The Guards

Storms

I had one hell of a bad dream. Like you see the guy in the movie, waking, drenched in sweat, shouting,

“Nam... incoming.”

Like that.

I was dreaming of Padraig, Sean, Planter, Ford, Sarah Henderson. Lined up before me, eyes black in death, reaching for me. No matter how I ran, they were always in front of me. I was screaming,

“Leave me alone or I’ll drink.”

Came to with a shout. The sun was streaming through the windows, and I felt such dread as I had never known. Staggered outa bed and got a beta-b — fast. If I had known how to pray any more, I’d have gone for it. I said,

The opening of the Hail Mary in Irish. Began to ease. My early schooling had been solely through Irish. Moving up a grade, we had to relearn our prayers through English. During the transition period, I was prayerless.

Believed if I died, I’d go straight to hell. Those were the early nights of terror. As I got the swing of the new liturgy, the terror abated. Somewhere, though, the idea rooted that I’d been safer in Irish.

Serendipity was about to come calling. Coincidence being when God wants to maintain a low profile. When He’s sidestepping the paparazzi.

I’d had my shower, managed a weak coffee and dressed. Wearing a faded-to-white denim shirt, tan needle cords, and the moks, I could have passed for an out of focus American Express ad.

Knock on the door. I hoped to hell it wasn’t Sutton.

Janet.

She said,

“I hate to intrude.”

“That’s OK.”

“Mrs Bailey said you’re leaving.”

“I am.”

“I’d like you to have these.”

She stretched out her hand. A black rosary beads. They appeared to shine. As I took them, they looked like handcuffs against the denim. She said,

“They were blessed at Knock.”

“I am very moved, Janet. I’ll keep them with me always.”

She got shy and I added,

“I’ll miss you.”

A full blush. Not something you see too often any more so, to cover, I asked,

“Do you eat chocolate?”

“Oh God, I love it.”

“Well, I’m going to get you a vulgar amount in a fancy box.”

“With the dog on the lid?”

“Exactly.”

She left with the blush in neon.

I put the beads under my pillow. I could use all the help available.

Walking towards the statue of Padraig Ó Conaire, a garda approached me. I thought,

“Uh-dh.”

He asked,

“Mr Taylor? Mr Jack Taylor?”

They call you mister, call a lawyer. I said,

“Yeah.”

“Superintendent Clancy would like a word. This way.”

He led the way to a black Daimler. The back door opened and a voice said,

“Get in, Jack.”

I did.

Clancy was in full uniform. All the epaulettes, insignia on show. He was stouter than our previous meeting. I said,

“Not getting to the links too often?”

“What?”

“Golf. I hear you play with the big boys.”

His face was purple, the eyes bulging. The guy used to be skinnier than a rat. He said,

“You should take it up, good for the health.”

“I can’t deny you’re the living proof.”

Shook his head, said,

“Always with the mouth, Jack.”

The driver was built like the proverbial shithouse. Muscles bulging in his neck. Clancy said,

“I might owe you an apology.”

“Might?”

“The suicides. Seems you were on to something.”

“And, Super, are you on to something... like the whereabouts of Mr Planter?”

Clancy sighed, said,

“He’s long gone. Money buys a lot of clout.”

I didn’t want to push too far in this direction, said,

“I’m leaving Galway.”

“Indeed. Any hope your friend Sutton will go with you?”

“Don’t think so. His muse is here.”

Clancy was quiet, then,

“Did you know he once applied to the force?”

“Sutton?”

“Oh yes. Turned him down, there are standards.”

“Are you sure? They took us.”

He allowed himself a grim smile, said,

“You could have gone far.”

“Wow, maybe even turned out like you.”

He put out his hand. I was fascinated by his shoes. Heavy black jobs, with a shine you could see yourself in. I took his hand. He asked,

“Are you leaving because of Coffey?”

“What... who?”

“You remember him, a gombeen from Cork.”

I let go his hand, pulled my eyes away from those shoes, said,

“Oh yeah, a big thick yoke. Fair hurler though.”

“He works under me, and to hear him tell it, the Ann Henderson wan is working like a whore under him.”

The words hung in the air. I could see the driver shift awkwardly behind the wheel. A line of sweat popped out along my brow. I could feel Clancy’s grin in my back. The world spun for a minute and I thought I’d fall. Must have been the sudden exposure to the sun. Took a second, then leant back into the car. With all my might I spat on those fine garda shoes.

I went into Supermacs on the square. Needed something very cold. Got a large Coke, ice-loaded, and took a window seat. My eyes were stinging, and I squeezed the ball in my left hand till my fingers ached. Took a long swallow of the Coke, felt the ice click against my teeth. A red cloud seemed to bend my vision. More Coke, then the sugar rush kicked.

It helped.

My vision cleared and I stopped the incessant squeezing. A man approached my table, said,

“Jack.”

I looked up. Knew the face but couldn’t place the name. He said,

“I’m Brendan Flood.”

“Ah... the God guy.”

“May I sit?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, pal. I’m all out on guards.”

“Ex-guards.”

“Whatever.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Is it about God again?”

“Everything’s about God.”

He sat and I looked out the window. Despite the sunshine, I could see black clouds on the horizon. Flood said,

“A storm is coming!”

“Are you being biblical or informative?”

“I heard it on the news.”

I didn’t answer, figured he’d spout some homily and be gone. How long could it take? He said,

“My condolences on the death of your friend Sean Grogan.”

“Thanks.”

“There is information.”

“What?”

“On the car.”

“Tell me.”

“A yellow car.”

“But there’s a lot of those.”

“Eye witnesses say it looked deliberate.”

“Deliberate?”

“The guards interviewed the witnesses but they missed one. A boy of eleven, he collects number plates. He didn’t get the actual digits but he did see a sticker.”

He paused, then,

“It was CLFD.”

“Clifden!”

He stood up, nodded at the approaching storm, said,

“God’s intense displeasure.”

I had shopping to do. Went to Holland’s and got a mega box of chocolates. The cute dog on the lid. Next to the off-licence, and took some looking, but located a stone bottle of Dutch gin. Back to the hotel and left the chocolates at Reception. Mrs Bailey said,

“These are for Janet?”

“They are.”

“She’ll be delirious.”

“Are we on for our nightcap tonight?”

“Lovely, around eleven?”

“Great.”

Round seven in the evening, the heavens opened and rain lashed the city. Heavy and unrelenting. I lay on my bed and listened. My mind I kept blank and refused to ponder the endless possibilities.

At eleven, I went down to the bar, and Mrs Bailey was waiting. I’d worn my suit. She was all decked out, said,

“We’re two dotes.”

I’m sure it was a lovely evening. ’Cept, I don’t remember it. My mind had moved to a place of ice, and Mrs Bailey talked for two. I do know she said,

“You’re not touching the hard stuff.”

“For now.”

She didn’t press. I watched the clock over the bar. When it got to two, Mrs Bailey said,

“I’ll have to call it a night.”

Her parting words:

“If you ever need a friend...”

Her hug near touched me but not enough.

I went to my room, looked out the window. If anything, the rain was heavier. I got my holdall and put the gin in. Next, I put on my guard’s all-weather coat. Then I phoned Sutton, heard,

“‘Lo?”

“Sutton, it’s Jack. You said you don’t sleep much.”

“Got that right.”

“I need to see you.”

“Sure... tomorrow... OK.”

“Now! I have a bottle of gin.”

“Ah, now you’re talking. Where will I meet you?”

“Nimmo’s Pier.”

“What, there’s a bloody gale out there.”

“It’s beautiful like that. Jeez, you’re the artist, do I have to convince you?”

“Yeah, wild gin on a wild night. I love it.”

“See you there.”

Not a soul on the streets. As I got to Claddagh, the wind threatened to blow me over the quay. I could see the swans huddled against the boats.

When I got to Nimmo’s, I leaned against the wall, watching the black bay. It was fiercely beautiful. A car’s headlights turned at the football pitch, began to cruise down the pier. Reaching out, the lights illuminated me. I waved. The engine was turned off and Sutton opened the door. He had only a t-shirt and jeans, shouted at the night,

“I love it.”

Fought against the wind to join me, said,

“Yah mad bastard, this was a great idea. Where’s the booze?”

I unzipped the holdall, handed over the bottle. He said,

“Genever... mighty.”

He took a huge swig and I asked,

“Do you remember the time we went to the dance in South Armagh?”

He lowered the bottle, said,

“Yeah...”

“A car followed us and I asked you which side they were on.”

“Vaguely.”

“You said the bad side, and I asked which one was that.”

He nodded, I continued,

“You said the one that follows you at four in the morning.”

He gave a gut laugh, most parts gin. I said,

“It’s near four in the morning now, and you’re the bad side.”

“What?”

“You killed Sean. The Clifden tag on a yellow car, it was spotted.”

He put the bottle down, considered, then,

“I did it for us.”

“For us?”

His words came in a rush.

“One night, late... in Grogan’s, I was pissed, trying to get a rise out of him. I told him we killed Ford.”

“And you think Sean would have told!”

“Not then... but he hated me. The bastard took my painting down. Sooner or later he’d have made a call.”

I said,

“Sutton.”

And kneed him in the balls. Grabbed his t-shirt and dragged him towards the edge. He screamed,

“Jack... Jesus... I can’t swim.”

I waited a few moments, braced against the wind and said,

“I know that.”

Threw him over. Picked up the stone bottle and smelled it. The power reached all the way to my toes. Reaching back, I threw high and long.

If there was a splash, I didn’t hear it.

As I buttoned up against the wind, I remembered the time in the Newry pub. Sutton had grabbed “The Hound of Heaven” from me and said,

“Francis Thompson died roaring; it’s how alkies die!”

I couldn’t verify this. The wind was too loud.