Galway Confidential

14

I went to the inquest on Geary, and the coroner recorded a verdict of misadventure. After asking three different officials, I was directed to a man who was riffling through a sheaf of papers. He had glasses perched on his nose and looked at me over them.

“Was there something?”

His tone suggested there was nothing I had to offer. I asked,

“Are you the guy who’s responsible for the unclaimed deceased?”

He seemed already short of patience, snapped,

“It is one of my functions.”

He had the kind of face that you know has never really been walloped properly but I could amend that.

“I want to pay for the burial of Mr. Geary.”

He rolled his eyes and, before he thought about it, asked,

“Why?”

I could give him a hundred reasons but settled for,

“None of your business.”

He considered this, then leafed through his papers, took one out, and handed it to me, said,

“Give this to the undertaker.”

I stood for the briefest of moments, then,

“Thank you for the tremendous help, you are a credit to whatever job it is you have.”

He thought about a response but decided against it.

“You’re welcome.”

The day we buried Geary, the heavens opened, lashed down with rain. Around ten homeless people were present, and the priest gave the usual dirge about man being full of woe. I wanted to add,

“And homeless.”

We weren’t going to be allowed to have a wake or reception in a hotel when they saw the state of the mourners. I had brought along a crate of booze and a box of sandwiches; after the burial, we huddled under a tree and toasted Geary. The gravediggers joined us and one of them asked,

“Who paid for this shindig?”

“I did.”

He looked round at the huddled people, said,

“You need your head examined.”

The rain eased and as the Jameson took hold a woman sang,

“She moves through the fair.”

And for some odd reason, it seemed to fit.

Raftery said to me,

“You paid for the funeral?”

We were in Garavan’s; after a few bright, brittle days of sunshine, we were now having heavy, thundery showers, the type that seem personal and are determined to drench you.

“He was a friend.”

Raftery finished his pint, signaled for another round. The rain gave serious motivation to not moving. I liked to watch the pouring of a pint, it’s such a delicate art; near fill the glass, let it sit, and then add that creamy head, smooth it off with a plain stick.

Art.

“I was thinking of doing a podcast on you.”

I said in a low voice,

“Don’t.”

Which shut down that thread.

I said,

“I could do with your help, though.”

I told him of the guy who might be one of the arsonists, and said,

“You could ask your audience if they knew anybody fitting the vague description we have and say he’s won a prize or some such bullshit.”

I thought it hadn’t a hope in hell of working.

I was wrong.