Purgatory

16

A new referendum on the fiscal treaty looming and the government was using every bullying tactic to cow the voters into the vote it wanted. The Army of Occupation, on Eyre Square, pledged to be unassailable. Four o’clock in the morning, forty Guards swooped and demolished the camp. They would try to enshrine the date as a new icon of anarchy. The Occupiers pledged they’d be back for Phase 2.

The same week, Robin Gibb, Donna Summer died. A DJ termed it the final death of disco.

A man was found beaten to death in a warehouse off the Grattan Road. He was, according to neighbors,

“A quiet man with a love of dogs.”

Odd the connections the mind makes. I’d been maybe five and my beloved father came home with a pup, a mongrel, with every breed included and love being the glue. An only child, I’d been beyond delighted. My mother, who was the she-wolf from the inner sanctum of hell, disguised in a sickly fuzz-buzz religion, asked,

“Another mouth to feed and who is going to find the money?”

A rhetorical question, as she’d already known the answer. A week later the dog was gone. She blamed my father, said he’d left the front door open. Years later, in a bad pub in a bad part of town, I’d been told by an elderly tinker,

“Your oul wan, she gave us a pup one time.”

I’d finished my pint, said,

“All heart, she was.”

He’d blessed himself, said,

“Lord rest her.”

Yeah.

I was stopped almost still in the middle of Shop Street by this memory, hated her all over anew. And to add insult to memory, along came the cloud of nicotine, posing as a priest, Father Malachy, my nemesis for most of my bedraggled life. My mother’s tame escort, pious widows collected these bitter, soured bachelors, passing as priests and spreading bile.

“Taylor,”

He boomed.

Hard to believe but I’d not long ago saved his miserable arse, and was he grateful? Was he fuck?

A dedicated smoker, he had a cig between cigs and the attendant gray-yellow complexion. His loathing of me bothered me but little any more, though at odd times I relished the chance to rile the bollix.

Malachy reached into his dandruff-flecked jacket, found a crumpled pack of Carrolls, fired up, amid a shocking fit of coughing. To think I missed this addiction? I said,

“Still smoking?”

Got the look and,

“Bastards are saying I can’t smoke in me own house.”

His face was a picture in held rage. I pushed,

“Bastards. Your house?”

He stared at me like I was thick, said,

“The church, and the house is me home.”

I said,

“I thought the parish owned the house.”

He seemed to be on the verge of a coronary, spat,

“Wouldn’t be in this state if your mother had done the right thing.”

WTF?

So many things wrong with that sentence, I was almost lost for a reply until I got out,

“My mother?. . The right thing?”

He was on his next cigarette though he seemed unaware he was even smoking, said,

“She was supposed to leave me the house.”

My astonishment was equaled only by his sheer blindness. I said, very quietly,

“And her son, you don’t think he had a shout?”

“You? You were a thorn in her side. She had to offer you up for the souls in purgatory.”

I was tired of him, his whining, said,

“You have to laugh, though.”

“What? You pup you, what do you mean?”

“She pissed on your bogus piety and your brown-nosing got you the same result as me in the end.”

I’d turned to leave, he demanded,

“Result?”

“Yeah. . fuck all.”

Go Fish: How to Win Contempt and Influence People by Mr. Fish.

Stewart pushed the book aside, just couldn’t get his focus right. He tried to ground himself. When one in three families was three months behind in mortgage payments, he should be glad he owned his home. This form of tit-for-tat gratitude never worked for him. Decided he needed to bite down, latch on to something.

C33.

The papers had given it some play but their tone was: This wasn’t connected, just a series of random psycho acts and with the country being pulverized by a crazy government, who in truth really gave a fuck if someone was offing bad guys?

“Hey, maybe the killer could take a look at the guys running the bloody country?”

Called Jack, arranged a meeting, see what they could shake loose; they’d done it before. Ridge wasn’t shaping up to be much help but at least they had a Garda source. His car radio was playing and he caught

“. . The Red Hot Chili Peppers are restoring funk and taking the piss out of wankers who hijacked it and then didn’t know what to do with it.”

Stewart stared at the radio, asked,

“The fuck are you whining on about?”

One thing guaranteed to drive him off his Zen game was experts on rock ’n’ roll. He turned in to Merchants Road, paused, thought,

“Not too far from the last killing.”

He maneuvered his car into a space, surprised he’d managed to find a place, was getting out when a tall skinny guy came, galloping, shouting,

“Hey, you can’t park there. Move that car. Now.”

Stewart took a deep breath, drew on his extensive Zen techniques, asked quietly,

“What?”

Mistake.

Dealing with minor authority, never concede an inch, they’ll skin you alive. The guy was dressed in some sort of long yellow coat, like a uniform. He looked at Stewart with derision, said,

“Yellow lines, and what. . What do they tell us, eh?”

Stewart summoned the dregs of his dwindling patience, then gave the guy a slap in the mouth, said,

“They should tell us to mind our own freaking business.”

* * *

Stewart was still rubbing his knuckles when he sat opposite me in Java. I’d ordered him a chamomile tea and a double espresso for myself. I asked,

“Hit someone?”

He grinned, said,

“Yeah.”

Not sure if he was kidding, I let it slide, said,

“Chamomile tea, that’s good, right?”

He was different, not in any noticeable way, but the energy, it was now somewhere else, leading him on a whole alternative dance. I asked,

“How is Ridge doing?”

He sipped at the tea, his face not showing any love for the beverage, said,

“She’s, as you would delicately put it, fucking off to Australia.”

His face had taken on a shadow, blend of anger, sadness, and, I don’t know, loss? I went,

“But why?”

And now he held my gaze, said,

“You read the papers, watch the news, and you have to ask that?”

I’d finished my coffee without even tasting the bitter bite I relished, the empty cup was. . empty and I asked,

“What will we do?”

He gave me a radiant smile, lit with insincerity, said,

“Have to catch C33 before she goes, you think?”