Sanctuary

9

I readied myself for Ridge, not sure how she was going to receive my proposal that she join my firm. Yeah, I know how that sounds — my one and only employee had been my surrogate son, Cody, and as the Americans say, ‘he took a bullet for me’. . literally, and he was now where just about everyone who had contact with me was.

Buried.

I was still reeling from the revelation that I wasn’t responsible for Serena May’s death. It had been the focal point of my whole existence these past years. The guilt, the nightmares — and wallop, I didn’t do it.

I could now finally think about that gorgeous child, the button nose, the cherubic face, and not be devastated. Christ, I loved her more than mere alcohol would allow, and worse, she loved me too. I made her laugh and she had such a wondrous heart-warming one, you could believe in angels. And even as I thought this, the church bell from the Claddagh began to toll. The old people say, ‘When you hear a bell ring, it’s an angel getting her wings.’ Mind you, the old folk believe all kinds of weird shite. Still, I kind of liked the notion, though I knew fuck all about angels. Demons and devils were my crew.

Another pishog, that’s Irish for a story that is not only untrue but superstitious too, is that if you find a white feather, an angel is close by.

Bollocks. . right?

And how it goes, the line from Kristofferson’s song came unbidden, about a bell in loneliness being rung.

I turned on the radio as I dressed, and the nurses were on strike, the swans were dying from some mysterious virus, and the water, always the water these days. Dentists were advertising that they only used bottled water when you rinsed and the priests were using bottled water in the fonts. I don’t know about holy water but it sure was expensive. The poor and the needy were being given free bottled water with their state hand-out. The council, as we headed into Lent, were now saying that it would be September before the water could be declared safe. And we were going to believe them then?

The pubs were swearing that their ice was made from bottled water. The supermarkets were panicbuying all of the supplies of bottled water. A little girl had asked, if you go swimming, will the sea be boiled first?

Most important of all, for the ones who ruled the city, was the fear of tourists staying away, and already counties like Donegal were trading on our misfortune, advertising COME TO WHERE THE WATER IS SAFE.

I had boiled up a stash of water and put it in plastic bottles.

A new traffic superintendent, who’d been lecturing us for the whole month about the evils of drink-driving and how he’d bring the wrath of God on anyone caught, was arrested by a young rookie, so drunk he could hardly get into his car. Did he get the wrath of God? He got a golden handshake of nigh on a quarter of a million and his pension of forty thousand euro was untouchable.

Some wrath, eh?

And to cap it all, as the elections approached, the prime minister was being accused by his former driver of bringing money in plastic bags to Manchester. He seemed highly indignant — more about the plastic bags than the money.

I drained the last of my coffee and was about to go when Philip Fogarty and Anna Lardi came on with the haunting ‘Lullaby For The Nameless’. It is as gut-wrenching as the title suggests. I felt a jolt in my heart and an aching for a very large Jameson. The booze had inched a degree nearer.

I was wearing a sweatshirt that had a faded but legible logo that proclaimed: SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. Perfect for a PI in disguise.

Fogarty had another killer with ‘Inhumane’, but that was too close to the bone for me. I got the hell out of there. I adjusted my hearing aid to low, and in my newish 501s felt my limp wasn’t too noticeable.

The weather had been unseasonably sunny and I turned my face up to the sun, felt the early-morning heat. I turned right by the fire station and headed out towards the tech college. A business school was situated next to the park there and a cluster of students were outside, smoking. Since the smoking ban had come into effect, more young people than ever had taken up the habit and as I passed, I heard them chatter. Not one of them was Irish. One tenth of the population was now non-national and the number was increasing. If they were happy to be in our shiny new rich country, they were hiding it well. They scowled at me as I passed, but maybe it was because I seemed. . admit it. . old. As I turned into Grattan Road, I could see the beach, the ocean, and I let it soothe me as it always did.

A man was sitting on a bench. He had a collie on a leash, straining to get free and run on the beach. He was wearing a heavy black-leather jacket. He looked up and smiled, revealing huge gaps in his teeth. ‘Jack Taylor, I heard you were in the madhouse.’

Nice greeting.

I could have said the country was one open-air asylum, but went with ‘How’ve you been?’

This is the Irish version of ‘I’ve no idea what your name is.’

And I didn’t.

He drew up a huge amount of phlegm from his heaving chest then spat to the side and said, ‘I’m well fucked. They say I have a tumour on me lungs and need treatment.’

He needed some lessons in manners too, but I kept that to meself, asked, ‘When do you begin?’

He reined in the dog, pulling harshly on the lead and cutting off the poor thing’s air, looked at me as if I was stupid, went, ‘Begin what?’

I wanted to get the hell away from him, sighed. ‘The treatment.’

He gave a very nasty laugh. ‘Don’t be fucking dense, Taylor. You let them butchers at you, you’re already buried.’

Before I could venture an opinion, he pointed to the beach. ‘See that family, down near the water?’

A black family, their laughter and joy carrying on the Galway breeze. They looked happy and it eased the darkness this guy was breathing.

He said, ‘Niggers, stealing our country right from under us. Try getting a white doctor in the hospital.’ He let out a sneering laugh which caused another upshot of spit. ‘. . Good fucking luck. All the white doctors have legged it to Dublin, and you know, if I let Brandy here loose to run on the beach like she loves, them bastards would think, dinner.’

Disgusted, I turned to go. I muttered, ‘Take care.’

He patted his jacket. ‘I’m carrying a hatchet, that’s all the care I need.’

You could ask what made him so nuts, so full of hatred. All I can say is: ‘the new Ireland’.

No matter how hostile Ridge was going to be, she’d be a ray of sunshine compared to him. There’s a song titled ‘Home Is Where The Hatred Is’.

I thanked Christ I couldn’t remember the words.