Galway Girl

Twyford

Makes the very best toilet bowls.

I know because I spent so much time lying on my back, under the bowl, having the first drink to be sick enough for the second one to stay down.

Hopefully.

It had been four months

Since my daughter had been shot dead

Right before my very eyes.

I missed Christmas.

In the sense it came and went and I lay under the bowl, if not the volcano. Then, mid-January, I began to cut back, no reason, maybe just sick of being sick.

Was even trying some exercises to restore some feeling to my shattered body.

If there are exercises for grief I don’t know them.

I was living in an apartment off the Salthill promenade. I could look out across the bay, but now the once wonderful yearning I’d had was no more.

Years, years of that odd yearning, and I had never quite known for what it was I yearned. But now, no more mythical or mystical shite.

In a fit of blind rage and, yes, booze, I grabbed my favorite books, stumbled down to the beach, and began to fling them out across the ocean.

Pathetic?

You betcha.

A few days later, I was attempting to sip some coffee and not to smoke, least until the day grew up. A knock at the door. I shouted,

“Fuck off.”

More banging.

Right.

I pulled the door near off its hinges, muttering,

“What.”

A young female guard, ban Garda. And, oh Lord, she looked like a teenager.

Pretty, but something in the eyes, hint of granite.

She asked,

“Jack Taylor?”

I let out a frustrated breath, said,

“You’re at my door, you obviously checked before you came, so unless you’re a complete ejit take a wild guess.”

She backed up, her body tensed, said,

“There is no need for that tone.”

I turned, went back into the apartment, sat and stared at the ocean. She followed me in, with extreme care. She stood before me, said,

“I was a huge admirer of Sergeant Ridge.”

I felt the guilt kick in, harsh, hard, and merciless, bit down, and said,

“How wonderful for you.”

Threw her.

She had perhaps been schooled in how to deal with the likes of me but it wasn’t working. I snapped,

“What do you want? You liked Ridge, so fucking what?”

She gazed around, seeking something to help. There was nothing, just my wall of hostility, but she did try, asked,

“There are no books?”

I laughed, said,

“You’ll make a fine detective.”

She held firm, said,

“You’ll have heard of the recent death of a Guard.”

I said nothing.

She did some figures in her head, trying to make a decision, then,

“The man was Ridge’s uncle.”

I was surprised. I tried,

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She glared at me and looked uncannily like Ridge. I asked, as I moved toward the door,

“Was there something else?”

She shook her head, asked,

“Is that it, you’re sorry?”

I felt tired, opened the door, said,

“You need to go now.”

She considered, then,

“They’re right, what they say about you, that you’re...”

She searched for some scotching term, settled on,

“Pathetic.”

She was out in the hall. I shut the door as she was gearing up for more.

I thought,

“Nice wee girl.”

Moved to the window, watched as she strode away from my apartment. A man got out of a car, crossed the street, walked right up to her, shot her in the face.