The Devil

6

Did I dream?

Did I fuck.

Count the awful ways.

My dad,

nuns,

ten devils lined up to be bowled,

and,

get this,

one dripping ketchup burger.

I woke in drenched sheets, me heart hammering in me chest and that horrendous sense of impending doom.

I got to the shower, dropping a fast Xanax en route and muttering,

‘Tis the holy all of it.’

My mouth felt like many cats had shat in there.

The events of the previous evening were flitting in and out of me mind, like prayers you almost said but forgot the crucial line.

The line that pleaded,

‘God help me.’

Shaved without too many cuts and got into a clean white shirt, black 501s, an Aran sweater and moccasins that proclaimed ‘Made in Delaware.’

Joe Biden would be delighted.

Turned on the radio to kill the loneliness of an empty home and heard the ex-Taoiseach had been barred from giving a talk at NUI by dissenting students. Bruce Springsteen was publically apologizing for allowing a collection of his hits to be sold at the non-unionized Walmart.

I had to smile at this.

Our own major retail stores were rumoured to have been bought by said Walmart.

Then the death notices.

I usually turned these down as I nearly always knew somebody on the list and it never ceased to depress the living shite out of me.

The local news had an item about a girl, an employee at a fast-food outlet, who had been found dead in a local park.

I stood, shocked to my core.

Couldn’t be.

Emma?

No.

What was it the demonic Carl had said to me? Something about fast food?

My heart was pounding and I convinced myself it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t wage war on me that soon and so up close and personal.

I got the other side of two strong coffees, no milk as I’d forgotten to buy any, and was waiting for the Xanax to weave its magic.

It did.

Calmer, I called Stewart and asked him to check that out.

He said,

‘I’m right on it.’

I had a laptop – yeah, me, right up to speed. It belonged to the guy who sublet the apartment to me.

Tried a Google search on the various aliases I’d gotten from Mr K, Carl.

Zip.

Nada.

Not a flogging bite.

Google was down.

Yah believe it?

Due to the appalling weather conditions in London, snow up to their arse, and the freezing conditions had affected Ireland too.

I muttered,

‘No biggie, I can live with that.’

Put on me Garda all-weather coat and heavy scarf, gloves, Gore-Tex boots and ventured out.

Jesus, it was cold, and the snow seemed like it might actually stay.

My hangover was hovering, looking for a way in past the Xanax.

I headed for the GBC.

What they call a culchie restaurant. Meaning people up for the day, from the few farms still in business, frequented it.

Translate as

no pretensions,

no decaff, anything.

Cholesterol heaven.

And it was roasting.

Thank fuck.

The waitress, Cecily, I knew her all me life, said,

‘Jack, you look great.’

An outright lie, but you’ll take it.

And she asked in that way that only an Irishwoman can,

‘Are you perished?’

You live a life like mine, mostly devoid of warmth, you truly recognize it when it greets you.

As long as her type still walked and served the streets of Galway, I’d be able to get out of bed in the morning.

She didn’t ask what I’d like. Just brought me

a scalding tea,

hopping toast,

two fried eggs,

two fat sausages,

fried mushrooms,

one crisp rasher,

and black pudding.

Comfort food?

You fecking betcha.

It blows the be-jaysus out of a hangover.

What it does to your arteries, ask the vegans.

I had me mobile with me, primed for what I hoped would not be terrible news from Stewart.

I was halfway into this veritable feast of non-PC food when a woman approached. I thought,

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

Yeah, she led with the now predictable

‘Mr Taylor, I hate to interrupt,’ etc.

But the food had done its stuff and I was a little more affable, asked,

‘How can I help?’ Trying not to think of the previous woman and her dead son.

She sat, nervous, and began,

‘This is probably not your area of expertise.’

I would dearly love to know what was, but nodded.

She continued,

‘My daughter, she’s ten and has Down syndrome.’

I blanked for a moment. Serena May going out that window and all the horror that ensued. But I focused and said,

‘Yes?’

‘She attends ordinary school and is doing great.’

‘That’s terrific, good for you and your daughter.’

She bit her lip.

Ah fuck.

I’m a hard arse. I work at it. But that kills me. I asked,

‘Her name, your daughter?’

She brightened, went,

‘Kelli. She’s a wonder, loves school, studies like a nun and is such a contented child.’

Like a nun.

I kept me expression neutral and asked,

‘So, what’s the problem?’

Now the sadness, in Irish the awful bronach.

‘A group of girls – all from the same family – torment her, take her lunch money, call her names, tear up her homework and call her a…’

She had to pause but I had a horrible idea of what was coming.

‘Retard.’

I took a deep breath, my chest congested, fury racing in me blood and said,

‘But the teachers, her dad, surely they can do something?’

She began to weep.

Fuck.

And fuck all over again.

Did I need this?

Come on.

I’d been down this ferocious road before and had screwed it up so badly.

She said,

‘These girls, their family is very important, nobody wants to be on their wrong side. They can…er…make trouble for people. My husband, Sean, he’s a good man but says he could lose his job, and that Kelli just needs to…toughen up.’

I didn’t know what to say. Said,

‘I don’t know what to say.’

She looked into my eyes, pleading, said,

‘People say you can do things that others can’t.’

Oh sweet Jesus.

She quickly added,

‘They live in Salthill.’ Then, ‘Naturally! Their name is Sawyer and they think they are the bee’s knees.’

I wanted to tell her, Sorry, I can’t help you, life is shite, this is how the world goes, yada yada.

I couldn’t.

Lied, said,

‘I’ll get right on it.’

And she grasped my hand, tears rolling down her face, said,

‘Oh Mr Taylor, thank you, thank you.’

And then she was gone.

The fuck was I doing?

Lord knows, and cares less, I’d warrant.

I looked out the window, thinking of Florida and other places I could/should have been. The snow was pelting down and I wanted to stay there, have another cup of scalding tea, finish me rasher, not think of Serena May and Down syndrome.

Cecily approached, asked,

‘More tea, Jack?’

I said no, this was fine, and then on impulse asked her – she was an out and out Galwegian and thus a rare species -

‘You ever heard of Sawyers in Salthill?’

She gave me an odd look so I pushed,

‘What?’

She looked round her, like someone might hear, then leant in, smelling of a really subtle perfume, said,

‘Jack, blow-ins – from Dublin, I think, but very dangerous. Stay well away from them.’

And she was gone, with that expression like she’d already said too much.

Tipping is not the practice in Ireland. Like zip codes, we haven’t quite got that far. But you know, fuck it, I left twenty Euro, then paid the bill.

As I headed out Cecily shouted,

‘God mind you well, Jack.’

Somebody needed to.