Galway Girl

The shooting of Guard Nora McEntee caused a huge furor.

The city was on high alert, media screaming for the culprit to be apprehended.

He wasn’t.

As the only witness, I was dragged to the station,

Not

... to help with inquiries

But more to be bullied, intimidated, shouted at.

Sheridan, the supposedly supercop, led the interview, demanded,

“Taylor, why are you always on the scene of shootings?”

I went with a vague truth, said,

“I have no idea.”

He leaned right into my face, and I said, very quietly,

“Back the fuck off.”

He was delighted, spun back, shouted to the Guards gathered,

“Hear that? He’s threatening a Guard.”

Owen Daglish, playing good Guard, said,

“Cut him some slack.”

Sheridan fumed, snarled,

“Let’s throw him in a cell, let him stew.”

I said,

“Not a great time to be alienating the public.”

Sheridan asked,

“What does that mean?”

The Garda commissioner was up to her arse in an alleged conspiracy to discredit a whistle-blower; the media were out for more dirt on the inner workings of the top brass.

Wilson, the super, breezed in, ordered,

“Cut him loose.”

She looked at me, said,

“Try not to get in the way of the investigation.”

I gave her my sweetest look, which is a blend of guile and deranged ferocity, said,

“Yes, ma’am.”

The press were outside and Kernan Andrews of the Galway Advertiser shouted,

“In the middle of it again, Jack?”

I said,

“Buy me a pint and get an exclusive.”

Kernan was too clued in for that old play.

I headed up Shop Street, gave a homeless guy a few euros, he asked,

“What will that do?”

“Ease my conscience.”

Outside Garavan’s, a young man, blond hair, dressed in black leather jacket, stared at me. He was not unlike a young David Soul and something in his attitude said he knew that. I asked,

“Help you?”

He gave a radiant smile, asked,

“Do you know the words of ‘Galway Girl’?”

It was late when I got back to my apartment.

Something off.

All the mirrors had been smashed.

One sheet of paper, black with red letters, read

I asked aloud what you would.

I asked,

“The fuck is this?”

I went to the cemetery, wrapped in my Garda all-weather coat, bitter, cold, vicious wind at my heels. There were so many graves to visit and I muttered,

“I can’t, I just can’t.”

But I could visit one.

New headstone, a frenzy of soft toys and wilting flowers all around, the toys already soaked and beaten, here lay my daughter, whom I barely had time to know before she was killed. I stood there in wretched silence, unable to form words. I reached into my coat, took out the flask, chugged some Jay.

Didn’t help but, then, nothing did.

I sensed being watched and turned to my right. A priest was standing about three rows from me, raised his hand in greeting, then approached me.

I have a terrible history with priests, full of lies, evasion, and downright betrayal.

He was young, mid-thirties, but his face already had that shocked expression of each day revealing the worst of humanity.

He held out his hand, said,

“I’m Father Paul.”

I let it hang for a moment before I took it, said,

“Jack. Jack Taylor.”

He looked at the grave, asked,

“Would you like me to give a blessing?”

My mood turned nasty, well, nastier. I asked,

“How much will that cost?”