Galway Girl

     Alice came out of the shower. She’d taken a while as it was a bitch to get blood from under your fingernails.

Jericho was listening to Leonard Cohen.

The same track always,

“You Want It Darker.”

Some interpreted the title as a question,

Others as a command.

Jericho looked up, a piece of Maeve’s bloody skirt in her hands,

Asked,

“You think that’s dark enough for them?”

Pa Connell is a vet and a close friend.

He’d once said to me,

“Jack, you need something, call day or night.”

You say that and, though sincere, the last friggin’ thing you want is a guy calling you after midnight.

I mean, fuckit.

When I had the dogs, and it kills me to even mention them, their passing nigh murdered me, Pa was a constant source of help and support.

I called him now.

Woke him too.

I could hear his wife mumbling.

I begged,

“Let me see you now.”

“Christ. Jack, it’s two in the morning.”

I didn’t want to shout,

“I know the fucking time.”

I whined instead.

“It’s a matter of life and death.”

How could he refuse?

He didn’t, said,

“I’ll be in my surgery in an hour.”

I had the bird wrapped in a light blanket, with a makeshift hood for its eyes to fool it into sleeping.

It wasn’t fooled, tried to bite me every opportunity.

I figured it was a very fine peregrine falcon—

Not only a beautiful bird but valuable,

Unless it died.

I swore,

“Don’t you fucking dare die.”

When Pa saw me, saw the bird, he exclaimed,

“A bird?”

I nodded.

He gently took the creature from me, laid it on his vet’s table, pulled on thick gloves.

I began to ask him...

His hand shot up, he said,

“Don’t talk,”

I didn’t.

For ten minutes, he worked on the bird, having given it a shot to calm it. I could have done with some of it. Pa made sounds like

“Um, ah, I see, well, well, who knew?”

Finally, he finished, and the bird seemed to be sleeping. He said,

“It’s a peregrine falcon. It has been shot by some sick bastard but this is a full-grown bird and, I’d say, rare enough in these parts. How did you get it?”

I told him.

He rummaged in a drawer, produced a bottle of brandy, poured two, asked,

“What will you do with it?”

I wanted Jameson but, in a bind, drank, said,

“I think you should keep it.”

He gave a short harsh laugh, said,

“You’re even madder than ever.”

I was thinking I might be a wee bit offended, asked,

“What on earth would I do with a falcon?”

He said,

“There’s a guy I know, not well but enough, his name is Keefer. His name is from his years as roadie for the Rolling Stones. He also moonlit, so to speak, as a film extra and, while on the movie The Falcon and the Snowman, in trade for Stones tickets he got to hang with the film’s falconer and the rest, as they say, is, if not history, at least notable. A Scot, I think, lives out in the country, eccentric, so you should get on. He is supposedly one of the best falconers but he’s very...”

Paused.

“Hard-core.”

I had no idea what that meant so pushed,

“Will he take the bird?”

Pa got a large cage, gently laid the sleeping bird in there, said,

“I’ll call him and should have an answer in a day or two. I’ll keep it until then but be prepared.”

“For what?”

He sighed.

“If — and that’s a big if — he agrees to see you, you’d better pack for a few weeks’ stay.”

I was sure he was kidding, asked,

“Why on earth would I do that. He can keep the falcon, no charge, valuable bird, he should be grateful.”

Pa laughed, said,

“It will take some serious training.”

I said with relief,

“He can train the bird for months, good luck to them.”

Pa, and I swear I saw devilment in his eyes, said,

“Not the bird, you.”

Did I still even like the Stones?

Well, I could fake it,

Couldn’t I?

Back at my apartment, I found an old Stones album, played it.

I had a book on rock myths, flicked through it, came across this:

“Mick Taylor is the only one to leave the Stones and live.”

How encouraging was that?