The Emerald Lie

They used to say that you came to a full stop when you died. I’ve had many beatings in my time, with

Hurleys

Steel-capped boots (courtesy of two rogue Guards)

Baseball bats

Blunt instruments of various hues, including whiskey bottles and KA-BARs.

But this hiding in the toilet of the ferry was close to being the worst.

In the movies, the hero takes a beat-down, he rises with designer bruises and gung ho attitude. They don’t show you soiling yourself to add shame to the hurt. Lying there, in piss and blood, you do your damnedest not to cry.

Doesn’t work.

This blubbering mess of myself was airlifted to the Beaumont hospital. And another month lost as I rallied, relapsed, suffered, and withered. But they persevered and a few days before my release Sergeant Ridge traveled all the way from Galway to interrogate me.

Sweet girl.

Ridge looked tired and old. She stood at the end of my bed, disapproval writ large and largest. As I struggled to sit upright and face the shitstorm, the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, “Somewhat Damaged,” riffed in my head. I asked,

“What kept you?”

She shook her head, said,

“Always the mouth.”

I’d have murdered somebody for a drink, a cig, asked,

“You bring any tidings of good cheer, or refreshments?”

Her face was locked in distaste, she was not going to bend an inch. Said,

“You disappear. For months, not even your wacko bitch friend, the Emily cow, knew where you were. Couldn’t find her or even a trace of her, as if she was a figment of your deranged imagination.

“I’ve been told you were paid by Parker Wilson’s niece to prove his innocence. I’m simply here to see if you have any information to move the whole mess forward, though from your appearance I’d guess it was just your usual piss-up, disguised as an investigation.”

The guy on the ferry beat me up professionally. Now Ridge was going to beat me down with guilt. I said,

“There’s a man, a pedophile, traveling with a young boy, heading I think for the Aran Islands. You need to find them.”

She sighed, a sigh my cursed mother would have owned, said,

“And I’m your messenger boy? Am I to gather this guy beat the holy crap out of you?”

I tried,

“Put your personal feelings for me aside. A boy is in serious danger.”

She nearly smiled, a smile of utter joylessness, said,

“I put everything about you aside a long time ago.”

We traded a few more insults but, truly, they were halfhearted, we had kind of lost the ability to really wound each other after Stewart died. I gave her the description of the man and boy, asked,

“How is the case on the grammar guy progressing?”

She was going to ignore that but veered, said,

“Another murder and we still can’t pin it on him.”

She took out a notebook, wrote down the details of the man and boy, said,

“I’ll do background on the man, see if we get a red flag.”

I wanted to say thank you but knew she’d blow that down so settled for,

“Well, mind yourself.”

Lame as fuck but in Ireland we say it when we don’t really want to go with

“Go fuck yourself.”

She did that long searching look, the one that implies,

“Surely there is something of merit in you...”

But

“Fucked if I can see it.”

She said,

“No point, Jack, in wishing you luck, you are so far out on borrowed time, it’s beyond comprehension.”

And she was gone.

Leaving a blank space that whispered,

“All is ashes.”

The nurse came in, did the annoying fluffing pillows gig, said,

“I thought you were going to be arrested.”

I settled down in the bed, said,

“Not too late.”

She slammed a thermometer into my mouth, said,

“You need to get a positive attitude.”

Yes, that was really what was missing with my life.