Purgatory

19

Has a line in there about rock ’n’ roll saving her life. This may well be the ultimate Irish version of Irish irony, meaning the added sting of pure vindictiveness, posing as coincidence.

John Patrick Sheridan was thirteen years old. Ridge was thirty-nine. A bright fine Tuesday, John was rushing to school and crashed into Ridge, who was en route to collect her new car. He mumbled,

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Ma’am?

She hissed,

“Little bastard.”

And they should never really have met again, but their paths had crossed and one more time, they would, as it were. . collide.

Neither would ever know the other, yet they would influence each other more than anything else in either of their lives. A brief footnote of interest to those of a macabre, not to say lunatic, bent is that John’s dad, back in the chemical day, had been a huge “Underground head.”

Some events are writ in water.

This chance encounter was danced lightly across the Claddagh basin, its recognizance already reaching out toward what was an unremarkable bridge just outside Oranmore. But such concepts are rooted in mumbo jumbo, signifying little but a deep longing for connection.

Meaning ultimately little but cheap coincidence and fanciful shite talk.

Stewart was sitting in my flat, looking demented. He had laid out his theory on Westbury, his unity certainty on the C33 victims. I’d listened as if I cared, as if I were interested. When he wound up, he asked,

“So, Jack, what do you think?”

I considered carefully, said,

“Cobblers.”

Before he could argue, I said,

“Too, Westbury is a friend of mine.”

Enraged him, spat,

“You have a lawyer friend?”

Now I was spitting iron, said,

“Oh, I get it. The drunk nonuniversity bollix can’t have. .” I paused to raise sufficient venom, bitter bile “. . an educated friend, that it?”

He was on his feet, our friendship spiraling away, leaking all the good points like worthless euros, as close to physical confrontation as we’d ever come. He said,

“Oh, don’t play the fucking working-class hero bullshite, Jack Taylor, man of the people.”

My mind clicked, Stewart’s martial arts, his skill in kickboxing, and figured a fast kick in the balls was the route. He asked,

“When you beat a stalker senseless a few years back. .”

I stopped, asked,

“Yeah?”

The fierceness seemed to have drained away and his eyes were turned in. I wondered what was going on that I’d missed.

He continued,

“Did you feel any guilt after?”

“Sure.”

He seemed relieved.

Until

I added,

“Guilt I hadn’t killed the fucker when I had the chance.”

He shook his head, went,

“Always the hard arse.”

Times I’d been called this, called worse in truth and did, a bit, anyway, ask my own self if there was validity? I like that.

Validity.

Makes me sound American and a solid guest on Dr. Phil. Truth being, I warranted an appearance more on Jeremy Kyle, who was Jerry Springer light. Such a self-examination usually rode point with a few Jamesons under my conscience and the answer was mostly

“Not hard enough.”

Stewart asked,

“How about this? If I find a bit more evidence on Westbury, something else connecting him to the victims, will you reconsider?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” my mind on the Euro Qualifiers, Ireland against Croatia. The country needed this championship so badly. Stewart followed soccer but in that academic way that annoys the shit out of a true believer. He analyzed games, played like you would snooker, never the shot before him but the ones to come, and sure enough, had said,

“It’s Spain I worry about, then Italy.”

I said,

“They’d love you in Croatia.”

“Why?”

“You have us already beaten.”

The ferocious vibe between us had stepped down a notch. It was there, simmering but blunted. He grabbed his jacket, said,

“Always good to chat with you, Jack.”

Did I have to have the last word?

Yeah, said,

“A friend in need is God’s version of The Apprentice.”