Galway Confidential

3

A café in Woodquay was advertising:

   Couscous

   And

   Crubeens

Couscous is, of course, Moroccan grain and crubeens are pigs’ feet. How far the country had progressed in so many forms.

In my childhood we had:

Bacon

Cabbage

Spuds

I haven’t advanced a whole lot in dietary terms.

The brief new trend of eating out was blocked by the lockdown and the rain. Trotters were regarded as poor food even in terms of poverty and to be bought in Quay Street.

Quay Street was then a shabby line of pawnshops and dodgy cafés. A man could pawn his suit on a Sunday and then redeem it on payday before a weekend of drink.

Who knew Quay would become a trendy nightspot and then later metamorphose to being The Latin Quarter?

None of the locals ever called it that, no matter how many signs they put up. You’d be hard put to find a crubeen in The Latin Quarter, but couscous, buckets of it.

I had my mental faculties tested by a young female psychiatrist named Dr. Lydon. She looked a little like Noirin, who worked alongside Vinny in Charlie Byrne’s bookstore. My memory must have been okay since I remembered those two people. She was all eagerness and bubbling with inexperience.

She was overfond of terms like,

Empathy,

Owning my feelings,

Admitting my anger.

She finally finished up that spiel, asked,

“How are we today?”

Uh-huh.

“Dunno about you, Doc, but I’d kill for a cigarette and two shots of Jay.”

She echoed,

“Jay?”

Lord on a bike.

“Jameson, what we Catholics drink.”

She gave an audible,

“Ah.”

Scribbled furiously in her notes, you could almost hear her think,

“Breakthrough.”

All gung ho, now she asked,

“Would you classify your drinking...”

Pause.

Reached for a non-alarmist term, settled with,

“Problematic?”

I surprised her by almost on the trot replying,

“Most definitely.”

Plead guilty and you disarm them instantly. I looked at my bare wrist, no watch, said,

“I think we’ve got through enough for today and I am pleased at your progress, we’re in good shape.”

Her face registered surprise and I felt a bit guilty, but what the hell, she was getting the big bucks.

I stood up, ended with,

“Same time next week and keep taking the meds.”

Covid-19 had killed five thousand people. An unaccountable number were hospitalized, ICU had literally run out of beds due to the sheer volume of cases.

But.

Nigh on 90 percent of the population had received the two doses of the vaccine.

But.

The pubs had now been closed for eighteen months. Eighteen dry fucking months. The lockdowns had almost killed the bar trade completely. Shebeens sprang up but the Guards were on the prowl and shut them down.

Woe is me.

The heroes of the virus were the frontline workers who were exposed firsthand to the plague and went about their vital work in a quiet, dignified fashion.

True grit.

I was reading the paper; Ronaldo had returned to Man United after sixteen years and for his very first game he scored two goals. The man was a magician.

Nora appeared, said,

“Your brother is here.”

She didn’t believe he was related but seemed happy enough to go along with the charade.

Raftery was dressed in a tan safari jacket. He didn’t have a cravat, but the intention was there. He had dark jeans, with a tear at the knee, as was fashionable. He had Doc Martens with, I suspect, a metal toe cap.

Apart from the jacket, it was the gear I wore my own self but any tear in my jeans was from age. Nora breezed in, shot a dark look at him, fluffed my pillows as they do, then bounced off.

Raftery moaned,

“She doesn’t love me.”

His tone suggested,

“What’s not to love?”

“She hates liars.”

He faltered then rallied, said defiantly,

“The whole brother ruse was the only way to get to see you.”

I near shouted,

“But who the fuck are you?”

He tapped his pockets, said,

“Ah, for a smoke, eh?’

Continued,

“It was pure chance I was coming along the bridge when I saw the guy knifing you.”

He stopped and I made the gesture with my hand that says,

“And?”

He seemed to zone, then snapped back, looked at me in confusion, then,

“Ah, details. What happened next was the purest simplicity.”

Another long pause, until,

“I picked him up and flung him over the bridge.”

He sighed, continued,

“Unfortunately, some do-gooder pulled him out. The Guards arrived and they took him away. He’s been on remand ever since. I guess they were waiting to see if you’d die so they could charge him with murder.”

I said,

“Sorry to have spoiled the party.”

He waved his hand, no biggie, took out his flask, drank deep, went,

“Ah!”

Then offered.

I took it with joy, took a huge wallop. Almost instantly my stomach warmed, the world brightened, a free-floating anxiety evaporated.

I asked Raftery,

“Who are you?”

He gave a long sigh, began,

“You think an ordinary joe would be able to disarm a man with a knife then pick him up and throw him over a bridge? No. I have dual nationality, Irish and American. I spent time as a US Marine, moved fast through the ranks as I had the three things they respect:

“Lack of empathy.

“Hardcore toughness.

“Ruthlessness.

“I had a buddy, let’s call him Quinlan, and we were tight, bonded by war.

“After we left the service, we ended up in London and he betrayed me, over fucking money. When I saved you, Jack, you became my new buddy, a replacement for that rat.”

Nora came bustling in, snarled,

“Happy hour?”

Raftery gave her a long appraisal, asked,

“How are you not married?”

I was out of hospital, my physical recovery had been good, astounding, according to the doctor.

My mental well-being was, well, fucked. The world was so utterly altered that I couldn’t get a grip.

The pubs were reopened, kind of. Sets of regulations made it nigh impossible to know what the hell was acceptable.

You could order a pint but not drink it at the counter. Distance between tables was damn confusing and the two-meter distance between people was just ridiculous.

The three lockdowns hadn’t full killed the pub trade, but it had sure delivered a brutal assault.

The masks?

Shoot me now.

Took me days/daze before I could wear one correctly. I had it upside down, inside out, and it made my nose run from the sheer dryness of my nostrils.

Having a pint, you could de-mask and then re-mask when not drinking. Most of the public had grown accustomed to all the ever-changing rules.

I had a way to go.

I was in Garavan’s, working on a second pint, between masks. A Jay was riding point. I liked how the weak winter sun cut through the gold liquid, giving it a sheen of hope.

Raftery arrived, wearing a Hugo Boss jacket, I know as it said so on the sleeve. He had tan cords over very polished brogues, white shirt, and a tie; the tie was loosely fastened to declare,

I’m square but cool with it.

He clapped me on the back, never a smart move as arms had been broken over such unwanted gestures. He asked,

“Did you hear about Trump’s son?”

I hadn’t.

Raftery said,

“He’s selling T-shirts with the logo:

     “ ‘Guns don’t kill people

     “ ‘Alec Baldwin does.’ ”

I shook my head, the sheer nastiness of that was incomprehensible.

Raftery ordered a coffee, asked if I wanted a pint. I didn’t, trying to pace myself. He said,

“The country is short of clowns!”

This was too easy and too many quips were available, so I went with,

“What?”

He made a mock gesture of blessing himself.

“Cross my heart. Duffy’s circus lost their crew during lockdown and can’t now entice them back. There is also a shortage of lorry drivers and a blockade stemming from Brexit.”

I asked,

“Where did the clowns go?”

Raftery just smiled.

He had been a staple in my life since my discharge from hospital. Truth be told, he was mostly an annoying bollocks, but I was glad of a guide through this new convoluted existence.

He slurped his coffee, few sounds as irritating; he caught the look on my face.

“What’s eating you, bro?”

Bro!

I sighed. I come from a long line of sighers. My mother, the bad bitch, could have sighed for Ireland. Irish men are supposed to love their mammies.

Phew-oh.

Not me, not ever. She was the walking shape of pure malignancy, and pious to boot.

Before I could answer Raftery, a woman pushed through the drinkers, heading for me.

Raftery said,

“Your ship might be coming in.”

There was never a cliché that Raftery could resist. The woman was in her early fifties, if age can be gauged anymore, the lockdowns had aged everybody. She was dressed in a black wool coat with face mask to match, much like a bird of ill omen.

Prophetic, as it turned out.

She had a riot of brown curls and a face completely unlined; it was her eyes that spoke of age. My mind suggested,

“Nun.”

She asked of us both,

“Mr. Jack Taylor?”

Mister!

I nodded,

“Call me Jack.”

She looked like she might shake hands but that was outlawed with the Covid regulations. People compensated with elbow touch and the cool kids did knuckle knock.

“I’m Sheila Winston.”

Pause.

With a touch of apology, she added,

“I used to be a nun.”

I offered,

“A drink?”

She shook her head,

“Might I have a word in private?”

Sensing my reluctance, she said,

“Sister Maeve was my friend.”

Felt the stab in my heart. Maeve was my friend for years, the nun and the alkie, what a concept. I had been the cause of her death and her death haunts me always.

Seeing my distress, Sheila rushed on,

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up sorrow.”

I shook myself,

“There’s a quiet corner over there by the window, we can talk there.”

As we moved in that direction, Raftery winked at her.

We settled ourselves at a small table. I said,

“What’s the problem?”

“Maeve used to talk about the help you sometimes lent the church.”

“Believe you me, it wasn’t a big deal, but it brought a ton of trouble in its wake and I’m out of the helping sector, I barely survived my last outing.”

She nodded.

“I heard about the attack on you, but if I may, you look much recovered.”

I said,

“I’m getting there, slowly, so you’ll understand I’m not much use to anybody else.”

She considered this, then,

“Nuns are being attacked.”

A showstopper.

I said,

“Go to the Guards.”

“I’ve been but they are nigh overwhelmed with the demonstrations against the lockdowns and, too, assaults from the anti-vaxxers.”

I tried to show some interest,

“How many nuns have been attacked?”

“Two, but the second assault was more vicious, as if the perpetrator is building in ferocity. I’m fearful he’s building up to an actual killing.”

Made a horrible sense.

I had to ask the delicate question,

“Is there, erm, a sexual element to the attacks?”

She blushed.

Who blushes anymore?

She shook her head. I asked,

“Do you want me to talk to the nuns?”

She was horrified.

“Oh no, they’d never be able for that.”

I was relieved but how could I even begin?

Before I could voice that, she reached in her bag, produced an envelope, said,

“It’s not much, but I’ll be able to get more.”

I didn’t take the envelope.

“Let me see what I can find out, then we can revisit fees.”

“God bless you.”

She gushed.

I figured somebody needed to.

She asked,

“Have you heard of Edge?”

I hadn’t.

She went,

“It’s supposed to be a small, organized group of people who administer justice when the law fails.”

I spoke,

“Why are you not using them?”

She spoke,

“I found a contact for them but they turned me down. It seems they stay away from religious affairs.”