Galway Confidential

24

When I am in a mental quandary, which is often, and shots of Jay only confuse me, I go to the movies. Two hours of pure escape.

I went to see An Cailín Ciúin (The Quiet Girl) which is ninety minutes of heart-aching bliss. A movie of pure simplicity that might well be among the most powerful events I have witnessed.

I came out the cinema shattered and now I needed shots of Jay.

A young woman looked at me, went,

“How-r-yah, Jack?”

Took me a moment, then I realized she was Clare Anne Irwin, daughter of Galway’s most celebrated undertaker. She had been recently crowned the Galway Rose, and unlike the other competitors, she had a profession that was as rare as it was misunderstood. She loved being a mortician and had fought stiff opposition from men at every stage of her career.

She brought a lightness and, yes, even a true feeling of comfort to a profession not noted for those qualities.

I said,

“Congrats on your win.”

She was delighted, asked again how I was.

You really don’t want to tell an undertaker you’re not feeling well so I lied almost convincingly. She told me it was good to see me, and you know, I walked away with a lighter tread.

I arranged to meet with Sheila Winston in the lobby of the Great Southern Hotel. Now known as The Hardiman. We were to meet at noon, and if the event went well, we might even have lunch.

Fuck.

I dreaded what I was going to ask/tell her and ran various scenarios in my head, but they all came to the same end: stop harassing the man.

She arrived on time, dressed in a light blue blazer and gray jeans. She looked well but I was about to mess that up. She gave me a hug, said,

“I’m glad to see you.”

Right.

A waiter came and we ordered a pot of coffee, and she sat back in her chair, asked,

“So, what is the news, Jack? Raftery told me ye were close to catching the attacker.”

Gave me some time and I gave her the long version of how we didn’t catch the guy, but we were still hopeful.

The coffee came like a brief reprieve. I poured, took a sip, sat forward.

She said,

“What’s going on, Jack?”

I told her how I’d been using the lawyer, Brown, to deal with the allegations against me and how he’d managed to make the charges disappear.

She clapped her hands.

“Oh, that is great news, Jack.”

Uh-oh.

I said,

“Thing is, they’d like if you would cease all communication with one of their partners.”

There, I’d said it, in all its bare, brutal case.

I waited.

She had her coffee cup in her hand, and I could see the debate on her face... Throw it, or no?

She put the cup down.

“For a moment there, I wanted to scald you.”

I tried,

“I know it’s a shock but probably for the best.”

She had her hand up, snarled,

“For the best? The fuck does you know what’s for the best?”

I said,

“I know the guy is married, and how is that going to work?”

She was scarlet from anger.

“His marriage is a sham; he’s getting a divorce.”

And she started to weep. I offered a tissue, but she slapped my hand away.

“Don’t you dare feel pity for me.”

I offered,

“Maybe a drink, a brandy?”

She composed herself, literally shook herself, sneered,

“The Jack Taylor solution to everything.”

Low.

She stood up, rooted in her bag, flung a rake of notes on the table, said,

“You’ve been paid.”

I hung my head, and she had a parting shot.

“Try a brandy.”