Galway Girl

Ireland was gripped by three issues,

Burning ones.

1. Four Irish/Ulster rugby players, after a horrendous three-week rape trial, were found not guilty.

The girl who made the allegations was subjected to interrogation that was as vicious as it was cruel.

2. The coming referendum on abortion.

The abolition of Section 8, as it was known.

Ferocious feelings on both sides.

And daily, as No and Yes supporters clamored to be heard, you could sense a terrible violence simmering.

3. Big Tom died.

Who?

You might ask.

The godfather of Irish country music.

He was the very essence of the gentle giant.

His major hit, way back when a song meant something, was

“Four Country Roads.”

Put the sweet small town Glenamaddy on the minds of an older generation, the generation who would never understand Tinder, or indeed would never want to.

Tinder for the fading generation was simply something to light fires.

Of course, the new meaning set something ablaze, too, and nothing about it had a single thing to recommend it.

I met Owen Daglish in Garavan’s; he looked wrecked.

I didn’t think it was the right time to ask,

“How ya doing?”

Another Guard had been killed, so I went with,

“What can I get you?”

Large Jay and a pint.

Me too.

We were leaning on the counter like almost normal guys.

Popped in for a quickie after work.

That wasn’t us.

Never had been,

Never would be.

We drank with little joy but fierce determination.

Owen looked fucked: red eyes, black sacks beneath, unshaven, and a vibe of rage that rose in wings above him. This was a time to tread very easy, so I went,

“Man City won the premier.”

Fuck, he is a United fan, right city, wrong team.

He glared at me, near spat,

“Ah, we fuckin’ handed it to them.”

Should I encourage this, have a wee lad’s back-and-forth about Mourinho versus Pep? But a guy in his twenties, all aglow with piss and vinegar, nearly pushed Owen aside as he barked,

“Barkeep, bottle of your best white, some clean glasses.”

Silence.

Garavan’s is not the pub for such shite.

Bad as it was, the guy then produced his iPhone and addressed it loudly; they’re always loud, these guys.

The bar guy, Sean, not the most tolerant person, looked at the wine order, asked,

“You sure you’re in the right place?”

The fellow did that quizzical face of

You for real?

Owen had had enough of this bollix practically shouting in his ear, reared back, snarled,

“Get the fuck out of my space.”

The phone was put away as, get this,

The guy took a fight stance, demanded,

“You want to take this outside, asshole?”

Sean laughed in dismay, I near choked on my Jay, and Owen... well, Owen did what thirty years of playing hurley taught him. He did the minor swerve that is like manic choreography, and without actually moving from the counter he punched the guy fast, hard, accurate in the gut.

Then he turned to me, asked,

“Whose round?”

Many drinks later, I dared to ask,

“Did you know the Guard who was killed?”

He sighed, said,

“He’s the fourth. Some fucker is on a spree. This time witnesses, who as you know are as reliable as a nun on steroids, said there were two of them, shooters I mean, and they all agree one was a woman.”

He turned to me, said,

“A woman, Jesus in heaven. The world is fucked. Forty million to bring the pope here and hundreds on trolleys, a gay Indian as leader of the country telling us we have to vote yes to abortion.”

These were the longest sentences he’d ever spoken. He drained his pint, said,

“To top it all, Arsène Wenger had to quit before he was fired from the Arsenal, after twenty-two years of service.”

I had nothing, not even the dregs of my Jay, to stare into, so after a long silence while he reupped our drinks, he said,

“There was a note left, in Irish again, like at the first two killings. Do you want to know what it read?”

Like, hello.

Yes.

I nodded vaguely, as if I didn’t mind.

I did mind.

More than I cared to admit.

He said,

“An cailin as Gaillimh.”

I translated,

“Galway girl.”

He looked at me, a fine warm flush giving him the appearance of sunburn. He asked,

“So, Mister Private Eye, or whatever the fuck you are, what do you make of that?”

The late turn to aggression was nothing new to me. I said, as quietly, as simply, as I could,

“That she’s from Galway.”

Jericho had only ever shared her past with one person.

Emerald.

They’d been hitting the booze hard and Emerald suddenly handed Jericho a gold chain, two gold G’s on it, said,

“For us, always, you are my golden girl.”

Jericho said,

“Golden girl, how odd you should give me that.

It’s what they called my sister sometimes, that or glorious.”

Emerald waited, so she continued,

“She was younger than me, golden curls, face like an angel, and just so fucking cutesy pie. I was supposed to mind her. We were coming home from school, I gave her a tiny bump, and a car ran over her, and maybe a bus, too.”

She took a breath, then,

“I thought, now I’ll be the golden girl, but fuck, worse, they made her into some kind of saint, always young, always beautiful, never to make any mistakes, so I knew then, knew that they loved the dead and I swore I’d give them plenty to love.”

Emerald laughed, fingered the two G’s, said,

“The original gone girl.”