Mine is the most peaceable disposition
My wishes are a humble dwelling with a thatched roof
Good bed, good food, milk of the freshest, flowers at my windows
Some fine tall pines before my door
And if the good Lord wants me completely happy
He will grant me the joy
Of seeing some six or seven of my enemies
Hanging from those trees.
Living in the country.
And even had the obligatory wax jacket.
Of all the side roads I’d taken, and diverse and maniac they were, the countryside never, never featured.
The only remnant of my past life was a gold miraculous medal, had belonged to my dead daughter.
But I can’t dwell on that now, phew-oh.
I’m a city rat.
Born and bred to alleys, backstreets, murky pubs, shady people, coasting slightly above actual poverty and squalor, but always more than comfortable in the noise and rush of a city.
Truth to tell, it was only part time but, still, a major shake-up of my existence. My previous case could be summarized as the summer of the dead girls.
Galway dead girls.
And a falcon.
In the midst of horrendous violence and killings, I had saved a badly injured falcon, which led me to a falconer named Keefer.
He was formerly a roadie for the Rolling Stones, had a farm outside town, and was as eccentric/crazy a character as I’d ever met.
We bonded over revenge, a kind of frontier vengeance.
After the smoke had cleared and bodies were buried, I found I’d developed a taste for country air and flying the falcon. It made me feel something I’d not felt for years: alive.
And Keefer.
He was the kind of friend to cherish if you had the dark demons such as I did.
His past appeared to be as troubled and ferocious as mine.
Added bonus, he grew weed and kept a stock of bourbon that would see us through a siege. Without ever actually agreeing to it, we’d come to a tenacious arrangement.
I spent weekends at his farm; he came to town if he felt the urge for society.
He rarely felt sociable, said,
“You tour for twenty years with the Stones, you lose any illusions about people.”
I was having coffee in Keefer’s cabin when he strode in, carrying neatly chopped wood, sweat running down his Jerry Garcia T-shirt. He was of burly build, with a face you might have called ruined save for the sheer vivacity in his eyes. He was dressed in faded jeans, work boots, and was wiping his face with a Willie Nelson bandanna.
Knowing some of the life he’d led, I wouldn’t be surprised if Willie had actually given it to him. He poured coffee, lit a joint, sighed, said,
“Hits the spot.”
The falcon was in the corner, hooded and making contented sounds. I was learning to distinguish her vocabulary. Keefer listened, then said,
“There’s been an offer to buy Maeve.”
I’d named her after a nun, a loved wonderful friend who died on my watch.
I asked,
“How much?”
“Three grand.”
As Keefer did most of the bird’s care, I went,
“Up to you.”
He laughed, said,
“Not a fucking chance.”
I was well pleased.
I stood up, said,
“I have to head for town, see to my apartment.”
He nodded, said,
“Take the jeep, make a statement.”
I gave him a look, asked,
“What would that be?”
He thought about it, then,
“Bite me.”
State of the nation:
A hundred thousand patients were on trolleys/chairs in hospitals all over the country. The minister for health said, maybe borrowing from Game of Thrones,
“Winter is coming.”
Brexit continued to limp on, every day bringing new terms to the vocabulary.
Backstop.
Soft border.
Hard border.
The Irish rugby team defeated the All Blacks at the Aviva.
Mick McCarthy took over management of the Irish soccer team.
A small soccer club in Dublin had a fixture postponed due to the death of its star Spanish player; clubs nationwide wore black armbands, tributes poured in.
Two days later the Spanish player was alive and well, working in Galway.
The Blasphemy Act was repealed and, yes, that does sound as surreal as it is.
I parked off Eyre Square, and as I moved away, a car parking guy came running, demanding,
“How long do you intend to remain there?”
He was that lover-of-uniform type, a peaked official cap pulled at what he deemed a menacing angle. He was right up in my face. I asked,
“Is that a metaphysical question as in ‘on this earth’, or simply a can’t-mind-your-own-fucking-business one?”
Rocked him, but he rallied, said,
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
I gave him my best smile, said,
“I just did.”
He pulled out a notebook, the last refuge of the inadequate, said,
“I’ll report you.”
I looked at him, then wearied of the farce, said,
“Trust me, no one cares, no one.”
I went into Garavan’s and, thank Christ, nothing had changed. The barman said,
“Been a while.”
I nodded, ordered a pint and Jay, went into the snug. Was on the best side of both when a tall distinguished man entered. I say distinguished as he was wearing what used to be described as a frock coat, like a gunslinger, had a gleaming white shirt, red tie, and a mop of expensively groomed gray hair. He was in his fifties with narrow mean eyes.
He sat opposite me, declared,
“I am Benjamin J. Cullen.”
What was there to say? So I said nothing.
Didn’t faze him. He reached in his jacket, produced a long match with a red sulfur top, said,
“This is not a safety match.”
I said,
“Fascinating.”
This amused him. He said,
“I have followed your colorful exploits down the years and, no offense, but I think you have been fortunate rather than deductive.”
I thought that was mildly amusing, so went,
“Better lucky than smart.”
He was shaking his head, said,
“Oh, I don’t underestimate your, how should I put it...”
Pause.
“Sheer tenacity.”
I thought there were worse things and asked,
“Is all this meandering eventually going to reach a conclusion?”
He seemed to be weighing this, then said,
“Supposedly a miracle has occurred in our lovely city and I don’t want that sideshow to detract from the main event.”
His tone was completely serious, so I said,
“Lemme guess, you’re going to be the main attraction with whatever lunatic waves that brings.”
A flicker of rage in his eyes but brief. He composed himself, said,
“This is really a courtesy. I don’t seriously think of you as an adversary but I felt it was simply a touch of etiquette.”
He rolled the match in his fingers then placed it in front of me.
I said,
“I don’t want your damn match.”
He stood up, fixed his hair, said,
“No, keep it. Believe me, I have a whole lot more.”