The Dramatist

“Gotcha.”

Back upstairs, I collected all the paper I could and pulled down the linen curtains. Took me a time and my knee ached, but finally I’d laid a line of paper and clothes from the kitchen to the basement. I remembered his nicotine-stained teeth and, in the press beneath the sink, found lighter fluid. Doused the trail of paper, concentrating on the kitchen and trail end in the basement. Matches were stacked neatly alongside a gas stove. I opened the kitchen door, lit a match, let it drop, said,

“Whoosh.”

Lawrence Block, in Out on the Cutting Edge, has his character, Matt Scudder, at an AA meeting where a woman recounts how she used to take the first drink of the day as soon as her husband left for work. She kept the vodka bottle under the sink, in a container that had previously held oven cleaner.

“The first time I told this story,” she said, “a woman said, ‘Oh dear Jesus, suppose you grabbed the wrong jar and drank the real oven cleaner.’

“‘Honey,’ I told her, ‘get real, will you? There was no wrong jar. There was no real oven cleaner. I lived in that house for thirteen years and I never cleaned the oven.’

“Anyway,” she said “that was my social drinking.”

I love that story.

Ran it through my mind two days later as I entered Nestor’s. The sentry was at the bar, sunk in gloom, muttered,

“The bombing’s begun.”

Cathy was tending bar, a very rare occurrence. I leaned on the counter, asked,

“Where’s himself?”

“He had to meet somebody.”

She assessed me, said,

“I am very sorry for your mother. Jeff was out of town, and I couldn’t get a babysitter.”

I nodded. The sentry perked up, asked,

“Did somebody die?”

We didn’t answer him. Cathy asked if I wanted a coffee and I declined. I was running options in my head and then she added,

“How is Stewart?”

It took me a moment to focus, then I said,

“He’s in jail, how did you think he’d be?”

She mulled it over, asked,

“Are you working for him?”

“Good question.”

She began to polish the counter. It was already buffed to a professional level. Course it meant I had to move my elbow and step back. She said,

“I dropped the dime.”

“What?”

“On Stewart. I gave him up.”

I was stunned, tried to get a handle on it, said,

“You called the guards?”

“Sure, the drug squad.”

Her face as she said this was neutral, no emotion showing. I thought of Sinéad O’Connor blowing the whistle on Shane McGowan. I almost stammered, got out,

“He was your friend.”

She gave a brief noise of disdain, said,

“He was a drug dealer; they don’t do friendships.”

And neither, I thought, do you. Said,

“The poor bastard got six years.”

“Sufficient time to clean up, don’t you think?”

I was too rattled to say what I thought, tried,

“See you later.”

I was at the door when she called,

“We’ll get a mass card for your mother.”

I could hardly wait.

Round the back of the pub is a shed/garage where Jeff keeps his beloved Harley. Next to Cathy and their daughter, it is his most treasured possession. A soft-tail custom, he keeps it in immaculate condition, every spare moment given to polishing, cleaning and maintenance. The few times I’d seen it, the chrome and metal were shining. You want to hear true passion, ask him about the bike. He moves to another level as he extols the machine. To try and grasp the zeal, I’d read Gary Paulsen’s Pilgrimage on a Steel Ride. I got some notion of the sheer love a Harley inspires but far from a complete understanding. Harley freaks are simply another species. Jeff had told me a Harley breaks down more times and has more problems than all other bikes put together. I’d asked,

“Why bother?”

And his look of horror as he gasped,

“Man, they’re a thoroughbred. You don’t exchange the best because they’re finely tuned. It’s what makes them great.”

The shed wasn’t locked and I pulled open the door, hit the light switch. The Harley was in the centre, looking fucked. I bent down, got a look at the front. The metal was heavily dented, mud and dirt streaked along the side. The rim of the heavy tire was almost cut open. Heard a voice,

“Snooping on me, Jack?”

I stood, turned to face Jeff. In his right hand, he held a heavy wrench. A moment passed between us that I don’t ever want to analyse.

I indicated the bike, asked,

“Bit of an accident?”

He dropped the wrench, the sound ugly against the stone floor. He moved towards me but the aggression had evaporated, said,

“It wasn’t an accident, but you know that already.”

I wished I still smoked; it was definitely a nicotine moment. I said,

“You could have killed him, Jeff.”

He nodded, his left hand reaching out to the bike, almost caressing it, said,

“I thought I had.”

I’d hoped for a denial and maybe I’d have gone along. I asked,

“How did you find him?”

He gave me a surprised look, then,

“I run a pub, everybody talks. A few extra shots of Scotch, on the house, you learn all you need.”

Then he leaned against the bike, weariness on his face, asked,

“You going to turn me in?”

I was going to say, that’s what your wife does, but turned to leave, said,

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

He waited a moment then,

“He deserved it.”

I had no reply.

“Not even the great weather could hide the disorder and deep sorrow here, as the pastoral degenerated into unplanned urban sprawl. I could almost smell the bitter energies of change and failure.

I seemed to be in some sort of downhill tumble myself, going from bad to worse as I stumbled through the transition from a semi-employed private eye to a solid citizen and back down again.”

James Crumley, The Final Country

Four weeks went by in a blur of pain, guilt, remorse, confusion. I couldn’t get past the way my mother had died. Alone, abandoned and afraid. I didn’t drink or dope or nicotine. The three lethal addictions preyed constantly, but I don’t know why I didn’t succumb. I once heard if you want to change your life, your attitude, you begin by altering your behaviour. Do the opposite to what you used to do and change will come down the pike. So instead of embracing my usual destruction, I stayed busy. Re-interviewing the students, friends, acquaintances of the dead girls. Even did coffee with Ronan Wall, to see what might shake loose.

Nothing did.

I read Synge, read him twice. The near breakthrough I had before my mother’s death remained elusive, tantalisingly out of reach. Ronan Wall continued to tease and carefully provoke. He knew I wanted him for the frame but it wasn’t happening. I took Margaret out regularly but it was eroding. I thought I was covering well, acting almost normal, till she eventually asked,

“Where are you, Jack?”

We’d been to see the Brazilian City of God, of which I recall nothing. After, we’d gone to Brennan’s Yard, got a late supper. Thick brown crusted sandwiches, pot of tea. I ate without taste. To her question, I said,

“I was thinking about Baghdad, the intense horrific pictures I’ve seen on CNN.”

I wasn’t.

She shook her head, said,

“No, you weren’t.”

It was far too late and too blatant a lie to give the answer women most hope for…“I was thinking of you, dear.” Truth to tell, I was nowhere, in the place of white noise, grey visions. She said, taking my hand,

“You’re in a dead place.”

I knew the truth of that. The day before, I’d watched Ireland beat Georgia and only briefly engaged when a knife was thrown, hitting Kilbane on the ear. Sunday, I sat through the Six Nations, Ireland vs England, in a veritable trance. Played in Lansdowne Road, it was a huge national event, and I felt removed.

I took my hand away from Margaret’s, muttered,

“I’ll snap out if it.”

No escape. She whispered sadly,

“I sure hope so, Jack.”

Then, pushing the sandwiches away, she asked,

“Are you talking to anyone?”

“To Cathy…and Jeff.”

Vaguely true.

I was still babysitting for them. Jeff was cool, kept our conversation to the minimum. Cathy, more animated, was happy at how I’d bonded with her child.

And bonded I had.

I continued to read to her, and her face lit up as I produced a fresh book. I don’t know how much she understood, but her eyes danced with knowledge. Three years of age with a button nose, brown eyes, mischievous mouth, I could have stared at her for hours. She intrigued me. Here was a child, with Down’s syndrome, deemed by the world as damaged, less than handicapped. Yet, she had a vitality that energised even my cynical spirit. During those frozen weeks after my mother’s death, the times with Serena May were the only brightness I experienced. She had a smile to die for, as innocent in life as I was guilty. That would be our undoing. Per custom, we used the room above the pub and a large window looked out over Forster Street. By craning our necks, Serena in my arms, we could see Eyre Square. I’d tell her of Pádraic Ó Conaire’s statue at the top and the metal cannons flanking him. I skipped over the winos huddled at the fountain. Then I’d put her down and she’d zoom around the room with joy. It could only be a short time till she walked. Cathy took it very hard that other children walked at a year or even ten months. Here was her daughter, over three and still scrambling on all fours. The sentry had once remarked,

“That child, she’s an old soul.”

I was so surprised that I went,

“What?”

“She’s been here before.”

And returned to contemplating his half full glass of porter. I wanted to ask if he believed in reincarnation but he was all done. Cathy seemed to appreciate the amount of time I gave to Serena, said,

“Jack, this is such a help.”

“No big thing.”

It wasn’t.

I went to visit Ted Buckley. He was encased in plaster, pulleys holding an arm and leg suspended. His eyes were open and they hardened as I approached. I said

“How you doing there, Ted?”

He tried to act like I was a stranger, but immobile in a bed, how many ways can you fake it?

“I know you?”

“Jack Taylor.”

The nicotine teeth locked down, and I didn’t think agitation was going to do his condition much good.

“That supposed to mean something?”

I pulled up a chair, straddled it. If Superintendent Clancy could do it, then hell, why not?

“Ah, does this mean I can’t join you, not be a vigilante?”

He tried to shift his head as if seeking help, then said,

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I let that hang for a bit, then,

“You killed a guard.”

Spittle lit the corners of his lips. The frustration of being immobile was eating him hard. He said,

“Prove it.”

I stood up, said,

“Heard you had a fire.”

He managed to move the leg in traction but it was a feeble gesture. He said,

“You were in my home?”

I shrugged, turned to go, added,

“Not me, pal. I’d say vigilantes.”

My limp seemed to have worsened, but I blamed the hospital vibe. A doctor in his fifties approached, asked,

“You were visiting Mr Buckley?”

“I was.”

He had a chart-don’t they always?-peered at it and made medical noises, then,

“It’s very sad, but I don’t think Mr Buckley will walk again.”

I nodded, my face grave. He asked,

“Will you be visiting regularly?”

“Absolutely, to be sure your prognosis is right.”

His head came up, a challenge in his eyes, said,

“I can tell you, Mr…? I didn’t get your name.”

“I didn’t give it.”

“Ah, well, I can assure you it’s very unlikely the patient will ever be mobile again.”

I stared at him, made some medical noises of my own, then,

“I’m going to take that as a promise.”

Downstairs, the main hall was hectic with activity. The last time I’d been here, I had the disastrous meeting with Ann Henderson. I went to the café and saw they were advertising every type of designer coffee. I ordered a cappuccino without the chocolate sprinkle. The girl said,

“You mean latte?”

“If I wanted latte, you think I wouldn’t have ordered that?”

She gave me the look. After Buckley, I could take it and she backed off, got the coffee and, to coin a vigilante phrase, “charged me an arm and a leg”. I found a free table, sat down. The radio was playing Keith Finnegan fielding a discussion on the use of Shannon Airport by the American troops. Then he said listeners had requested a song by the Dixie Chicks from their new album Home, a track about Vietnam but just as relevant to Iraq. I was listening to that when a porter approached, launched,

“I hope you’re not even considering smoking?”

He’d taken me completely by surprise and I went,

“What?”

“This whole area is a no smoking zone.”

He was fired up, ready to rock ‘n’ roll. I recognised him but couldn’t find a name. I said,

“I don’t smoke.”

How odd that sounded. He wasn’t buying, snapped,

“I remember you, in the corridors, smoking in the alcove.”

I let out my breath, asked,

“Do me a favour, pal?”

“Favour, what favour?”

“Fuck off.”

He did.

The Dixie Chicks lingered in my head as I walked down by NUI. Students were milling round the canal, and I thought of the dead girls. It didn’t seem like I was ever going to solve that. At the church, I paused, stared at the stained glass windows. They didn’t provide any inspiration. I muttered,

“Windows. Just coloured glass.”

I returned to the hotel. Mrs Bailey, looking frail, almost delicate, was near swamped in paperwork. Though I wanted to be alone, to go into myself and basically sulk, I stopped, asked,

“Are you OK, Mrs B?”

She raised her head and it pained me to glimpse her skull through the thinning hair. That grieved me so. I noticed the profusion of liver spots on her hands and could only hazard a guess at her age. Someone had attempted to perm her hair and made a shocking mess, as if half way through they decided,

“Fuck this, it’s a shambles.”

And it was.

She said,

“I don’t want to burden you, Mr Taylor, what with your recent loss.”

I wanted to agree, slip away to my room, but I stayed, asked,

“How about I buy you a drink, a big fat warm whiskey, with cloves, sugar…hell, we’ll shoot the works.”

She smiled like a young girl for a moment, almost flirtatious, and I realised how much she meant to me. Course, my mother’s death had left me vulnerable, but this woman had stood by me through all manner of shit storms. Each time I got sober or clean then crashed, she never judged me. Kept a room always available. When I fucked off to London, to Hidden Valley, and came literally limping back, she welcomed me.

Top that.

She asked,

“Who’ll mind the desk?”

I indicated the paperwork, said,

“With some luck, it will be stolen.”

She was sold.

Came out from behind the desk and, lo and behold, linked my arm. No one links you like a Galway woman. I felt…gallant? How often are you going to see that description? I moved towards the door and she protested, went,

“Oh no, I don’t go out any more.”

“What?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

I couldn’t argue with that; it was bloody lethal out there, I had the limp to prove it. She added,

“Anyway, if I’m going to have a drink, I’d prefer to give the custom to myself.”

Despite the length of time I’d been at the hotel, I think I’d only ever once been in the bar. The don’t-shit-on-your-own-doorstep syndrome. My kind of pub though: dark, smoky, old, lived in. Serious drinkers had drunk very seriously here. You could feel the vibe, the one that whispered,

“If you want fancy drinks, fuck off.”

This was your pint of plain and a ball of malt, and if you needed that translated, you were definitely in the wrong place.

“While the grave was being opened the women sat down among the flat tombstones, bordered with a pale fringe of early bracken, and began the wild keen, or crying for the dead. Each old woman, as she took her turn in the leading recitative, seemed possessed for the moment with a profound ecstasy of grief, swaying to and fro, and bending her forehead to the stone before her, while she called out to the dead with a perpetually recurring chant of sobs.”

J.M. Synge, The Aran Islands

There was no one tending the bar. In Ireland, you find the strangest items in pubs, but an unmanned counter isn’t one of them. I looked at Mrs Bailey and she said,

“I’ll do it.”

I had to ask,

“Doesn’t anyone actually work it?”

She gave a deep sigh, said,

“We have a fellah, but he tends to be his own best customer. We don’t have much business, so I usually do it myself.”

I marched her to a table, sat her down, bowed, asked,

“What would Madam care to imbibe?”

She was delighted, went,

“Something sweet.”

I glanced back at the dusty but well-stocked shelves. I said,

“Might I suggest a schooner of sherry?”

She shook her head, said,

“That’s an old woman’s drink. I don’t want to be old for a minute.”

And who could blame her? I said,

“Crème de menthe?”

She clapped her hands, said,

“Perfect.”

I went behind the bar and stood transfixed, an alcoholic in front of the guns. All the lethal boyos were up there, optics in place: Jameson, Paddy, Black Bush. In jig time, I could have a double up, gone and walloped. I looked at Mrs Bailey. She wasn’t clocking me. From a ream of newspapers on the table before her, she’d selected the Galway Advertiser and was flicking through it. I poured her a large, got a Galway sparkling water for myself and left twenty euro on the till. No free drinks this day. Went over and sat opposite her, raised my glass and we clinked. I said,

“Sláinte amach.”

“Leat féin.”

She took a delicate sip, said,

“That’s great stuff.”

We savoured a moment of silence, not uncomfortable, then I asked,

“What’s troubling you, Mrs B?”

She folded her hands in her lap, then,

“They’re squeezing me out. Developers, creditors, a whole crowd of them. I’m sinking and I’m afraid I’ll have to sell.”

One more Galway institution to be drowned beneath progress, everything decent and fine and, yes, old was being demolished. She asked,

“Did you know they are going to cut down the trees on Eyre Square?”

“What?”

“They say they’ll replace them.”

She gave a strangled sound, added,

“I don’t understand it. You cut down healthy trees and then replace them?”

She was lost for words till she near exploded.

“ ’Tis blasphemy!”

I’d caught the aroma of the crème de menthe. Sure it was sweet, but the underlay of alcohol was as strong as loss. I got a massive compulsion to leap the counter, put my mouth under an optic and squeeze till doomsday. I shuddered and she laid her hand on mine, a gentle touch, asked,

“Are you cold, a mhic?”

A mhic! The Irish for son. In my youth, you heard it all the time. Back in the Claddagh, the old people used it still. A term of affection and endearment, sometimes scolding but never harsh. I said,

“Must be a draught.”

She looked round, seeing what ghosts I’d never know. I had my own crew to carry. She said,

“Of course, they’ll knock it down, put up some monstrosity, but, please God, I’ll be gone to my rest. You know what, Mr Taylor, you can live past your time and that’s a sorrow.”

I thought of Synge, his Deirdre of the Sorrows. Somehow, it always came back to that play, the passage highlighted in red I’d memorised. Deirdre, in the play, is crouching and swaying as she keens. She makes a straight speech to the dead, remembering the comforts of her time with them and the sheer despair of having them no more. It reached me in ways I could never have anticipated. The startling realisation, bizarre as it sounds, that the Dramatist was speaking to me…perhaps trying to teach me something.

It goes:

It’s you three will not see age or death coming; you that were my company when the fires on the hilltops were put out and the stars were our friends only. I’ll turn my thoughts back from this night-that’s pitiful for want of pity-to the time it was your rods and cloaks made a little tent for me where there’d be a birch tree making shelter, and on a dry stone; though from this day my own fingers will be making a tent for me, spreading out my hairs and they knotted with the rain.

Despite myself, I was beginning to appreciate Synge. His language sang to the primeval part of my ancestry, to the very core of what made me Irish. Or maybe it had been too long since I got drunk. I said aloud,

“That’s pitiful for want of pity.”

Mrs Bailey gasped, stared at me, said,

“Isn’t that a beautiful thought-sad but true.”

The sparkle was dying in my glass of water. I said,

“It’s by Synge.”

She nodded, then,

“There was a holy row when his play was at the Abbey.”

“You’re familiar with him?”

“I’m familiar with rows.”

Janet, the chambermaid, stuck her head in the door, said,

“Mrs B, you’re wanted on the phone.”

She touched my arm, said,

“I’ll be back in a tick. I enjoy your company.”

She rose from the chair with difficulty, her bones creaking. I flipped through the Galway Advertiser, began to read about the line-up for the forthcoming Cuirt Festival of Literature. Turned the page and was looking at photos without registering much, hadn’t realised Janet was peering over my shoulder, till she exclaimed,

“There’s your friend!”

I nearly jumped, went,

“What?”

She leaned over, put her finger on a photo, said,

“There, that’s the man I met outside your room. He was carrying a large plastic bag. Lovely manners he had.”

I tried to concentrate, looked at a photo of a heavyset man with a distinguished appearance and a mane of thick white hair presenting a prize to a student. Underneath was the caption:

“Professor O’Shea of the English Dept at NUI presenting the prize for best essay to his student, Conor Smith.”

O’Shea…the name rang some chord. First I had to pin down Janet, asked,

“Tell me about…my friend. Don’t leave anything out.”

She was worried, creases down her already impossibly lined face, went,

“Did I do wrong?”

“No, no, he wanted to surprise me.”

Did he ever.

She frowned, then,

“It was a while ago. I’d been hoovering on the top floor, came down to get some bin liners and saw him outside your door. He asked if that was your room, said that you were old friends, that he’d wait a bit, see if you returned. He had a grand way of talking, you’d know he was a professional man, and gorgeous cologne.”

I could see him, prodded,

“And the bag, did you see what was in it?”

Her eyes brightened.

“Now that was odd. I got the impression it was a flower or plant. He held it close to his chest, like he was trying to hide it. Was it flowers?”

“It was, sort of.”

It didn’t look like Mrs Bailey was returning any time soon so I took her drink, handed it to Janet, said,

“Your good health.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should. It makes me giddy.”

I gave her my best smile, all false sincerity, said,

“Giddy is good.”

That night, tossing and turning, something was trying to surface. Then I sat up: that time in Charlie Byrne’s, when Vinny introduced me to the professor-the Synge expert-it was him, the man in the photo.

Rang Vinny at Charlie Byrne’s bookshop. He asked,

“Jack, how’s the Synge studies going?”

“Good. Listen, do you remember Professor O’Shea?”

“Of course I do. I introduced you to him in here: he’s the expert on Synge. You should really go and have a talk with him if you want detailed insight.”

“That’s what I want all right.”

Vinny hesitated then,

“Use a bit of tact, Jack.”

“What?”

“His wife died a few years back and they were childless. I think he’s probably lonely.”

“I know how that goes.”

“We got some new stock in: Daniel Buckman, K. T. McCaffrey, John Straley, Declan Burke, like that.”

“Put them aside for me.”

“Don’t I always?”

“I owe you a pint.”

“You owe me a fleet of pints.”

Click.

The telephone directory had the professor listed.

29, The Crescent

Galway

Old Galway, maybe old money.

I intended finding out, and soon.

“From the depths of the mirror, a corpse gazed back at me. The look in his eyes, as they stared into mine, has never left me.”

Elie Wiesel, Night, Dawn, the Accident

Early morning, I listened to the news. Ferocious fighting on the outskirts of Baghdad. The Americans had taken the airport and renamed it Baghdad International.

What’s in a name?

I rang NUI and asked if I might speak to the professor, make an appointment maybe. Difficult, as he’d a heavy agenda of lectures, seminars, meetings. He should be free near 4:30 p.m. I hung up.

That gave me the day.

I wore black jeans, black T and my garda all-weather overcoat. In my pockets, I put screwdrivers, the dead girls’ photos and Deirdre of the Sorrows. It was a beautiful spring day, and as I walked towards Dominic Street, I had to take my coat off. My limp was definitely improving. I remembered Tim Coffey saying that kids would call me “Johnny the limp”. Well, it hadn’t happened.

The Crescent was impressive: old houses, large gardens with the houses well back from the road. Most were occupied by doctors and consultants. I found No. 29 and took a moment. It was a dark house with an air of neglect, large hedges running along both sides so no neighbourly chats. Ivy crept along the front of the building and needed trimming. It wasn’t derelict but had definitely seen better days. I opened the gate and walked boldly up the path. On one of the other houses I’d seen the notice “Neighbourhood Watch”.

Always an invitation to thieves. When they don’t warn you, that’s the time to worry.

I avoided the front door, went along the side and found a garage joined to the house.

OK.

Using the screwdriver, I had the ancient lock off in a moment. No doubt about it, I was becoming a habitual burglar. In the garage was a pile of junk, rusted lawnmower, rakes and shovels. All looking as if they hadn’t been touched in years. A thick rope was coiled on a shelf, and I picked it up, uncoiled it, then let it lie. Went through to the main house. Unlike the Pikemen’s leader, Ted Buckley, here was a home gone to rack and ruin. Despite an air of mustiness and decay, dust everywhere, I couldn’t help admiring the place. An air of grandeur, high ceilings, intricate designs and expensive carpets. I know a good rug because when you’ve lived with lino and cheap coverings, you get a sense of the better deal. The kitchen had black oak furniture and one of those fine kitchen tables like a butcher’s block. Cups, mugs, plates were piled in the sink. None of the modern conveniences-no dishwasher, microwave, not even a toaster. Maybe he used a fork, held the bread in front of a two-bar fire. That vision didn’t play, not with the photo of the man I’d seen in the Advertiser. The floor needed a serious sweep. I did spot a coffee machine, the real beans deal.

I found what I took to be his study, and it was heavy with the smell of pipe tobacco. I had to open a window-the stench was overwhelming-though I only opened it a little lest he return prematurely. Heavy drapes on the windows were half closed, and I pulled them back to have some light.

And gasped.

Wall-to-wall books. That was the other smell, the nectar of old volumes. There was even one of those movable ladders beloved of your true bibliophile. Four shelves devoted to Synge, and they looked like first editions. Though well used, they were in good condition, lovingly cared for. A computer on the desk, an old Macintosh. I turned to the sideboard and saw heavy silver-framed photos. The dead wife in two and then a young man I recognised. I felt dizzy, tried to get my mind in gear. I knew him. Niall O’Shea, who’d been horseplaying outside my childhood home; my father had broken his jaw. Niall O’Shea who had climbed the crane at the docks, sailed off.

Jesus.

I sat at the professor’s desk and opened the drawers. A sheet of paper with the lines from Deirdre of the Sorrows I’d memorised, that began:

“It’s you three will not see age or death coming.”

Fuck.

Opened the bottom drawer and found a green folder with bold black letters on the front:

THE DRAMATIST

My mind was reeling. Here I was solving a case, piece by piece, actually doing decent investigative work, and I felt wretched. In the folder were three photos. The first two I recognised:

Sarah Bradley

Karen Lowe

On the backs, in the same bold print, was,

AT PEACE

The third, I didn’t know, and with a sense of dread I looked at the back:

SOON

I nearly had it all. She was next, to be the third that wouldn’t “see age or death coming”.

I stood up and paced, opened a press. It held bottles of Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, Jameson, Black Bushmills. Ah.

I shut the press quickly. On the table was a pipe rack, with well-used briars and a dúidín holding centre stage. Used for years by the peasants on Aran and a great favourite with tourists. They’d been remaking them for the Americans. Word was that heads were very partial for their use with weed. This one was an old, clay tube, and bore in tiny letters along the stem:

j.m.s.

Was it possible?

I went into the kitchen, spent the next half hour grinding coffee beans, getting the brew just so. Set it to go. Few aromas match the real scent of genuine coffee. It almost comforted me. I never take sugar but searched for some now. I was feeling weak and definitely needed the rush. Ceramic mugs, by Don Knox, hand crafted. What they were was dirty, so I rinsed and scrubbed one diligently. Poured the brew and put heaped spoonfuls of sugar in. Didn’t bother seeking milk. Black was how I was. Drank it off, sweet and scalding, and sure enough, the jolt hit me fast. Not so much energised as focused. I half filled the mug again and went to the garage. Sipping the liquid, I studied the roof. A thick beam of wood ran end to end. I put the mug down, got the rope, and it took three attempts to get it over the beam.

Then I pulled up a stool and began to fasten the noose.

I returned to the study, closed the window and refixed the heavy drape. Then I sat in the professor’s chair, settled to wait. The light was fading when I heard the key in the door. Then wheezing and laboured breathing and the sound of a heavy briefcase hitting the floor. He came into the study and hit the light switch. His first response was shock, but he collected himself rapidly, gave a knowing smile, said,

“Jack Taylor, I presume.”

He was a big man, wearing a wool suit that had been expensive once. Now, it was merely shabby. He’d an off-white shirt with a tie askew, and his long white hair was rumpled, with dandruff on his shoulders. He wasn’t unlike the English actor Brian Cox, who’d played the first Hannibal Lector in the underrated Manhunter. A contained strength, rugged face, pitted skin and bloodshot eyes. They were vibrant though, revealing a fierce intelligence. He was carrying a brown bag with “McCambridge’s” on the side. From their deli I’d guess. As I said, old Galway.

He put the bag down, said,

“I’m going to have a drink, care to join me?…Or are you continuing your fragile sobriety?”

I stared at him and he said,

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He moved to the press, took out a heavy Galway Crystal tumbler and splashed in a generous amount of Glenlivet, held it up to the light, said,

“Go n-éiri an bóthar leat.”

And knocked it back, refilled. I said,

“Slow down, Prof, I want you reasonably coherent.”

He gave a short laugh.

“There is no coherence. Haven’t you been listening to the news?”

I placed the girls’ photos on the desk, said,

“You decided to spare these poor creatures all that?”

He nodded, pleased.

“My students, creatures of innocence the world wanted to ruin and corrupt, but not now. I knew about the drug dealer, that scum, Stewart; it was fitting that his sister be selected. The second girl, she smoked pot. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

He sat in the chair opposite, no tension in his body, relaxed, as if dealing with a not too bright student. I said,

“You decided to involve me because of your brother…what, you think my father’s punch led him to suicide, all those years later?”

He reached for one of his pipes, a worn briar, took a leather pouch from his jacket, began to fill the bowl, said,

“Clan! Leaves a most fragrant aroma. How simplistic you are. Yes, my brother was shamed by your father’s action. Did it lead to his suicide? Perhaps. As you know, some hurts can never be wiped away. It did lead me to take an active interest in your family. I have followed your precarious career with…how shall I say…bemusement. I learnt of your visiting that dregs of humanity, the drug dealer, from Superintendent Clancy; the guards at Mountjoy were enraged that you’d visited him.”

I stood up, walked over to the window. His eyes were too intense, too penetrating. I said,

“Rationalise all you like, you murdered two girls.”

His voice rose, just a timbre, but I got a sense of how fine a lecturer he was. He said,

“Spared, I spared them.”

I turned, picked up the dúidín, and alarm lit his face. He shouted,

“Be careful, you imbecile, that’s priceless!”

I snapped the stem, let the pieces fall, asked,

“And the fucking with me, the wreath, the mass card?”

He was staring at the ruined pieces, his eyes wet, said,

“An error of judgement, a momentary lapse of concentration, a frivolity that is alien to me; plus, I’d been tippling, a little too much of the Glenlivet. I apologise but then I felt you might be a worthy opponent.”

My shout startled him.

“Opponent! You sick fuck, this isn’t a game!”

He reached for his glass, sipped, then lit the pipe and composed himself, asked,

“What do you know about my wife?”

“What?”

“Ah, Jack, you’d make a poor student. Preparation, research, these are the keys.”

The aroma of Clan filled the room, pungent, sweet, near cloying. I said,

“I found you.”

“Touché. My wife had an inoperable tumour, suffered outrageous pain, then after years of anguish, when I wasn’t home, she fell over some books I’d left at the top of the stairs.”

I interjected,

“Books by Synge?”

He dismissed my interruption, continued,

“She was so peaceful there, curled at the bottom of the stairs. My beloved Deirdre.”

Again I was thrown for a loop, went,

“That was her name?”

“Of course.”

I refused to allow any sympathy to form, walked to the desk, picked up the third photo, asked,

“How did you get this?”

He smiled like he was definitely talking to an idiot, said,

“I’m a professor, I got it from college records; you think I don’t have access to all areas?”

He smiled as if blessed.

“There was a woman went to bed at the lower village a while ago, and her child came along with her. For a time they did not sleep, and then something came to the window, and they heard a voice and this is what it said:

‘It is time to sleep from this out.’ In the morning the child was dead, and indeed it is many get their death that way on the island.”

J.M. Synge, The Aran Islands

I slammed the photo down on the desk, asked,

“Do you seriously think I’m going to let that happen? You’re finished, pal.”

His pipe had gone out and he tapped the bowl against an ashtray, a clay one with the faded letters:

Inishman

He sighed, said,

“Part of my plan was to engage someone’s interest, and I was more than pleased that fate selected you. I hoped you might come to appreciate Synge; few do.”

I sat, faced him, said,

“Sorry. The deaths of two girls obscured my appreciation of literature, and you know what? Synge is a pain in the ass.”

He stood up, enraged, roared,

“You philistine! Synge didn’t develop until late and yet was dead before his thirty-eighth year. Six short years of real creativity, yet he left a body of work without parallel.”

I got as much scorn into my voice as I could, said,

“And you, you created two bodies, two grieving families, and you’re plotting a third?”

He didn’t reply, had shut me out. I said,

“I’m bringing you down, pal.”

His head jerked and a tiny smile began to jig along his lips. He said,

“I think not. Superintendent Clancy and others of influence will crush your wild theories.”

I reached over fast, slapped his head with the palm of my hand, said,

“You’re not paying attention, Prof. I want to tell you about the Pikemen.”

The slap had amazed him and he glared at me, said,

“Urban paranoia, if you mean the so-called vigilantes.”

I spoke slowly, told him about Pat Young, the castration, then added,

“They’ve asked me to join them. Imagine that. So I’m going to bring your green file and your activities to them. You can be my first recommendation.”

The blood had left his face and I said,

“This desk, yeah, they could hold you here. I think they’ll have to use a gag, as slicing off your balls with a pike-I got to tell you, it’s messy. I can’t guarantee the instrument is even all that sharp. But tell you what, I’ll ask them to put a copy of a book by Synge under you. An appropriate gesture, don’t you think? Almost literary.”

I put the file under my arm, walked past him, stopped at the door, said,

“But there is an alternative; you’ll see it in the garage. It’s a touch melodramatic I grant you, but, hey, you’re the Dramatist.”

Literary Ireland turned up en masse for the professor’s funeral. All the tired usual suspects who hadn’t acknowledged him in years lauded the two books on drama he’d written. That these volumes had been out of print for years wasn’t mentioned. The papers gave him polite obituaries, and one article hinted at his death as a tragic accident. Between the lines was the unspoken word, managing to convey the sad accidental deaths of his wife and brother, the strain of suicide never actually articulated.

I was in Nestor’s, reading all this, a cup of neglected coffee before me. Jeff was changing a barrel and we were dancing around the chasm between us. The sentry was watching Sky News, the battle for Baghdad at its height. Man U had walloped Liverpool by four goals. Leeds, despite their troubles, put six past Bolton. Ferguson was suggesting that Man U’s draw against Real Madrid was a fix.

The weather was glorious, probably our summer, though May was a while away yet. Margaret had called to say she wouldn’t see me for a time till I got my priorities straight. I’d said,

“Fine.”

Cathy appeared, asked,

“Jack, would you sit with Serena May for an hour?”

“Sure.”

I went upstairs and the little girl was delighted to see me, gave me one of those warm hugs. She was more energetic than usual, scooting around the room, gurgling happily. I felt bone weary but read for a bit to her, though neither of us was riveted. I opened the window to ease the heat, looked down on Forster Street, jammed with people. I went back, sat at the table, said to Serena,

“Hon, I’m going to buy you some new books tomorrow, how would that be?”

She gave the thumbs up. The first time I’d shown her, she was intrigued, and it had become a regular gesture with us now.

I thought about the professor and realised I’d become a Pikeman. The very act of vigilantism that put distance between Jeff and me was the same as what I’d done to the Dramatist. I hadn’t yet contacted Stewart, wondered if I should make the trip to Mountjoy. I don’t know how long I was sunk in those thoughts, probably only minutes, when I heard a small alarmed scream, then a chorus of horror rise up from the street.

I turned, the window was wide open. Serena May was gone.

I don’t know the name of this pub. It’s new and some sort of awful techno is on the speakers. I’ve got a corner table and there’s a full glass of Jameson near my right hand, within spitting distance so to speak. An untouched pint of Guinness is shadowing it, standing point. I was in Garavan’s, was it yesterday? And when I came out, a group of school kids were messing on the street. One of them shouted “Hey, Johnny the limp!” I looked back and I swear one of them was the twin of Niall O’Shea, who leaped from the crane. I’m not too sure how long I was in Garavan’s, but I heard a man mention the sadness of the small white coffin and I had to get out.

The day before, I bought sixty Major in Holland’s. Mary spoke to me, but her words didn’t seem to make sense. In the shop beside the canal, I got a shiny new lighter. I like it as it has the Galway crest on the side. I’ve put them to the very left of the drinks. It seems important the table look neat, everything in its place. Symmetry, is that the word?

If I ever go back to Bailey’s, I might look it up, check the spelling.