Galway Confidential

12

Over the years, I’ve been always friendly with

Drinking schools,

Unemployed,

Winos.

As I full realize, I am but a Jameson away from joining them and they recognize a fellow pilgrim on the grim road. Geary, a man who’d survived nigh ten years on the street, had witnessed near most of the evil the world has to offer, and once said to me,

“We can somehow stomach the nasty shite they do to us, but the very worst is indifference, to be invisible.”

He had got a message to me that he needed to see me as soon as possible. We didn’t meet in a pub, he wouldn’t be allowed in. We met on his territory, Eyre Square, at the bottom end where a large tree provides a meager shelter. His age was impossible to gauge as his face was so weather-beaten. He had two coats and a battered baseball cap. His pants were Gore-Tex, a gift from me own self. His shoes had once been impressive brogues but were now very worn. He had kind blue eyes, that type that the world had dimmed but failed to extinguish.

He gave me a lopsided grin.

“You’ve been AWOL for years, brother.”

“In a coma.”

He gave a nervous laugh. He said,

“Like most of this city.”

We sat on the small wall there and he produced a bottle.

“I’d offer you a swig, but unless you’re accustomed to it, it would put you back in your coma.”

He drank deep, gave a small shudder, gasped,

Phew-oh.

I asked,

“Are you on the housing list?”

He shrugged.

“I’m not a priority.”

He reached in his coat, produced a very tattered wallet with a faded Celtic cross on the front, reached into it, and took out a band of crumpled notes; he saw me glance at the wallet, said,

“My ex-wife gave me that, it’s the only remnant of our marriage. The house, kids, her own self, just blown on the wind of my drinking.”

He thought about that for a while, then,

“I knew I had to either leave or stop drinking when I realized that the smiles on my children’s faces evaporated when I came home.”

He paused, swallowed hard, continued,

“I chose the booze and here I am.”

He looked at me, said,

“Don’t you dare pity me, Jack.”

I didn’t.

I said,

“I’m not renowned for smart moves my own self.”

And he laughed.

“Why we love you, Jack.”

He offered me the tangle of notes, said,

“There’s more there than it looks, you learn on the street to make a lot look less.”

I asked,

“Why are you offering me money?”

He was quiet for a time, then,

“Someone is burning our people.”

He told of three winos who had been attacked, said,

“And there’ll be more. One of the victims heard the assailants laughing, so they are getting off on it, means there will be more.”

I was supposed to be hunting the nun perpetrator and could ill afford to split my time. I tried,

“The Guards?”

He gave a bitter laugh.

“Yeah right, some winos getting burnt, that’s going to be really important to them.”

I looked at the money, asked,

“Are you hiring me?”

He nodded.

I handed the money back to him.

“I’ll try but I can’t promise anything.”

He gave me a long look, said,

“Jack, you have solved cases that no one else would even attempt.”

I told the truth.

“Cases got solved around me, very rarely did I actually find the solution.”

He put his hand in his coat again, took out the fixings of a smoke, rolled one expertly, handed it to me, then rolled another. He took out a box of those old-time Swan matches, fired us up. The first inhale had me coughing hard and I managed,

Phew-oh.

He laughed.

“Like life on the road, harsh is what we do.”

I asked,

“Where are the places that your people might use to get away from people?”

“There are no such refuges, but I can give you the name of a few streets that are less exposed than others.”

I made a note of them, and he asked,

“Will you work alone or have help?”

I thought of Raftery.

“Maybe, but I prefer to work alone.”

He guessed,

“Lone wolf, eh?”

“No.”

I said,

“People get hurt around me.”

He took another deep swig of his bottle and almost unconsciously handed it to me. I took it, took a breath, and chugged. God Almighty, it kicked like a bull, my eyes watered, and my heart did a reel and a jig. I didn’t ask what it was, some things you truly are better off not knowing.

He gave me a studied look, then,

“See, Jack, you’re a class act. I gave you the bottle after I’d drank from it and you...”

Pause.

“Didn’t wipe the rim.”

Truth to tell, it had crossed my mind, but some granite etiquette still lingered there. He spoke,

“All kinds of folk pass through here and the ones I despise are the ones who try to make me their good deed.”

He stood up, said,

“I must go, rustle up some grub. I try to eat every day if the Good Lord wills it. I rarely have an appetite, my thirst, alas, knows no bounds. It has a demonic grip, that drink, but times are, it kicks in and I feel like a kind of fleeting peace. I must blot out all thoughts of my abandoned family, but those brief moments when the booze sings in my blood, that’s what I live for.”

He put out his hand, said,

“Not supposed to touch with the Covid rules but I’ll always shake your hand, Jack, no virus is stopping that.”

I took his hand, and his grip was surprisingly strong. I was moved in ways I’d near forgotten.

“I’ll do my best for you and your people.”

He gave a short smile, said,

“You always have.”

I got to the top of the square and a very respectable-looking man approached. He looked vaguely familiar. He greeted,

“Remember me? You gave me the Saint Faustina medal, the saint of healing. Well, I’ve been sober ever since, not a drop.”

I had nothing, but tried,

“Miraculous.”

He looked like he might hug me but went with,

“I owe you man.”

I added,

“And Faustina.”