The Devil

10

Kelehan’s is just across the road from the hospital but is now called the River Inn.

No sign of the river.

It was karaoke night.

Some poor misguided bastard was mangling ‘The Impossible Dream’.

I got a double Jay, pint and a corner table.

Hoping to dear God I wouldn’t go calling on Mr Sawyer, especially as I had the Sig tucked in me jacket.

I’d tapped into a decent blast of me booze when I felt a man stand over me.

Looked up and by all the serendipity, it was Sergeant Cullen, just about the only friend I had still with the Guards.

But to meet him again so soon?

He asked if he might sit down.

I nodded.

He had a pint of Smithwick’s, barely touched, said,

‘I’m sorry about Ban Ni Iomaire.’

Ridge – her Irish name. Nearly made me smile.

Nearly.

He said,

‘One of the Force gets hit, we gather. But you know that.’

Yeah.

A silence till I said the fucking cliché,

‘Bad business.’

And then from nowhere, it all hit me and I felt a panic attack. I excused meself, went to the toilet and threw up in the hand basin, taking the Sig out of my jacket and setting it down on the porcelain. It made a dull metallic thud as it hit.

Looked in the mirror and saw the sergeant behind me. He said,

‘Jack, put that away.’

I did.

I washed my face and he handed me a paper towel, said,

‘Sawyer is a bad un. Major dope dealer but he has juice, and when he saw Ban Ni Iomaire, he reverted to old ways.’

I sighed, asked,

‘And?’

‘Well, he’s already out on bail, citing police harassment.’

Same old shite.

I asked,

‘What, he’ll get a wee slap on the wrist and yada fucking yada, right?’

He looked away, couldn’t meet my eyes, said,

‘He’ll run out of luck, but Jack, stay out of this.’

I smiled, said,

‘We’re missing the best bit of “Impossible Dream”.’

*

I went home.

If home is where the heart is, then I simply went back to my latest accommodation.

I kept my mind in neutral, dropped two Xanax, put on one of the DVDs, not even looking at the title.

It was Doubt.

Way back when, a young priest, upped on the New Vatican council and all that gung-ho good vibe, was friendly to his students. Till Meryl Streep, as convincing a merciless nun as ever Ireland produced, went after him. Called him a paedophile.

Should have just titled it Priest.

Like that would work.

I finally decided it was time I ate and about the one thing I can cook with intent is chilli.

Had all the ingredients and made that baby sing.

Red peppers,

hopping beans,

onions,

garlic,

and what the fuck,

a decent shot of Jay.

If it tasted anything like it was smelling, I was good to go. And it felt good to be doing, if not normal, at least ordinary stuff.

The Xanax kicked and I was chilling, as the young Irish say.

Enough with the heavy shite though.

I ejected Doubt, put on Alien vs Predator to get some reality into me life.

Found a book of poetry in the closet when I was looking for chives and opened it at random, found these lines:

…that came

With days

Being spent

Too long alone

A faint yet fainter whisper

That asked

To be

With you

Those moments

Before

The close.

No wonder it was in the closet.

I stopped. I was in the kitchen, but had I heard something come through my letterbox at this hour of the night?

Now we have the best postal guys in the world. But surely not at this time.

I put it down to the mellowness I was experiencing.

On the screen, it sure looked like the predator was kicking the living be-jaysus out of the alien.

I buttered a French roll I didn’t even remember buying, but it was vaguely in date, like me life, so what the hell?

Got everything in situ – always wanted to use one of those Latin terms – and moved the feast to the coffee table.

Sat finally, hungry, and out of the corner of my eye, saw an envelope on the mat.

A plain white envelope.

The quandary?

Eat first and sustain the mellow mood, orbollix.

I got up, grabbed the envelope, tore it open and a scratch card fell out.

The success and popularity of these items never ceased to astonish me. The latest one I’d heard about, big cash prize, and in times of dire poverty these friggin’ things were selling better than ever.

I’d never bought one in me whole life.

Plus a note.

Read:

Jack,

Sorry about the over-zealous minion.

But I have a devilish feeling this scratch is the ONE.

See you soon.

Stay away from fast-food joints.

They clog the arteries.

K.

I did what you do.

I scratched the card.

The numbers matched.

I’d won 25,000 Euro.

The chilli went cold.

I woke next morning, seriously regretting the chilli.

I was sick as forty dogs and then some.

But the old Xanax.

Sure, it would kick like a frigging mule one of these days. I remembered the pictures of Whitney in the National Enquirer a few years back.

I popped two after I threw up what looked like most of the red peppers.

Least I hoped it was them and not some vital organ.

Chilli, unlike revenge, is not a dish best eaten cold.

Pieces of the previous evening started to come back.

In neon.

Jesus.

There’s a lot to be said for total blackouts.

As I waited for the X to weave its spell, I got into the shower, turned the bastard to roasting and…roasted.

Then tried a very shaky shave.

Let’s say it was a wee bit haphazard, but hey, the X was kicking in.

I got dressed: battered denim shirt to accessorize me battered soul, a pair of white cords that were one wash away from shredding, warm sweatshirt that celebrated the Phillies’ 2008 win, me Gore-Tex boots.

The snow hadn’t fucked off yet.

Neither had the government.

And then I saw the scratch card.

Had I dreamt that?

Approached it real careful.

Oh my sweet Lord.

Scanned it a dozen times, it didn’t change.

I had won twenty-five large, plus the zeros.

I did a little jig, right there on me wooden floor.

Then remembered where it had come from.

The Devil’s coin?

Was I literally going to be bought?

By that fuck?

You betcha.

I asked meself,

‘What does that make you?’

Maybe the X replied, but I said aloud,

‘Fucking loaded is what.’

Hemingway had a handy dictum.

You want to know if something is morally right?

Listen to your stomach.

If it sits like broken glass, then it’s morally wrong.

My stomach felt warm and delighted.

I checked the weather – more snow en route – so got me Garda coat and watch cap.

Headed out.

Claiming me winnings took a bit of time, but I had time, and waited.

Finally, bingo.

I phoned Stewart.

Not to share the glad tidings of me win.

I was delighted, but not stupid.

He was cold in tone. But what the hell. I tried,

‘I was out of line, I’m sorry.’

Silence.

OK.

Then he said,

‘Apology accepted, I guess everyone was a little bent out of shape.’

I let that slide.

Touching the Sig in me jacket, I asked,

‘How is Ridge?’

Pause.

Then,

‘She’s doing good, much better than they anticipated. But Jack…’

I knew what was coming.

‘Might be better if you, er, stayed away.’

I promised I would and then, bloody pushing it, he cautioned,

‘And best if you stay away from the Sawyers.’

I bit down, like the Iris DeMent song, and swallowed hard, said,

‘Of course.’

He was suspicious, I guess he’d seen me in action too often, said,

‘Jack, I worry when you’re too agreeable.’

I thought, Too fucking right mate. Said,

‘Staying away is the best kind of action.’

He took a sharp intake of breath, asked,

‘You’ve been studying Zen?’

I said, ‘No, it’s from a country song.’

And clicked off.

Sing that, you sanctimonious bollix.