The Ghosts of Galway

Over and over I had been replaying a conversation with my

Once friend,

Former ally,

Now bitter enemy

Sergeant Ridge.

Not for the first time, I was in a very dark place. A failed attempt at suicide, a deadly diagnosis on my health, and the continuing forward March of Trump.

I figured I would mend some fences, try to get my friendship with Ridge back on track.

And I mean if your health is fucked, surely your friends/enemies might cut you some slack.

Right?

Nope.

I phoned Ridge. The doctor had gotten in touch with me again and implied that maybe... just perhaps...

His diagnosis was off the mark a tad.

Now did I go and tear his fucking head off?

Or

Buy him a crate of Jameson?

No. I rolled the dice and stayed hopeful.

Ridge was curt on the phone, a real cold cunt.

Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch, I asked to meet her.

Met her in Garavans and, completely out of character, she ordered a large vodka, slimline tonic. I went with the Jay. She was dressed in a soft green sweater; you might even stretch and suggest: emerald?

White jeans that dazzled in their brightness but there the shine ended.

She looked fatigued.

Well, fucked actually.

I said,

“You look terrific.”

Got the stare.

She said,

“This Emily, nothing about her is kosher.”

(Emily/Emerald/Em, a psycho punk storm of murderous intent who had taken a weird shine to me and was a continuous thorn in Ridge’s sense of justice.)

I laughed, mimicked,

“Kosher? Seriously? From a West of Ireland woman?”

She slammed her glass on the table, her very empty glass, said,

“One way or another, I will get her, and if you are any part of that it will be a joy to do you too.”

I considered telling her my fifty/fifty chance of being out of the game. Would I get a break, some sympathy, maybe even a shot at repairing our tattered friendship?

I said,

“I have not been feeling well.”

She was on her feet, spittle leaking from her mouth. She fumed,

“Well? Are you kidding me? You haven’t been well for twenty years and what on earth are you telling me for?”

I tried,

“Because of our, um, you know, history?”

She gave a short bitter laugh, moved to the door, then, as parting,

“You could die tomorrow, I could give a fucking toss.”

I sat completely still, then muttered,

“All in all, I think it went okay.”

Later, a tinker woman I gave a few euros to asked me,

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

I said,

“Only the ones provided by Jameson.”

She chided me.

“Don’t mock. Ghosts are swirling all ’round you and soon will flood your life.”