Sanctuary

18

I lost two weeks.

My last conscious memory is being in the pub where Jeff worked, and finally we got to meet. I was well en route to oblivion, skipping the Guinness, just nose into the Jameson when he appeared. He was dressed much as he always had been: the black 501s, granddad shirt and the waistcoat — what the Americans call a vest — and the long grey hair tied in a ponytail. Our previous encounters, I’d been totally contrite, taken whatever lashing he had to give and he’d had plenty.

Not any more.

Not only did I have the back-up of most of a litre of booze in my gut, but I also had the knowledge that I wasn’t responsible for the death of his child. Lethal combination.

He said, ‘Jack, I heard you’d been in.’

Jesus, was that an almost friendly tone? For one brief moment, I remembered the warm, close friendship we’d had. But the madness that was building overrode the memory and I said, ‘I was beginning to think you were a rumour paraded as a fact.’

He smiled. ‘Always the way with a turn of phrase.’

I asked, ‘How’s the missus?’

Like a punch in the face and I knew he knew. Pain leaked from his eyes, cancelling the brief smile. He asked, ‘Got a minute to talk? Over in the corner there, bit of quiet.’

I said, ‘Always got time for an old friend, right? Why don’t you do some bar stuff, like get me a jar, and I’ll get us some seats. How would that be, old buddy?’

I cringe now at the recollection and I’d love to plead I didn’t mean it.

Sure I did.

He nodded and headed behind the bar. I grabbed some seats, feeling the very worst thing a person can feel and certainly the most dangerous — feeling self-righteous.

I’d say God forgive me but it seems pointless when I can’t forgive myself.

Jeff returned with a Jameson and a mug of coffee, a logo on the side proclaiming, Is bheannacht an obair (blessed is the work).

Whatever you might say about God, he sure likes a good laugh.

I wondered if the murderous ex-nun out there would appreciate the irony. Jeff sat and put the drink before me, refraining from commenting about my drinking. He said, ‘So, you’ve heard the story about Cathy and — ’ He had to gulp, as if his air was cut off before he could say the name of his child, ‘ — Serena May.’

I knew it wasn’t his fault, what had happened, but no way, no fucking way was I cutting him any slack. The years of guilt and grief I’d endured and he was there, in front of me.

I asked venomously, ‘And when were you planning on letting me know that I wasn’t responsible? All the fucking times you threatened me — remember those, buddy?’ I had to pause to catch my breath, I was so enraged. ‘When exactly were you going to say, “Gee, sorry, pal, I was wrong”? Or were you hoping I wouldn’t hear? That we could just forget about it and, what’s the buzz word? fucking move on? Just one of those things that happens, but what the hell, time healeth all and let’s, what, count the fucking days to Christmas?’

He hung his head and muttered, ‘Jack, when I heard, it nearly killed me. I still can’t grasp it. I-’

I stood up and asked, ‘Where’s the murderous bitch now?’

His head came up, the eyes momentarily flashed, and I thought, You poor bastard, you still love her.

Then he said, ‘She’s in treatment. They say it will take a long time.’

I picked up the glass, the amber liquid catching the light from the street, like a moment’s sad grace. I said, ‘Thank God, she’s been taken care of. You tell her I wish her a speedy fucking recovery and I look forward to seeing her. And this. .’ I indicated the glass, poured the whiskey slowly on the floor, letting each drop lash his heart, ‘This you can shove up yer arse.’