The Guards

The hand that rocks the cradle

I’d arranged to meet Ann at the Chinese restaurant. I’d left Sutton mumbling to himself. Sean caught me at the door, said,

“I’m taking down his painting.”

“Ah, don’t do that, Sean.”

“He’s hopeless, people want the hurleys back.”

“Sean, leave it for a little while, he’s a bit fragile at the moment.”

“Fragile! That chancer? He’d build a nest in your ear and charge you rent.”

I went into Madden’s and bought six red roses. I have never, never bought flowers in my life. The assistant said,

“Will I make them into a spray or a bouquet?”

“I dunno.”

She laughed, so I said,

“Is there any way you can wrap so...”

“So people won’t see, is that it?”

“It IS.

“Arrah, go on our that. It takes a real man to carry flowers.”

“I’m going to have to take your word for it.”

No matter how I held them, they were blatant. Of course, that’s the day you meet everyone you’ve ever known. All of them comedians:

“Aw, isn’t that sweet.”

“Say it with flowers.”

“You little flower yerself.”

Like that.

I was at the restaurant early and got them under the table — fast. The manageress said,

“Oh, I’ll put them in water.”

“No need... honest.”

When she asked if I’d like a drink, I said,

“A beer... no... I mean... a Coke.”

Sweat was cascading down my body.

Ann looked... gorgeous. There’s no other word. I felt my mouth go dry, my heart pound. Stood up, said as if inspired,

“Ann.”

She gave me a huge hug, then stood back to study, said,

“The beard is lovely.”

“Thanks.”

“You look completely different, it’s not just the beard.”

Not knowing what else to do, I reached for the flowers. Wow, were they a hit!

We sat.

She kept glancing at the flowers then at me. If I had to reach for how I felt, I’d have to admit, shy. Nearly fifty years old and feeling that. She said,

“I think I’m a bit shy.”

“Me too.”

“Oh are you, Jack? I’m delighted.”

A waitress came and we ordered up a storm

Chow meins

Dim sum

Sweet and sour

Then the waitress asked,

“To drink?”

I got right to it, said,

“I’ll have another Coke... Ann?”

“Oh, Coke for me too.”

After she’d gone, Ann said,

“That’s it, your eyes, they’re white.”

“White?”

“No, I mean... clear.”

“It’s OK, I know what you mean.”

A silence. Then she said,

“Should I ask or... leave it alone?”

“I’m new to this myself, but sure, ask away.”

“Is it difficult?”

“A bit.”

Then the food came and we moved on and away. I liked to watch her eat. She caught me, asked,

“What?”

“I like to watch you eat.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so.”

After, we took a walk down Quay Street. She linked my arm. Among good gestures, it’s right up there. At Jury’s, we stopped and she said,

“I have to go to the cemetery now. I go every day, and on such a wonderful day, I’d like to share it with Sarah.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Would you?”

“It would be a privilege.”

Caught a cab at Dominick Street, and we were no sooner settled than the driver asked,

“You heard about the scene on the square?”

Ann said,

“Oh, wasn’t it awful?”

I said nothing. The driver, of course, was contrary, said,

“People are fed up with the guards and the courts. They’ve had enough.”

Ann was having none, said,

“Oh, surely you don’t condone what happened.”

“Listen, ma’am, if you saw the yokes that get in here at night and the carry on of them.”

“But to set fire to a person.”

“Weren’t they the same pups doing that to winos? Even the guards know that.”

“All the same.”

“Now, ma’am, with all due respect, if something happened to your child.”

We walked to Sarah’s grave in silence. She was no longer linking me.

More’s the Irish pity. I could have done with it most then.

The grave was incredibly well kept. A simple wooden marker with her name. All round were

Bears

Snoopy

Sweets

Bracelets

And arranged in formation.

Said Ann,

“Her friends. They’re always bringing her things.”

I think that was the heartbreaker of all. I said,

“Ann, let her have the roses.”

She lit up.

“Really, Jack, you don’t mind? She loves roses... or loved. I can’t get the tense right. How can I consign her to that awful one, the past?”

She laid the roses gently down and then sat near the cross. She said,

“I’m going to have POET put on the stone. Just that. She wanted to be one so badly.”

I wasn’t sure of the etiquette of the dead. Did I kneel or sit? Then, I realised Ann was talking to her child. Soft, easy sounds that reverberated against my soul.

I backed away. Started to walk and nearly collided with an elderly couple who said,

“Grand day, isn’t it?”

Jesus. I kept going and arrived at my father’s grave. I said,

“Dad, I’m here by default, but then... aren’t we all?”

No doubt, I was raving. If Sutton saw me, he’d have force-fed me drink. The headstone was up and that’s the worst. It’s so final, no more appeals. Least while it’s only the plain cross, it stays temporary.

Ann arrived behind me, asked,

“Your dad?”

I nodded.

“Did you like him?”

“Oh God, I did.”

“What was he like?”

“Well, I don’t think I ever wanted to be him, but I did want to be liked the way people liked him.”

“What did he work at?”

“On the railways. Those days, it wasn’t a bad job. Every evening round nine, he’d get his cap and go for a few pints. Two pints. Some nights he wouldn’t bother. The test of an alcoholic is, if you take two daily and leave it at that. Me, I’d wait the week and have fourteen on Friday.”

She gave an uncertain smile.

The talk was on me now. Rabid.

“When I joined the guards, he didn’t comment except, ‘Mind it doesn’t lead you to drink.’ Then when I got bumped, he said, ‘The manner of your departure befits you better than past glories.’ Early on, in Templemore, an instructor said, ‘We can safely assume Taylor has a bright future behind him.’ What you’d call a ‘gas man’. He’s a minder for the taoiseach now, so he got his just desserts. My father loved to read, was always on about the power of print. After he died, a fella stopped me in the street, said,

“Your father was a hoor for books.”

“I should have put it on his stone. He’d have been happy with that.”

Then I was near spent. But a thought or two to stagger home. I said,

“I have a friend, Sutton. He used to wear a t-shirt that read:

Ann didn’t get it, said,

“I don’t understand it.”

“Nor would you understand him. I don’t think I do either.”

Ann asked if I’d like to come visit her house. I said, sure.

She lived in Newcastle Park. Right by the hospital. A road comes out from the mortuary and it’s named the Mass Path. I don’t know could I walk that too often.

The house was modern, bright, clean and comfortable. It had the lived-in look. She said,

“I’ll make some tea.”

Which she did, emerging with a tray piled high with sandwiches. Good old-fashioned type with thick crusty bread, lashings of ham, tomato, butter. I said,

“God, those look good.”

“I get the bread in Griffin’s. It’s always packed.”

After a second cup of tea, I said,

“Ann, I have to talk to you.”

“Oh, it sounds ominous.”

“It’s about the investigation.”

“You’ll need money. I have more.”

“Sit down. I don’t need money. I had a... pharmaceutical windfall, so don’t worry. Look, if I told you the man responsible for Sarah’s death was dead, could you be satisfied with that?”

“How do you mean. Is he?”

“Yes.”

She stood up, said,

“But nobody knows. I mean, she’s still classed a suicide. I can’t leave her friends, her school, believing she did that.”

“OK.”

“OK? What does that mean, Jack? Can you prove the truth.”

“I don’t know.”

It meant I’d have to go after Planter. If she had agreed with what I proposed, I’d have left it alone.

I think.

But Sutton certainly wasn’t going to let him off, so I don’t think I had any choice.

Later in the evening, we’d gone to bed. I was as nervous as a cat. Told her, said,

“I don’t think I’ve ever made love sober.”

“It will be better, you’ll see.”

It was.

Round midnight, I got dressed and Ann asked,

“Why don’t you stay?”

“Not yet.”

“OK.”

Then she was out of bed and gone. Back a few minutes later, carrying something. She said,

“I want you to look at something.”

“Sure.”

“It’s Sarah’s diary.”

And offered a pink, leather-bound book. I physically recoiled, said,

“Jesus, Ann, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t go through a teenage girl’s diary. It’s wrong.”

“But why? It will give you an idea of who she is... who she was. Please.”

“Oh God, I really don’t want to do this.”

I couldn’t tell her that nothing would have me reaching for a bottle quicker than that. A glimpse into the mind of a young dead girl.

Ann still held it out. I said,

“I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be able to but I’ll give it a shot.”

She put her arm round me, kissed my neck, said,

“Thanks, Jack.”

Walking home, I felt its weight like a bomb in my pocket. I thought of calling Cathy B. Asking her to read it. But I couldn’t just hand it over. Ann would never go for that. Cursing like a trooper, I was home in under ten minutes. I put it under my bed so I wouldn’t see it at first light. No way was I opening those pages at night.

Next morning, I showered, coffee’d, paced, then decided to face it.

The cover was well worn, the pink leather frayed from use. Inside was:

Christ! It was worse than I thought.

Blanked my mind and tried again. A lot of the entries were predictable. School, friends, music, clothes, diets, crushes.

Was able to get through this but every so often.

And I’d want to scream.

Got to where she began work part-time at Planter’s.

Then the tone changed. Now she was excited, flushed, enraptured.

Then Bart... just the name... or a heart with Bart and Sarah... for pages. The final entry:

I got on the phone, called Cathy. She said,

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Undercover.”

“Under the bleeding weather.”

“That, too.”

“You’ll be wanting some-fink?”

“Pretty simple thing.”

“Yeah.”

“When you did research on Planter, did you keep notes?”

“Course.”

“Good girl. What’s his first name?”

“Lemme check.”

Then,

“Got them, let’s see... oh yeah, here it is... Bart... holomew.”

“Great!”

“Don’t go yet. Listen, I’ve got a gig.”

“Terrific, when?”

“This Saturday, at The Roisín; will you come?”

“Definitely. Can I bring somebody?”

“Bring hundreds.”

The Roisín Dubh has showcased most of the major music acts. It still retains the atmosphere of intimacy. Read crowded. Ann was wearing a short leather jacket, faded 501’s, her hair tied back. I said,

“Now, that’s gig gear.”

“Is it OK?”

“Dynamite.”

I’d faded to black. Sweatshirt and cords in that colour. Ann said,

“You look like a spoilt priest.”

“Petulant?”

“No, spoilt as in... ruined.”

“Mm... we could work on that.”

We squeezed through the crowd, got near the stage. I said,

“Listen, I’m just going to see how Cathy’s doing.”

“Will she be nervous?”

“I am.”

Cathy was in a tiny dressing room, said,

“I knew you’d come.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, you still have some moves, even for an old guy. Here...”

She pushed a glass at me, it was a double, no a treble something. I asked,

“What’s that?”

“Jack... as in Daniels. Get you kick-started.”

“No, thanks.”

“What!”

“I’m not drinking.”

She turned round, said, “You what?”

“Been a few days. I’m working at it.”

“Wow!”

I’d have given my back teeth for it. The light seemed to catch the glass, made the liquid sparkle. I looked away. Cathy asked,

“And the beard? What’s with that?”

“Notions.”

“That’s an Irish answer. Tells me absolutely zero. Go... I need to focus.”

I bent down, kissed the top of her head, said,

“Star trouper.”

Ann was holding drinks, said,

“Cokes... I didn’t mean to presume.”

“Coke is great.”

Various people shouted hello, commented on the beard, scrutinised Ann.

Lights went down and I thought I spotted Sutton near the bar.

Then Cathy was up. The crowd went quiet. She said,

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

Straight into a punk version of “Galway Bay”. Like when Sid Vicious did “My Way”. Difference being that Cathy could sing. Gave the song a poignancy I’d lost over too many hearings. Next came Neil Young’s “Powderfinger”.

She covered a huge range, from Chrissie Hynde through Alison Moyet, to conclude with Margo Timmins’ “Misguided Angel”. Stormed through that. Then she was gone. Huge applause, whistles, calls for more. I said to Ann,

“She won’t do an encore.”

“Why.”

“Never keeps a reserve — she’s done.”

She was.

The lights came up. A wave of camaraderie, good will pervaded the place. Ann said,

“She’s brilliant. What a voice.”

“Drink? Have a real one, I’m OK truly.”

“White wine.”

“Sure.”

When I got it, I turned to find Sutton blocking my path. He looked at the glass, said,

“Wine? It’s a start.”

“Not for me.”

“Whatever. That English chick can sure belt it out. I’d say she’d murder you in bed.”

“Not your type.”

“They’re all my type. You’ll remember our Mr Planter?”

“Sure.”

“He does admire painters. Fancies himself a collector.”

“You spoke to him.”

“Lovely man. I’m due at his place at noon tomorrow. You can come as my assistant.”

“What are you planning?”

“To frame the fuck. I’m a painter, Jack. Remember? I’ll pick you up at 11.30.”

I gave Ann her drink, said,

“I’ll just say goodbye to Cathy.”

“Tell her she was mighty.”

A true Galway description, the highest accolade. Cathy’s dressing room was jammed with admirers, her face was flushed, her eyes alight. I said,

“You were sensational.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Listen, you’re busy, I just wanted to let you know.”

“Keep the beard.”

“You think?”

“Makes you look like you’ve got character.”

Next morning, I actually made breakfast. Not being sick, hung over, was extraordinary. My face was healing and the beard hid the rest. Fixed a mess of eggs and cut a wedge of thick bread. I’d been to Griffin’s.

Full mug of tea and I was set. My door went and I said,

“Shit.”

It was Sutton. I said,

“Jeez, how early is this?”

“Man, I haven’t been to bed.”

“Come in, have some breakfast.”

He followed me in and I went to grab another plate. He said,

“I’ll drink mine, thanks.”

“All I’ve got is some cheap Scotch.”

“I’m a cheap guy. Gimme a coffee to colour it.”

My eggs had gone cold. After I got him the coffee and Scotch bottle, he indicated my plate, said,

“Tell me you’re not going to eat that.”

“Now I’m not. I’ve got this fetish, I like to eat my grub with some semblance of heat.”

“Whoo... testy.”

He looked round the flat, said,

“I could be happy here.”

“What?”

“I was round the other day, but you were off gallivanting. I got to chatting to your neighbour, Laura.”

“Linda.”

“Whatever. A thick country wan with all that low cunning. I, of course, charmed the pants off her. Not literally, of course. Once she knew I was an artist, she offered me your flat.”

“She offered what?”

“Is there an echo here? Yeah, said you were moving and she was looking for a suitable tenant.”

“The bad bitch.”

“The attraction of art, eh?”

“Are you serious, you’re going to move in?”

He stood up, slurped off the coffee, gave me a wide-eyed look, said,

“Hey big buddy. Would I shaft you? You’re my main man. We better go, art beckons.”

A beat up VW Golf was parked outside. A bright yellow colour. I said,

“Say it isn’t so.”

“Oh yeah. The Volvo is shagged. I had to borrow this.”

“They’ll literally see us coming.”

“Course they will.”

Planter lived in Oughterard. His house on the approach into the village. House is too tame a term. Obviously, he’d seen Dallas too often and decided to have an Irish Southfork. I said,

“Jeez.”

“But are we impressed?”

A lengthy tree-lined drive, then the main house. More garish close up. Sutton said,

“I’ll do the talking.”

“That should be a novelty.”

He rang the bell, and I noticed security cameras above the portals. The door opened, a young woman in a maid’s uniform asked,

“Que?”

Sutton gave his best smile, all demonic dazzle, said,

“Buenas dias, señorita, I am Señor Sutton, el artist.”

She gave a nervous giggle, waved us in. I looked at Sutton, asked,

“You speak Spanish?”

“I do spick.”

She led us into a lavish study, said,

“Momento, por favor.’”

Paintings lined every wall. Sutton gave them a close inspection, said,

“Some good stuff here.”

A voice said,

“Glad you approve.”

We turned.

Planter was standing at the door. I’m not sure what I expected, but with the house, the business, the reputation, I’d imagined a big man. He wasn’t. Came in at 5’5” or so, almost bald with a heavily lined face. His eyes were dark, revealing little. Dressed in a sweater with a polo logo and very shabby cords. You knew he’d have a worn-to-shit Barbour jacket for outdoors. Nobody offered handshakes. The atmosphere couldn’t hold it. Sutton said,

“I’m Sutton and Jack here is my assistant.”

Planter nodded, asked,

“Some refreshment?”

Then he clapped his hands and the maid returned. Sutton said,

“Dos cervezas.”

We stood in silence till she returned with the two beers on a tray. Sutton took both, said,

“Jack won’t be partaking. I don’t pay the help to drink.”

Planter gave a brief smile, said,

“Please be seated.”

He marched over to a leather armchair. I checked to see if his feet reached the floor. Sutton sat opposite and I remained standing. Planter said,

“I have been an admirer of your work for some time. The idea of a commission attracts me.”

Sutton had finished one beer, belched, said,

“How about a portrait?”

“You do portraits?”

“Not yet but a few more beers, I’d paint Timbuktu.”

Planter wasn’t bothered by Sutton’s manner. On the contrary, he seemed to find it amusing, said,

“No doubt. I think perhaps a landscape.”

I said,

“What about water?”

He was taken aback, had to turn to face me, asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

“Water, Bartholomew; you don’t mind if I call you that? How about Nimmo’s Pier, serve to jog your memory?”

He was up, said,

“I’d like you to leave now.”

Sutton said,

“I could go another beer.”

“Shall I call help?”

I said,

“No, we’ll see ourselves out. But we’ll be in touch, about Nimmo’s.”

Outside Planter’s house, I said to Sutton,

“Gimme the car keys.”

“I can drive.”

“What if that prick calls the guards?”

I was never a great driver. With my left hand bandaged, I was close to dangerous. Still, a better option than the sodden Sutton. I ground the gears a few times and Sutton roared,

“You’ll burn out the clutch.”

“You said the car was borrowed.”

“Borrowed, not disposable.”

I took it slow, tried to ignore the impatience of other drivers. Sutton said,

“You fucked that good.”

“Come again?”

“Planter! I thought we agreed you’d keep your mouth shut.”

“I don’t do hired help good.”

“I wanted to play, fuck with his head more.”

“We fucked his head all right. Just a bit sooner is all.”

“What’s the plan now?”

“Let’s wait and see.”

“That’s the plan?”

“I didn’t say it was a good plan, just the only one.”

Back in Galway, eventually. Sutton had nodded off. I stirred him and he came to with a jump, saying,

“What the fuck!”

“Take it away, we’re in town.”

“Man, I’d a rough dream. Tobe Hopper would be proud of it. My mouth feels like a canary shit in it.”

“Do you want to come in, grab a shower?”

“Naw, I’m for the leaba.”

I got out and waited. Sutton shook himself, said,

“Jack, you wouldn’t ever think of selling me out?”

“What?”

“‘Cause I wouldn’t like that. You ‘n’ me, we’re tied together.”

“Who’d I sell you out to?”

“The guards. You know the old saying... once a garda! You might want to score some points with your old mates.”

“That’s mad talk.”

He gave a long look, then,

“You’re shaping up to be a citizen, you know that. God knows, you were some fuck-up drinking, but at least you were predictable.”

“Get some sleep.”

“And you, Jack, get some focus.”

He put the car in gear, screeched into traffic. I went into the flat, tried to rustle up some breakfast again. But my heart wasn’t in it. Settled for coffee and sank into a chair. I considered what he’d said and wondered if there was any truth in his accusations. One drink and that would burn any righteous notions. Burn everything else, too.

I thought about Planter and couldn’t see how I was going to prove he was responsible for Sarah’s death. Time was running out, too, on my accommodation. If I was going to be homeless, at least I had the beard for it.

The next few days, I heard nothing from Sutton. Checked at the Skeff but no sign. Went into Grogan’s and Sean provided the real coffee. I asked,

“What? No biscuit?”

“You don’t need back-up no more.”

“Sean.”

“What?”

“You’ve known me... how long?”

“Donkeys.”

“Right. You’ve seen me in all kinds of states.”

“That I have.”

“So, all told, you know me better than anyone.”

“Too true.”

“Would you say I’d be capable of selling out a friend?”

If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. Seemed to give it serious thought. I’d been expecting an immediate “course not”. Finally he looked me right in the eye, said,

“Well, you used to be a guard.”

In reality, time doesn’t pass. We pass. I have no idea why, but I think that’s one of the saddest things I ever learnt. God knows, anything I have learnt has been the hard way.

An alcoholic’s greatest defect is a complete unwillingness to learn from the past.

What I knew from mine was if I drank, chaos reigned. I was no longer under any illusion. Yet I’d have given anything to crack the seal on a bottle of Scotch and fly. Or even, a feast of pints. Close my eyes and there was a table. Wooden, of course. Dozens of creamy Guinness lined in greeting. The head... ahhh, just perfect.

Stood up and physically shook myself. This was eating me alive. Galway’s a great walking town. Walking the prom is the favoured route. Used to be only Galwegians followed a particular ritual. You started at Grattan Road, then up past Seapoint. Stop a moment there and hear the ghost of all the showbands past:

The Royal

Dixies

Howdowners

The Miami

I can’t say if it was a simple age. But it was a whole lot less complicated. In the middle of a jive, no mobile phone blew away the magic. Then on past Claude Toft’s, along the beach till you reached Blackrock. Here’s where the ritual kicked in. At the wall, you touched it with your shoe.

Word is out though. Even the Japanese aim a semi-karate shot to the stone.

I don’t begrudge them the act, but somehow it’s been diluted.

Go figure.

I walked into town and decided to get a blast of caffeine for the trip.

As long as I remember, there’s been sentries. Two men who perch on stools at any given hour. Always the same duo. They wear cloth caps, donkey jackets and terylene pants. Never together. They sit at opposite ends of the bar. I wouldn’t swear they even knew each other.

Now here’s the thing.

No matter how you sneak up on these guys or what way you approach them, it never changes. Two pint glasses of Guinness, half full. It’s synchronicity gone ape. You couldn’t plan it. Some day, to walk in and see either full glasses or even empty, then I’ll know change is here to stay.

As I headed for my usual seat, I glanced to check. Yup, the two in place, halves at the ready.

Sean was as contrary as a bag of cats. Plonked coffee down in front of me, saying nothing. I said,

“And a good morning to you, too.”

“Don’t get lippy with me.”

Suitably chastised, I sipped the coffee. Not so hot, but I felt it wasn’t the morning to mention it. I glanced at the paper. Read how the gardaí wouldn’t be part of a new EU force as they weren’t armed. A fellow I vaguely knew approached, asked,

“Might I have a word, Jack?”

“Sure, sit down.”

“I dunno do you remember me. I’m Phil Joyce.”

“Course I do.”

I didn’t.

He sat and produced tobacco and papers, asked,

“Hope you don’t mind.”

“Fire away.”

He did.

He was one of those skull smokers. Sucked the nicotine in so hard it made his cheekbones bulge. He blew out the smoke with a deep sigh. Whether contentment or agony, it was a close call. He said,

“I knew you better when you were doing your line.”

God be with the days. Doing a line was all but redundant. Then, you met a girl, went to the pictures, for walks and, if you were lucky, held her hand for reasons not at all. Now, it was “a relationship” and you were ambushed at every stage by

issues

empowerment

and

the inner child

The only lines now were of cocaine.

You didn’t bring flowers any more, you brought a therapist. He said,

“I heard you were off the gargle.”

“A bit.”

“Good man. Will you give me a reference?”

“For what?”

“The Post Office.”

“Sure, but I’m not sure I’m the best choice.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want the job.”

“Excuse me?”

“Keep the Social Welfare off me back. Look like I’m trying.”

“Um... OK.”

“Right, thanks a lot.”

Then he was gone. I stood up and made to leave money on the table. Sean was over, asked,

“What’s that?”

“The price of the coffee.”

“Oh... and since when did you start paying?”

I’d had it, barked,

“What sort of bug is up your arse?”

“Watch your language, young Taylor.”

I brushed past him, said,

“You’re a cranky oul bastard.”

I was heading down Quay Street. Hardened locals pronounce it “Kay” and it’s “Key” to the rest. A rib must have been broken in the devil as a shard of sun hit the buildings.

A shadow fell. The head wino. I knew him as Padraig. The usual rumours beset him. Supposedly from a good family, he had been

A teacher

A lawyer

A brain surgeon

As long as I’d known him, he was in bits and fond of the literary allusion. Today, he was semi-pissed, said,

“And greetings to you, my bearded friend. Are we perchance partaking of the late winter solstice?”

I smiled and gave him a few quid. The tremoring of his hand we both ignored. He was about 5’5” in height, emaciated, with a mop of dirty white hair. The face was a riot of broken blood vessels, swollen now. The nose was broken and I could sure empathise.

Blue, the bluest eyes you’d ever get... underlined in red, of course. Ordnance surveyed. He said,

“Did I know your father?”

“Paddy... Paddy Taylor.”

“A man of subtlety and taste. Was he not?”

“He had his moments.”

“One deduces from the use of the past tense that he’s no longer with us — or worse — in England.”

“Dead, he’s dead.”

At the top of his lungs. Padraig began to sing. It put the heart crossways in me. He sang or roared,

Blindly, blindly

at last

do we pass away.

He stooped to snatch a fag end, lit it from a battered box of kitchen matches. I looked furtively round, hoping the song was through. He ate deep from the cigarette and in a cloud of nicotine bellowed,

But man may not linger

for nowhere

finds he repose.

He paused and I jumped in.

“Will you stop if I give you more money?”

He laughed, showing two yellowed teeth; the rest, obviously, were casualties of combat.

“Indeed I will.”

I gave him another pound. He examined it, said,

“I take Euros, too.”

I was crossing into Claddagh with the Spanish Arch to my left. Padraig continued to match stride, said,

“You are not a man who gives away a lot... a lot, that is, in the information department. What you do say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.”

Before I could reply to this, briefly or clearly, he was assailed with a series of gut wrenching coughs. Up came phlegm and various unidentifiable substances. I gave him a handkerchief. He used it to dry his streaming eyes.

“I am indebted to you, young Taylor. It has been many the mile since I was offered a fellow pilgrim’s hanky.”

I said,

“Your accent is hard to pin down.”

“Like a steady income, it has an elusive quality... not to mention effusive.”

There was no reply to this, I didn’t even try. He said,

“At one dark era of my existence I was, I believe, from the countryside of Louth. Are you at all familiar with that barren territory?”

“No.”

My concentration was focused on not talking like him. It was highly contagious. He rooted deep in his coat, a heavy tweed number. Out came a brown bottle.

“A touch of biddy perhaps?”

He wiped the neck with the clean end of my hanky. I shook my head. He wasn’t the least offended, said,

“The only advice I remember is it’s better be lucky than good.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Lucky?”

He laughed deep.

“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”

A bunch of winos emerged from the football wall. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy, said,

“My people await me. Perchance we’ll talk again.”

“I’d like that.”

Not wild enthusiasm but a certain tone of approval.

Finally, I made Salthill and hit out along the prom. I thought again about the sentries in Grogan’s. Any given day, come noon, they took off their caps, blessed themselves for the angelus. Even bowed their heads as they quietly whispered the prayer.

Save for those odd pockets of remembrance, the angelus, like the tenements and pawn shop of Quay Street, had been blown away by the new prosperity. Who’s to measure the loss? I couldn’t even recall the prayer.

When you come off the booze, you acquire a racing mind. A hundred thoughts assail you at once.

Three lads in their barely twenties passed me. They were holding cans of Tenants Super. I could have mugged them. The smell of the lager called loud.

I’d come across some books by Keith Ablow. A practising psychiatrist with a specialty in forensics, he wrote,

Walk that.

Next day, invigorated from my walk, I decided to get my hand checked.

I had a doctor, but over the years of drink, I’d lost contact. Once, I’d gone to score some heavy duty tranquillisers and he ran me.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive. Took the chance and went to the Crescent.

A pit stop connecting the seaside and the city. It’s the Harley Street of the town. His nameplate was still there. Went in and a young receptionist asked,

“Can I help you?”

“I used to be a patient, but I dunno if I’m still on the books.”

“Let’s see, shall we.”

I was.

She glanced through the file, said,

“Ah, you’re with the gardai.”

Jeez, how long since I’d been? She looked at my beard and I said,

“Undercover.”

She didn’t believe that for a second, said,

“I’ll check if the doctor’s free.”

He was.

He’d gotten old, but then, who hadn’t? He said,

“My word, you’ve been in the wars.”

“I have.”

Gave me a full examination, said,

“Fingers can come out of plaster in a few weeks. The nose you’re stuck with. What about the alcohol?”

“I’m off it.”

“Time for you. They measure alcohol in units now. How many per day? I’m old school, I suppose; I measure how many people it puts in units.

I didn’t know if this was humour so let it slide. Dismissing me, he said,

“God bless.”

I didn’t go to Grogan’s, thought,

“Today I can live without Sean’s tongue.”

Met Linda outside my flat and she reminded me.

“You have two weeks to find a new place.”

I thought of a range of answers but decided on confusion, said,

“God bless.”

I was watching Sky Sports that evening when the phone rang. It was Ann. I breezed,

“Hi, honey.”

“Jack, there’s been an accident, a bad one.”

“What? Who?”

“It’s Sean... he’s dead.”

“Oh God!”

“Jack... Jack, I’m at the hospital. They have Sean here.”

“Wait there, I’ll come.”

I put the phone down. Then drew back my left hand, punched the wall. The force against my mending fingers made me scream. Four, five times, I systematically pounded the wall then slumped from the pain. A howl of anguish terrified me till I realised I was making the sound.

Ann was waiting at the hospital entrance. She made to hug me but I waved her away. She saw my hand, asked,

“What happened?”

“I fell and no, I wasn’t drinking.”

“I didn’t mean...”

I took her hand in my right one, said,

“I know you didn’t. Where is he? What happened?”

“It was a hit and run. They say he died instantaneously.”

“How do they know?”

On the third floor a doctor and two gardai. The doctor asked,

“Are you family?”

“I dunno.”

The gardai exchanged a look. I asked,

“Can I see him?”

The doctor looked at Ann, said,

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Do I know you?”

He shook his head and I continued,

“That’s what I thought, so how the hell would you know?”

One of the gardai said,

“Hey.”

The doctor said,

“Come with me.”

He led me down the corridor, stopped in a doorway, said,

“Prepare yourself. We haven’t had a chance to really clean him up.”

I didn’t answer.

Curtains had been pulled round a bed. The doctor gave me one final glance then pulled the curtain, said,

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Sean was lying on his back, heavy bruising covered his forehead. Gashes ran along his face. His trousers were torn and a bony knee protruded. He was wearing a navy sweater I’d given him for Christmas. It was soiled.

I leant over him and to my horror, my tears fell on his forehead. I tried to brush them off. Then I kissed his brow and said,

“I’m not drinking, isn’t that great?”

Ann persuaded me to have my hand seen to. I got a fresh plaster and a bolloking. The nurse snapped,

“Stop breaking those fingers.”

Which was definitely cutting to the chase. Ann wanted to come home with me, but I persuaded her I needed some time alone. I said,

“I’m not going to drink.”

“Oh, Jack.”

“I owe it to Sean.”

“You owe it to yourself.”

Argue that. I didn’t.

I’d wrangled some painkillers. Strict instructions to only take two daily. When I got home, I popped three. In jig time I was floating. A feeling of mellow detachment. I got into bed with a working smile. Whatever I was dreaming, I was liking it.

A tugging at my shoulder dragged me reluctantly awake. Sutton stood over the bed, saying,

“Man, you were gone.”

“Sutton, what the... how the hell did you get in?”

Even in the darkness, I could decipher the smile. He said,

“You know me, Jack, I can get in anywhere. Here, I made us some coffee.”

I sat up and he pushed a mug at me. Raised it to lips and smelt the brandy. I shouted,

“What the hell is this? You’ve spiked it.”

“Just to help the shock. I am so sorry about Sean.”

I pushed the coffee away, got out of bed and pulled jeans on. Sutton said,

“I’ll wait in the other room.”

In the bathroom, I checked the mirror. My pupils were pin points. Shuddered as I thought, “What if I’d lashed brandy down on that?”

Put my head under the cold tap and let the water gush. It helped, the grogginess eased. Went out to Sutton, asked,

“When did you hear?”

“Only a little while ago. I found a place to live and was preoccupied with moving in. Sorry, Jack, I’d have been here sooner.”

“Where’s your place?”

“You know the hills above the Sky Road?”

“Vaguely.”

“An American had a huge warehouse of a thing there. But the weather got to him. I took a year’s lease. You want to come share?”

“What? No... I mean... no, thanks... I’m a city boy.”

I noticed a stone bottle on my press, asked,

“What’s that?”

“Oh, that’s mine. It’s Genever, Dutch gin. I’ll bring it with me when I go. I just wanted to check you were OK. I know what Sean meant to you.”

“Means!”

“Whatever.”

We talked for a while about Sean. Sutton said,

“You really loved... love that old codger.”

Then he stood up, said,

“I better head. If there’s anything I can do, you got it... understand? I’m here for you, buddy.” I nodded.

A few minutes later, I could hear him pull away. I stayed sitting for the next half hour. My head down, my mind near blank. Slowly, I turned round and focused on the stone bottle. I could swear it moved. Moved towards me. I said aloud,

“Thank Christ, I don’t need that.”

Began to wonder what it smelled like. Went over and picked up the bottle. Heavy. Unscrewed the top and took a whiff. Wow, like grain alcohol. Put the bottle back down, without the cap, said,

“Let it breath... or is that wine?’

Went into the kitchen, figured a tea with tons of sugar would be good. A voice in the back of my mind tried to say,

“You’re in the zone.”

I shut it down. Opened the cupboard and there was the Roches glass. I said,

“No way, José,” and let it crash into the sink. Didn’t break, and I said, “You stubborn bastard.”

Got a hammer and pounded it to smithereens. A piece of flying glass cut my left eyebrow. I threw the hammer in the sink and went back to the other room. Walked over, took the gin and drank from the neck.