A Galway Epiphany

One of the mysteries of Galway is a curious thing on the clock over Galway Camera and what it says.

It says Dublin Time.

The fact that now the clock shows ordinary winter time only adds to the mystery.

Not so long ago Galwegians, delighting in the longer days of sunlight than in Dublin and displaying an oddity that makes living in Galway a pleasure, set their clocks a full eleven and a half minutes behind Dublin.

Of course, this plays into the Dublin belief that Galway is/was behind and not just in minutes.

I was standing under said clock when Jimmy Higgins came along; a radio broadcaster, terrific musician, and possessed of a sharp wit.

He handed me a double CD and said,

“It’s old style.”

Just what I love. I said,

“Jimmy, nowadays they say old school.”

He looked baffled, asked,

“Why?”

Indeed.

I attempted,

“They want to change the name of everything now and, get this, get rid of the Angelus.”

Jimmy had written a beautiful book about the show-band era, titled,

“Are Ye the Band?”

He asked how I was after my accident.

I said,

“They called it a miracle.”

He pondered that, giving me that Tuam look of utter frankness, then,

“You appear in fine fettle. I suppose all the hurling you did stood to you.”

Jimmy was that rare to rarest individual — he saw the good in you, little as it was. He added.

“Well, mind yourself Jack, there are few of us left.”

And getting fewer by the day.

I took a measured stroll down the town, passed the bronze seated statues of two writers, on a bench, a distance of two feet between them; one was Edward Carson and the other, well, he was what the locals call a total.

Shorthand for “total stranger.”

I looked in the window of the Treasure Chest; all the goods displayed cost a small fortune to even contemplate.

As a child of poverty, I remember when it was Glynn’s, what my mother called a “dear” place, meaning it wasn’t dear in the sense of sentimental but fierce expensive.

It was fierce.

For weeks there was a beautiful replica of the Titanic, in each and every correct detail, down to the doomed lifeboats: It filled me with wonder.

It cost ninety-five pounds, in what is now known as “old” money before the curse of the euro. The china factory that employed a quarter of the town had a weekly wage of two pounds, ten shillings, and that was with overtime.

A union?

Yeah, dream on.

My father, who worked like an African American on the railway, earned one pound, twenty shillings.

But, oh my God, money felt like money. A half crown was not only a fine sum but the coin, it felt like wealth; eight of them and you had a mighty pound.

A woman I knew vaguely stopped, asked,

“What are thinking of, Jack?”

I gave her what passed for a not unfriendly smile, said,

“I was wondering what I’d buy with ninety pounds?”

She discreetly backed away, her look screaming.

“’Tis early to be drunk.”

My former lady friend/significant other, whatever the hell the fluid term is now, had previously introduced me to

“Danny Doherty.”

From Derry — no, not London Derry — and for odd reasons we became friends, despite Marion, my ex, telling him I was toxic.

Thing is, I agreed with her on that.

Most of my friends were in the graveyard and, yes, because of me, directly or not.

I may not have put them there but I sure paved the road.

Danny was a whiz in an IT company, made serious cash but seemed like he hadn’t a shilling. The best kind of wealth, the nonshowy type.

I saw him making his way past a busker who was mauling “The Fields of Athenry.” Danny gave him some money, smiled when he saw me, said,

“Jeez, he must really hate that song.”

He was five-foot-ten, weighed 160 pounds, was gym fit and looked like a benevolent bouncer. Sounds crazy but then this is Galway. His only concession to being rich was his clothes, discreet but oh so freaking classy.

A cap that made him seem handsome.

He wasn’t.

Chinos with a permanent crease, no mean achievement, one of those tweed coats called Tru Dry, truly expensive. (I checked one time in Anthony Ryan’s; they were as dear as the ship in Glynn’s from my youth.)

And shoes, ah, the shoes.

Keen boots.

Small fortune, they say.

My Doc Martens went blacker with envy. We shook hands and he asked,

“Fancy a pint?”

I did and mostly do.

We were at a table in the Imperial Hotel, at the top of Eyre Square, once a late night pit stop for the Guards, as it was quiet.

We had boilermakers as ’tis not often we get to chat.

I managed to pay first, an Irish gig where friends near fight to buy the first round. You have to be quick or not, depending on whether you’re a mean fuck.

Danny said,

“I was sick to my stomach about Christchurch.”

The day before, a gunman, Australian, twenty-eight years old, entered two mosques, murdered forty-eight people, one a boy of five. He wore a live cam on his head, feeding his sick supporters live commentary as he killed and mowed down the innocent. He then got in his car, blasted out the side window with a shotgun, continued to shoot at passersby. He had, as these psychos do, written a long manifesto, which, along with the video footage, was available for twenty-four hours after the carnage.

There are no words.

I had no words.

Danny sighed, said,

“I don’t know this world anymore.”

Me neither.

To ease the darkness, I said,

“They arrested McGregor again in Florida for criminal battery.”

Danny said,

“Next time he gets in the cage for a fight, may they lock it with intent.”

Amen.

I said,

“Danny, I need some help.”

He nodded, said,

“Tell me.”

I did, outlined the death of Meredith Morgan, her father’s grief, even the tattoo on his arm, how the Guards were already swamped with cyber theft, bullying, the whole new dizzying array of crimes the Internet was spewing out.

He listened attentively, even took out a slim black leather notebook, a Cross pen, jotted down the details. Then he looked up, said,

“The dark web is a scary place and difficult to track. You break through one firewall, six more are behind it, and they have nigh perfected the art of redirecting, or rather misdirecting.”

Not reassuring but I asked,

“Can it be done?”

He smiled, almost weary, said,

“Oh, yeah, if they are there, they can be found, but it takes time.”

I dreaded asking, but

“How much time?”

He considered, then,

“A month, if we get lucky and especially if the sick fuck gets arrogant.”

I caught the barman’s eye, did the finger thing they understand, said to Danny,

“It’s expensive.”

He waited until the round came, then,

“For friends, money is not a factor.”

I asked,

“Will you do it?”

He nodded, said,

“One thing you need to understand. I said it could take at least a month but I was talking in general terms.”

I waited.

“But me, say twenty-four hours.”

The whole day had just shaped up, I asked,

“You want to get some dinner? They do fine bacon and cabbage here, like in the old days.”

He said,

“And ruin a fine building buzz with food, no way.”

I agreed.

Later, as we unsteadily wound our merry way toward taxicabs, Danny put his arm on my shoulder, asked,

“I don’t want to put a damper on a fine evening but...”

He was going to put the damper on.

He asked,

“When I find this troll, and I will find them, what then?”

I had thought about that, thought about it a lot, then said, nearly truthfully,

“I was thinking a tattoo.”

He gave me a look that showed the steel behind his good nature, said,

“I’m not sure what that entails but I don’t think I want to speculate.”

I shook his hand, firmly, not bone crushing but close, said,

“That’s for the best.”