Sanctuary

8

I’d just approached the entrance to my flat when a BMW pulled up, like in the movies or a bad novel, with a screech of brakes. The door opened and what Mickey Spillane would call a bruiser got out. He was one of the largest men I’ve ever seen, and remember, I’d trained as a young guard with the men from the Midlands and they don’t come much bigger. This guy was.

He didn’t quite have cauliflower ears but it was a close call. Scar tissue round his eyes testified to his time as a boxer. He moved right up to me, said, ‘Taylor, someone wants to meet you.’

He was wearing an expensive suit but it didn’t conceal his bulk; he was used to his sheer size doing his work for him. I was in a pretty shitty frame of mind, close to real meltdown, and this fuck, with his tone, got me in all the wrong ways. I asked, ‘And who might that be?’

He gave a condescending smile, making me like him even less, if possible, and sneered, ‘All in good time, bud. Get in the car.’

Bud?

He was right in my face and I could smell aniseed on his breath, very strong and nauseating. I asked, ‘And if I don’t?’

He loved that, like he’d been hoping I’d take that route. He jabbed a fat finger in my chest and said, ‘Then I’ll put you in.’

I kneed him in the balls, hard, and as he doubled over, I caught him by his expensive lapel and said, ‘Tell your boss to make an appointment and get some decent help.’

I gave him a light slap on the face, added, ‘And don’t call me bud.’

I let him slump to the ground and went inside feeling a whole lot better. My gay neighbour was waiting, wringing his hands, looking scared. I was in no mood for theatrics, snapped, ‘What?’

He was shaking as he handed me a leaflet and asked, ‘Have you seen this?’

‘What the fuck is it now?’

I took the leaflet, read:

BUGGER BOYS ARE A VIRUS

LEAVE WHILE YOU STILL CAN

THIS IS NOT A WARNING

IT’S A PROMISE.

O. F. R. L.

I read it twice. ‘What do the initials stand for?’

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘You don’t know?’

Jesus.

‘If I bloody knew, would I be asking?’ My meltdown was back.

He wrung his hands some more and said, ‘Organization For Right Living.’

I thought, Just what the town needs. The water is poisoned and here are a bunch of crazies with their own brand of poison.

I said, ‘Fucking head cases. Chuck it in the bin.’

Still shaking, he said, ‘They’ve been beating up gay people outside clubs.’

Bollocks. ‘People get walloped outside clubs all the time, it’s part of the entertainment. How do you even know it’s them?’

He stood back, his outrage overcoming his fear, and said, ‘Because they have a hot iron and brand those letters on your hand.’

I’d had enough. ‘So stay home or call the cops.’

He spat, ‘The cops, right, they would just love to defend homosexuals. In Catholic Ireland, they’re probably part of the organization.’

As I put the key in my door I said, ‘You run across them, give me a shout.’

I was inside, shutting the door when he called, ‘And who exactly is it you’d help, them or me?’

I turned the radio on to drown him out.

My mind was in tatters. The shattering thought that I wasn’t responsible for the death of Serena May was too much to take in. All those years of guilt and the subsequent fallout because of it.

Jesus wept.

Here’s the horrendous deal: an alcoholic can stay dry under the most trying circumstances. You’ll hear people wonder that he didn’t drink at the wedding/ funeral/when everybody expected him to.

An alkie can stumble drinkless through all these minefields, and then one tiny incident, like a shoelace snapping or a carton of milk spilling, and wallop, he’s off on the most almighty binge.

Ordinary people can’t understand this and even the alkie is baffled.

I was in this zone now.

I was, as it were, nigh exonerated of the ferocious burden that had marked and dogged my every waking moment, and now, free in a sense, I wanted to drink more than during all the days of darkness. I must have been grappling with all of this for hours till, exhausted, I dozed off.

The phone pulled me from my sleep. My neck was stiff from lolling in the armchair. I grabbed the phone, muttering, ‘Better be fucking good.’

Said, ‘Yeah?’

‘Mr Taylor?’

Uh-oh. Mister. Not a promising start. I snarled, ‘So?’

An intake of breath, then a very cultured voice, what we call the West Brit one, went, ‘Mr Taylor, firstly let me apologize for my man’s heavy-handed tactics, He has received a stern reprimand. .’ An amused chuckle, then he continued, ‘But I think it was mild in comparison to your own — shall we say, response. The poor chap is still bent over.’

I wanted a drink, a large one, and now. ‘I get it, you’re the prick who wants to see me. Didn’t you ever consider asking politely? And how did you get my address?’

I’d been worried about the psycho who sent the letter knowing where I lived, and now this guy knew too — the thug had been waiting outside my home.

I asked, more forcibly, ‘How do you know where I live?’

A pause, then he said, ‘Mr Taylor, I know a lot of influential people and trust me, they know where everybody is located, and I mean everybody. And in truth, you are not the hardest man in the city to find.’

Another pause as he let me digest this.

He cleared his throat. ‘I deeply regret the fumbled attempt to make contact with you, but I will compensate you adequately.’

I cut him off. ‘Who the hell are you? And what’s the urgency in meeting me? And OK, my address, you asked around — but how did you get my phone number?’

He gave a slight sigh as if I was slow. ‘I had my man spread around a few euro in your usual haunts and sure enough, a man — a friend of yours, I suppose — gave it up for twenty. Tut tut, Jack. Select your friends more carefully, or at least the ones you give your number to.’

I was very angry. It was that easy to get my number? I felt I already had his. A wanker with money and an over-developed sense of his own importance. He said, ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’

Only much later did I realize how similar to The Stones’ opening line of ‘Sympathy For The Devil’ this sounded.

‘I’m Anthony Bradford-Hemple. No doubt you are familiar with the name?’

I’d like to say he uttered this with smugness or conceit, but no, it was simply a matter of fact. The whole world knew him; his name was a given.

I did know it.

Anglo-Irish landowners, they owned large tracts of land outside Oranmore and were famous for their stables, but like many of these families, the sheer upkeep of their large estates, the cost of heating their old houses, had made them tighten their belts. An Irish irony: as the ordinary people got wealthy from our new prosperity, these old relics of affluent history were feeling, as they’d term it themselves, the pinch.

I hadn’t actually heard a dicky bird about them in a long time as they’d gone off the radar. And OK, I didn’t exactly move in circles where their names came up much.

You’re an ex-guard with a limp, a hearing aid and a drink problem, the goings-on of the rich and famous aren’t your top priority. I wasn’t likely to be applying for a subscription to Hello! magazine, but was I going to admit to knowing him?

Was I fuck.

I said, ‘That name doesn’t mean dick to me, fellah.’

A slight intake of breath as he digested the insult, then, ‘Well, Mr Taylor, they did warn me that you had a caustic tongue, but regardless, I’d like to engage your services.’

I let him hear me sigh, went, ‘Let’s hear it.’

He cleared his throat and I wondered if he wore a cravat — they nearly always did. He said, ‘My only daughter Jennifer was sixteen a few weeks back and, naturally, I got her a pony.’

Naturally.

His voice shook. ‘The pony was stolen and I received its tail in the mail, with a note saying that if I didn’t pay fifty thousand euros, Jennifer would be next.’

Jesus.

I’ve had swans, dogs feature in my battered history, and now ponies. What was I? The alky version of Ace Ventura?

He added, ‘The police claim they are working on it, but so far, nothing, You have a reputation for getting results when the official channels fail. Will you help me? Please, Mr Taylor, I’ll reward you handsomely. My wife died some years ago and Jennifer is all I have.’

Then I had a thought. I wanted to get Ridge back on track and I knew she loved horses, so I said, ‘Give me your address and I’ll have my associate contact you.’

He wasn’t wild about that, but I assured him she’d only be taking notes and I’d be handling the case personally.

He ended with, ‘You won’t regret this, Mr Taylor.’

I already did.