Galway Confidential

2

Two months of grueling PT nearly dissipated what little spirit I had, but slowly, very slowly, I began to function.

Nora was my coach, as it were, and she never cut me any slack, and like the Galway Girl she was, she had some mouth on her. Any attempt at sympathy was blown out of the water.

Worse, she seemed to find me amusing. Few things are more devastating that a girl mocking you. She was about 5'7", jet-black hair, a nose that, alas, slanted to the right, thus spoiling the shot at pretty.

During one of the rare breaks she allowed, she told me she was a boxer, added,

“So, don’t fuck around with me Taylor.”

As if!

I did venture,

“Why boxing?”

I didn’t really care but it was something.

Got the look, the one that screams,

Where the fuck you been?

I nearly said,

“In a coma, actually.”

Or, as a Galway wit called it,

“A comma.”

Pause.

“Don’t come to a full stop.”

Galway banter.

Still, each day, I got a little stronger.

Nora, believing I was interested, said, “Women’s boxing got a huge boost when Kelli took gold at the Olympics.”

Kelli?

I didn’t ask so much as devour and assimilate the internet for two years of events.

Sports.

Life.

Politics.

Television.

The public had to observe a two-meter distance because of Covid.

The two-meter distance didn’t make a whole lot of difference as I had spent my life swerving away from folk.

And handshaking — my hands usually shook so I had mostly avoided touching other’s hands. The wearing of masks creeped me out.

My mind veered between snapshots of the attack that put me there and this harsh new reality. Mostly I felt — not panic attacks, but being petrified.

Some days I could absorb huge chunks of data and others—

Nowt.

My first unsupervised shower, I finally looked at my torso, the knife scars.

Red, still raw in appearance. I felt dizzy and the room spun. I muttered,

“Get a grip, get a fucking grip.”

How the hell did I survive it?

Well, part of me didn’t, never would.

The words of the doctor ringing in my ears,

“How on earth did you live?”

I said bitterly,

“Just freaking lucky.”

I noticed Nora had a large rock on her finger, an engagement ring, I said,

“Hell of a stone.”

She gave a spontaneous laugh, and oh Lord, how it transformed her face, the eyes lit with joy. Joy is not something I’ve had much depth in. I pressed,

“Who’s the guy?”

Paused, added,

“Sorry, these days I believe it is significant other or some such shite. A doctor, I suppose?”

She literally...

Tut-tutted...

Said,

“A doctor? God save us.”

Looked at me, wondering how much was safe to tell me, then,

“Colin is a Guard. You know, the Garda, like a cop?”

I went quiet, regrouped,

“I know the Guards.”

Her face clouded briefly; I might even have detected a hint of sadness.

She said,

“I know.”

To end the chat, she closed the topic by taking my blood pressure, gave that uh-huh that tells you zilch.

Means you’ll never see Christmas, or worse, it’s already the festive season.

One thing I’d learned since coming back (that’s how I saw it, I’d come back) was keep the medical questions to the basics, fewer frights that way.

I did some deep breathing, and she was obviously pondering a thought, then,

“Colin says you’re a legend.”

I laughed, said,

“Legendary fuckup.”

She nodded and I thought she might have at least tried to mitigate the image.

I eased myself into the bedside chair, the PE had been especially rough that day, and saw copies of The Irish Independent on my table.

“Your brother brings them in.”

“Tell him I’m more of a Joycean.” (As if.)

Got a lovely smile from her; she said,

“What you are is a bit of a divil” [sic].

She looked at me, added,

“But he’s not your brother.”

Bold statement.

“How’d you know, I mean he could have been.”

She sighed.

“The day after you were admitted, he showed up, said he was” — she made air quotes — “ ‘family,’ but he seemed sketchy on personal details, and I just didn’t like him.”

Then she added as an afterthought,

“He doesn’t look anything like you.”

She fluffed up my pillows, gave me a long look, cautioned, said,

“Don’t believe most of what he says, he has the cut of a liar.”

I thought about my last case, just before I got attacked.

My friend, a garrulous Scot and intuitive Falconer, had a farm outside town and staying with him was a young lady.

My friend, the girl, the horses, all had been massacred in a situation nobody saw coming.

Some time later, his lawyer/accountant got in touch telling me that he’s left me the farm and a stash of cash.

Weird, right?

He bought the farm.

I inherited it.