The Devil

9

.

I clawed at my face in total panic and it took me, I dunno, a lifetime?, to realize it was water.

The shock was almost as bad as if it had been acid.

If.

In my days as a Guard, I’d once seen the result of such an attack on a woman. I was one of the first to arrive and her face was like it had melted. One eye had completely dissolved and bones stuck out at horrendous angles in her screaming face.

What had been her face.

Her mouth was gone and the screams were a high-pitched croon of absolute terror.

A jealous boyfriend.

The courts let him off with a stern caution.

My sergeant at the time, true old school, had told me to meet him after work. Said,

‘Bring a hurley.’

I did.

He taught me the lesson of the ash.

And that was how I began to appreciate that true justice is dispensed in alleys.

The boyfriend learned sharp and fast, and what I most remember is that neither the sergeant nor I said one single word.

Just used those hurleys till sweat near blinded us.

He took me for a pint after.

Wasn’t till we were on the other good side of a few that he finally said,

‘You’re one hard bastard, Taylor. Where d’you learn to shut yer gob and do the job?’

I told the truth.

‘Christian Brothers.’

He laughed, enjoyed that and said,

‘Their day is coming. Not even that crowd are above the law.’

Twenty years ago, that seemed unthinkable.

But then, so did X Factor.

Now I wiped my face with my sleeve, my whole body threatening to go into shock.

I got out of there. God knows I even brought the DVDs with me.

Headed for the docks.

What used to be the docks before the luxury-apartments bastards ruined them.

Even Padraigeen’s, one of the great pubs, was now Sheridan’s. With a fucking restaurant.

But no city ever fully goes under.

Drayton’s.

You won’t find it on the tourist map.

It’s not for tourists.

Or

backpackers,

New Agers,

sherry drinkers.

It’s for serious business.

Drink,

dope,

and whatever else you’re willing to pay the freight on.

It’s like the shebeens you used to find up North.

Same feel.

There’s not so much a bouncer on the door as a killer waiting to unleash.

I went to school with him.

He said,

‘Jack.’

I nodded.

Inside it was smoky. The no-smoking edict wasn’t much in effect here. There was one simple rule, apart from down-and-dirty drinking. ‘Mind yer own fucking business.’

I got a corner stool at the counter and waited.

Mrs Drayton – yes, there was an actual Drayton – saw me, and after a few minutes put a pint of the black and a large Jay before me.

I laid some notes on the counter. Asked,

‘How’s himself?’

Her husband.

She ignored the money. No one was going to grab it lest they wanted to lose their arm. She stubbed a hand-rolled on the floor, said,

‘Dead, thank Christ.’

I can’t say she ever liked anybody. She’d been briefly in the Magdalen laundries, so what did you expect? Oprah?

But she had a kind of odd regard for me. Due mainly to some work I’d done on behalf of the tinkers.

So she lingered.

Then,

‘Was there anything else you’d be wanting, Jack?’

I said,

‘Some personal protection.’

She never looked around.

You didn’t eavesdrop on her conversation, at least not twice. She asked,

‘You want people or merchandise?’

‘Something easy to carry.’

She gave what might be interpreted as a smile. Headed back to serving some sailors who’d been stranded in Galway for weeks and were waiting payment for two months’ service.

If their wages ever came, Mrs Drayton already owned it all.

Maybe thirty minutes later, she placed a Supermacs bag before me. Said,

‘Probably smells of chips and vinegar, but I’d say you’d live with that.’

I didn’t touch it.

Flashes of Emma, her heart torn out, jagging across my mind.

I heard her say,

‘Pay Sean on your way out.’

The bouncer.

I let five minutes lapse then headed for the toilet.

Got a stall and pulled out the bag, a Sig Sauer, full clip.

I shoved it in me jacket then pulled it out, pushed the magazine home and felt, if not better, at least ready.

The price had been written in pencil on the outside of the bag.

Not cheap, but could have been worse.

I wouldn’t be paying by credit card.

Back at the counter, I finished my drinks and she approached, held out a bottle cap, said,

‘You believe this?’

A bottle cap?

I knew better than to be a smart Alec, waited and she said,

‘Turn it over.’

I did.

A gleaming miraculous medal on the inside.

I said,

‘Mhuire an Gras.’ (Mary of Grace).

Handed it back to her, or tried to, and she wrapped her huge work-worn calloused hands round my hand, said,

‘You keep it, gasun.’

Gasun. Jesus, the Irish for ‘boy’ but in the most affectionate way.

*

I was on my way back to the apartment and was trying to figure out what all the traffic was doing, all headed for the cathedral. As I was but a prayer from there, it had me puzzled.

Then the bells started ringing and I realized.

The annual Novena.

Nine days of deep devotion, masses at all hours and hordes of people.

It was kind of reassuring that people still believed.

Such a country of contradictions.

Massive unemployment, like we hadn’t seen for twenty years.

And the people came to church, donated money like we were still prosperous.

The number-one album in the country was by – I swear to God – the Priests.

No, not some punk band trying for notoriety, but three actual priests, like a celestial Three Tenors.

I got into the apartment just as yet another fall of snow began.

I took my jacket off, put the Sig on the coffee table and looked again at my DVDs. Maybe I’d watch something as I finally grabbed some food.

I sat on the couch, the sudden feel of the acid manqué on my face, and shuddered. Mercifully, sleep or exhaustion took me out of the game.

The phone jerked me out of a fitful dream and I lunged for the Sig.

Shook myself and then picked up the phone.

Stewart.

No intro.

‘Jack, did you send Ridge on some job?’

Trying to sit up and ease the crick in my neck, I said,

‘Er…oh yeah, to visit a family in Salthill, to read the riot act to some bullying kids.’

Silence.

I shouted,

‘What?’

He sighed, said,

‘She’s in the hospital, got badly beaten up by some guy.’

Oh holy fuck.

I asked,

‘Where is she?’

‘In NUI hospital.’

I hung up.

Made some strong coffee, downed two Xanax and splashed water on me bedraggled face. Pulled on my jacket and grabbed the Sig, thinking,

Gotta get some food in sometime.

The bells for the evening Novena were peeling loud.

I muttered,

‘Ask not for whom…’

It’s but a jig and a reel to the hospital from Nun’s Island, but the church crowds and the heavy snow made progress slow and by the time I got there, I was sweating like a Cork full back.

I hate hospitals.

Always, always the worst news for me there.

I got to reception and found out that Ridge was on the third floor. Out of intensive care, thank God.

I took the stairs and ran smack into Anthony.

Her husband.

Who grabbed me by my lapels, shouted in my face,

‘Taylor, what were you thinking, sending my darling to those thugs?’

His spittle was spattering over my face and I had a flashback of the acid. I brought up both my arms and in one movement not only broke his grip but sent him careening backwards.

I’d had all the shite I could manage for one day.

And worse, as he struggled to keep his balance, I went after him.

Blind rage.

Stewart grabbed me from behind, moved me to one side, whispered,

‘Take it easy, Jack.’

Yeah, what I do best.

Easy.

He manoeuvred me into one of those uncomfortable chairs they outbid McDonald’s for. Asked,

‘Heaven’s sake, Jack, what’s with you?’

He was kidding?

Nope.

So I near spat,

‘He put his fucking hands on me, and I know he’s Anglo, beating peasants is their heirloom, but gee, guess what, we don’t take that shite any more.’

Aggression was pouring off me in waves.

Stewart said,

‘The seat of your stamina is the dan tien, centred just below your navel. Now feel the heat rise to your extremities, and-’

I shut him up.

Fast.

‘Keep your dan fucking whatever and tell me what happened to Ridge.’

He cast a glance at Anthony, who, I swear to Christ, looked like he was going to come back for more.

I sure hoped he was.

Stewart focused me back, said,

‘She went to the home of those children you told her about, in uniform, and was seemingly in mid…er…admonishment, when the father arrived home. He has, it appears, a somewhat volatile nature and attacked Ridge.’

He had to pause, take a deep breath, then,

‘The man was arrested and charged. Normally, you attack a Guard, they throw away the key. You know that, Jack, right?’

There was a but.

I already knew what was coming, but waited. He continued,

‘Mr Sawyer is already out on bail, his daughters claiming that Ridge slapped them, and you know, the Guards are not exactly in the high esteem they once were, what with that shooting of the boy in Ballyclara, and any suggestion of over-zealous policing is frowned upon. He has the best lawyers, of course, and in fact plays golf with your erstwhile colleague, Chief Clancy, so he will walk, and Ridge may not only lose her stripes, but her job is in jeopardy. You put a young girl on any stand, crying that a Guard slapped her, how’s that going to play? So he’s laughing at the actual charge, said he may well sue.’

I had a thousand things to reply, all involving heavy profanity, but he added,

‘And of course, the fact that she is known to be

a) a friend of yours,

b) gay,

c) suffering post-mastectomy stress…

Well, Jack, you do the math.’

I could see her, delighted to be back in uniform, wearing her sergeant’s stripes, and God knows, she’d earned them. I said,

‘Being in uniform, being a Guard, it has a sense of…Jesus, I don’t know, purpose. But as a convict, you’re probably not that fond of uniforms.’

I wanted to hurt him.

I wanted to hurt somebody.

He was nearest.

He took it. Said,

‘We had our own uniform there, the denim. But unlike you, we might have taken it off, but it never quite left us.’

Deep.

Very.

I snapped,

‘Fascinating as your prison experiences no doubt are, could we get to Ridge?’

He faltered, only for a second. I’d wounded him. He stood back, said,

‘Mr Sawyer broke her nose and some ribs, and kicked her in places where a woman is not really built to be kicked.’

He paused, then,

‘Does that bring you up to speed, Garda Taylor?’

His voice was ice.

But did I reel it in, ease up?

Alas.

I asked,

‘When can I see her?’

He began to turn away, said,

‘Ask the doctor.’

I did finally get to see a doctor, who said she was stable and maybe tomorrow she might be receiving visitors.

I knew I should go and, if not make things right with Stewart, at least make the effort, and Anthony, he was best left alone, I thought. I did give the bottle cap to Stewart, who was horrified. He asked,

‘Are you out of your mind completely?’

I said,

‘It’s for Ridge – turn it over. What is that shite you guys chant? Live in expectation of a miracle. Or as your Zen masters might put it, things are not always what they seem.’

Then I did what I seem to do best, I left.

Nobody shouted,

‘Mind how you go.’