Sanctuary

5

I hadn’t phoned ahead for an appointment with Superintendent Clancy — he’d have blown me off so I was going cold. I didn’t have far to go. The Guards station was at the top of Dominic Street, and a sign across from it, mounted over the river, proclaimed, ‘Call the Samaritans first!’

And what?

If they didn’t help, you could jump in the river?

The station was relatively quiet, and thank Christ, the young guard behind the counter didn’t know me. I asked if I might see the super. He inquired as to the nature of my business and asked for my name. I gave that then said, ‘Personal.’

He told me to take a seat and picked up the phone.

His face changed as he listened and I knew he was getting an earful on who I was. He summoned me and now he’d a hard edge. ‘He’s in a meeting. Won’t be free for at least two hours.’

I said I’d wait.

I’d been expecting this shite and had brought along a book, The Secular Journal of Thomas Merton.

Merton and a pint had been my staple diet for years until I lost faith in him and the pints lost faith in me. Fair trade off, I guess. Now I was trying to reconnect with him. I cracked open the book and hit on this:

‘I read William Saroyan when I was too tired to read the hard stuff.’

Jesus, I was too tired for the hard stuff.

I became engrossed in Merton’s account of Harlem and almost didn’t feel the three hours go by.

Almost.

The station was getting busy, a line of non-nationals seeking driving licences, passports, help. They were cowed and defeated in their demeanour.

Welcome to the land of a thousand welcomes.

A drunk was dragged in by two burly cops, shouting, ‘Kerry will win the All Ireland!’ As they tried to drag him to the cells, he spotted me, screamed, ‘I know you. You’re a drunk.’

I didn’t answer.

One of the guards gave him a wallop on the side of the head and he shut up. The non-nationals pretended not to see it; they were learning the game.

Finally, the young guard called me, said, ‘He’ll see you now.’ Then added with a smirk, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Right.

I was buzzed through to Clancy’s office. It was even larger than I remembered and alight with awards, citations, honours. He was dressed in his full regalia, the dress blues, the stripes. He’d put on a ton of weight, he looked like a fat Buddha in a uniform, without the serenity. On his massive desk was a sheaf of files and a framed photo of him, his wife, I presume and a young boy. There was a hard chair in front of the desk and I looked at it.

‘Don’t bother, you won’t be here long enough to warm yer arse,’ he said.

‘And good to see you too, Super.’

He snapped, ‘Boyo, don’t try any of your lip, I’ll have you out of here in jig time. I thought you’d fucked off to America and we were finally rid of you.’

I gave him my best smile. I have terrific teeth, cost me a bundle after a guy removed my old ones with an iron bar. I said, ‘I got sidetracked.’

He leaned back in his chair, gave me his full inspection, then said, ‘A hearing aid! Doesn’t seem to have improved your ability to listen much. What do you want? And make it brief.’

I told him about the letter, showed it to him.

He laughed, not out of warmth or humour, asked, ‘You write this yourself, Taylor?’

I counted to ten, then said, ‘Garda Flynn was killed, just like it says there.’

He threw the letter back at me. ‘An unfortunate hit and run. Is this what you’ve wasted my time for?’

I tried to remember the time when we’d been friends, but it was too long ago. I asked, ‘Won’t you at least check it out?’

He stood up. Despite his weight, he was still imposing. Oozing hostility, he said, ‘We have serious business to attend to, not this nonsense. Take my advice, Taylor. Get the fuck to America or wherever, there’s nothing for you in this town, in my town.’

I stood up. ‘And if there’s another death, what then?’

He shook his head. ‘Go on, get out of here. Have a drink or something, it’s all you’re fit for.’

At the door I said, ‘God bless you.’

He indicated my book, said, ‘It’s that rubbish that has you the nobody you are.’