Galway Confidential

19

They hit on my fourth night, a little after midnight. I was restless in the sleeping bag when two young men approached. One had a can in his hand. I feigned semiconsciousness and the first one said,

“Douse him.”

I moved to the left as the liquid splashed against the wall and I was free of the sleeping bag, the hurly in my hand. I hit the first one hard across his knees and he dropped instantly, the other simply ran away.

I phoned the Guards, and to my surprise, a car arrived within minutes. Two Guards got out and I explained what had happened. They were highly suspicious of me. They took us both down to the station, the young man moaning constantly.

A new Superintendent, name of Collins, stood behind his desk, said,

“So, the infamous Jack Taylor.”

There isn’t a whole lot you can answer to that, so I said nothing. He asked,

“You were sleeping rough to lure the alleged assailant into attacking you?”

“Pretty much.”

He made me go through the saga twice and made sounds of disapproval at every juncture.

Finally, he said,

“I won’t have vigilantism on my watch, do you understand me?”

I was tired.

“Yes, sir.”

He said I could go, and I asked about my hurly. He snapped,

“Evidence.”

I got outside and it was raining. I sighed, feeling little sense of accomplishment.

The young man I had taken was named Tony Wren. He was fourteen years of age and came from a middle-class family. Owen, my friend in the Guards, had paid me a visit, began with,

“You might be in deep shit.”

Owen looked beaten, that stage in his career when he finally realizes he is not going to make a difference. I poured him a drink and he grabbed it with relish, said,

“Thank God for Jameson.”

Amen.

I asked,

“So, what am I supposed to have done?”

He emitted a long sigh, then,

“The guy you took your hurly to. His knee is completely fucked.”

Good, I thought.

As if he read my mind, Owen said,

“The family are going to sue you.”

What?

He reached in his jacket, took out a pack of Major, the strongest cigarette available. I said,

“You don’t smoke.”

He extracted one, lit it with a disposable lighter.

“I was off them for ten years, but we had a child molestation case that was extremely nasty and next thing I know, I’m back smoking.”

He offered the pack, but I shook my head. He said,

“Wren’s family have hired a solicitor and they are suing you.”

I was only a little surprised.

“Let me guess, they say I attacked him. His buddy will back him up and it’s their word against mine.”

He gave a grim smile.

“Your word is that of a man sleeping on the street with the hurly. They’ll massacre you in court.”

He was probably right.

I offered another drink, but he reluctantly declined.

“I just wanted to give you the heads up on what’s coming.”

I asked,

“The other guy, his buddy, who is he?”

Owen made a bitter sound.

“A pup just a few years older than his mate.”

That is not a term of endearment. In Galway it means an apprentice thug. He continued,

“His name is Scott, and he comes from money. His father designs golf courses in Dubai, so tons of cash and influence. The son had two thousand euros’ worth of cocaine seized in the mail recently and the judge gave him community service. He was later on Instagram, posing on a red Porsche with what could only have been a spliff.”

“Christ,” I said.

Owen prepared to leave, cautioned,

“Apart from the court case, you need to watch your back, this other kid, he’s a back stabber. We found a nine-length hunting knife in his room when we busted him for the coke.”

I thanked him again and said I’d be careful.

The next day I got the summons from Tony Wren’s solicitor. I figured I’d need to find someone to fight my side. I was beginning to get my strength back after the hospital stint and the thought of a court case, alas, did not do much for my very fragile mental state. What I most wanted was to go on an almighty skite, blow out all the stops, just do the Serenity short version, fuckit.

I had a scalding shower, drank black coffee without a shot of Jay, dressed in my 501s, a worn sweatshirt that proclaimed,

“Saw Doctors and the N17”

Pulled on a pair of Timberland boots I’d finally got comfortable with, and headed out. The day was bright, cold, and fresh, it reached your face like a whispered evocation. It felt good to be alive despite the horror of the world. Ukraine had till now held off the Russian onslaught, but the sheer number of Russian troops were gaining advantage.

I went to the GBC, old-style restaurant in the center of town. It still sold Carbohydrate Neon Nightmares with,

Fried eggs,

Sausages,

Black pudding,

Rashers (bacon),

Fried tomatoes,

Thick slices of country-style toast.

It used to be my go-to hangover cure.

I had unwittingly mentioned it to a doctor who I believed was suffering from a hangover and he’d recoiled in horror, exclaiming,

“No wonder you were in a coma.”

I got a table upstairs and a warm welcome from Catherine, who’d been a waitress there for years. She used that Irish form,

“I thought you were dead.”

Depending on the intonation, ’tis a compliment, but most usually an insult, as in “Wish you were.”

She asked,

“The same as always?”

Which is kind of odd as I hadn’t been there for coming on three years. A young man was sitting by the window, his back to me but something familiar.

He turned, went,

“Jack?”

It was Pat. He looked ten years younger and had an aura of health and zing about him. I recognize that vibe as I don’t think I ever in my life had actual personal experience of it. He came over, asked,

“Might I join you?”

Fuck.

Nothing to spoil a good fry-up like a priest, especially an eager one. I said,

“Sure.”

He was dressed in chinos, a dark sweater, and, I might be wrong, boat shoes. Like he’d escaped from the pages of The Great Gatsby.

Catherine brought over his breakfast from the window table, the remains of a salad.

Fuck again.

I stated the obvious.

“You look good.”

He glowed, literally, said,

“I am now three months sober.”

He reached in his pocket, took out a coin, added,

“This is my ninety-day medal.”

What could I say that didn’t come across as cynical, so went with the cliché,

“You deserve it.”

My food arrived and he recoiled in mock horror, said,

“You can’t eat that.”

I gave him my long-suffering look.

“I’m going to try.”

Before he could launch into a lecture, I asked,

“Are you still a priest?”

He appeared offended.

“Of course. They are very proud of me and know I can be an inspiration to others who are afflicted with this horrible disease.”

He took a deep breath, and I was able to make decent inroads to my food. He said,

“There is a twelve-step program, and I know I’m a newbie, but I have decided to try and practice the eleventh step.”

I didn’t ask as I knew he’d continue.

He did.

“The step is about helping another alcoholic.”

I said,

“Commendable.”

He looked around as if somebody might eavesdrop, then announced,

“I have chosen you to be my step.”

He looked like he’d delivered fantastic news, which for some it might well be, but me, not so much.

I was saved from answering straightaway by Catherine coming back. She looked at Pat, asked,

“Good Lord, Jack, is this your son?”

Phew-oh.

I said,

“He’s a father.”

Pause.

Let it linger, then added,

“But not to me.”

She was confused so I eased up, explained,

“He’s a priest and we’re not related, save by drink.”

She peered closely at Pat, still suspicious.

“You’re awfully young to be a priest.”

He smiled bashfully and I burst that bubble.

“You should have seen him three months ago; he was a bloody wreck.”

Hurt him.

And I’m not even sure why, it was just nasty. I think AA talk threatens me.

Catherine moved away, with,

“Whatever you are, you’re a lovely fellah.”

Pat finished his salad, or whatever it was, and I offered,

“How about a strong coffee to kick-start the system?”

He looked stricken.

“I must avoid stimulants.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that with anything that approached sanity. Where we were sitting, to our right, was a large bay window and you could get a clear view of the beginning of Shop Street. Pat happened to glance that way and, suddenly excited, pointed, said,

“There’s my young man.”

In the gay sense?

Before I could venture into that minefield, he continued,

“I have been asked to be his spiritual advisor and it is so rewarding.”

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I looked more closely at the young man, the young man who was limping. Pat said,

“He had a traumatic experience recently. A homeless man he was trying to help turned on him and attacked him with a hurly.”

I tried to explain to Pat that he couldn’t be involved with that young man, saying the guy was bad news and to trust me, it was best to stay away. We were outside the restaurant now and Pat, surprising me, asked,

“Why should I trust you?”

Jesus.

I waffled on about me being older, more experienced in the life of the streets, and...

He stopped me!

Put a hand up, said,

“But you’re a drunk, Jack. They told us in rehab not to enable other alcoholics and to not be afraid to confront an out-of-control alkie.”

I was spitting iron, snarled,

“Alkie? You’re calling me that, you fuckhead? Who stood by you when the world turned its back to you? How fucking dare you.”

He smiled.

Smiled!

I very nearly walloped him but walloping a young priest on the main street of the town is never a good look. I tried to rein it in, dial back from the violence flashing through my blood, said in an almost even tone,

“I’m the homeless guy who took out his knee with a hurly.”

Stopped him, but only briefly. He answered,

“But you’re not homeless, Jack.”

And with that, he just fucked off.