I’m sorry... oh dear... am... was it someone close?”

“Close enough.”

“Let me get you a drink. Is that Jameson?”

“Paddy.”

“Oh right... I mean, sorry... I’ll get it.”

I watched her order the drink. I liked the air of calm she had. How far wrong can you go with a girl who’ll get the drink? A coffee for her. I was reaching immunity and little cared.

“I’m Marisa.”

“Howya Marisa...”

“And you?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“No, I mean... what’s your name?”

“Well, while my father was alive, I was always called young Dillon. Since he died, they dropped the ‘young’... which I’m not... am...”

“Not what?”

“Not so young either... anymore.”

I was becoming befuddled. As this was the point of the exercise, I didn’t struggle.

“Well, okay then. Dillon, so... highly trendy.”

“What! What are you on about?”

“Bob Dylan... Dylan Thomas, you’re right in there.”

“I have to go now.”

She looked startled. Good, I thought, and left.

A week passed. I slotted in ten funerals. I still hadn’t come to grips with my vocation. Back to The Weir. I was putting down the first part of the funeral thoughts on paper. This was slow. Three glasses of Paddy were whispering “Why write, let go...”

“Howya.” I looked up. Her again.

“Oh... hello... Maura...?”

“Marisa.”

“How are you?” She was staring at the empty glasses.

“Keep passing the empty glasses.”

“What?”

“Do you want a coffee... a drink... a sandwich... a slap...” she asked.

“A coffee.”

I nearly left then as she brought back two coffees.

“So... are you well?”

“Mar... i... sa, yea, what do you want?”

She was caught. I wasn’t into confrontation those days, only drink. It spoke loudly. You can put anything to the Irish except direct questions. The devil mend you, I thought... in your grief it might help you to talk.

“You’re a counsellor, are you?”

She could have given me a hiding there.

“I’ll go...” I wanted that so I said, “No... would you read this... please?”

I passed the first part of “Funeral” to her. The title got a jump from her. I had written:

It was early days. She laughed out loud.

“This is hilarious... oh, I love that... the notion of funerals with advertising.”

I had expected scorn. Was I hoping for it? Her reaction meant we might have a chance.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit insane?” I asked.

“But of course I do... that’s why I love it. Can I have a copy?” Magic words.

I told her about my cousin then. He was twelve years in London. He never heard hint nor hide of funerals. He returned home and in his first month, went to eleven.

“Do the English not die?” she asked... laughing.

“Well,” I said, “like everything else they do it with the minimum of fuss. The Irish roar at it. They thrash it, shout at it, try to strangle it. It’s as if by keeping it loud and brash, they can keep it controlled. Death has a fierce job of sneaking up on us.” She was hooked. I continued. “The Irish greeting is ‘how-yah, do you know who’s dead.’ I often feel like asking people if they’ve been to any good funerals lately. I hear people remark of funerals, like football matches — there was a good turn out.”

Marisa was nodding furiously. On I went, cruising now, the drink nearly forgotten.

“Watch any Irish mother. They’re full of chat, tea, and vitality. They get to the daily newspaper and straight to the obituaries. Never mind what’s huggin’ the headlines. They zero in and want to know who’s dead. You get asked in complete seriousness, ‘Is anybody I know — dead!’ Then, ‘Been to any good funerals lately?’ A bit like going to the cinema. How long before they start reviewing them. I’m not coddin’ you [which is the Irish preface to a lie], but I heard a woman say that a friend of hers died. Her companion asked the cause... ‘Oh, nothing serious’...”

Marisa said, “Death, where is thy sting.”

I had a bad moment when she did. Lord, I tried to blot it out. Our fragile communication was near beached on that. Roll with it. She hadn’t yet mentioned Dylan Thomas’s hackneyed poem... hope lived, if you’ll excuse the irony. I continued.

“I heard an American ask where he could find a real ‘wake.’ I think it was probably listed under the ‘not to be missed section’ of his guidebook. I dunno of any other country where the corpse gets to be the guest of honour... the final entertainment. Our whole vocabulary hinges on the closeness of death. Sick aren’t just sick, they’re at death’s door. To describe the pits, you only mention you felt like death warmed up.”

I was whacked, so I took a hefty whack of the Paddy.

Mistake! It let her commit the dreaded one.

“Did you ever hear of the Dylan Thomas poem on the death of his father?”

“No.” Very quiet I said that.

“Oh... well it goes, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’”

“I see.” My heart was pounding.

“I must get you a copy,” she ended.

Worse and worse. Visions of her reading this to me over open caskets began to shape. I stood up.

“All the best now... goodbye.” And I fled.

A measure of my terror was the glass of whiskey I left behind. Did you ever? I knew I’d dream of her mouthing “Rage rage against the dying of the light...” No amount of whiskey would remove that taste. I did what I could. I crawled into the nearest card shop and, sure enough, a flurry of Desideratas were scattered expensively. It’s my heritage to try to erase nausea with saccharin. The platitudes induced the inertia... not the ideal solution, but I couldn’t crawl into a bottle if I was to work later. My mother left one legacy. A leather-bound copy of Thomas Moore’s “Irish Melodies.” The dialogue between living and dead is captured in “O, Ye Dead”... which lines I memorized:

I spoke to a fellah who frequented the early morning houses by the docks. He had no doubts about resurrection. According to him, the dead lined up each morning. No conversation. Absolute quiet. An hour after opening, the “curses” took effect and the “dead” indeed came back to alcoholic life.

All through Joyce is the theme of the dead returning. In Ulysses, Stephen sees corpses rising from their graves like vampires... to deprive the living of the joy. Like the Inland Revenue. “The Dead” begins with a party and ends with a corpse. Like Finnegan’s Wake, you get the blend of “funferal” and “funeral.” America sags under the weight of Joycean study. My own favourite piece of Joycean lore was uttered by his daughter Lucia. Hearing of her father’s death she said... in disbelief:

Who’s to say.

I work as a security guard. It’s not in preparation for better things. I have no aspirations to act or better myself. The shift system is ideal for my funeral timetable. When I told my father, he laughed.

“It takes you all your time to mind your own business.”

Neither of us noted the significance of his next remark.

“Anyway, it’s your funeral.”

The Weir and Marisa were now indistinguishable. Over the bar, I knew I had to change my behaviour. For the moment I settled for changing my drink.

“A Jameson please?”

A fellah was nodding into his pint. He looked up.

“Did you ever see God?” he asked.

“I’d say you saw him recently,” said the barman.

“Fruggit,” he said.

A new obscenity or more of the same, but slurred... perhaps.

I’d just ordered the coffee. She arrived.

“I got you that,” I said.

“Thanks.” Whoops, the ice dripped from the gratitude. Murder with manners.

“Will you sit for a minute?” I asked.

“Okay,”... I had to ignore the tone of sulk. I’d go for broke. I began.

“I like you a lot, but I’m woeful in the beginning. If you could suspend the surface stuff. Bear with me for awhile till you see if mebbe we have something going here. Could you ignore the outside while, as Donne wrote, ‘our souls are in negotiation.’”

She smiled. Donne is an unfailing hook. I waited. Fiddled with the nigh on empty glasses. I was on the verge of laying out the gist of Lowry’s Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid. That nervous I couldn’t throw the ole “don’t care switch.” She spoke. Phew-oh.

“I dunno what to make of you. The most I see of you is your back... rushing away. You have me mystified. I’d like to take the chance. I read that funeral thing you gave me so I’m going to ask you the same. Then I’ll leave and I’ll meet you here on Saturday night. Is that okay?”

I nodded. She gave me a sheet of paper, smiled awkwardly, and left. I read:

And what was I to make of that. “Fruggit,” I said and got me another one of them Jameson. Marissa and I would be okay, I reckoned. As long as she kept out of the funerals, we’d have a shot at it.

Family!

“Will you come to the house?” she asked.

We were sitting on the Square. Side-steppin’ the winos, we’d wrestled a bench from a stray tourist.

“No,” I said and said nothing else. Long pause. The winos had put the make on the tourist.

“Is that it... blunt and no explanations?” she fumed.

I considered carefully.

“Right.”

“Just come once... and I’ll never ask you again.” It was now a point of principle. I had to make a stand. All sorts of un-spoken freedom rested on my not submitting. True to my heritage... I said, “Okay.”

“What... janey mack... will I ever understand you... cripes, thanks. Call tonight so... am... at eight.”

Dazed... she left. The head wino bowed graciously as she passed. Preoccupied, she neglected to give him anything. Her turn towards the town was orchestrated with a hail of abuse. The type that begins, “I know your ould wan,” and trails off in spittle and, “God blast all belong to you...”

Few have the hallmark in abuse like the Irish. The Americans have an elaborate style which prefaces their obscenities with mother... This may be a by-product of a matriarchal society. The essence of their swearing further involves the addition of an initial to various deities as in Jesus H. Christ.

Growing up, two names held complete power. You knew you were in deep stew when an adult described you as a “pup.” And the ultimate trouble... was when teeth-grit they whispered, “You young pup”... you could prepare your will on that. Second only to this was a “blackguard” used to describe low-life of every type.

A wino sat beside me.

“How-yah,” he croaked.

“Fair to middlin,’” I replied.

I knew he wouldn’t ask for money as his greeting hadn’t included, “Sur.”

“We’ll hardly get a summer now,” he said.

“Right enough,” I said.

The fact that it was November was neither here nor there. Neither of us remarked on it. He produced the Cyrus and gave it a fierce wallop. It took him places as he twitched and jerked to silent melodies.

“Ar... gh... ah... orh... whee.”

I took this to be appreciation of the desired effect. I took my leave and left him to his visions.

I tried not to project the visit to Marisa’s home. I owed her on two counts:

I went to work. I was then the security guard for Traders’ new supermarket. The usual mausoleum. My brief was to prevent people borrowing the trolleys. I had yet to apprehend one of these criminals. The chances of so doing were remote. The customers usually greeted me by name. Familiarity here definitely bred conspiracy. The security firm sent a van round on Sunday mornings to collect errant trolleys. The blind-eye arrangement was maintaining us in employment. How bad was Traders hurtin’...?

Being Irish means never having to say you don’t know. The accuracy of the reply is purely a wing-shot. Despite the video revolution, going “to the pictures” is still a prerequisite in courtship. I hadn’t yet escorted Marisa to them and was mystified as to her bringing me home to meet her parents. This was stage eight, at least, in the game. “Why,” I wondered during my shift at Traders. “Dunno,” I said as yet another neighbour greeted me and wheeled Traders’ finest into a sunset.

Back at my place, I washed slowly and drank quickly. I had a bottle of Metaxa brandy for special occasions. Taste didn’t matter. Anything that walloped the back of your eyes like this had to be quality. The vague headache I was entertaining testified to the quantity I was having. Next I’d be humming! I put on a black tie. This was in heavy current use... for work and the funerals. I’d miss a funeral today but I could double up on Saturdays. My quota was high... what else... I hummed.

   Tear apart

   the artificial lines

   of ill-defined

   communication

   would you... like

   me as much

   if

   close... as in the

   nearness of a situation

   we had been

   — Lord strive

   that near related

   Blood ties

   had brought... the

   ounce of tolerance

   have heard it claimed

   as part the heritage

   on the birth-right

   now obscured

   thru pain observed

   in Ireland... family

   have seen

   more sure-d-ly

   is peace the licence

   to... to hurt

   without the consequences

   care?

   Care I

   a murmer less

   to mutter twice

   blood is

   and it has seemed

   to long have been

   that thicker is

   than sense

   I might have known

   or broach

   the furthered cliché

   is

   to hurt — sign-full

   the ones

   you’re closest to... I think

   on that

   could only pray

   this cliché then, I hadn’t understood

   a family

   to plead the years

   thru waste

   to plead... is given

   what is given

   un-explained

   am better in

   the strands of old

   denial... here

   I don’t apply

   and sure

   it is

   if it is... that far

   from what I wish

   it might have been

   can live

   in rough-shaped harmony

   with what

   it is for now

   begin

   deliver... from myself

   an own

   with equanimity can’t say example

   — no

   from myself I guess

   on illustration.

Her family lived in Maunsells Hill. The sort of area where they deposited their rubbish in designer bins. My anticipation wasn’t eased by the brass name plate “La Rosario.” I rang the bell. Worse... chimes, and unless I was badly mistaken, did I detect the strains of “Viva Espana.”

Add my Greek-brandied level, and Europe was thriving. Marisa greeted me. There was no effective way of ignoring the chimes. If she’d greeted me in Spanish I’d have fled.

“For whom the bells chime,” she said.

There is no reply to that. Her parents were lurking in the sitting room. Tunnel vision helped me block out the various bullfighters and flamenco dancers lining the walls.

“Bill and Irene,” said her father.

I’d call them a lotta things. Their Christian names wouldn’t be included.

“A drink?”

“Whiskey,” said Marisa and shoved what appeared to be half a bucket of it into my hand.

“You’re in the Security business,” Bill said.

“I am.”

“The coming thing,” said Bill.

“Tell us about yourself,” said Irene.

I knew of few conversation killers to rival this. I took a near-lethal swipe of the whiskey. Marisa was a huge help. She said nothing. Irene produced the photo albums. I was almost relieved. Double vision obliterated the first two volumes. I muttered “Who”... “Where”... “Surely not”... “janey mack”... at staggered intervals.

Bill told me about the insurance game. He took as given that I knew nothing, and after a brief background, he recounted his coups across the country.

“You’re insured?” he said.

I didn’t know in my floating state, did he ask “You’re innured”... to what... to grief... did he know about the funerals? The whiskey lashed over the brandy. A supremacy struggle. The upper hand was definitely with the whiskey, and I didn’t throw up. I looked at this small plump man in his plump suit. Who the hell was he? I’d read that when you’re threatened by a person, try to see the child in them. I concentrated... and saw a fat kid in a fat suit.

“I renewed,” I said.

Irene was making ferocious hand signals from across the room — to me?

“Do you dwink... no... am... do you drunk yirself?” I asked.

“Never... never touch it... not a drop... nor does my wife. Not that we’re against it... in moderation.”

Would he say it... he did!

“Moderation in all things...”

I made a gigantic effort.

“Clen... clendii... dee... cleanliness is next to... whoa... to Giddiness.”

A total silence.

“Have you met Raoul?” Irene gasped.

Who the hell was Raoul? In fact, who the hell were these people?

“Raoul is our other child. He’s an English language teacher,” she persisted, “and Marisa is heartbroken since he left again.”

Two thoughts collided. The explanation for “And Dark Rain.”

The second thought I verbalized... sort of.

“His... hiss... hiss there a big demand for... fur... English langua... uage here.”

Marisa jumped up.

“We have to go.”

I was thinking “I’ll miss them” when she grabbed my hand. I was half-way down Maunsell Hill before I knew what had happened.

“Jay-sus,” she said. “Oh sweet Lord... oh God.”

“Where’s the fune... fun... the fun-eral?”

Marisa hailed a taxi.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

A long complicated word struggle, as first I had to remember myself. Sharing the information wasn’t easy. With the help of the driver we pieced it together.

“Langers,” said he. Pist in other words.

The driver helped me into the flat. I offered him tea.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a bit of whatever put you in orbit,” he said.

I lashed the last of the Metaxa into a mug. He threw it back.

“Paint off a friggin’ gate,” he said. “Well, goodnight to ye now.”

Marisa was building some form of fatal coffees. I slept. Raging thirst pulled me awake. The flat was dark. A litre of water later, I looked into the bedroom. Marisa was snoring lightly. Between spasms of nausea and remorse, I shuddered beneath the shower. Missing the funerals today was bad, but a line blazed thru my head. “And never to Maunsells Hill go no more.”

It was easy to slip quietly into bed. Noise of any volume was pain personified. It crossed my mind that less drunk, I might even now be slipping into Marisa. Drink is a rough mistress. She woke me with a coffee. I felt as if someone had slept — very badly — in me.

“You look like shit,” she said.

Ah... I thought. Not exactly soothing, but probably accurate enough.

“Well...” she said.

I figured this wasn’t an enquiry — gentle — into my health.

“I liked the taxi-driver,” I said.

“Do you know what you said to my parents?”

Was she insane; sure, wasn’t I part-time there? I didn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t have a hang-up with apologies. I make them unconditionally and let the flak settle where it will.

“My father asked you what you were in. Do you know what you said!” I didn’t.

“M... m... ph... not the exact words... no.”

“Words!” she roared. “Word... you said, ‘Bits.’

“When he asked later how you’re parents are doing... you said... or worse... you slurred, ‘Dead, thanks.’”

Sick as I felt there in the bed, I marvelled at my manners.

My stomach shuddered when the coffee hit.

“Good coffee,” I ventured.

My mouth wasn’t benefitting any better. Marisa was pacing the room. A fine recall she had. Though this perhaps was not the time to compliment it. She continued.

“My mother managed to ignore you dribbling on the photo albums. She even offered to show you Raoul’s wedding album... and you asked, ‘If she had any good mortuary snaps’... God above.”

I tried to look cowed.

“Well... come on, Dillon, what have you to say?” she seethed.

“What I have to say... Mau... am... Marisa, I already said but I guessed you missed it in there. At the beginning it was, and what it was... was ‘Sorry.’”

Hands on hips, she stared at me. I was impressed with the amount of words I’d strung together. In light of my present state of non-health.

“Okay... Dillon. What is it you want from me? What do you bloody want.” So I told her.

“Two aspirin.”

Var... oom... hinges off the door. I knew she wasn’t gone to seek aspirin. Sometime today I’d have to see Julie. The best friend I had. The only friend I had.

“And there’s always Julie,” my father used to say... “You could do worse and, knowing you, you probably will.”

Parental blessing.

I think I’ve always known her. She grew up in our street. Despite hidings from her mother, I was the friend she got and kept. At twenty-nine now, I had a year on her and absolutely nothing else. She was 5’1”... dark haired, blue eyed, with a strong body as witness to a hard rough life.

“Never show them how they’ve hurt you,” was her total credo. It was said about her that she feared neither man nor God. Brazen was the common judgement. Julie encouraged that. She worked for a travel agency. For three years she’d been based in Greece. Hard years for me. I didn’t even have the funerals. She’d married a Greek, and this had lasted two years. Back home she kept her relationships on a fling and fly basis.

I faced a dilemma! If I was to see Julie, I’d miss the 6:15. Could I risk two days without attendance. My post contained the November Dead List. A “Who’s Who” of the local dead. Murder erupted in most families with its arrival. Resentments lived far beyond the grave. People were highly indignant about the company they kept... even in death. In-laws were a point of bitter feuds. The names of the dead appeared on this list, and masses were said for them. Families were highly sensitive to their names being linked to in-laws they detested. In Ireland the final leveler was regarded as a right chancer. The grim reaper had one hell of a cheek. Cemetery Sunday was the day to flaunt your status among the dead and in front of the living. The weeks prior to this were the busy season for the stone masons. Polish, improve, and sheen them headstones. My father was there, top-tenned. A list he loathed — “Compiled by gombeens for the benefit of gobshites.” I put it beneath the only photo of him I possessed... he glared as always. I tossed betwixt Julie and the funeral. Julie lost, so I went to see her. The travel agency was the principal eyesore on the main street. Julie took early lunch.

“The pub?” she asked.

“Sure.” She wasn’t big on the “how-yah doings... the how-yah bin.” She reckoned you’d get to that. She ordered Guinness and sandwiches. I nursed the drink. The sandwich was out of the question.

“Like that, is it?” she said.

She lit the first of what would be a chain.

“What... I’m alrite,” she said.

“Dill, you look like you’ve got religion or AIDS.”

“I’ve been dreaming of my father again. And then this morning, on top of a hangover — ferocious mind you — I got the November Dead List.”

She ate some of the sandwich. Another cigarette. I reckoned she was running the Irish belief:

“So, any show from your mother?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, let’s get to it, Dill. What have you been at. Apart from minding the business interests of the town.”

“The funerals...”

“I don’t want to hear that dead stuff today. Sorry! I just can’t get into that. What else? Anything that doesn’t stipulate that friggin’ black tie of yours.”

I finished the Guinness, and my stomach eased. Not a whole lot, but the broken glass feel was ebbing. I told her about Marisa. The slight up-step in health encouraged me. The Maunsell Hill visit came out, including Marisa’s version of it. Julie whistled... low. I got some more Guinness.

“Okay, Dill. Do you want some advice, comfort, or a decent lashing?”

“A smatterin’ of them all,” I said.

She knocked the colour off the second Guinness. The head went way down. The cigarette took a hammering. Time to die.

“O-kay, Eddie...” I knew from the rare mention of my Christian name that this was serious business.

“This funeral crack is weirding you out. You won’t tell me what’s involved there. How much do I want to know, I ask myself. Most of the time the lights are out inside your head. You’re getting to be one strange fellah. I don’t care if you keep chasing the kinda women who put the ‘R’ back into reptilian. Will you come round to me after you’ve finished work?”

“I will.”

We sipped the Guinness dregs. I took one of her cigarettes. Her eyebrow raised a touch. She knew the crucified battle I had to quit. It tasted woeful. Thank God... nip back up on the cross for a spell.

I managed to get to work. The draw towards a dedicated piss-up teased and shimmered. The funerals would take a drastic beating then. Work it had to be. I bought the pack of cigarettes without too much of a struggle. Before hitting out that evening, I coerced myself to get some food down. Two eggs on a base of chili beans... hot as I could raise them. When I got to Julie’s, I’d be fit to kill for a beer. Whatever state the eggs had been in, they sat in dismay in my bewildered system. My breath would oil hinges. Only as I prepared to leave did I notice the small yellow envelope... match the eggs I thought.

The makings of a haiku, her...

I passed O’Malley outside a pub. He was footless. He muttered a string of obscenities, and I’m not positive, but I thought I recognised “Bollix” in there somewhere.

I smiled in what I think they call fellowship. I figured he was not the person to lay my haiku on. I think the seventeen-syllable requirement might have thrown him. Julie answered on the first ring. She was wearing a grey faded track-suit. Dressed to run, I thought.

“Beer or what?” she asked.

“Oh, beer, I’m chili-d out.”

She handed me a stein... relic of her travels, and I gave her Marisa’s note. She snorted. I drank — deep. I repeated the haiku. “That’s atrocious,” she said. The note... the haiku? Both I guess.

“I have Chesterton for you,” she said. I read:

She sat on the floor where I had half-folded. Her hand moved along the inside of my thigh. Just that and I was sparked. I kissed the top of her head... fresh washed hair... lemon fragrance. She eased the zipper on my jeans, and her hand went inside. I moved direct to ready.

“You’re sure ready?” she said.

I turned and she lay back. Sliding the tracksuit bottom off, she gave a rare and rarer smile.

In Irish style, we got to bed after. I sat, half-propped with beer, a cigarette, and Julie... not necessarily in that order.

“Care,” she said, “is the difference between sex and making love.”

“I’ll have me some of that.”

To maintain the edge I smoked... and whacked down a week’s worth of beer.

“When a woman asks you what you’re thinking about, especially in bed, always — get that ALWAYS — reply ‘I’m thinking about you, dear.’ Stick relentlessly to it. Bearing this seriously in mind Dillon, what are you now thinking of?”

I ran the limited replies a bit. I wanted to tell her the only requirement for a haiku was your quality hangover. I said, “I’m thinking of you.”

“And... did you want to add anything?”

“Oh right... dear.”

“You know, Dillon, I odd times think you might be the only company I need... and that’s got to be real close to love.”

“As close as you might need.”

“But...”

But! My heart lurched. Even the beer sagged. What’s this “but” crap. Yer shot of pathetic fallacy... lean heavy on the ole pathetic.

“The truth is... I can live without you... in Greece. I thought of you all the time but abstracted. You’re a deep vital part of me, but you don’t of necessity have to be part of my life.”

I lit some fags. The psychic kick to the cobblers. Nicotine seemed a kind alternative. What I was thinking was, you callous bitch. I hated her full then. The pure hatred nurtured on love. Accept no other. I nearly hummed, “My Sentimental Friend.” Go for broke. I reached for her breast. The love we made was slow and with more tenderness than I’d ever now concede. The cigarettes burned slower in the ashtray. Without care, they burned regardless.

Before she slept she asked, “What are you thinking of, my love?”

I stretched with what must have appeared total contentment.

No contest.

“I’m thinking of you, dear...”

She chuckled way down in her throat.

The refrain played a long time as she slept. It whispered cruel — sex is... is sex... sex is.

Julie hadn’t a whole lot of say in the morning; I had less.

“Will you meet yer wan on Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to meet a fellah... how about a double date?”

Was she mad! Flick the range of morning melodramas. Reply with the lash:

To prepare myself, I spooned the dead eggs before me... go. “Fine... see you in The Weir at 8:30.”

We left the flat without any post mortems. No fuss. Wasn’t it grand to be free of the kiss on the cheek... the “Have a nice day, dear” rigamarole. I didn’t mention I was going to be in fine time for the 9:15. At the canal, Julie said, “Bye.” I said much the same. Would a morsel of warmth be so dangerous. I looked at the Chesterton plaque she’d given me. High above the water, I hurled it. I didn’t wait to see it hit. My closest friend. Close... yeah.

   “Close”

   Age

   itself is solving... most

   the dreams

   I’d longed for... bad... and

   fear

   of course ensures

   the present ambitions

   elusive do remain... that

   close

   I’ve been

   to knowledge — I evaded

   all my skirmished life — on

   near

   is near enough

   for what

   I’d need to know.

My hangovers had an echo of Samuel Pepys about them. While watching a living man about to be castrated and disemboweled, he said, “The man was looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.” I felt that kind of cheerfulness.

The 9:15 was a small affair. The deceased was an old-age pensioner. The casket was open. I looked long into the dead face. Shriveled and decrepit. Of the small crowd, maybe four of the people actually knew him. A man, remarkably similar to the corpse, tugged my arm.

“Did you know oul Kearns?”

“Yes.” In the grave tone.

“He was a sour oul bastard, the same fellah.”

“M... m... ph,” I mumbled.

Decipher that, you wasted fart.

“He was a blow-in — he’s from Kildare.”

Not any more, I nearly said. The death hadn’t caused any furor in Kildare. Come to the West and get yerself a begrudged send-off. The coffin was closed, and we shambled towards the door. Let’s go Mr. Kearns...

The manager of the clothes department in Traders dropped dead that afternoon. In the fruit section. They didn’t appreciate that. He had no business down there. A massive stroke threw him across the vegetables. During the confusion, the clothing department was nigh-on cleaned out of its winter woolens. Those shoplifters nearly ran me down as woolen-laden they headed for the hills.

I was to guard the body ’till an ambulance arrived. The manager had been a Dubliner. Dead among the cabbages, I noticed his socks were from Dunnes. What a betrayal... and him in the clothing section, too. Mind you, he was in a no-win position on every level. If he’d been wearing the Traders brand, they’d say he’d stolen them. The fruit section staff had gone to the pub. Grief has to be liquified. I wondered if they’d jettison the cabbages. They were a sick-looking collection, though. I guess the corpse wasn’t doing anything to enhance the presentation.

The suit appeared to be a Penney’s pin-stripe. Some years ago Penney’s had a super sale on these, and did that item move... Jeez... oh. They had a particular sheen. A snag was that every tinker in the town had invested in them. T’was rumoured that even the beggar on the Weir Bridge sported one as he made his pitch. No matter how much you paid for such a suit now, be it gilt-tailored or not, it was seen as a Penney’s special. It didn’t matter a rat’s ass to me what a person wore. I did feel that he might have lain in some dignity in any other type of clothes.

The ambulance arrived, and when the doctor finished, they hauled him off. One of the attendants winked at me and slipped some oranges into his jacket. The store closed early, and we were asked to try and show for the funeral. Good grief! A legitimate reason to attend a funeral. I didn’t know if this one could be notched up in the total. On the way home, I kept seeing the dead manager. His suit looked as if he’d finally disappointed it.

I decided I’d get a mass for the manager. I dropped into The Old Franciscan church. They gave masses at the old rates and V.A.T. hadn’t yet featured. The Jesuits now were right up alongside inflation. You could call them Jack and Tom... your buddies, so to speak. You’d be sure of a modern, sparkling mass and a right good whack out of your wallet. The only thing the Franciscans called was your bluff. You still had to call them “Father.” Confession was the wallop and skelping form. None of the sacrament of reconciliation for them. You took the licks and got the blast of forgiveness. The other crowd, they’d hold your hand, dispense understanding, and apply the probation act.

Father Benedictus came out to see me. He was nearing eighty, gruff and fearsome.

“Wot do you want... I was in the middle of me dinner...”

That it was four in the afternoon mattered not at all.

“Would you sign a mass card for me, Father?”

“Is it yerself, young Dillon... are you not at school.”

“Finished for the day, Father.”

He peered at the name.

“Who’s this fellah?”

“A manager up at Traders.”

“He’s not from town?”

“No, Father... he’s... am... was... a Dubliner.”

“Smart-alecs them crowd, they know everything. They’d lift the eyetooth outa yer head... you couldn’t watch them. And dirty footballers, too.”

I didn’t feel a comment was required for any of this. So I didn’t offer one. I had heard the same tirade from him with regard to the English... and Northern Irish... and Nuns.

He signed the card, and I handed him the toll. I’d put a pack of Afton with it. Strong, unfiltered, and basic cigarettes... to match his faith. We both acted as if I hadn’t.

“How’s yer father?”

“Am... he’s doing as well as can be expected.”

“A martyr for the drink. It will kill him. You tell him that for me. Do you hear me!”

It would have been hard not to. He was roaring like a bull. I was about to leave when he grabbed my arm.

“I hear great things about that drink crowd...”

“The Pioneers?”

“Ary not them lunatics... the A.A. fellahs. Alcoholics Anonymous.”

He was lost in thought. What’s he seeing I wondered. Tee-totaling nuns on a football pitch perhaps. He returned... his hand rooted deep in the folds of his brown habit.

“Give this to your father,” he said. And he headed back for his dinner. I looked at what he’d given me. A silver Saint Jude medal. The patron saint of hopeless cases.

My father would have appreciated the grim humour. Weaving through the winos, I slipped into the public toilets on the Square. I fitted Saint Jude onto the chain Julie had sent me from Greece. Emerging with this new protection, I was besieged by winos.

“Gawd bless ya, sur... have you a few coppers, sur... and a happy Christmas to all belong to you.”

Under such a concentrated assault, I parted with a few bob. They clapped me on the back, shook my hand. If I was to receive half of what they wisht me, I could run for local office. Jude ruled indeed.

Julie’s father was in that A.A. He was a drinking partner of my father’s in the old days. A taxi-driver. I knew he hadn’t touched a drop for five years. On impulse I walked to the taxi-rank... he was there.

“How are you doing, Mr. Brady?” I said.

“Well be the holy! Young Dillon, how are you son?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Brady. I wonder if mebbe you had time for a drink... oops... I mean... am, a tea... you know.”

He smiled... a little sadly, I thought.

“Wotever, Dillon, I’m due a coffee break. Let’s go over to The Central.”

Nice compromise, I thought. A hotel was neutral ground. We got a pot of coffee, and I the shock of my life at the price of it. I tried to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t struggle. I could have kept a wino for a week in blessings with the money. Mr. Brady looked marvelous. He had to be over sixty but he looked forty. There was a glow in his face, and the eyes were hopping with vitality. I had seen those eyes leap with lunacy in the days he beat Julie’s mother along the length of our street. In the old days, as I said.

“Any sign of the young wan?” he asked.

Julie. I took it for what it was. They weren’t reconciled. Again, the flash of sadness in the eyes. I did the verbal dance of saying a lotta stuff and meaning nothing. He got that.

“Was there a specific idea you wanted to kick around?” he asked.

“I wondered... well, would your A.A. have saved my father?”

He poured some more coffee. The caffeine hit. My heart-beat moved way up. How much did I want to get into this area.

“Your father didn’t want to quit. I tried to talk to him. In my own case, I just couldn’t continue. I didn’t give up drink... it gave up on me. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No, drink is great for removing stains... did you know that?”

I didn’t... and said... “I didn’t.”

“Oh yeah. It will also remove your clothes, your wife, your health, your home, your sanity. Alcohol is the great remover.”

I was tempted to laugh. I didn’t know whether I should. I didn’t know this man at all and I’d known him all my life.

“What about yourself, Dillon... any problems with the bottle?”

Did I? None I was gonna admit to. Okay, I felt threatened.

“No.”

“If you ever want to talk... about anything, at any time, here’s a number where you can find me.”

“Thank you.”

We stood up. A total air of calm characterised him.

“You know, Dillon, despite all the things you may have seen your father do, he loved you more than anything else.”

I couldn’t think of any reply to that. He asked quietly, “Do you believe that?” I didn’t know.

“I dunno.” He smiled.

“That’s honest, anyway.”

We parted there. Him in his calm and me in bits.

Near my flat I ran into a band of young tinkers. More thug than itinerant. Bands of these were a recent phenomenon, and they roved the town in part-time terror. Encircled, the chief thug stood before me.

“Give us a cigarette,” he demanded.

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

We had us the eye-balling fandango. He shrugged and led his reptiles away. The blast of fear rooted me to the path. It wasn’t ’till I felt the sharp pain that I noticed the cigarette which had burned the fingers of my right hand. Phew... oh... God, I said, very quietly. Time for a re-run of some “Dirty Harry” movies.

In the flat I looked at the empty Metaxa bottle. Julie’s father or otherwise, I’d have lit into it (if it had been carrying). I checked my funeral timetable as recompense. I’d the Traders manager’s funeral in the morning. With the word-association in full flight, I looked to see had I any fruit. I took an early night. The best solution to some days is to cancel them. I ran the thug scene by myself one more time. My father applied an inflexible maxim. “Kick before you are kicked. Wallop before you are walloped. ALWAYS retaliate FIRST.” I thought about the lines I was attempting to write for him. At his sickest, mangled in a hangover, he’d look like an undertakers dream and mutter, “Winter waits.” The bareness of his eyes discouraged enquiry. I’d nurture a hate. It didn’t float. Then I’d try to build towards a flat indifference. I couldn’t get a handle on that either.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he’d roar.

“Not bloody much,” I wanted to roar right back. But I never did. At fifteen years of age, I’d sat with him on one of these mornings. I watched as he tried to put a shakin’ cup to his lips. I’d said, “Can I hold it for you.” A mighty back hand slap had lifted me out of the chair. Retaliate first. A practical application.

At school, I hadn’t learned a whole lot. I was never tortured with “what was I going to be.” I had trouble enough with “what I was.” I remembered a word from French lessons. The sound of it hooked deep. It was the word of a nightmare. That night I had me one... a beauty of a “cauchemar.” My father and old Father Benedictus were walking behind my funeral. I was sitting up in the hearse trying to get their attention. “Be quiet,” they said. “Do one thing right in your life.” At the cemetery, my grave was lined with cabbages, and I was dressed in the Penney’s suit. “You didn’t drink half enough,” whispered Mr. Brady. “I’ll give him no Benediction,” said Father Benedictus. The band of thugs were kicking the coffin — “Come out — we know you have cigarettes...” I woke drenched in sweat. No Benediction. I looked on the bedside table. No cigarettes either.

   “Benediction”

   Never believed

   in such as blessings

   were

   you threw

   a make un-helped

   upon the day... and

   help available

   was how you helped

   yourself... a crying

   down

   to but a look in caution — stayed alert

   reducing always towards

   the basic front

   in pain

   — never

   — never the once

   to once admit

   you floundering

   had to be

   such Gods as crost

   your mind... if God

   as such it could have been

   you never took

   to vital introspection

   ... He’d have an urgent set

   of other obligations

   such it was

   from you

   did know

   the very first

   in steps belief — form

   framing

   every reprimand

   you ever force-full

   gave.

The Traders funeral was huge. The store was closed for the day. A Friday! Phew-oh-d. A major trading one. Most of the mourners were dressed in Traders best. Less a mark of identification with the deceased as more the result of a late November sale.

I spotted some of the shop-lifters, and they looked appropriately grieved. He had been lax to prosecute offenders and was thus a huge loss to the thieving fraternity.

I hit the Square, and a rib must have broken in the devil. A shard of wintered sun. Cold of course but the illusion was sustaining. The bench there was vacant. I enjoyed the sight of the Bank clerks hurrying to their lunch. What an air of young gravity they worked for. A few more years, and they’d have the dead mackerel expression complete. Try getting them to a funeral. Their lives were geared to mutterings of grief on a daily basis.

A shadow fell. The head wino. I knew him as Padraig. The usual rumours beset him. He was supposedly from a good family. He was

   a teacher

   a lawyer

   a brain surgeon

   a lapsed genius

As long as I’d known him, he was in bits and fond of the literary allusion. Today, he was but semi-pist. “And greetings to you my young friend. Are we perchance pertaining of the late winter solstice...”

I smiled and gave him a cigarette. The tremoring of his hand we both ignored. He was about 5’5” in height, emaciated, with a mop of dirty white hair. The face was a riot of broken blood vessels, swollen now. The nose was broken, and more than once. Blue, the bluest eyes you’d ever get... underlined in red, of course. Ordinance surveyed. He mutilated the cigarette to get rid of the filter-tip. He smoked deeply of what remained.

“Well, young fellow, forgive me for the desecration of your cigarette.”

“No mind, my father did the same.”

“A man of subtlety and taste. Was he not?”

“He had his moments.”

“One deduces from the use of the past tense that he’s no longer with us — or worse — in England.”

“Dead... he’s dead.”

At the top of his lungs, Padraig began to sing. Startling the absolute wits out of me.

I looked furtively ’round, hoping he was through. He ate deep from the cigarette and in a cloud of nicotine... he bellowed:

He paused and I jumped in.

“Will you stop if I give you money?”

He laughed, showing two yellowed teeth, the rest, obviously, were casualties of combat.

“Indeed I will.”

I gave him a quid.

“Young man, you could have left, it would have been the wiser course in the financial fashion.”

“I like it here.”

“Pithy... you are not a man who gives away a lot... a lot, that is, in the knowledge department. What you have to say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.”

Before I could reply to this, briefly or clearly, he was assailed with a series of gut-wrenching coughs. Up came phlegm and various un-identifiable substances. I gave him a handkerchief. He used it to dry him steaming eyes.

“I am indebted to you, my young friend. It has been many the mile since I was offered a fellow pilgrim’s hanky. Might we indulge in a further spot of nicotine.”

We did... I said, “Your accent is hard to pin down.”

“Like a steady income, it has an elusive quality... not to mention effusive.”

There was no reply to this. I didn’t even try.

“At one dark era in my existence I was, I believe, from the countryside of Louth. Are you at all familiar with that barren territory?”

I had no intention of telling him of my mother. None! I said, “My mother is buried in it.”

“A burden for any crat-ure. May The Lord Bless Her. She’ll need all the comfort available in that forsaken land.”

My concentration was focused on not talking like him. It was highly contagious. He rooted deep in his coat, a heavy tweed battered number. Lightin’! Lightin’ with the dirt, as they say. Out came a brown bottle.

“A touch of biddy perhaps,” he said.

He wiped the neck with the clean end of my hanky and offered it. I took a cautious swig. Ar... gh... oh God. Red Biddy, meths, and sherry! My eyes felt reversed and a punch like bad luck side-swept my stomach. It got your attention... fast. He nigh on drained it when I passed it back with no apparent ill-effects... no iller than he habitually was at any rate. Relief being how you drink it mebbe. He said, “The only advice I remember is it’s better be lucky than good...”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Lucky.” He laughed deep.

“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”

Across the square, we saw a bunch of winos emerge from the toilets. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy.

“My young friend... my people await me... perchance we’ll talk again.”

“I’d like that.”

Not wild enthusiasm, but a certain tone of approval.

“I bid you adieu, and if I am to pray again I will mention your mater in the wilderness of Louth.”

The next time I saw Padraig, he was close to Louth himself.

I got to The Weir at eight. Marisa was waiting. She was clad in skin-close denim jeans, a heavy grey sweat shirt, and a maroon leather coat. Just right for the drug crowd who infested this pub at weekends. The serious drinkers retreated to the pubs below the Square. She looked delighted... to see me?

“How are you, Dillon?”

Energetic joy always throws me.

“I’m doing okay. What will you drink?”

“A snowball.”... in hell?

The Weir management knew their weekend trade. The barman had an earring and the attitude to match. Fixing his sneer, he fixed his attention to a point beyond my shoulder.

“Pint of Guinness, a Jameson, and... am... a snowball...”

“With a cherry?”

I was caught. I ran the range of immediate trade-offs. No. Too easy. At the same time, I reckoned I better get the ground rules down. He’d spew all over submissiveness.

“Yeah... but not in the Guinness.”

He got it. Raised his eyes to mine. For a second, I felt I was my father’s son. He got the drinks.

Marisa gave me a devastating smile. Was she smoking the weed?

“I missed you...”

“What! Was I late?”

“No... no. I mean yesterday and, yes, today, too.”

She was definitely on something. Who talks like that.

“Julie is going to join us and one of her suitors.” Was I now talking like her.

“Oh marvelous. She’s your friend... isn’t she?”

I downed a quart of Guinness. Sour. Bolt it in place with a wallop of Jameson. Better. I hoped Julie would arrive... soon. Marisa did whatever it is you do with snowballs. The best you can, I guess. Julie arrived, looking wonderful. She had a knee-length denim skirt... Aran sweater and a sailors reefer jacket. The jacket had the soft worn appearance that money can sometimes buy. Her boots would have cost my week’s salary... with overtime. A tall blond-haired guy held her hand. The type whom Woody Allen says “takes handsome lessons.” Good teeth, good build, good clothes. Good grief!

We did the introductions. Julie’s friend was Robbie. I got a round of drinks. Vodka for Julie and vodka for Robbie. Indeed a twosome. More stout and whiskey and a snowball for Marisa. There wasn’t any way that repetition made that drink more accessible. The earring took the cherry as given a slight suggestion that hash now appeared. Julie did that scene sometimes. I liked my drug wet and in a glass. Preferably in a lotta glasses. But... there it is. The three were brisk in conversation. “These are double vodkas,” yelled Robbie.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.” He toasted Julie.

Now, what could I do. I got deep buried in my own drink. When in perplexity, run like hell. Spare me the Bogart drivel.

“Have you known Dillon long?” Julie asked.

“M... m... h...” from Marisa.

The aim of conspiracy she launched blended with the hash. I offered the cigarettes. As I expected — Robbie didn’t. I waited for the inevitable and it came.

“Don’t you know how dangerous smoking is?”

“I have a feeling you might be about to tell me.”

He looked to Julie. She said

“Do you work, Maura.”

“It’s Marisa... actually, I’m hoping to be a teacher.”

“Of what?”

“What... oh I see, well I was thinking of Montessori.”

“Why?”

“Am... I want to do something fulfilling.”

“Ah... the ‘Total Woman.’”

Marisa to here had drank viciously from the snowball. T’would take something more lethal than that to stop Julie.

“The Total Woman... I have a copy. I haven’t actually read it. Is it absorbing?”

“I dunno, I haven’t read it.”

Julie produced the black book and a wad of notes. Irish style, it was an indeterminate wad of bruised notes. All denominations. I saw a hint of drachmae in there. She pushed a flutter at Robbie.

“Get the drinks in... keep the vodkas doubled... Dillon will have the same and another yellow thing for Maire... yeah?”

“Oh yes please... and... am... it’s M-A-R-I-S-A.”

The black book was Julie’s catch all philosophy. She’d had it for years and wrote in whatever grabbed her. Kazantzaki featured heavily, Cavafy usually took pride of place. I had once offered some Emily Dickinson and she’d withered me. If I wanted to talk American women poets, she’d said, go find Anne Sexton. I was working on it. It could have been worse. I’d nearly offered Sylvia Plath... phew-oh.

Robbie arrived back — beaming.

“Ted works here,” he said.

Not receiving the ecstacy this warranted, he continued.

“Ted Joyce, he’s working part-time here... we were at college together.”

The Earring. It figured. The lash rose in me... did they take perhaps cordon bleu together. Julie shot me a look. I passed. Pity.

“What do you do, Robbie?” asked Marisa.

“I’m an articled clerk... at Boyd’s.”

Ol’ Ted took English Lit. Took it where, I wondered. A long standing insult down our street was “You dirty article.” I didn’t need to look at Julie. I passed here again. Julie found the quote.

“Listen to this, Marcy.”

Marisa was snowballing and missed the chance to give her name again. Julie read:

Julie took a hefty belt of vodka. If not exactly enthralled, we certainly looked attentive. Julie concluded:

Robbie spoke first. “That reminds me of a joke... there was...”

“For chrissake,” said Julie.

He shut up. Marisa went to the ladies. The Earring gave Robbie a shout. Julie snapt the book shut. I asked, “So Julie, how do you like Marisa.”

I got the Emily D. look. “She says ‘actually’ a lot... I can see you’re taken with Robbie too—”

“Well Julie, I’ve been thinking of getting an earring... actually...”

“Do... and I’ll help you put it thru your nose.”

Truce... of sorts.

“In fact, Dillon, I have something of interest for you... Listen... listen to this... are you ready?”

“What’s ready, I’m interested — okay... is it something about Greek security guards?”

Julie gave the bleak smile.

I had some whiskey, ah that sucker was sliding down slow and ferocious. I gave what she said some consideration. Why not, I thought. I was near through with my time of Julie affirmations.

“Well, I think people are stupid by a tense alright. But it’s not the past. Most people I know are crucified by the future... how the hell they’re gonna get by. How to pay for things. Most funerals these days, I hear less and less of grief and more of the expense of dying... a costly business.”

Julie looked furious.

“The funerals... His cock-swalloping funerals. You’re gonna have to give up that garbage...”

In her tirade, she took a slug of the snowball.

“Oh Gawd, am I poisoned? What the hell is this... yellow Biddy... Aher... gh...”

Marisa arrived back to see Julie apparently swiping her drink.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah... so are funerals,” Julie rasped.

Robbie came with a tray of drinks. “My shout,” he said.

So shout, I thought. I was well the worse for drink now. I took off for the toilet. An indication of my condition was a friendlied roar I hurled at the Earring. He glared. The toilet was a hive of industry. The drug dealing has its centre in a fitting place.

Gurteen was centre toilet. A fellah my own age. He was 5’2” with eyes as black as his attitude. A victim of the peroxide craze, the hair was a sick yellow... long and lank. There wasn’t a pick on him. He looked like a worm-fumbling crow. A particularly vicious one, he was one of the few very dangerous people I knew.

Even my father had said, “Don’t turn your back on the fellah, particularly when he smiles...”

When Gurteen smiled you could believe there was indeed a hell. Such as the old priests preached. Gurteen wasn’t so much headed towards it as on an extended sabbatical from there. Solely by virtue of the length of time we’d known each other, he was “fond” of me. Fond if snakes can be credited with fondness. A small-time dealer in drugs of every strength, he greeted me.

“Dillon... you wanna score?”

“Naw, I’m doing fast and furious on the drink.”

“Yeah... a piss-head, that’s o-kay, I like to get maggoty meself... I hear you’ve moved in on the money...”

“What?”

“Maunsell’s Hill; the Darcy one... Martha or whatever she calls herself. A bitch in her heart that one...”

He paused to give a small envelope to a zonked client. A flash of notes showed... he gave me an indefinable look then continued.

“Do you know her brother?”

“Raoul.”

“That’s him... a bolix but quare as a Kerry sixpence.”

“Odd — you mean... is he odd... or wot?”

“Jaysus, cop on, Dillon... gay... he likes it Greek style... you know what I’m saying.”

“I didn’t know... I didn’t.”

“Isn’t that more of it, Dillon, you’re always the last to know... do you want some speed... no charge.”

“No... no thanks... I’ll be seeing you... no, wait... will you take a look at a fellah who’s here with Julie... Robbie, he’s called.”

“Give Julie my love, that wan would kill for you, Dillon... go on, you’re not the worst. I’ll let you know about yer man.”

I tried to remember that what you got from Gurteen’s smile was a view of his teeth. Anything above that carried a price. I’d felt warmer looking at the corpses in the morgue.

“Gurteen sends his... acknowledgements,” I said to Julie.

“Who’s he?” asked Robbie.

“A part-time psychopath,” Julie said.

“And the rest of the time...” from Marisa.

“The rest of the time you don’t want to know about. He used to hang out with your brother Saul.”

“Raoul.”

“Let me tell you, it’s many the one perished on that rock.”

Was I very pist or was Julie mixing a heavy batch of metaphors here... a heavy mix of aggravation if nowt else.

“Let’s go Chinese,” chirped Robbie.

“He means... do ye want to eat?” said Julie.

We jumped on this with way over the top enthusiasm. At the door, I felt my arm tugged... Gurteen.

“He’s Robbie Fox... a gay... so tis easy three to one that you’ll have company of some description in that bed of yours tonight. Oh yeah, I read today that bi-sexuality is socially okay... okay!”

Inscrutability is the Chinese byword. Our only Chinese restaurant has moved into active hostility.

Surliness with impeccable subtlety. The waiter dealt us four slow menus and a slower sneer.

Julie is in her element with strife. Being pist helped. She rattled off a crescendo of numbers. The waiter had to check twice. Some Oriental respect might perhaps have hit his eyes. We sat before Julie like children, indeed of a highly temperamental God. She said... “I ordered a rake of stuff, it’s bound to have something ye all like, and I threw in two bottles of Beaujolais.”

Robbie asked for chopsticks. Now how did I know he’d do that.

The waiter brought the wine. No pretence of tasting or pouring.

“Are you familiar with the I–Ching?” asked Marisa.

Julie snorted.

“Oh yes, I do it on a daily basis,” said Robbie. I refrained from asking if it was some breed of Oriental dog.

“Did it tell you to be a montesorry —?”

“Am... that’s Monte-sorri... am...!”

Open bloodshed was deferred with the food. Plates and plates. Chop suey this, chow mein of sundry descriptions... bamboo shoots, curtain rails, rice, sweet and sour porks, all served with resentment if not panache.

Robbie flourished the chopsticks. The waiter flourished condescension.

Waving a chopstick in my face, he said, “I believe you attend funerals...” I was stunned. I looked to Julie who was opening a Chinese cookie.

“Confucius say, ‘Shut your mouth, asshole.’”

Marisa spilt her Beaujolais over the mess before her soy sauce was available... but...!

“Yeah... yeah, I find them gay affairs,” I said.

“Seems like a sick pastime to me.”

“No... not sick... it’s well past that stage; it’s a dead pastime.”

“Can’t be a whole lot going in your life, is what I think.”

I took a ferocious hammer of wine. My father would have taken the chopsticks and put them where they would forever have remained lodged. Some vestige of control tried to surface. The wine said, “The hell with it.” Marisa said nothing.

“Well, Robbie, you consult the I–Ching, so you’re familiar with the oracle of changes — resting on coins—”

“Yeah... so!”

“So why don’t you and me toss for the bill, to sweeten it, I’ll put a straight twenty alongsides!”

“Am... I dunno, can you afford to do that?”

“Can you afford not to?” asked Julie.

“Look, Robbie. It’s more civilised than me asking you outside and wallopin’ the living be-jaysus out of each other.”

“Okay, the bill and twenty quid. Let Julie toss... I’ll take heads.”

He didn’t put the money on the table. I put a new crisp note down. That’s the way I was reared — foolish.

Julie took a coin, cleared the centre of the table. A flick high and slow. Marisa gulped wine. Thunk... nigh flat down... tails. I picked my money up.

“You’re some latch-crow,” he said.

“Does that mean I get paid?”

“I’m going to have to owe you the money... but I’ll pay this bill... okay... is that okay guys... yeah... fair enough?”

“Well, Robbie, tis not the question of okay or not... tis — do you pay on bets? Let’s go, Marisa...”

We stood up. The waiter brought the bill. Julie looked at it and her eyes lit... huge.

I was holding the door for Marisa when Robbie shouted something.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“I’m not altogether certain, but it sounded like ‘baulox.’” She suggested my flat. I stopped en route to buy a bottle of Jameson. From my winnings you could say. The rain was lashing, cold... dark, and I felt... felt bedraggled inside. I gave her the makings of a dry tracksuit. She tried to fit into that, and I built some big hot whiskeys. I even had faded cloves. Whoa-hay, whack in the sugar, the cloves... no lemon... no problem... get that water hot... right... now put a normal sized whiskey outa your head. Lash in mad amounts. Gotta paste it. Now big mugs. Taste. Phew-oh, that’s the kick. So who’s bedraggled. A shot more and mebbe us can get into realms of befuddlement. Cruising home. I bring the mugs to the bedroom. She’s sacked out in my battered sweat-shirt — going thru my books.

“You’re very close to the canal here.”

“Yeah, you can think of me lying here listening to the wino’s roar.”

“Is that a quote?”

“A Joyce mutilation—”

“I love Joyce.”

The temptation was enormous... what do you love about him... but I’d had my tails streak already. Best not to lean on that luck. I said, “Cheers.”

“Oh right... slainte... there’s an awful lot of Hemingway here.”

“Yes there is.”

“I suppose you love all that... strut... and yes, all that macho stuff.”

Ah... u... d, the whiskey chunneled down in a weltor of sugar and... did I swallow a clove? Who cared. My eyes moved into overdrive. I figured she’d been reading Cosmopolitan. Sure it heightened your awareness. So did hot whiskey... then the sugar kinda blinded your subtlety. Time to reply.

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I don’t... I like A Movable Feast.”

“Will you teach me about him?” Was she lisping.

“What!.. what’s to teach. You read his books. You like or you don’t like the way he writes. You get something from his view of the world... or you don’t. That’s what there is to learn. What I can tell you of real significance is nearer home.”

“Oh please... tell me!”

“It’s smart to drink hot whiskey when it’s hot!”

... she did... and how, she knocked back a whack that my father would have had a cure from.

“Whee... ee... h... oh Dillon, that’s lovely. Cripes, you read a lot of American writers. Do you like them a lot.”

“Lemme show you something.” I weaved towards the bookcase. I wasn’t hurting now — at all. It took me some time to locate Ross Macdonald. I kept forgetting what I was seeking.

“Here it is. The Ivory Grin... written in 1952. He’s describing an American woman. Listen to this:

I forgot then why I was sharing this. Marisa forgot too.

“Do you want to sleep with me, Dillon”

“I do.”

She stood and pulled off the track suit.

The whiskey receded a moment, and I didn’t know — was it Julie before me. I said nothing. Then the whiskey got back to its mission. I moved close to her, and we forgot Ross Macdonald, Hemingway, Robbie, Chinese waiters... the whole shower.

Waking... on the better site of intimacy, we had gotten to the bed. A hangover hadn’t yet decided on its strength. Marisa stirred. I lit a cigarette. Oh God, luck.

“What are you thinking about, Dillon?”

“I’m thinking about you, dear.”

She smiled, deep. But there’d be more. Had to be.

“Do you think you might love me... a little bit Dillon... do you?” She was lisping.

“Well... I’m not in love with you... if I say I am, you’ll want to hear it and hear it a whole lotta times. It’s the first time that opens the dam. I like you a whole lot... let’s not mess it about with that loaded term.”

Far too long a theory. The hangover moved up. I headed for the bathroom. Morning prayer... on my knees to the porcelain. Sloo... sh... here went Robbie’s bet... coloured gay. Twenty to the good.

Blast the shower... grief it meant to be. I chanced a glance to the mirror. Wet... I said... I look wet... right. M... m... mh.

A shade dismantled, alas. I managed to make some shook coffees. It’s Saturday so... so perchance a jigger of that Irish. Morning drinking... hello, alcoholism. Back to the bed. Marisa was groaning.

“I’m ill.”

“Have a hit on this.” More of it, I thought.

“Ah, what’s in this...”

“Sugar.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

She took a cigarette... coughed... coffeed and shook.

“Julie told me why you go to the funerals.”

Good old chatty Julie... mebbe she could take out full-page advertisements. I savoured the coffee; no sugar there.

“She says you didn’t go to your father’s, and you’ve been compensating ever since.”

“Could be... I might have me some of that line of thought.”

“... and that you carry guilt because you don’t recall your mother’s burial. Is this very painful?”

“Hangovers are painful.”

“Robbie said you were a death-freak.”

“Ary, stop... I’m too ill for this... alrite.”

“Why do you go...”

“I started initially because I had a dread of them... I was afraid to go... now I think I’m afraid not to go...”

“I don’t understand.”

“Since I began to follow the funerals, nobody close to me has died.”

“But that’s crazy.” She spilt the coffee in exasperation. T’would be a whore’s ghost to remove coffee stains.

“Look, I didn’t start out saying this was logical... did I? Why does it have to be rationalised. Where does it say this must make sense?”

“But you can’t live like that.”

“Why?”

“... Because... oh God... what... because it’s weird. Julie says it’s neurotic...”

I moved. To ease the knife Julie was burying up to the flogging hilt in my back. How much whiskey was there yet in that bottle.

“I’m going to tell you about Julie... she lived in Greece for three years. Her father-in-law was in the army, and her Greek husband didn’t understand a whole lot when she began sleeping with the colonel. Like a bad literary joke. They forgot to tell her no-one sleeps with the colonel.” Marisa listened with the delight of the truly scandalised. The joy of the completely horrified. I could have stopped there. I saw her eyes again... as that coin spun in the air. Go to it.

“After a confrontation, the father-in-law leapt in his car... roaring... and an articulated truck put him and his guilt all over the centre of downtown Athens... that stopped the roaring... and his gallop—”

“Ker-ist.”

“Julie got divorced and came back here. She gave me something she’d written and said it would explain everything and shed light on nothing. She called it — levels. Which she certainly wasn’t... on the level I mean.”

“Could I see it...”

My instincts said no.

My loyalty whispered... no way.

I said... “Sure...”

   “Levels...”

   Ending school

   at 17

   as I was then... a

   gutter-d level was

   what they fore-saw

   for me... I half-

   elated

   on some reputation tough... as I believed

   believed thru years astray

   should manic give me

   bestow a mantle of

   recklessness... from acceptance

   lower

   Second level

   in Athens

   on a Sunday

   would you not

   a day in sunshine say — near

   had to be

   and you’d be wrong

   as wrong as I

   descending

   from a claustrophobic bus

   witnessed

   an army funeral

   a silence thru the rain

   you’d think

   would you

   I felt a sense

   of something... something surely

   that you could

   describe — you’d be

   on levels most

   you’d be correct

   Rising to the

   third level

   the level ultimate

   is open to

   the thousand interpretations

   yet... a knowledge

   only basic

   is all I can

   anticipate

   have never once

   articulated

   that... as know

   I mebbe know

   mebbe

   I almost might

   The level fourth

   it what it is... it

   what you have believed

   from me

   and Lord...

   amazing as it is

   the rock belief

   you placed... in me

   might

   bring

   me... very near

   towards

   what I can but visualise

   the level fourth

   — beyond the words

   mundane

   Fifth and final...

   dream... on

   sacred fear itself

   I’ve feared

   you are

   but what we dreamt

   from aspirations

   basked...

   in urgency

   My handicap it

   is

   my words out race

   their meaning

   every wasted time

   and time

   I never seem to get

   to line your meaning

   clear...

   it clearly now

   is at

   the level fifth

   near you

   I have belonged

       “it only needs

       to read

       to where I am

       right now... you

       read these levels five

       five countries full

       from you

       ... removed”

Outside the morgue. A smartly dressed middle-aged man kept sneaking looks at me.

“Did you know the deceased?” he asked.

“Not well.”

“Ah, who did... who knows anyone.

“Ego... life is the constant search to define it.”

I nodded. I couldn’t rise to the verbal lunacy this morning. I wondered if he might be related to the head wino, Padraig. They attended the same speech coach mebbe! A three-day beard emphasized the crazed light in his eyes.

“You’ll walk behind the hearse.”

“Yeah.”

“Ponder this, my silent friend, as we take the high road... ego is the sum of false ideas we have about ourselves.”

“Piss off,” I said.

I don’t enter the cemetery. At the gates a wedding party roared past... horns blaring. I was too hung-over for irony. I mouthed the Beckett line and felt little solace. “They give birth astride of a grave.” Hoot on. Who gives a diddly-fliggit.

I didn’t see Julie for the weeks up to Christmas. I slept with Marisa at weekends and cut down on cigarettes. I didn’t stop drinking because in Ireland you rarely do. I banged in a massive chart of overtime and kept to my funeral quota. The weather was bitterly cold, and I noticed Padraig no longer led the winos. Freezing-temperatured exposure keeps the numbers down... an expedient culling.

I thought of him a lot and, for a pound, a wino told me he was in the hospital.

I bought some roll-up tobacco, papers, and three pairs of thermal socks. The porter was obstructive as required by his status. Eventually I got the idea across to him.

“The oul wino, he’s up in St. Joseph’s ward; he’s had his final blast of mello.”

I didn’t recognize Padraig, not only because they washed him but he’d shrunk.

“How-yah,” I said.

“They won’t let me smoke.”

“Will I roll you wan?”

“I would be forever in your debt... they are not overly fond of me in this establishment. Do my colleagues on The Square prosper?”

They’d already forgotten him. He knew too.

“They were all asking after you.”

He nearly smiled. I lit the rollie and put it in his mouth. Coughs and chest rumbles danced him in the bed.

“I needed that... did I ever acquire your name?”

“Am... no... it’s Dillon.”

“Suits you... I think. Lying here nicotineless and gasping for a drink, I pondered God... I think I heard once that he knew my name before I was born... what do you think of that...?”

I had a furtive look round the ward.

People were point-d-ly ignoring us. The word was out on the wino... no sign of a nurse, so I lit a cigarette. Phey-oy, it tasted grand. Cutting down does magic for the oul want. I didn’t know what I thought of God knowing a wino’s name. So I said, “I dunno... isn’t your name Padraig...”

“I think it is... on the other hand, it may be the remnant of a blackout. God knows... wot!”

He shivered again in the bed. The ward was roasting. I felt a slight perspiration break out on my forehead. I don’t think... in truth... the heat was completely to blame for that. The tea trolley came... pushed by a middle-aged knacker. I knew him. Named Rooney. A small spit of a man who put the edge back into venom. My father, I believe, had once given him a hiding — he distributed tea and a dead biscuit to all the beds except Padraig.

“Hey... hey Rooney,” I shouted.

He pretended not to hear me and the trolley accelerated as he reached the corridor. Cold. The cold flash of a killing rage. Blind. I caught him near the coronary unit. The rheumy eyes threw the challenge to me. The catering badge gave him status. The look said, “You can’t touch me—”

I’m over six foot and weigh in at nigh 180 pounds. I felt like two of meself.

“Do you get to casualty...”

“No, I don’t... I go to...” and he launched into a litany of saints representing the various wards.

“You’re going to be in casualty in about five minutes because I’m going to break your left arm...”

“What... what’s eating you, Dillon. I never did nothing to you. I was a great pal of your oul fellah’s...”

“Go back up that corridor, wheel your bag of tricks into the ward, and offer that man a cup of tea... and one of them mouldy biscuits.”

“Ary... the wino... what do you care... what’s he to you. Tis not ‘tay’ the likes of him wants...”

As he finished, he looked into my eyes. Full. Then he turned the trolley round and he brought Padraig his afternoon tea... and two biscuits. I had a drop of tea myself as it was offered. I declined seconds.

“I won’t make the Square for the New Year,” said Padraig.

“You might...”

“No... I’d have liked to wear them new socks too. Do you think... do you think you could fit them on me now? I’m perished...” He surely was.

The socks were a grey thermal from our clothing department. I rolled back the blanket and his feet grieved me. A serious novelist would describe them as gnarled.

Twisted, lacerated, and... old, very old. The socks were a size medium and enormous on his shrunken feet. He watched me watching them.

“How’s that,” I asked.

“Mighty... I’m the better of them already. I had a pair of argyles once or mebbe I just hope I did... you have a rare gift, my young friend.”

“What’s that?”

“You never probe or pry into a person’s affairs.”

“Thank you.”

The nurse came and said I’d have to leave. A young dark-haired girl, she had huge brown eyes and what they call a homely face. Her name badge said “Nurse A. Brown”.

“What’s the ‘A’ for?”

“Allison.”

“Would you get in touch with me if he wants anything or if he gets a turn... I’ll give you my address.”

She didn’t bat an eye or give me the current thought on winos. She said, “I’ve seen you up at Traders. Yes, I’ll let you know. What’s your name.”

“Dillon... Eddie Dillon... thanks a lot.”

Padraig tried to put some strength into his smile.

“What do you know about money, my young friend?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“It’s how they keep score,” he said.

I rang Julie a few times. She was busy. Marisa mentioned to me that Raoul had attended Castleknock... as had Robbie. One of Ireland’s expensive boarding schools. I thought of Saki’s dictum:

Christmas Eve materialised. My shopping list was brief:

I was working a split shift and had the morning free. The town was hopping with cash and camaraderie. I bought Julie a boxed collection of Kazantzaki. By an incredible stroke of luck, I managed to get a recording of Richard Burton’s reading of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood. To keep the balance I threw in a copy of Adrian Mole. To lighten Julie’s load, I added Stephens, The Crock of Gold. This selection of gifts proved I had a few bob if nowt else. I was buying some thermal long-johns for Padraig when I met Marisa’s father. He was flush in a new sheepskin coat and deerstalker.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Darcy.”

“Well — well... well, young Dillon.”

If there’s a sensible reply to this, I don’t know it. I gave him a smile — not too far removed from a grimace.

“I suppose you wouldn’t object to a touch of something... the season that’s in it...”

“Sure, I’ll keep you company... they have a coffee bar upstairs.”

Ordering coffee was complicated. He wanted decaffeinated and the waitress reckoned he wanted seeing to. I was with the waitress. Sitting, I didn’t offer the cigarettes. I lit one.

“Have you plans for the festive season,” he asked.

“No.”

“Mrs. D. and I have a lot of entertaining of course... But we try to get the few days in the Canaries. We hope to have Raoul home this evening. Are you... working?”

“Yeah, thieves don’t have the festive spirit.”

“How are the promotion prospects there.”

“Almost nil I think.”

“Well, I hate to run but I must look in at the office... the company have their ‘claim’ too.”

T’was hard to say who was the more mortified with this insurance joke. It killed the conversation stone dead. How did you get the man’s attention. Ask him how he was fixed for the few quid... what? I took a lone shot.

“Did you ever drink Mr... Darcy.”

He sat back...

“I’m proud to say I joined The Pioneers take a pledge of total abstinence in order.

I had to cut in quick... he was off on a friggin seminar again.

“Yeah... yeah, I know what they are — I know that. But why did you take it.”

He was well perplexed. I think he truly didn’t get it. At least I’d shook some crap from the trees.

“The Pioneer Movement was founded...”

I hit the turn-off switch. You couldn’t even call him a bolix. The lights were on. But who was home... I don’t think he knew any better than I did. I tuned in again as he was looking into my face.

“Were you perhaps considering joining our crusade and getting yourself pinned...”

... or nailed.

“No... I’d be more attracted to the militant wing of your organisation.”

“To what, I don’t understand that...”

“A.A.”

Enough. I stood up and wished him a merry Christmas. At the door I glanced back and he was fingering his deerstalker. What was running through his head. Decaffeinated probably. Avoid the kick...

I got nicely scuttered at work. Customers passing through slipped me those minatures of spirits, packets of cigarettes... and even a turkey leg from one woman. I reckoned the Traders perimeter needed checking and patrolled. I chugged whiskey... brandy and gin. Whoa-hayed, I was getting the spirit. Our most persistent shoplifter extended the seasons greetings to me as I returned to the store’s entrance. I spotted Robbie. Parcel laden, he scurried past. I hoped he spent my twenty wisely. I’d be seeing him soon. Come New Year. Gurteen roared past on a lethal looking motor-bike... and threw me a Hitler salute. Deference to the uniform. My supervisor showed. The worse for drink himself, he praised my diligence, my height, my attitude. I asked him if he’d my pay. Producing a rake of envelopes, he had to ask my name.

It included overtime and a Christmas bonus. Yip... feckin... ee! I nipped behind the store and toasted Christmas with something called, “olde England malte.” Hoping it wasn’t aftershave, I supped. M... m... m. I topped it. Glow full.

With an approximation of a step, I resumed duty. I was humming “little drummer boy” when a young woman marched up. Homely face but warm wonderful eyes and well shaped. A little excited though.

“Aren’t you Eddie Dillon?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you remember me...?”

“No, ma’am?”

“Allison... Allison Brown... I’m the nurse from the hospital.”

“Uh yes, sorry, I didn’t recognize you... in clothes... with clothes on... oh Gawd, I mean, out of uniform... am... you know...!”

“I hate to bother you at work but you said to let you know. Padraig... your friend... he died last night... and I only just got off work... I’m so sorry.”

“Oh Lord...”

At that moment, a “Biddy friendly” grabbed me. Her purse was stolen and she wanted “ACTION.”

“Where is he?” I asked Allison.

“The morgue... at the hospital...”

“Thanks... thanks, I have to go... I’ll go down later.”

The woman pulled me into the teeming crowd. I could see her red face, yapping and shouting. I didn’t hear it... any of it. I could put that down to “olde English malte.” Immunised. I went through the motions with the woman and had her fill out the forms. Her own agitation blurred any reaction from me. I had a uniform. Right. So I knew the score. Right. Behave accordingly. Intimidate the daylights outa her. Eventually she left, in a medium cloud of shock. I kept humming that woeful drummer boy... beat on.

I called Marisa after work... and lied wholesale.

Emergency due to staff shortage... see her in a few days. An effective lie as I didn’t care if she believed it. She wanted to grab it, and we buried our own sides of the fabrication. Yeah-oh, we threw some happy Christmases in there. The morgue was closed. I emerged from the off-licence with a crate of booze. Food...? Food for thought... darkest of all...

At the flat, I dredged up the track suit. A bottle by the neck. Jack Daniels. Did I buy that... and a mug. I sat on the floor and began to shape oblivion. Sip... ah... think... no... no thanks, not today buddy, I’m way through with analysis. Giving ole Jack D. a run for the money. Sour mash it said on the label. Better yet, the sourer the finer. The bell went... why not... ghost of Christmas something. Julie. Bearing gifts... beware of Greekophiles bearing!.. what.

“I didn’t expect to find you in—”

“Me neither... you wanna get yourself a mug and a bottle of somethin...”

“I’ll have whatever you’re sailing with.”

“No you won’t... this personal... ’tween Jack D. and me. There’s vodka...”

She handed me a gaily wrapped parcel and got the vodka. I had some coordination problems but got there. An Aran sweater. I gave her the Kazankatakis. Silence. She was dressed in a heavy black sweater. Black cords... black boots. The pale face looked luminous. The clothes were fitting on every level. Black as my attitude... levels indeed. The vodka took her onslaught stoically. Julie wasn’t big on verbal gratitude but mebbe there was a smile in there when she opened the books.

“How’s the romance, Dillon?”

“Do you care...”

“A whole lot... no! But we can open a conversation on any point?”

“I haven’t been to a funeral for... phew... three weeks.”

“Congratulations... welcome to the land of the half-alive... any withdrawal symptoms or side effects—”

“On your terms, no, life is hunky dory. How’s Robbie?”

“Not too fond of you, Dillon. In fact, he’s on the town with Powl or Rowell... your wan’s brother.”

“He’s going to be meeting his obligations real soon...”

Julie was massacrin’ the vodka. I felt a deep disturbance within and around her. I didn’t know if there was friendship left enough to address it.

“I saw your father...”

“Screw him...”

And that closed that line of inquiry. The Jack Daniels had thrown the care-not switch, but I went again. She was hunched over on the floor. As near as rain and as distant as contentment.

“Julie, what’s eating you... you’re like a bag of cats...”

The smile. Oh, a bitter one, but you took the appearances.

Let’s go Jack.

“Is it on meself but have you trouble in rising even to civility with me.”

“Well, Dillon, you piss me off... but then everything and everybody does. I want out... and I’ve even got that... they want me to return to Greece. Lemme read you a bit of Cavafy.”

Out came the black book. She lit two cigarettes and pushed one at me. She drew on it as if it also was irritating the hell outa her. Perhaps it was... why should cigarettes get exemptions. The piece was from Cavafy’s The City.

She gave me the look. Did I want to comment. No. I drank and felt the inner cold. Someone didn’t walk on my grave, they were having a full-blown jig on it. The vodka seemed to have no effect on her. She gritted her teeth and read the next piece in smart-ass American tone.

I’ll be honest... I enjoyed the American twang... it blended nicely with the Jack Daniels. I poured the vodka. A tremor had laid hold of her voice. No amount of smart-ass-ness could disguise it.

“And here’s the kicker,” she said.

A conversation killer full. They said Julie cared and felt for nowt... ’cept Carlo. A dog. Three years before, we’d been standing on the Square after closing time. There’s time and there’s pub time. Rely on the latter. A dog was weaving back and forth across the road, bewildered by the traffic. A cross between a fox and a tinker’s greyhound. “That ejit will be killed,” Julie had said and called him. Coaxing and cursing, she’d lured him to her... and he’d moved into her life. The dog’s eyes were brown. Pure affection... and it was all for Julie. “Someone forfeited love itself,” she said, and she believed he had the appearance of an abandoned dog. “A crowd from Carlow dumped him here,” she reckoned. To keep his imagined roots, he’d retained the county’s name. That her father hailed from there wasn’t mentioned.

“You’d have to leave Carlo if you go to Greece.”

“I’m afraid... I think... afraid to go back... but am I more afraid not to. How does that sound to you, Dillon?”

It sounded confused. She wouldn’t want to hear that.

“It sounds confused.”

She asked if I wanted to take her to bed. I didn’t. The Jack Daniels did. I guess we hit a compromise. I took her to bed but I don’t remember it. I may have asked at one interval what she was thinking about.

“I’m thinking dearly... of you.”

It probably wasn’t like that but lacking a clear recollection, it’s sufficient. I woke to bells. Christmas bells... loud. I was not a well man. Julie had left a note on the Jack Daniels bottle...

Men with big hammers were whacking the be-damns outa my head. “I don’t need that last bit of sour mash.” As my mind played rationalisations, I drank — a shower cleaned me... a cure would take heavier consideration. I wore Julie’s sweater and sneaked a mirror glance. The clothes looked new. The face wasn’t lived in, no! Something very sick had died there, crawled in there and just died.

Not a soul on the street... save “Bad Weather.” A fellah as old as the town, he was a drunkard who no longer needed drink. His brain was stewed in poison, and he was perpetually drunk. Without drinking. A final solution. To all greetings he said, “bad weather.” He said this to me as I palmed him a few quid. I didn’t want to examine too closely the fact he was wearing an Aran sweater and dirty jeans. Heading for the hospital, I kept repeating “Your jeans are clean... are cleanish... are...”

It had crossed my mind that ten months of the year, Bad Weather was correct in his forecast. I had Nurse Allison Brown paged. She displayed no surprise. “You look fierce”... an Irish adjective. Applied equally as in “fierce good”... or “fierce bad.” I’d guess she’d opted for the latter. I passed on the happy Christmas bit. “What happens to Padraig now?”

She explained that if no one claimed him, he’d be buried by the State. The hospital would act for them. He’d get a funeral and be buried. If I were to go for it and claim him, I’d be buying myself a heap of bureaucracy. I’d have to claim a medical card for him, to prove he existed. That he no longer did was irrelevant. The relevant forms and claims were massive. It crossed my hung-over state that I could have a spree on his medical card. I felt Padraig would have cheered me on that. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to drink.

“I dunno what to do, Allison.”

“Let the State bury him.”

“I feel that I’m copping out.”

“You are but I think you should.”

I thought I shouldn’t, so I said, “Okay.”

“If you go down to our chapel now, the priest will be saying mass, you could ask him to mention Padraig.”

“Thanks, Allison... I’ll be seeing you.”

She smiled and left. Wasn’t I too ill to notice how brown these eyes were. Course I was. I tried to shelve how devastatingly attractive the uniform was. So... so mebbe I could take the uniform itself for a night out. I’ll... she’s got a lovely face.

I waylaid the priest before the mass. I asked him to mention the soul of Padraig. I thought that was the way to frame it.

“Padraig who,” he asked. A small barrel of a man, he looked hungover too. I thought it diplomatic to omit that God would know who.

“I dunno his surname.” I tried to look social worker-ish. Why I thought that would score points was even then a mystery. He muttered something and bristled away. No points. Padraig would be buried the next day. Funerals were kept to a minimum for the day it was.

Emerging from the hospital, I walked straight into Rooney, the trolley dictator. Was it on myself or was there delight in the ferret eyes.

“Did you hear about O’Malley?”

“No.”

“He went mad down in The Weir last night... mad from drink... it took three guards to get him to the station — that will soften his cough.”

I didn’t even give him the look. I knew I should mebbe phone Marisa. I’m ill, I said, and headed for “The Post.” An early morning house. My father was a known, if a less-than-valued client there. On the outside, it appeared closed. Shut down even. I knocked. The Irish speakeasy.

“Go away, we’re shut.”

“It’s Dillon... young Dillon—”

“Oh... wait a minute.”

Bolts sounded. Fat Willy came out. Over six foot he was and as thin as a spit. Not a pick on him. His father was over twenty stone in his time, and the son inherited the pub and the name. I’d need some big drinks if I was to visit O’Malley in the barracks. I knew enough to elevate rank. An ordinary guard you call sergeant... a nun is a superior mother and up you ascent. The vague flaw to this was my own experience in a security guard uniform. (People inevitably called “dumb-head” and ascended.)

The pub was packed and silent. The sanctity of serious drinking. Not a place for dabblers. You came here to get alcohol into the system, fast and with the minimum of pain. Talk didn’t intrude. Later, when the cures were rampant, the crowd would loosen. Now it was hangover haven.

The holy atmosphere of the hair of the dog. Most attempted to ingest the whole flogging dog... if faces are mirrors, the crowd had been savaged by large animals. I took my place amid the silence. Whisper my order. Reverence is all... to all. A bus conductor I knew had the next stool. With both hands, he got his whiskey to his mouth. Tilt... the load, down. I felt the tremor. He bolted for the toilet. Returning, his face was green, a light coating of perspiration... and relief. “The next one... The next one will stay down,” he said. The voice of experience. I dwelt on “Funeral II.”

The bus conductor managed the next whiskey. Gregariousness was close behind.

“A happy Christmas to you, Dillon.”

“And yerself, Pat.”

“Would you join me in a drop.”

“I would.”

I put a cigarette on the counter for him to light in his own time. The shakes still hovered... his and mine. He swiped the second drink.

“Ah... stay... stay, ya bad bistard, ah... am I feeling better...!”

You find few finer examples of positive thinking. The cigarette was lit. A spasm of coughing nigh threw him across the counter. The fragile recovery near came up. Massive control; he won.

“There’s comfort in the oul cigarettes.”

“There is.”

“I was off them there for the run up to the Christmas. Even the drink tasted flat. I had to give up beer, ya know. Only the spirits seemed to give me any bit of taste.”

“I know what you mean.”

I bought the next round. The temptation to spend the day was fierce. I was at the stage of recovery that a few more drinks might tip into paralysis. With the warmest of wishes, I left Pat to it. I felt reckless enough for the police barracks. This is a large granite building in the town centre. Grey and grim.

A young garda was tending the desk. The station was quiet.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant...” which he wasn’t.

“Is it young Dillon... did you lose something?”

My nerve, mainly.

“I came to see how O’Malley was.”

“—That blackguard. He’s seeing the doctor... he fell down in his cell and might have broken his nose.” We left that shift between us. The garda’s eyes were a shade above blankness. Life was present there but not of any compassionate type.

“I wouldn’t have thought that O’Malley was a friend of yours, Dillon.”

“Well, would you tell him I called in.”

He nodded. At the door, two huge guards were hauling a wino in. He was roaring like a bull and throwing his free hand to the free world... outside...

The guards said “happy Christmas...”

I hope I kept my peace if not theirs.

“Funeral II”

   Ashen

   was the way

   I felt

   when shunned again

   by people

   I had justified

   didn’t all

   that all... much

   really

   warrant grief

   — “tearing words beneath” –

   Beneath

   the anger... deeper

   anger

   ever lurks

   ... and wish

   I wish

   it weren’t so

   “so much now

   Phew...

   a sigh lifeless”

   The saying less

   that what I think

   it is

   the old triangle here

   of...

   think

   I thought perhaps

   of less

   than I could

   ever

   start to say

   A funeral

   begins the move

   up towards the hill

   you know — beyond

   the very plans

   you’d power play... it

   change you drastically

   a choice... to change

   was lined

   behind the hearse

I didn’t go to Julie’s.

I didn’t call Marisa.

I didn’t eat.

What I did was I drank... a whole lot. I didn’t get to evening. I was cold on the floor of my flat. I had me some rough dreams... French named or otherwise.

The next morning was dues time. I had to die. Walk through the hangover. If I had an inch of drink, I’d lose the next week. I didn’t do it for Padraig... he’d have said, “Lose the week...” I didn’t want to lose his funeral. So I showered and died. Drank shaky coffee and retched. I didn’t shave.

At the morgue were the priest and the hearse and myself. Oh yeah, Padraig, too, but he wasn’t feeling anything. Same priest... new hangover. I skipped the greetings. He gave me a seat to the cemetery. Padraig might have appreciated how we got there first. At the Square, I told myself, at least one of the winos will see the hearse. He’d pause and put his hand over his heart. If he’d had a cap, he would have removed it. Hail to the chief. That’s the way I told myself it was. Indeed, I regretted not actually seeing it in full. But like I say, I was hungover and prey to anxious foolishness. I recognized one of the gravediggers. O’Hanlon... a former security guard. Over six foot, he was broad and had the look of being well fed. He rarely smiled. You got a look into those wet-blue eyes and all the smile you’d ever need was right there. From minding the living to burying the dead, an Irish success.

Padraig was laid in Billy’s Acre... well away from the paying clients. In the days of the poor house, they took them here. To the present, your status could be destroyed if anyone belong to you had been put there. It veered on the Protestant graves, and those were the pits. On Cemetery Sunday, the priest blessing the graves ignored the paupers and the Protestants. The area of Billy’s Acre was neglected and overgrown. The caretaker didn’t bother with their upkeep, as who was there to complain. The Protestants were well known for their non-tending of the dead. I learnt that at school. They believed, “You passed on.” Why visit the graveyard when no one was home. They didn’t just chuck Padraig into the ground. But there wasn’t a whole lot of ceremony either. The priest read that dirge in which “man has but a short time to live and is full of misery.” T’was more fitting to us around the grave than the fellah within it.

Job, complete, the priest took off. I stood over Padraig and couldn’t find any last words of enlightenment. I felt the last of the hangover, and that might have been the most fitting tribute. O’Hanlon put his shovel down and began to light a pipe.

“You knew the client... did you, Dillon?”

“I did...”

“Well, like the priest said, we bring nowt into the world and that client sure as spit didn’t bring anything out... how’s the job?”

“Monotonous. How did you get into this line of work?”

“It’s a corporation job, so I’m secure. I like the hours. In winter it’s a whore’s ghost to put a shovel in the hard ground. We have to get it heated first. Did you know Rod Stewart was a gravedigger once?”

I didn’t. I fought the inclination to inquire if O’Hanlon sang. I was afraid of the answer. That O’Hanlon was over fifty wasn’t relevant. I think. He was in the grip of his dream.

“And that fella is worth millions, Dillon... millions... with blond women fighting over him morning, noon, and night.”

“You never know, alright...”

O’Hanlon nearly embraced me for the breath of my vision. “That’s it... you’ve said it all there... you have to be ready... you’d never know who’d show up in a graveyard...”

I left him spinning out his dream. I phoned Marisa, and icicles hung on the line. She agreed to meet me at The Weir for lunch. I debated returning to the flat to collect the Dylan Thomas reading by R. Burton. Presents seemed a travesty right then. The wren boys, dressed in colorful rags, were calling house to house... hollerin’ and shouting. A group of them saw me and in nigh chorus chanted, “How’s she cutting, Dillon?”

I wisht I’d know.

The Weir was deserted. I ordered a tomato juice. I think I hate the stuff. As ill as I was, it made little matter. I was glaring at it when Marisa breezed in. In fur. A new mini-length coat. She turned her cheek to be kissed. Not being Halian, I passed on this.

“Will you drink something?”

“Yes, Dillon... a g & t... and sour. Seasonal Greetings wouldn’t be entirely amiss.”

“What happened to your voice. Did they give you a vocabulary for the Christmas. Nobody talks like that... or are you pist? Does ‘g & t’ mean gin?”

The look. I got the gin and a tonic.

We sat for combat.

“Just who do you think you are, Dillon? You stood me up over Christmas... and you don’t have the decency to give me a present... even some perfume. My father says you tried to suggest he belonged to Alcoholics Assembly—”

“Anonymous... that’s Alcoholics Anonymous,” I said.

“For Godsake, who cares. I think you care more for that old wino than you do for me... I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

“Do you like tomato juice?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna let you have that tomato juice there... okay and I’m going to go now...”

“If you leave now... it’s... it’s over... I’m warning you.”

I had the feeling she’d use that line. Why does it always sound more sad than threatening. I got up and left. I thought a bit about the stranger in the fur and the new voice. Who was she? No one that I thought I’d ever get to know. It wasn’t till a lot later that I realized I was now the possessor of the Dylan Thomas record. I didn’t expect I’d be playing it a whole lot. But you never knew. I was glad I hadn’t drunk the tomato juice, for I was far too ill for that. Control is over-critical these days.

I was reading The Crock of Gold and even Stephens was failing to rally me. A bottle of scotch stood on the fridge. A stand off. Course the scotch held all the shots... punned or otherwise. The sun was over various horizons... yard-arms... and I kept postponing the inevitable.

The door-bell went... insistently. I opened the door to a complete stranger. A tall blond guy... over six foot and built like trouble. The kinda face women said was too pretty. I don’t follow that but he had that expression; he’d heard the women say it too. In his left hand was a brown paper bag... a bottle. Mebbe muggers did house calls. The clothes belied that. Rich knacker-ish. A worn suede jacket. Quality worn. A maroon sweat shirt that never heard of Traders, and the faded jeans that cost cash money for that fade. Was it on mesself or did he have a tan. In Ireland? At Christmas...?

“Yeah...”

“Are you Dillon?”... an accent to match the jacket, money ill-disguised.

“Yeah...”

“I’m Raoul... Marisa’s brother...”

Sure. He had the cut of her. What I thought was... he’s gay... what does he want. I ran my reactions slow.

“Piss off” or “So...!” or “What do you want...?” or “Hoppit...”

I was kinda fond of the last one. It would get the job done and it had a ring to it. I said, “Come in.”

He handed me the bottle. Inside, I looked at the label. Glenfiddich... m... m... mph. Pull out the oul mugs... they were on active duty these days. I tried to run the number, “Well, I’m not drinking alone,” but it didn’t float. I poured freely, gave him the mug.

“If this is sippin’ whiskey... just don’t tell me... alrite.”

“Oh right... you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“I was wondrin’... about a friend of mine... Padraig.”

“Well, Marisa asked me to come... am... I wanted to meet you as I’ve heard some fairly diverse opinions on you. Marisa says you love a lot of literary things...”

“I dunno if I would put it like that. It happens that things which make sense to me happen to fall into the literary can... well, sometimes—”

“My father says you’re never sober.”

We took this as a cue and had us some Glenfiddich. Not bad at all. I figured he was figuring me. So we let that dance about a bit. My stomach had howled initially... now it was working towards a purr. I was chugging up that road to some recovery.

“—I ran into Robbie last night, and he says you cheated him outa £20—”

“And a meal...” I said.

“Yeah... and Ted... you know him?”

“I’ve met him... his earring anyway.”

Raoul smiled. It looked real enough.

“Ted says you’re a psychopath...”

“M... m... m... I dunno how much of that I would want to be denied. Psychos get fast service in pubs.”

Smiled again, and he reached for the bottle. Poured some more of that good stuff.

“Marisa seems keenish...!”

“Did she tell you about the funerals?” I asked.

Now he looked uncomfortable. But there was a limited range of places to look. He looked at me. I had his attention... and of course... the bottle.

“She did... she said it’s what you do most. So, you see, I’ve heard a lotta... diverse reports.”

“Lemme ask you something... why on earth would you call to visit a drunken psychopath who steals money and likes funerals... are you mad is what I want to know—”

A guffaw... threw his head back and roared laughin’. Sure, how could I not like this guy. I sloshed in more drink. I was way past recovery. Indeed, I was into the area of having answers. A very drunken place. That takes big drinks.

“Well, Raoul... Raoul... cripes... what do I know about you. You’re Marisa’s brother and you seem to know a right bunch of maggots”... phew, the slow developing had nearly popped “faggots.”

He began then — “I’m supposed to be a teacher. But of the itinerant kind. If you wanted to see the world, you became a sailor. I wanted to see the world and teaching English was a new way to do it. For nearly ten years I’ve done that, all over the world—”

“You don’t much have the cut of a teacher.”

“They say English language teachers are failed actors and big drinkers.”

“And do you fulfill those requirements?”

He laughed again. There was nothing at all wrong with this guy’s sense of humour.

I reached for the bottle. Nowt... zilcho, zip-oh, and out. Raoul looked as if he hadn’t had a drop for a week. I was flying. The scotch on the sink was roarin’, “Hey, guys, lookit me”... and we looked. Raoul jiggled the mug... dead zone! So I said... “I think we should be sensible... I mean, I think we should wink... drink, I mean, something but... wot... what do you think, Rouly?”

“Definitely... 100 percent... all the way.” Agreeable guy. Right? And how much can you dislike that type of affability.

We made hot whiskeys... there could have been cloves, but we dispensed with the mickey-mousing around. Sugar, boiling water, and scotch. Plain and deadly.

“Here’s to Wilde’s view of Ireland... a nation of brilliant failures — he said.”

T’was like a slap of cold water to me. He caught the change... I said then, “Yeah... well, Rouly, he also said that in failure there is a great strength to be earned.”

This rang all sorts of lights in Raoul’s eyes...

“Are you familiar with Wilde?” he asked.

“I’ve read him... does it say he’s not accessible to security guards. But intimate.”

No... I wouldn’t be that... at all... no!.. The lights moved up to shove. The anger was kindling. Stay on it, Raoul, I thought... he did.

“You know, Dillon, I’m gonna have to ask you to explain that. If you’ve got a snide lash in there... let’s have it.”

The anger now was full. He stood up. I was attempting to try something along familiar lines. The punch took me under the jaw and half-way across the room. Books and records went flying. He walked over and took a wide-angled kick to my ribs. Got me.

“Stay down, son,” he said.

Son! I acted stunned to get some breath and leverage. Wait for my father’s voice.

There are no rules in fighting... you hurt or get hurt. Put the fellah down hard, and make sure he doesn’t want to continue. Doesn’t matter dicky-birds who begins it. Be sure you finish it.

“I’ll want an apology, too... for myself... for Robbie... for Marisa...”

Throw in the feckin government of the day, too. I stayed down... it wasn’t difficult. He took the scotch and poured a large dollop. For one. No class. Putting it on his head, he began a victory gurgle. Beneath my hand, I noticed a broken Dylan Thomas record. Coming straight up, I hit him with my shoulder in the belly. Then swing to bring the elbow in. Hard. The half turn and chop his knees. Two kicks to the face. It was over. I got him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him down to the street. It was freezin’. I walked to the phone kiosk and reported a loud and vexatious spirit and location of this.

Odd how the lines of that Desiderata will intrude. There was half the scotch still. I broke yer man’s mug and put it in the garbage. Alongside Marisa’s record and his Glenfiddich bottle. Mebbe it was sippin’ whiskey after all. Breaking the mug leant a bit to the melodramatic but I figured I could afford one. It crossed my mind that old Rouly must have forgotten his Wilde...

Violence requires a cold and deadly style.

The flat was a shambles... or was that my life. No matter. I took too aspirin and took to my bed.

I’m not much for premonitions. I don’t see anything as a portent of the future. The past has a full hold on haunting and absolute hallalluas without completion.

In the present, I drink... and have a fragile being. When I dreamt of Julie’s mongrel being mangled by a truck, I put it down to drink. No food either. My father was in there, too, but he was a featured player. The dog, Carlo, was a guest appearance. Drenched in sweat, I fell from the bed. The nightly horrors had helped sweat a lot of the booze out. So I told myself — a raging thirst, I nigh-on died of shock when I saw the ransacked flat. Burglars... what? Oh God... think... big blond dope... yeah, yeah and... threw him out. “I threw him out. Fair bloody play to ya, Dillon.” I was in no shape to work. Few in the town were. En route to Traders I met “Bad Weather.” He said his words... “and isn’t it me that bloody knows it,” I thought. Rain lashed down and it was the all-encompassing freezing kind. My hangover was shrieking for help. No. I crawled into my uniform. I didn’t have to worry about the supervisor... he’d be answering his hangover for at least another week. The replacement for the clothes department manager had arrived. A thin length of efficient misery, he was sporting a pioneer badge. Pinned. The shop wasn’t open but a full staff was due to prepare for the January sales. A quarter had showed. The pleas of flu were rampant in the personnel office. There are no hangovers in Ireland. You get the “bad dose of flu.”

“The nerves act up.”

“A relative... any relative... dies suddenly.”

“You catch that oul bug going round... everyone has it...”

For all of the above... for none of the above, we’d three-quarters of the staff out. I stalked out along Traders perimeter. The car park hadn’t been nicked in my absence. Walk point. I gave a cigarette a lot consideration. But I couldn’t get to it. The thought increased my nausea. T’was one of the most conscientious days work I ever did. I patrolled like a thing demented. Walk that sucker off. And had me a whale of positive thinking. “Sick... I’m not sick... whoops, nigh puked there... no... good good... walk. Cramp... no... retch... argh... I’m well, I’m well but... on the other hand.”

For lunch I had two Alka-Seltzer. Get that goodness down. Ah. My shift ended at four. The guy relieved me had the dog patrol. Was it on meself or was the dog the worse for wear drink-wise.

“He has that oul stomach bug that’s doing the rounds,” I was told.

“How’s yerself?” I asked.

“Well, Dillon, I have a touch of the flu... I wasn’t going to come in at all.”

I watched man and dog limp off. A fearsome duo. Mainly to themselves. I met Gurteen agitated... and extremely so.

“I need to talk to you, Dillon.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go to Nestor’s, and you can buy me my Christmas drink.”

Nestor’s is a spit and sawdust pub. They only serve natives. They’ll serve a wino if he’s a local... and even women.

Mrs. Nestor is as old as Guinness and as black. From dirt. I dunno if she hates everyone but she sure fakes it well. Locals get a kinda tempered hostility.

“Lads,” she said — you’re a lad till you marry. Then you advance to yolk.

“Howyah, Eileen,” said Gurteen. No one... absolutely no one called her that. But Gurteen was missing the few dots from his dice. Exempt from all regulations.

“Give us two pints of Arthur J,” he said. She shuffled off to do that. She was a huge Connamara woman who’d married a local. Her eyes gave malice a bad name. Mebbe she’d had a head of hair once. Rumour had it she’d got the first ever hair net in Ireland. It sure appeared as if she’d never felt the need to once remove it. It fit like a bonnet... like dead glue. She dressed habitually in black.

The pints came. I paid. We sat at the counter and sipped gingerly. M... m... ph, nothing alive in there... yet.

Gurteen winked and we lashed half them home.

“Same again, Eileen... give us a fag, Dillon.”

I did that. The Guinness settled on me like gloom. I was off again.

“You’re in trouble, Dillon. I was in The Weir at lunchtime and I heard a conversation between three fellahs.”

“Do I know them?”

“Marisa’s... is that her name... yeah, her brother, the queer... and Robbie Fox... and the part-time barman, Ed of something.”

“Ted.”

“The queer looked like someone walked on his face. The Raoul fella. Someone did him!”

He looked at me. I nodded.

“Good on yah... well, them three were fixing to fix you. Soon.”

I thought about that. Not hard but I thought about it. Two more pints arrived. I paid.

“I wouldn’t like to think of them thundering shites beating up on you, Dillon.”

I didn’t like to think of it either. I said, “Me neither.”

“Them scuts have bin pissin’ me off for a while now. They’re meeting again this evening in The Weir.”

“I’d better take a look in so.”

“Good man, good...”

I drained the pint. My cigarettes were on the counter. I left them. Gurteen gave a big smile.

“I’ll keep our Eileen company for a bit... eh Eileen, come out here and I’ll throw me leg over. C’mon... it’s Christmas... and who’s to say.”

How do you dress for a hiding. Your worst clothes? Clean underwear in case hospitals feature. That stirred a thought. Wearing dirtied jeans, sneakers, and a dying sweatshirt, I threw an old oil-skin over me. Banish the thoughts of shrouds. I rang the hospital, but Nurse Allison Brown was off duty. Trucking down the canal I wondered how worried I should be. The first thing I saw in the Weir was three thugs. At the counter. Dressed in those black biker leather jackets, and chains weren’t decorative. I knew those three by reputation. The guards avoided them. They were standing at the bar... drinking shorts. No one was standing within a wallop of them. Not a word was spoken by or near them.

My three laddy-a-bucks were down at a far table... and boisterous. Howls of laughter. I ordered a large scotch. The thugs continued to stare at nothing. Ho-kay... let’s walk and talk. When I got to the table, I pulled a stool over and sat. The three had stopped laughing. Raoul’s face was a mess. Ted was tittering, and Robbie whispered something to him. The table before us was covered in glasses.

“You’re looking for me... are ye...”

Before any reply, another stool was pulled up and Gurteen sat between Robbie and Ted. He spoke to Raoul directly.

“Do you see them three fellahs at the counter. They want to talk to you now.”

Oh, like right now.

Raoul looked at me... then his friends. He stood up and sauntered to the counter. A few brief words were said by the first thug... who then tapped Raoul gently on his bruised bone. Raoul turned and walked smartish out of the pub.

“And then there were two,” said Gurteen.

Ted gave another low giggle.

Flash... Gurteen head-butted him on the bridge of the nose and grabbed him from falling.

“Piss off now, horseface.” Ted, dazed, got shakily to his feet and did exactly that.

Gurteen turned to me.

“Dillon, get the drinks in, will you... Robbie here doesn’t want anything.”

I ordered two doubles. When I returned, Robbie was holding out a fist of money to me. I took it.

Robbie made to leave. Gurteen put a hand lightly on his chest.

“Ary don’t go, Robbeen, you’re great crack... sit and watch us drink a bit... alrite?”

Robbie nodded.

Gurteen then proceeded to tell me a lengthy story about his initiation to sex. This was a long crude mechanical tale. He kept winking at Robbie. I finished my drink and said I’d be going.

“Sure, Dillon, thanks for dropping in, me and Robbie will stay on for a while and I’ll tell him a few more stories... Okay... Robbeen? I’m getting to like you... would yah credit that. Hop up there and get me a drink like a good lad.”

I left. There wasn’t any sign of Raoul or Ted. But I wasn’t expecting there would be.

A shoplifter ran smack into me the next morning. The sales had begun. If bargains be what you don’t want your neighbour to have, we had Big Bargains. The stampede was in full swing. I was standing sentry outside the main door. Well outside. Teeming with people. A man erupted from the door like the bat outa hell... and hell for leather he was traveling. He was laden with unwrapt clothes. I tried to move out of his way. Too late. Colliding, we went sprawling. Clothes littered the wet ground.

“You have me,” he said.

“Not if you run like the hammers—”

“... God bless you, Dillon,” and he snapt a permanent crease trousers and lit out. I gathered the remnants and entered through the fire door. The vegetable department lay just beyond. Like a haunted place, it was not in the “sales category” and thus shunned. Standing over the fruit counter was Julie. An indifferent melon in her right hand. Her gaze was up and over the whole area... and preoccupied. I snuck off with the wet contraband.

I began to plan my funeral.

How to phrase the invitations.

A black border naturally.

A simple white card to read...

I wasn’t sure about the R.S.V.P.

I stuck the initial “A” in there after Edward as that strikes the right note of sincerity. So one of the better cheque passers in Traders had told me... dud cheques, I should add. People don’t expect duplicity from middle initial people. I wondered about a black tie obligation. Naw, that would exclude winos. Best to keep it a quiet informal affair. The guest list. M... m... mp.

I wish the Wilde opinion of George Bernard Shaw hadn’t leapt into my mind just there.

Whoa-hey. Lighten up, Dillon.

Clothes. Julie’s Aran sweater and the fading track suit bottom. I’d forego the black tie, I reckoned I’d given enough service to the necktie brigade. A pair of strong warm brogue’s. New shoes would bring out the begrudgers. I knew from my own funeral experience the emphasis people placed on a good pair of shoes. Yea, worn but solid. A Timex watch. They last for years and set the right tone of unpretentiousness. No jewelry; let’s keep this simple. I’d see if Father Benedictus was available to do the service. The words of farewell over the grave... something by Chesterton perhaps... none of that other shuffling off of mortal calls. It always reminded me of a drag artist. Before John Berryman jumped from the Washington Avenue Bridge, one of his students wrote that he had lately found his own faith in God. But, since it was a changing time... he said “this may change too. But I hope not.” Berryman liked that a lot.

I visualised a plain slab of granite on my grave. No dates or name. Just “I hope not.”

With my luck they’d figure it was a comment on the weather. I called Julie at work. She had a piece of my hungover hide for disturbing her.

“Good to talk to you, Julie, I needed to be ate and I sure called the right place...”

“Look, Dillon, don’t you have funerals or something morbid to be at?”

“You’re right, Julie, I thought I should ring to ask something truly weird as ‘how yah doing’...”

“How am I doing... How am I doing what...”

I hung up. I’m right there for the oul wisecrack. Tis many the stretch I’ll make to grab a crumb of humour. Bad friggin manners is something else. My friend Julie. Probably I should have gone the distance and hoped the friendship would be sitting further down the line. I reckoned she was wasted in the travel business. She ought to sit down and write a good vicious book. Coming out of the phone kiosk, I met O’Malley. A subdued version. His eye was blackened and he had a limp. The clothes were clean and fresh, round about Christmas Eve when he’d put them on.

“Will ya buy us a drink, Eddie?”

Ribs broke in devils, hell freezeth over, Eddie! The shock shocked me. Rigid.

“Come on... so.” We went to Nestors.

The dirt remained the same. Lodged thick. Mrs. Nestor gave us the evil eye.

“Pints... is it?” We nodded. I gave O’Malley a cigarette. He shook like a bad lie.

“I’m in quare street,” he said. What’s new, I thought but kept in a thought. The drink came. Mrs. Nestor waved the money away... “yer Christmas box...” She fixed a look of granite on O’Malley.

“Aren’t you the right pup...”

He flinched but said nothing.

“I hear the guards beat the lard outa you... I knew yer mother, God rest her, if she were alive to see this... she’d... she’d turn in her grave. One peep outa ya in here, mister, and I’ll blacken yer arse for ya... do ya hear me.”

He sure did... and half the town I would have thought.

“Yes, ma’am.” She threw the eye towards me.

“You’re not the worst of them, Dillon, I’ll give you that.”

We drained the pints in a silent penance. I ordered two more.

“What will I do, Dillon, my case comes up before the judge next week... and if it’s Carty, I’m fecked...”

“I dunno, what can you do...”

“The Weir are looking for five hundred pounds damage. I know... look, Dillon, I know I owe you twenty-five quid but... but will you lend me £450.”

“What... I thought you said they wanted £500...”

“Ary, not to pay them crowd of ejits, to skip... you know... flog off to London... I know a fella in Kilburn High Road...” I didn’t quite get it. I didn’t see why he needed that amount.

“I don’t see why you need that amount.”

He sighed tolerantly. I was real glad he was going to be patient. The Guinness was chugged noisily. Mrs. Nestor even heard it as the living net on her head turned.

“If I’m going to London, I’ll need a bit o’ gear. Shoes, suit, and things. I saw a grand jacket in the sales.”

So steal it, I thought, they’re all at it. He was working on fervour now...

“And I thought like... as I’m going... forever... I’d give a bit of a do before I left... nothing fancy... just a few of the lads...”

He gave a loud cackle. Not a pleasant sound to hear. Worse, up real close. An actual slyness showed in his un-blackened eye. I saw it root.

“... oh... of course, you’re invited, Dillon... give us more drink, Mrs... hey, Mrs...”

I wondered was he on somethin’. Apart from total insanity. Mrs. Nestor brought two creamy pints.

He leapt into it. I toyed with selecting my reply... thought carefully. Then the hell-with-it switch.

“I can’t give you the money.”

He hopped on the stool. This was a man whose life’s plans had been snatched from him.

“What... what are you saying. I’m feckin’ depending on you... if you break your word... if you let me down, I can’t go... I’m dependin’ on you, Dillon.”

The roarin’ of him brought Mrs. Nestor.

“What the blazes... O’Malley, finish up yer drink and clear off... or I’ll put my boot in yer arse.”

He didn’t hear her. A man with his visions in ruins. The vision ruiner felt a beat of sympathy.

“O’Malley... I could mebbe give you thirty...”

“What... thirty, I wouldn’t piddle on thirty. STICK IT. Do you expect me to do the rounds asking gob-shites for dribs and drabs. Is it coddin’ ya are. STICK IT where the monkey stuck the peanuts... thirty... ha... ha... ha... come out here, Nestor.”

I took my leave. On the street I could hear him roaring at her as to how she was fixed for thirty. I hadn’t got my traditional blessing of “ya bollix.” Mebbe some caution told him that in itself would have “Eileen” blacken his arse. I doubted that too. Caution that is.

The next five days were a blur of work. I doubled up on shifts. I dunno was I trying to raise cash for O’Malley. Probably not. The sales were in full blast. I was standing well clear of the entrance. On my third day of this double-shifting and reading double-visioned, I saw the Chinese waiter. He was with a wizened Chinese woman of similar height. Which wasn’t a whole lot to start with. Hammering words to the dozen, he was attempting to push a large box into her unwilling hands. She was having none of this action. It vaguish crossed my mind as to what clothes he’d buy. Something in surliness to match his attitude no doubt. We did a slow line in kung fu apparel. The local muggers made do with a basic iron bar. Nothing fancy and they rarely drest for the occasion.

A voice behind me said, “I wouldn’t mind a little nip...”

Gurteen! Nigh covered in contraband. He was one of the professional shoplifters. A craft to him and never a game. Always done with the utmost seriousness.

He’d wear absolute rags to a clothes shop. Into the dressing room and emerge resplendent. When shops mentioned their “write-off of acceptable losses,” I think they had the Gurteen factor to the fore. The last shop assistant to challenge him found the three thugs perched outside her house for a week. She’d withdrawn the charges and Gurteen withdrew the three.

“I was in The Weir with ole Robbie last night... and he told me these days were the worse days of the worst of his life. What do you think of that?”

Could I say I’d head worse. No. Best not to ever encourage him.

“I’m teaching him all I know,” he said.

Is there a reply to this? The mind didn’t boggle, it threw somersaults. He popped a pill of some description. Into his black-toothed mouth.

“Do ya want something, Dillon? I’ve got... lemme see...

   ... uppers

   ... downers

   ... chasers

   ... levellers

   ... alter-ers

   ... shapers

   ... bombers

   ... maggots

   ... coders

   ... flyers

   ... out-of-it-ers

   ... destructers

   ... high-fliers...”

I switched off. This would take a while. I sometimes felt he got off more on the names that the contents. The litany was a great comfort to him. Eventually, it wound down.

“No thanks.”

“Clean, Dillon, eh... you’re the last decade alrite. Did you hear about O’Malley?”

I hadn’t.

“No I didn’t...”

“He stole a car last night and ran it into a wall. Footless he was... absolutely paralytic, and he tried to drive. He’s in the hospital now, and not badly hurt they say... the guards will have him as soon as he can walk.”

Kilburn High Road would have to wait. Whatever Gurteen had popped seemed to mellow him. A hint of near warmth touched his eyes. A flicker... then was gone. A signal that Julie was next.

“Have ya seen much of yer wan... you know... Julie...”

“No... no I haven’t.”

“Well, do me a favour... would yah... I hear she’s out of it... ya know. A bit off her game... and acting like... a zombie... would you go round to her place and see she’s alrite.”

“Yeah... yeah, I’ll go round after work... thanks for telling me.”

“Oh, hey, I don’t care man, jeez, it’s no skin off my nose... she never talks to me anyway... I think she’s a jumped up snot... but well, she’s yer friend... and what also have yah got... huh... wat-also.”

“It’s all there is, Gurteen—”

“You’re all right, Dillon, you’re a bit straight... but fecket, one of our own... aren’t yah... I have to do... business...”

The visual I got of him was him slinking off behind the Chinese waiter. Going Chinese perchance. It wasn’t nice to dwell on Gurteen’s activities... I didn’t know but I was already then the recipient of a legacy... or victim rather! On the way home, I stopped for something to eat. I ordered me a double toasted ham and an elephant coffee. Get that caffeine down. I needed stimulation? I was feeling good. Nigh five days without a drink. Phew-oh, I had that licked. Five full days. Mighty. That impressed the hell outa me. Food, lookit, I had my appetite wham’d back. Smoking only a little. See, a shot of discipline and you can kick-shape your life to where you choose. The Gods were chuckling deep. Vicious bastards.

I opened The Daily Mirror and was a man content. My horoscope confirmed it all.

“Nothing can stop you now. You are scaling new heights of achievement. Money is foremost and the future is bright.”

I bit deep into the sandwich. M... m... m... Delicious; was that good or what. Lay another one of these suckers on me, please. A hint of tomato, and we’d be cruising. Sip the coffee... creamy... m... m... hm with a hint of bitterness... perfect.

A man sat opposite. Sit... sit, my friend. I was full of fellowship... more importantly... cash. I’d gotten paid and had converted it at lunchtime. Two hundred smack-aronies massaging my ass.

“Thank you... am... for your assistance the other day...”

I looked at him. The shoplifter who’d crashed into me. An educated one by the tone. You can’t beat an education, seems to stand to you no matter what your calling. I could rise to moral indignation and demand to know what he was suggesting. My humour was too fine for such nonsense. I gave him a toasted-hammed smile. Encouraged, he said,

“Would you be a betting man?”

“Not very often... no.”

“I’d like to suggest the name of a horse to you, he will win.”

“Fine... fine...”

He looked at his watch.

“If you go now, you’ll get the bet down. It’s the last race in Limerick, the horse is called Carlo’s Choice...”

I am as open as the next ejit to the call of coincidence. Stretch a point and you could build a case for the stray dog Carlo choosing Julie. Why not. The shoplifter looked like a photo-fit. Ordinary features of no note. Plainly assembled. The eyes mebbe you would recall. They had a type of weeping sadness. Something had crushed him early and he’d never emerged from beneath the hammer. He was about forty-five and I’d say each year was hard earnt.

“Okay... I’ll do it... thanks.”

“You are very welcome; go as much as you possibly can on it. It will win.”

Betting shops are as numerous as churches and nigh on as prosperous. They just don’t advertise so blatantly. The Bookie’s was drab. Depressing and silent save for the radio doling out results. Dire results. To look at the customers, you’d know pencils are a flourishing industry. The stubs of them anyway. Emotion was forbidden. How much to bet. Be sensible. A slight flutter. Lose only what you won’t miss. The voice of practicality dirged out the principles of restraint. I put a hundred pound to win. Half the pay packet. I didn’t feel the vivacious thrill. I thought of the kicker the pre-tax amount was. I didn’t look at odds or rider... or form. My father knew all there was conceivable to know about racing. He never collected a shilling. “You have to study form... know the stats.” He’d be martyred with yankee’s doubles, trebles, cross trebles, and I wondered why he couldn’t select one horse... one plain winner. I knew better than to share that thought with him.

I stopped outside to let the race occur. Pat, the bus conductor, followed me. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas Day. He was chasing a cure then. Didn’t look much like he’d found it.

“How are you doing, Pat?”

“Ary, Dillon, I’m smoking like a mad thing again... did you back anything.”

“Yeah, I did Carlo’s Choice...”

“That thing isn’t worth a shite... I hope you didn’t put much on him...”

“No... no.”

I smoked half a cigarette... and he galloped through three. You couldn’t accuse him of enjoying them. The grimaces were testimony of that. An aroma of stale booze enshrouded him. The word reek fits best. To add ridicule to the blatancy, he had chewed mints... a lotta mints.

“How are the buses these days?” I asked.

“Aw, Dillon, I’m off sick, the oul chest has bin acting up something fierce. How would you be fixed for a few quid. I can let you have it next Friday.”

I gave him a five spot and we said no more about it. He lit another cigarette and smoked off.

Ho-kay... go get that result. Carlo’s Choice won. At seventeen to one. The Bookie asked me to drop in the next morning and he’d have it “presentable.”... I didn’t know how to react to a big win. My whole life had been lived under the “fall syndrome.” Crap will fall... and regular... and on me. So you kept your head down and stored in slices of goodness quietly. If ya didn’t go a bundle on a bit of pleasantry, the Gods didn’t feel the need to chastise you later.

I learnt the first rule of gambling. Look like a loser. Get that serious expression. Yeah, this is serious business. My heart didn’t buy a word of this and bellowed and palpitated to its own celebration. Greece, I could go to Julie’s Greece. If she was going to live there, I could take my holiday to coincide. I didn’t know how delighted she could be. But I felt it would go well... right!

Not exactly.

I went to my flat to collect Julie’s spare key. We had a reciprocal arrangement on this. I bought a bottle of that ouzo she was always raving about. Let’s get this Greek show on the natived road.

I rang first... no reply. I’d leave the ouzo in her kitchen and that would knock a stir from her. It wouldn’t. Nor would anything else... ever again. She was in bed and she sure looked like she was only sleeping. The empty Seconal bottle was minding the empty vodka. Lethal buddies. Both helped prop up the white envelope... “Young Dillon” was written there.

The power of T.V. I felt for a pulse. No. Carlo was nowhere to be found. Nor did I ever clap an eye on him again. I called an ambulance and got the taxi rank to contact her father. I took the envelope and without any hesitation... the ouzo.

The following evening I had a coffee with Mr. Brady. He looked like I felt... spaced.

“Was there a note or anything?” he asked.

“No,” I said. I was thinking of how I’d lent her that Mailer book two years before. Was that where she’d picked up on the Seconal. Guilt by any other name. The power of dubious literature.

That morning I’d collected my winning. Well over £1500.

“Mr. Brady, I want you to take this, it’s towards the cost of the funeral. Please let me do this...”

He gave me a slow look. Then he took the envelope.

“I think I know why it is you went to all them funerals.”

“Do you?”

“Nobody went to your father’s... not even yerself... it’s as if you decided funerals in future would have at least one mourner. Would that be right?”

“Tis close enough.”

... and it was.

“You won’t be at... at J... U... L... at this funeral... will you?”

“No sir.”

... and I wasn’t.

A big turn-out by all accounts...

Later that night... I had a mug of ouzo... foul stuff... like a wino’s pernod. But mebbe it grew on you; I’d be finding out... soon. Julie’s envelope contained only these lines, nowt else...

   dear eddie

      ... this legacy will explain everything and shed light on nothing.

   “leave you

   the leavings of

   an inarticulated thanks

   — will you

   the echoes of the lives

   as yet un-writ

   term you

   the keeper of my conciliatory heart

   that heart

   as mortgage held”

Was it on meself or did this ouzo grow on you... more of it...

Characters Concluding

O’Malley’s case was heard. He was fined five hundred pounds. The muttering beneath his breath of the traditional form “ya bollix” may have contributed to the six months hard labour he also received... to be served in Mountjoy Prison. Which is a far enough shout from Kilburn High Road.

Carlo, the dog, never turned up. I like to think he found himself another Julie. But that’s unlikely. She was kinda rare...

“Bad Weather” continues to hold his fixed opinion on climatic conditions.

Ted dropped his earring and has become vocal and tiresome in local politics. A bright future seems certain.

Robbie has begun to follow the funerals.

Raoul got run-over.

The three thugs are thugging.

Rooney, the tea-trolley maestro, got a stroke. He is now the recipient of dead tea and deader biscuits.

Marisa got engaged to Ted. She’s involved in the arts and reads poetry at Race Meetings, or is it the other way round?

Nurse Allison Brown is dating a fading security guard... she seems happy.

The Funerals are still running... on the usual daily basis... or so I hear.

The winos... there’s a new batch on the Square... but leaderless, insofar as I can tell.

Pat, the bus conductor, is being dried-out in the local hospital. He continues to smoke.

Gurteen is attempting to convert “Eileen” Nestor’s Pub into-late nite disco. He still manages to put in some part-time psychopathing.

Mr. Darcy (Marisa’s father) started drinking and is a regular fixture (if not attraction) of the early morning houses.

Mrs. Darcy got religion.

And Julie’s father... well... he’s staying sober.

   “Funeral III”

   “of

      the

         wino”

   Blame it on...

   an intuition

   I hadn’t heard

   and

   certainly

   would night on certainly

   believe

   a life

   upon the streets

   At least for long

   I’d not survive

   the sabotage in hope

   for far too long

   I’d lived

   one drink

   above despair

   the turning to

   the Kings Arms Public

   House

   A hearse

   Before

   I watched a wino

   place

   his hand above his

   heart

   I’d know

   a cap

   if he had owned

   would slow... and

   very slow remove

   shake-so

   the shakes... dis-

   regarding

   ... “A silence in Respect”...

   the cortege pass... press-on... to

   press

   his hand... the day across

   this moment new

   passed nigh beyond

   the oldest explanation

   a hand towards

   expectations

   not renewed

   the coffin doesn’t pass

   the rich hotels

   that cater to

   the very rich... exclusively

   their hands

   towards the exhortations

   aren’t shaped.

      The

         End...