The Magdalen Martyrs

The girls were huddled under the bedclothes, trying to keep warm and to give each other some meagre comfort. They heard the sound of heels and then the bedclothes were whipped away. The woman they called Lucifer screamed, “What unnatural act are you whores performing?”

She grabbed the first girl by the hair and punched her in the mouth. Then reaching for the second, she pulled her down to the toilets, forced a bar of soap into her mouth and said,

“Chew, chew if you don’t want to get the hiding of your life.”

The girl, blinded by tears and terror, began to chew.

I began to walk towards the Great Southern. I knew the porter there. As I came through the revolving doors, he said,

“Rough night, Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“None of us getting any younger.”

I palmed him a few notes, said,

“Get us a pint and a half one.”

The Southern, of course, is not an early house. Good Lord, God forbid. It does have a huge lobby with secluded corners. If you need a cure in tranquil seclusion, you won’t do better.

Had just slunk down in a vast armchair when a man appeared. I thought it was my drinks. No... Brendan Flood. He said,

“I saw you come in.”

“Not now... OK?”

“I have the information you require.”

I was about to tap the envelope and say,

“Me, too.”

But he sat down.

What I most didn’t want was him seeing me on the booze and first thing of a morning. Everything was down the toilet. The porter came and seemed surprised I’d company. All our eyes locked on the tray of drinks. Before I could launch into some half-assed lame story, Brendan said,

“Same for me.”

The porter gave us a look of confusion, asked,

“You guys celebrating something?”

Brendan snapped,

“Get the drinks, all right.”

The porter slunk off, and I asked Brendan,

“You’re serious?”

He nodded and I probed,

“You’re drinking?”

He stared at me, said,

“I don’t think you’re the one to recriminate.”

“I’m not... I’m... surprised.”

The porter returned, and Brendan put a mess of notes on the tray and said,

“Keep the change.”

If he was grateful, he hid it well. Brendan grabbed the shot, drained it, then followed with most of the pint. He sat back, closed his eyes, said,

“This is the best bit.”

Who was I to argue? Did the same with my drinks but stopped short of the eye closing. I like to see it coming. An overwhelming compulsion for nicotine landed. You open the door of one addiction and all the outriders gallop behind. Brendan reached in his jacket, took out a packet of Major. Yer legitimate coffin nails. Popularised by Robbie Coltrane in Cracker.

He shook one loose, produced a kitchen box of matches and fired up. I asked,

“Can I?”

Enveloped in smoke, he waved a hand, yes. The cigarette felt odd in my mouth, and the first few pulls were godawful. I stubbed it out. He gave a malevolent grin, said,

“Par for the course. The first is shite, but you’ll be puffing good-oh in jig time.”

I didn’t argue. My own sorry existence was proof of his theory. I waited a beat, said,

“What happened, Brendan?”

He took a deep breath, said,

“The Magdalen is what happened.”

I let him take his time, didn’t push, and finally he ran his fingers through his hair and began,

“I found a woman in the Claddagh, in her seventies, who was one of the inmates. At first she wouldn’t talk about it, but then she heard I go to prayer meetings and she agreed to tell. The first thing you ought to know is this woman was absolutely terrified. The laundry has been closed for years, but it still reaches out to her. There was a woman there the girls called Lucifer, a lay person the nuns employed to help out. She was the devil incarnate, beating the girls, shaving their heads, scouring them for lice.”

He paused, lit a cig, and I saw the tremor in his hand. He asked,

“Any idea of how to clean lice from the body?”

“No, no I don’t.”

“Me neither, but I’ll never forget now. You immerse the person in scalding water and then pour carbolic acid in; you have to be real careful lest you flay the creature alive. I believe it stings like a bastard. Lucifer was an expert at the dosage and de-lighted in the process. She’d let the girls know days before so they’d be good and frightened. Not all of the girls were unmarried mothers; some were put there for disobedience to their parents. In an era of dire poverty, it was one less mouth to feed.

“My witness remembers two girls who were friends. One was there for unwanted pregnancy, but the other had simply been accused of stealing. Lucifer took particular delight in tormenting those two, would tell them that God had forsaken them, and the only thing those girls had was a simple faith. The she-devil systematically eroded that. She used a blunt scissors to hack off the tresses of one and refused to allow the other to wash so she stank to high heaven, if you’ll excuse the pun. All those girls had was each other, no hope of any life after, with just misery every single day, and if you separated them, then they were doomed. Lucifer went a step further and persuaded one that the other had betrayed her. The girl hanged herself a few days later. With constant taunting from the woman, the second drank bleach they used in the laundry. Now if you have ever seen someone who has drunk bleach, maybe in your days on the force, you’ll know it takes days of utter agony to die. Five days to die in the most appalling conditions, with Lucifer telling her the fires of hell, which already had her friend, were being stoked up for her arrival.”

The sweat was pouring down his forehead, and he turned, stared at me, asked,

“Do you know what those two innocents were?”

“No.”

“Martyrs, the real thing, dying in agony for love. Magdalen Martyrs. And if I fucking believed in anything any more, I’d pray for the poor souls. I swear I dream about them every night. Them nuns in that place, you know why they hated the girls so much. This is only my own theory but it works: it’s because those girls had experienced the one thing they’d never know, sex... or if you wanted to push, love.”

Brendan said,

“I need more drink, but I don’t think I could stomach that porter again.”

Then he was up and gone. I didn’t know if he’d return.

He did, bearing a tray ablaze with drink. Enough to get a small rugby team blitzed. I said,

“That cost a bit.”

He sat down heavily, said,

“It’s only money, who gives a fuck?”

I’d never heard him swear. This was the man who attended prayer meetings where they spoke in tongues. A man who chastised me if I as much as muttered “damn”. He lashed in more booze, belched, said,

“I’m fucked.”

I waited. He lit another Major, said,

“My wife left me.”

“Oh.”

I was going to say, “Hey, mine left me, too,” but felt he wasn’t looking for identification, so I waited. He said,

“She went to England and then came back. She’s in the house but doesn’t talk one word to me.”

I tried to find some platitude, found none. He continued,

“After I left the guards, I was lost. You know that deal, Jack... yeah.”

I nodded.

“Like you, Jack, I could have become a drunk, but I was saved. God spoke to me. The void within was filled.”

Then he stopped, drank some more. So I asked,

“You were happy?”

“Happy! I was bloody ecstatic. Like being high all the time.”

More drink, then,

“But lately, all the things I see, the awfulness of life, the lousy, sordid daily grind of most people’s lives, my belief began to ebb. I was found and now I’m lost. How can you believe in a God who lets those girls die?”

I took a cig and, yeah, the second one wasn’t half bad. I said,

“Maybe it’s just a phase... you know, your faith will return.”

He shook his head violently, near spat,

“Naw, I’m done with all that. The prayer group I attended, bunch of hypocrites.”

Anger rolled off him in waves. He said,

“Then the Magdalen, I began to investigate for you. What was done to those poor women, treated like slaves and in the name of religion. My advice to you is, let it go. It will taint you, too.”

I took out Cathy’s envelope, opened it and written there was,

Rita Monroe

17 Newcastle Road.

No phone number, no relatives traced.

Before I could share this, a man in a morning suit appeared, said,

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to take your custom elsewhere.”

Brendan looked up. Drunk and belligerent, he asked,

“Who the fuck are you? And where did you get the bloody suit?”

“Please, I must ask you to lower your voice. Guests are not accustomed to such early morning... boisterousness.”

Brendan stood up, shouted,

“Once were... guards.”

I grabbed his arm, said,

“Come on, I know a place.”

He took a swing at the manager, who ducked, and I managed to drag Brendan out to the street. The fresh air hit him like revelations and he staggered, said,

“Maybe some coffee.”

“Good idea.”

I took him back to Bailey’s. Got him into an armchair. Mrs Bailey came over, asked,

“What happened to him?”

“Bad news.”

“I see.”

But she didn’t. What she saw was a ravaged drunk. I said,

“If I could get some coffee... Then probably a cab.”

She gave us another look, then turned away. Brendan asked,

“Are we in Dublin?”

“What?”

“I’m kidding. I’m not that far gone.”

“You tried to deck the manager at the Southern.”

“That wasn’t drink; that was necessity.”

He did seem improved. There was no sign of the coffee. I asked,

“Are you going to be OK?”

“What do you think, Jack?”

A horrible thought occurred to me and I asked,

“Brendan, you wouldn’t, you know... do something stupid?”

He turned to stare at me, said,

“You mean, top myself?”

I nodded and he said,

“Dante’s second level of hell is reserved for suicides.”

“Is that an answer?”

He touched my shoulder, said,

“Jack.”

“I might need your word on this.”

He didn’t answer, and Mrs Bailey came, said,

“I called a taxi.”

Brendan stood, said,

“I suppose that means our session is over.”

“I’ll come with you if you want, keep you company.”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

And he was gone.

Mrs Bailey, standing behind me, said,

“I didn’t forget the coffee, but all it gives you is a wide-awake drunk.”

I had no answer for her. No civil one anyway. Went up to my room and collapsed on the bed, was out in seconds.

I had a dream where I went to Zhivago Records. Declan, of course, was in attendance and sold me the complete back catalogue of REM. Nightmare indeed. Behind the counter was a girl whose hair had been shorn, and she asked me where could she buy some bleach. As the dream wavered, I swear I could hear, clear as day, Stipe singing “Losing My Religion”.

The next few days were hell personified. Hangover supreme. Spent them mostly on, under, across the bed. All the while, the booze calling,

“Come, let us fix you.”

Yeah.

At one stage, I came to with the sheets in a noose round my neck. Did not want to ever analyse that. On the bureau was a small photo. Was I hallucinating? Blinked twice but it remained. Approached slowly. It was of a man in a cheap tweed suit, suffering writ large on his face. At the bottom, I read,

“Matt Talbot.”

Crept back to bed after turning the photo face down. Next time I surfaced, it was gone. I would never ask Janet about it. Could only hope she was the culprit... ELSE?

Third, fourth day, weak as a kitten, I showered, put on fresh clothes. I felt more fragile than a whisper. My mind locked on whiskey, I headed for a cafe on Prospect Hill. Ordered scrambled eggs, toast and tea. The table swam before my eyes and sweat cruised my body. If I could get some nourishment...

Months before, on my previous case, I’d been deep into coke. Ran out and panicked. Cathy, in her punk days, knew all the drug players. I’d leaned heavily on our friendship and gotten the name of a dealer. It bruised our relationship, but coke recognises no loyalties.

I’d gone to meet “Stewart” and scored. He was far from the stereotype. Lived in a neat house near the college, and if he resembled anyone, it was a banker. What kept him successful, un-nicked and unknown was a low profile.

I pushed the breakfast away, couldn’t eat. The waitress asked,

“Was there something wrong?”

Was there ever, but not with the food. I even put the tea aside, said,

“No... I’m not feeling well.”

She gave me a motherly smile, said,

“ ’Twill be that stomach bug, the whole town’s got it.”

I walked to the canal, alternating hot and cold, praying Stewart was home. Knocked on the door, waited a minute, then he opened, said,

“Yes?”

“Stewart, I dunno if you remember me?”

The sharp eyes opened, then,

“Cathy’s friend... don’t tell me... it’s John Taylor.”

“Jack.”

You have to ask, do you want drug dealers to remember your name? He said,

“Come in.”

The house was spotless, like a showplace. Stewart was wearing pressed chinos, a white shirt, loosely knotted tie. He offered me a seat, asked,

“Tea, coffee, pharmaceuticals?”

“You wouldn’t have a cigarette?”

That old craving suddenly surfaced. He gave a measured laugh, said,

“The corner shop would be the place. I don’t allow smoking in the house.”

Sure enough, on the wall was a decal with

SMOKE FREE ZONE

I said,

“You’re kidding.”

“Foul habit.”

“Stewart, you’re a drug dealer... come on.”

He raised a finger, said,

“I’m a businessman. I never indulge.”

“Pretty flexible set of morals you got there, pal.”

He spread his palms, said,

“Works for me. But I don’t think you dropped by for a debate on ethics, did you?”

“No, you’re right. I need some major tranquillizers. I’m really hurting.”

He tilted his head, like a doctor, asked,

“What have you been using... or abusing? I’m never quite sure of the terminology.”

“I am. Abusing is when you’re fucked.”

“Aptly put. I shall remember the distinction. Excuse me.”

He went upstairs. I looked round. If there’d been a drinks cabinet, I’d have abused it. When he returned, he was carrying a briefcase, asked,

“How much are you planning to spend?”

“As much as it takes.”

Big smile, everything to do with money and no relation to humour. He laid a series of small plastic bottles on the table, said,

“You’ll notice red, blue, yellow and black caps.”

“Accessorised?”

Gave me a vexed look, said,

“You’d do well to pay attention.”

“I’ll try.”

“Red are powerful painkillers, the yellow are mega tranks, blue are Quaaludes and black...”

He gave a deep sigh of admiration, continued,

“Are black beauties!”

I asked,

“Could I have some water?”

“Now?”

“No, next Tuesday... come on.”

When he went to fetch it, I flipped the lid off the red, dry swallowed two. He returned with the water, and I gulped it down, the tremor in my hand like a flag. He said,

“For what it’s worth, I advise extreme caution with all of these.”

“Like a government health warning.”

He took out a tiny calculator, did the sums, presented the screen to me. I said,

“Jesus, I’d need the major tranquillizers.”

I laid out a mini-hill of bills and he said,

“For cash customers only, I throw in a little something special.”

“I doubt if it’s humour.”

He produced a small brown bottle, asked,

“What do you know about GHB?”

“Grievous bodily harm?”

“Not in the sense you mean. It’s alias ‘liquid E’ and it is a painkiller. Within twenty minutes of downing it, your movements, control, vision and brain become impaired. Inhibitions, clothes, self-control disappear. It doesn’t have the rush of E. Do you want to know how they hit on it, if you’ll excuse the pun?”

He had a feverish glint to his eyes. Now I knew where he lived.... pharmacology. I said,

“Hit me.”

“It was first manufactured as an experimental anaesthetic and aid to childbirth. It relaxes the muscles. Alas, it was banned in America because it caused seizures. Then it became linked to Rohypnol, the date rape number. Its big plus is the morning after. It leaves you perky and alert.”

“I like this already.”

He held the bottle up, said,

“Now for the downer. Mess with the dosage and you can go into a coma. Taken properly, it gives you euphoria and libido. Listen carefully... are you listening?”

The two reds I’d popped couldn’t possibly be kicking in yet, but I was definitely on the mend, said,

“I’m rapt.”

“OK, here are the rules. Never mix with alcohol or any other chemicals. Always take the right dosage. Wait forty minutes between doses. Let somebody know what you’re doing. On no account drive a car.”

“Got it.”

“You certain?”

“Yeah.”

He added the bottle to the other goodies. He sat back, gave me a long look, and I went,

“What?”

“You know, Jack... you don’t mind if I call you Jack, do you?”

“It’s my name, just don’t wear it out.”

His eyes lit and he said,

“Don’t tell me... Robert De Niro to Ed Harris in... shit, what is the film?”

The pills had hit big time, and I was almost warming to him. As I couldn’t recall the movie either, I smiled enigmatically. He said,

“OK, that’s cool, it will come to me. Anyway, I was going to say, despite your smart mouth... and boy, do you ever have that... I have a sneaking regard for you.”

I was full tilt boogie now, said,

“Glad to hear it.”

He was on his feet, saying,

“Tell you what I’m going to do.”

I waited. Shit, I felt so fine, I’d have waited a week. He said,

“I’m going to Vike you.”

I didn’t know was this some sex thing or had I simply mis-heard. He went,

“Vicodin is a prescription painkiller. It’s Vike that kept Matthew Perry in rehab.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know Friends’?”

“I’ve seen Buffy.”

He waved that aside, continued,

“It’s the drug of choice for rappers, rockers and the A-list. Eminem has a tattoo of the ovoid shape on his arm. He even put a graphic of Vike on ‘Slim Shady’.”

I was lost, if happily so. On he went.

“An American psychologist characterised the average Vike user as having all the attributes of the economic winner today... agility, problem solving, system application. It’s a bastard to get supplies of, but I’m expecting a delivery soon, and your name goes on the list.”

“Thanks, Stewart.”

He stared at me, so I figured it was time to go. I stood up, wanting to glide, said,

“It’s been a time.”

“Stay in touch, Jack, for the Vike vibe.”

“Gotcha.”

He put my purchases in a McDonald’s bag and let me out. For the sheer novelty of a pain free walk, I headed for the River Inn. There is no sign of a river and the canal is a good two miles away. I’d been in here once before. I took a window seat, and a girl in her twenties approached, said,

“Howyah?”

“Great.”

“What can I get you?”

“Coffee.”

I didn’t need a drink; I didn’t even want one, just to bask in the glow of the drugs. A man was sitting near me, engrossed in a book. He looked up and nodded. With my fresh bonhomie, I asked,

“What are you reading?”

“The Assassin’s Cloak.”

“Crime?”

“Good Lord, no. It’s an anthology of diarists. You read one entry per day. Everyone from Pepys to Virginia Wolfe.”

“Good?”

“Brilliant. I missed a few days, so I’m treating myself to a week’s catching up.”

And then I remembered Rita Monroe. Went through my pockets and found her address. I was practically in the neighbourhood. Outside, I could feel a second wave of elation hit me. I cruised past the hospital.

Found the house without any trouble. A passing Franciscan glared at me, and I blamed the McDonald’s bag. The last Franciscan I’d spoken to had been outside the abbey. Near Cafe Con Leche. I’d gone in to light a candle. As a child I’d learnt,

“A candle is a prayer in action.”

Worked for me once.

The people I’ve loved most and treated the worst are all dead, buried in a cluster at Rahoon Cemetery. Visiting graves is a respected, honoured tradition in Ireland. I mean, do they have “Cemetery Sunday” in London?

I rest my case.

I am shocking in my duty. Rare and rarer do I go. Can’t plead I meant better ’cause I didn’t, then or now. So I sneak compensate. Thus the candles, like ready-made reparation. One of my favourite crime writers, Lawrence Block, has written fourteen Matt Scudder novels. The hero, a hopeless drunk in the early books, becomes a St Augustine — quoting, recovering alcoholic in the later ones. I like the early ones best. Matt, when he gets any cash, tithes his money. To any church, though the Catholics get the lion’s share.

I’d put some money in the donations box and was standing outside when the friar appeared. A freezing cold day. I noticed his red toes in the open sandals. He said,

“Good for the circulation.”

“I’m going to take your word on that.”

Then, he’d given me the full stare. I learnt similar in the guards. It’s not all intimidation, but it is related. He said,

“You’re not from this parish.”

“No, St Patrick’s.”

He frowned, definitely the lower end of the market, asked,

“And why are we blessed with your trade today?”

It crossed my mind to go,

“Fuck off.”

But he was sockless, so I said,

“I was passing.”

In my time, I’ve been barred from the best of pubs. Could only hope I wasn’t going to add churches. The trick to priest-conversation is simple. Don’t ever be surprised. They don’t follow the usual rules. This guy was no exception, said,

“Do you know the two men I admire most?”

For a second, I thought he was going to launch into Don McLean’s song that goes “The Father, Son and Holy Ghost”. I tried to appear interested, asked,

“Who?”

“Charles Haughey and Eamonn Dunphy.”

“Strange bedfellows. I’d have thought St Francis would have got a peek.”

A car pulled up and he said,

“That’s my taxi.”

And he was gone.

All of this went through my mind as I rang Rita Monroe’s bell. The house was neat, tidy, respectable. Two storey with fresh net curtains. From her laundry days, I thought. The door opened. A tall, thin woman with steel-grey hair, tied in a severe bun. I guessed her age at seventy, but she was very well preserved. An almost unlined face. She retained traces of an impressive beauty. Dressed all in white, she could have been a ward matron. She asked,

“Yes?”

“Rita Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jack Taylor... I.”

“Are you a guard?”

“Yes.”

“Come in.”

Led me into a sparse living room. Bare, except for the books, thousands of them, neatly lined in every conceivable place. She said,

“I like to read.”

“Me, too.”

Gave me an odd look, and I said,

“Guards do read.”

She glanced at my brown paper bag, confused, asked,

“You brought your lunch?”

What the hell, I’d fly with the lie. Said,

“We have to grab a bite where we can.”

I’ve never actually met a marine drill sergeant, but I can catch the drift. She had the eyes of one, said,

“I thought they’d send a uniform.”

I had to pay attention. She thought I was a plainclothes. Decided to lean heavy on intuition, said,

“Mrs Monroe.”

“Ms.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The correct form of address for a lady of unknown marital status is Ms.”

As she said this, she appeared totally demented, and I nearly shouted,

“Spinster.”

With my best interested, nay concerned, expression, I asked,

“Ms Monroe, would you like to tell me... in your own words... why you called us?”

Deep sigh. The only other woman on earth who could pull this shit so convincingly was my mother. Truth to tell, I was having difficulty seeing this person as “the angel of the Magdalen”. Still, Bill had been adamant about her compassion. She said,

“This is the third time I’ve been broken into.”

Then she paused, said,

“Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

Indeed.

I tapped my forehead, said,

“All goes in here.”

No way was she buying that, so I prompted,

“Three occasions?”

“Yes, once in broad daylight.”

She made a grimace of disgust, said,

“The most recent time... they relieved themselves on the carpets.”

Feeling the pills coast, I nearly said,

“You’re shitting me.”

Went with,

“Very disturbing. Any idea of the culprits?”

She clicked her teeth. A disconcerting noise, almost related to “giddy-up”. She said,

“From the estate no doubt.”

“Ms Monroe, there are so many estates, could you be more specific?”

Now impatience showed and she snapped,

“Really! As if there could be any other.”

“I see.”

If she wasn’t going to name it, then neither was I. I tried to appear thoughtful. As if I was weighing this.

I wasn’t.

I said,

“I shall submit a full report.”

She put her hands on her hips and smirked,

“In other words, you’ll do nothing.”

I stood up, thinking,

“The offer of tea would have helped.”

She put her hand to her forehead, said,

“Oh.”

And looked like she was going to faint. I steered her to a chair, got her sitting. She smelled of carbolic soap, like a harsh disinfectant. I asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“A little sherry. It’s in the kitchen, the press above the kettle.”

I went. The kitchen, too, was spotless. Demonically antiseptic. Found the sherry, got a water glass, poured a healthy measure, took a swig, thought,

“Jesus, that is sweet.”

Took another. Yeah, almost treacle.

Bought the glass in. She took it in both hands, sipped daintily, said,

“I do apologise. I’ve recently had a bereavement.”

If...

If I’d been paying attention, if I wasn’t awash in chemicals, if I was more of a guard, if my head hadn’t been up my arse...

I would have asked her about it. Maybe even heard the name and, oh God, what a ton of grief might have been averted.

Instead I asked,

“Are you OK?”

Her colour was returning. She said,

“You have been most kind.”

The tone was alien to her. Gratitude did not come easily and certainly not naturally.

“Will you be all right? Should I call somebody?”

“No, no there’s no one to call.”

You hear that, you usually feel for the person. But I couldn’t bring up that kind of feeling for her. If anything, she gave me a sense of revulsion. What I most wanted was to get the hell away from her. I blamed the sherry sloshing over the drugs, and that simply adds to my list of awful judgements. I said,

“I’ll be off then.”

Sounding like the Irish version of Dixon of Dock Green. She didn’t speak as I let myself out. I’d been half tempted to nick a few of the books but didn’t want to touch anything she owned. As I walked down by the university, I could picture her, hunched in that chair, the lonely sherry beside her and not a sound in the house. A sense of triumph, at the very least a sense of relief of being now free of Bill Cassell, should have been happening.

It wasn’t.

What I most focused on was the pint of Guinness I was going to have in about five minutes tops.

The new day, mildly tranquillized, I crept into Nestor’s. Jeff was on the phone, waved his hand. Was this... dismissal?... a barring order?... what? The sentry swirled his half empty glass, said,

“Second case of foot and mouth in the North.”

“Right.”

I didn’t want to lean on it so added nothing. Jeff finished the call, said,

“Jack, what can I get you?”

Very worrying.

When you’ve fucked up big time and the fucker is being nice, search for a weapon. I said,

“Coffee’s good.”

“One coffee coming up.”

It did.

He said,

“Grab a seat, I’ll bring it over.”

Ominous.

I sat, took out a virgin pack of reds, cranked up. Smoking as if I’d never stopped. Jeff came over, put the coffee down. As usual, he was wearing black jeans, boots and black waistcoat over long-sleeved granddad shirt. He asked,

“You hear about the young student?”

“Which one?”

“Who got capped on Eyre Square?”

“What about him?”

“The funeral’s today.”

“Oh.”

“The reason I mention it is, we’ll catch the overflow, and I know you don’t do crowds too good.”

“You got that right.”

As I said, my head was up my ass. If I’d gone to the funeral, I’d have had all the answers.

I stood.

The speakers had kicked in and I’d vaguely registered a woman singing the blues. Not singing them as much as living them. I asked,

“Who’s that?”

“Eva Cassidy,The Fields of Gold album.”

“Ace, she ever comes to the Roisin, I’m there.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?”

“Cancer took her out. She was thirty-eight.”

“Bummer.”

I finished the coffee and headed off.

The sun was out and spring was knocking on heaven’s door. A drinking school near the toilets, in chorus, shouted,

“Fucker.”

Me?

Near the statue of Padraic O Conaire, three teenage girls were sitting at the fountain. As usual, some wag had thrown colour into the water, and a technical kaleidoscope rose above their heads. They were singing,

“You make me whole again.”

A number one for Atomic Kitten, at the top of the British charts.

The song finished and I joined the crowd in applause. A young girl tugged at my sleeve, hope bright in her eyes, asked,

“Are you Louis Walsh?”

“Me? No... sorry.”

She looked devastated. I asked,

“Why’d you think I was?”

“You look old.”

I could have simply rung Bill, said,

“I found her. She’s at this address.”

Did I? Did I fuck?

If I had, perhaps the whole show would have been wrapped there and then.

Or... unravelled.

But I had a burn for Bill. It was a long time since any emotion had fuelled me. I fed the hatred with playback of the gun barrel against my forehead. My hands would clench till the nails gouged into the palms. My teeth hurt from clenching them.

Man, it felt good.

Love or hate, go the distance with either, and whatever else, you are fucking electric. Crank it up a notch and sparks light your brain. Course I know, the brighter the glow, the more spectacular the crash. Nothing lights the sky like those shooting stars. Sat in my room, polished the Heckler & Koch. It is true: a weapon is the great equaliser. Is it ever?

In my head was Psalm 137. Boney M had a massive hit with part of it, back when the guards were my reason for being. In the psalm, the poet begs that he may be made happy by murdering the children of his enemies. Its music cries out with bloody restitution.

Course, if you’re still familiar with Boney M, you are too far gone for any serious treatment.

It was ridiculously easy to find Bill’s hired help, the guy who’d brought me to him and laughed at my degradation. I sat outside Sweeney’s and simply clocked the times he came in and out. He was fixed in a routine. All I had to do now was decide when I’d take him. Nev would be another day’s work. For him, I’d require time.

To celebrate the ease of this, I headed for a new pub, new to me at any rate, McSwiggan’s in Wood Quay. Even sounds like a decent place.

A tree grows in Brooklyn.

And also in McSwiggan’s.

Kidding I ain’t. Smack in the back bar, a lovely solid tree. Only in Ireland. Don’t cut the timber but do build the pub. I liked it already. Huge place. I settled near the tree.

Who wouldn’t?

Had two sips dug in my Guinness when a woman approached. I thought,

“What a pub.”

Then I clocked the neat tiny pearl earrings. Ban garda.

You don’t have to be a policewoman to wear them, but ban gardai have a certain style in their usage, that says,

“So OK, I’m a guard, but hey, I’m feminine, too.”

Her age was in that blurred over thirty area that makeup can disguise. A pretty face, very dark hair and steel in her jaw line. She said,

“Jack Taylor.”

Not a question, a statement. I said,

“Can I cop a plea?”

“May I sit down?”

“If you behave.”

Glimmer of a smile. She said,

“I’ve heard about your mouth.”

She spoke English like they do when they’ve been reared in the Gaeltacht. It is their second language. Never sits fully fluently. I said,

“Connemara?”

“Furbo.”

“And you heard about my mouth... from... let’s see... Superintendent Clancy?”

Frown, then shake of the head.

“No... others... but not him.”

Her clothes were good but not great. Navy sweater with white collar, dark blue jeans and freshly white trainers. None of it designer gear, more Penney’s than Gucci. They’d been given a lot of usage but were well maintained. Like her life, I surmised. She’d never rise above C-list status. She asked,

“How did you know I was a ban garda?”

“I used to be a guard.”

Now she gave a dazzling smile, transformed her face. A mix of devilment and delight, the very best kind, said,

“Oh, I know that.”

She was drinking something orange in a glass, with lots of ice. I’d bet heavy it was Britvic and nothing added. Here was your sensible girl. Drinking would be at weekends and never lethal. I asked,

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

My turn to smile, without devilment or even warmth, the one they teach you in Templemore. I asked,

“What about?”

She glanced over her shoulder, then I thought,

“What? Coke, pills, drink?”

“The Magdalen.”

Caught me by surprise. I said,

“Oh.”

“You’re out of your depth. I can help.”

I took a long swig of my pint, felt it massage my stomach. I asked,

“And why would you want to do that?”

A moment, shadows flitted across her face, then,

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

I drained my glass, asked,

“Get you something?”

“No, thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bríd... Bríd Nic an Iomaire.”

Had to digest that, reach into old memory for translation, said,

“Ridge... am I right?”

She gave a disgusted look, said,

“We don’t use the English form.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

I stood up, said,

“Hate to drink and run.”

“You’re going?”

“No wonder you’re a policewoman.”

“But don’t you know that Superintendent Clancy’s aunt was a nun in the laundry?”

I tried not to show my surprise, and she said,

“See, you do need the guards.”

“Honey, it’s a long time since I needed anything from the guards.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Believe me, it’s what I do best.”

Two days later, I was drink free hut drug ridden. The double dose of pills had me mellow beyond mantra. Spring was heavy in its promise, and despite a nip in the wind, people were in shirtsleeves. I was wearing a tie-dye T-shirt. Not by design but atrocious laundry. Women over the years had patiently explained the colours you never mix. Dutifully, I wrote the instructions down. Then washed the list.

So, a once splendidly white T had slugged it out against navy and... women forgive me... pink.

As in life, white lost.

Not a complete disaster as the logo had been near erased. Once it had read,

I was sitting on the rim of the fountain. To my right, was the statue of Padraic O Conaire. His head was back. Yeah, he’d been decapitated, the stone whisked to Northern Ireland. Eventually, the culprits were caught, the piece returned.

If not the finest hour for the Guards, it remains among their most popular.

A drinking school was in full song near the public toilet. Sounded like “She Moved through the Fair”, to the air of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Not an impossible task, simply weird. On Eyre Square, since the Celtic Tiger roared, weird was down-right commonplace.

Add to it, the conglomerate of Italian, Spanish, Irish, American and, I swear, Serbo-Croat, you had lunacy on tap.

A woman detached herself from the pack, approached me, said,

“And a good morning to you, sir.”

“Howyah?”

She was encouraged by my answer, moved closer. Her age could have been twenty-five or sixty from the ruined face and dead eyes. Her accent had the burr of Glasgow, which was no longer on her agenda. She asked,

“Price o’ cup of tea, sir?”

“Sure.”

Surprised her. When you surprise a wino, you have got a few moves left. I reached in my pocket, took out the change, handed it over. She took it fast. I asked,

“Ever hear of Padraig?”

I meant the late head wino.

She glanced over at Padraic O Conaire, asked,

“Who’s he?”

“He wrote MAsal Bheag Dubh.”

“He what?”

“Never mind.”

“Got a smoke?”

“Sure.”

I produced a pack of reds, shook the pack, and she grabbed two, tore the filters off. A match from nowhere and she was engulfed in smoke, asked,

“Are you a social worker?”

“Hardly.”

“A guard?”

“Not any more.”

“Want a ride?”

I laughed out loud. Blame the drugs.

I thought about Casey, Bill Cassell’s muscle. The giant who had delighted in my humiliation. The Sicilians say, if you’re planning revenge, dig two graves. One for yourself.

As Melanie sang in the hopeful years,

“Yada, yada.”

Or they say revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I was cold all right.

A nun skipped by, trailing piety. If I asked her, she’d go for company policy, incant “for it is in forgiving that we are forgiven”.

I’d answer,

“Bollocks.”

Stood up, stretched, felt almost light. I’d unwrap the gun, polish the handle. I had Casey’s routine down pat. It simply remained to take the next step.

Shoot him.

Nothing reflects those months of numbness, those months of almost coma, like my total selfishness. Foot and mouth came and went with barely a dent in my perception. I look back now and go,

“What the hell were you thinking?”

A British election was due on 7 June, and Tony Blair’s tooth-ridden smile was everywhere. It registered zip on my radar. A time there’d been, I could have named the members of the houses of parliament and actually followed the House of Commons debate.

Now, I barely knew the Oireachtas. I did notice Des O’Malley had been canonised in a TV series. Haughey got blasted, but what was new in that? I caught a glimpse of him, shaken and frail, emerging from a car and the crowd chucking coins.

Coining it?

Not any more.

Louis Walsh had unveiled yet another global band on us. Girls this time. I had to know this as two were from Galway. How parochial had I become? Slowly, I was fading into my father. My mother continued her black ghost role around the streets. She haunted more than me.

Videos.

With my new chemical tranquillity, I was able to watch a whole slush of movies. In no particular order

      Loved

      Loathed

      Laughed

      Cried

Through

      The Thin Blue Line

      The Company of Strangers

      Audition

      Jennifer Eight

      Smiley’s People

      Sunset Boulevard

Listened to Gabrielle; listened to her a lot.Sunshine seemed to speak to me, but I’m not sure what it tried to tell me.

Books:

      Robbers, Christopher Cook

      Noise Abatement, Carol Ann Davis

      1980, David Peace

You bundle all that up, take it to a shrink, spill it on his desk and ask,

“What?”

He reaches for the Thorazine.

A snap analysis is given by any wino:

“You’re seriously fucked.”

Argue that.

As a footnote to the above, I was scrabbling through old photos when I found a battered leather purse, the type to hold a rosary beads. Opened it to reveal... my wedding ring.

Back from the Thames?

It’s not that I survived that period. More along the lines of the Doors’ biography:

No One Here Gets Out Alive.

Felt I wasn’t hurting as the scar tissue encircled my soul, waiting to squeeze.

The day of the suicide began slow and easy. Woke in a subdued mood, not unpleasant. More in the neighbourhood of gentle melancholia than chemical overload.

I could hack that.

Did some sit-ups and then had a cold shower. Who needed booze?

Not I.

Welcome to the world of pill dependency. When that kick-back came, as come it would, I figured to put a bullet in my head. No more hospitals or dry outs. Ride the dragon to the close.

Brewed some coffee and could actually taste it. Tasted good. I had a longing but didn’t know for what.

God? Naw, He folded His tent and moved east. How much would I notice?

In the lobby of the hotel, Mrs Bailey exclaimed,

“Gosh, Mr Taylor, you look so relaxed!”

You betcha.

Even accepted her invitation to breakfast. Now that is a rib broke in the devil.

The chambermaid, housekeeper, cleaner, Janet, was also the waitress, albeit a slow one. I strongly suspected she might also be the cook. The breakfast lounge was bright and cheerful, a stack of gratis newspapers at the entrance. Mrs Bailey saw me glance at them, said,

“Oh, yes, just like the grand hotels. You can have the Independent or... the Independent”

And she gave a mischievous smile. A pure joy to behold. She liked to nail her politics up front. We sat and she said,

“Janet irons them.”

“What?”

“Every morning, every newspaper. So the guests don’t get ink on their hands.”

I’d seen Anthony Hopkins do it in Remains of the Day but put it down to an English foible. We ordered tea, toast and scrambled eggs. Mrs Bailey said,

“Smoke if you must.”

I didn’t.

I felt relaxed, touching mellow. Remember Donovan? If he was the English answer to Bob Dylan, you shudder to think what the question was. He wore the denim cap, had the face of a pixie, and I could remember “Atlantis”.

God help me.

Lived in North Cork now and, like the other expat rock stars, liked to jam in his local pub. His daughter was the actress lone Skye. And before the eggs arrive, I was asking myself,

“How do I know this shit?”

And worse, why?

Mrs Bailey touched my arm. I noticed the glut of liver spots on her hand. She asked,

“Where were you?”

“In the sixties.”

A shot of sadness in her eyes, and she said,

“You live there a lot.”

“In the sixties?”

“The past.”

I nodded, accepting the truth of it, said,

“It’s not that it’s safer, but I dunno, familiar.”

A huge pot of tea came, and she opened the lid, stirred vigorously, said,

“I never got used to tea bags.”

A man stopped, said,

“Did ye hear?”

In Ireland this could mean the pope is dead or it’s stopped raining. We gave the requisite,

“What happened?”

“The FAI Cup... Bohs beat Longford Town.”

I’d have been more torn up if I knew Longford were even playing. Mrs Bailey, who watched all sport, said,

“That dote Michael Owen had two miraculous goals on Saturday, finished Arsenal.”

A woman over eighty, in the west of Ireland, knew that, and I wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was. The man, crushed, lamented,

“The dream is over for Longford.”

And he sloped away, defeat writ large. I said,

“A Longford man.”

“Ary, go away, he’s from Tuam.”

Brendan Flood was on my mind. Time for another meet. Now that he’d lost his religion and hit the booze, I felt I should check on him. We weren’t friends, but we were connected. His information had broken two cases for me. Found his number, rang,

To my surprise, a woman answered. I said,

“Could I speak to Brendan please?”

Keep it low and keep it polite.

“Who is this?”

“Jack Taylor... I’m a friend of Brendan’s.”

Long pause, then,

“Ye were guards together.”

I took a moment, considered, then,

“Yeah, a long time ago.”

“Not for Brendan. He was always a guard.”

“Um, could I speak to him?”

“No.”

Like a slap in the mouth. I regrouped, tried,

“Excuse me?”

“He hung himself.”

Brendan Flood had left an envelope addressed to

“Jack Taylor.”

I offered to come round, she said,

“I don’t want you in my house.”

Fair enough.

Anyone who thinks suicide is an easy option might reconsider, especially if a rope is their choice, Brendan had put the noose around a sturdy beam, then, dressed in his guard uniform, climbed on to a plain kitchen chair. A guy in Bohermore used to handcraft them. Built to last. The rope near decapitated him. He’d vented his bowels, ruining the trousers. I was given all these details by the young guard who’d had to cut him down.

I asked Mrs Flood,

“When is the funeral?”

“From Flaherty’s, at six tomorrow... to St Patrick’s. He’ll be buried in the new cemetery.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Leave me alone.”

Click.

I could not believe he was dead. That I’d failed him was obvious. Remembered all the shit I’d read about “Gatekeepers”, how it said,

Oh God... finder! My whole career now was based on a rep as finder. And gatekeeper! Could there be a worse example than me. I’d flung the frigging gate wide open, had as good as said,

“Go hang yourself.”

The pure legacy of suicide is the survivors’ guilt. A barrage of questions that can never be answered:

      Could I have helped?

      Why didn’t I act?

      How blind was I?

All now useless. I wanted to crawl into a whiskey cloud and never emerge. Personify The Cloud of Unknowing.

Guilt roared up my body to emerge as a howl of total anguish. Oh Christ, yet another grave to join the long line that I so badly neglected.

Dry swallowed some Quaaludes in the hope of artificial peace. They’d need to be mothers. Lay on the bed, sobbed intermittently. As the pills kicked in, my eyes began to close. My last thought,

“Hope they frigging kill me.”

They didn’t.

But did they ever knock me out. Came to in darkness. Checked my watch, 8.30 p.m. Jesus. And knew what I was going to do.

Dressed in black, not least for Brendan. Jeans, T-shirt, watch cap. Fitted the gun into the waistband of my jeans. Checked myself in the mirror. The face reflected was a chunk of worn granite. When your eyes look hard to yourself, you’ve gone west.

Made a caffeine-loaded drink, washed down some black beauties. Took deep breaths, said,

“Incoming.”

The docks were quiet. Less than a tourist away was Eyre Square with its attendant madness. Wouldn’t you know, caught on the wind was David Gray’s “This Year’s Love”.

Slaughters me. I can sing every lyric and, worse, mean it. Tear the goddamn heart right out.

I’d roared at the sky,

“God, why torment me so?”

Course He didn’t answer. Least not in any fashion I could decipher. Even Thomas Merton couldn’t help me there.

As I neared Sweeney’s, I could feel the gun butt, cold against my skin. My mind was closing down on all fronts. Could have been the drugs... or grief. I’d never understood the connections it makes at such times of intensity. In rehab, on one of my numerous incarcerations, a shrink had said,

“Your mental processes suggest an underlying psychosis. It’s significant that in periods of stress, you fix on passages from books you’ve read.”

He’d rambled on in a pseudo-American style, using the term empathy a lot.

They do that, watch your wallet; it’s going to cost.

Now a piece from Pete Hamill’s Why Sinatra Matters surfaced.

In his sixties, Frank Sinatra said,

Amen.

A tiny alley is a few doors up from Sweeney’s. Even in day-light, it’s dark. For a brief time, a drinking school set up there till the blackness ran them off. Winos more than most people seek the light. I got in there, checked my watch... 10.30 p.m. If Casey were as habitual as I’d observed, he’d be swinging by in an hour. Hunkered down against the wall, got almost comfortable. A rat shot out from the wall, scampered over my legs and was gone. I hadn’t moved. You never want to focus their attention. A chill ran along my legs from where he’d touched. You have water, you have rats, don’t sweat it, but I did.

Who wouldn’t?

Took out the piece, examined it by touch.

Knew the details by rote:

      Heckler & Koch, H-K-4 double action pistol

      .32-calibre, 8-shot magazine

      Barrel: 3/50

      Weight: 16 oz

      Stock: black plastic

      Sights: fixed blade front

      Features: gun comes with all parts prepared.

What more could you need to know?

One of the very best handguns on the market.

If you ever want to bore a woman rigid, list the above.

If you can’t impress your mates with football, list the above.

Vive la difference.

Heard the sounds of the bar closing. People on the street, shouts and laughter, a guy came into the alley, and I crouched lower. He unzipped and let loose a volley.

I thought,

“You pig, you couldn’t use the pub toilet?”

Nearly shot him.

He gave a sigh of relief, buttoned up and headed off. I wanted to roar,

“Wash your hands.”

Things quietened down. The docks have never been a place to linger. You move fast. All the gentrification, all the prosperity, wouldn’t change that. Stall here you’d get nailed. I moved to the front of the alley, holding the HK down along my right leg. Took some deep breaths. Heard a loud

“Goodnight.”

Then the pub door pulled shut.

Here he was, the bold Casey. Lumbering by in the white tracksuit. I raised the gun, fired twice into the back of his right knee. The Belfast special. I moved, turned left, walked rapidly towards the Victoria Hotel. Two minutes.

In three, I was among the crowds jostling for the nightclub. Tore the cap off, opened my jacket.

Four, I was through the doors of the Great Southern, nodding at the porter. He said,

“Jack.”

“How yah doing?”

Six, I caught the last order from a young barman.

“Large Jameson, pint of Guinness.”

And I sunk into those embracing couches at the end of the foyer, a bust of James Joyce on a shelf above. I raised the pint, sank a level, then the whiskey, a mouthful, tilted the glass up-wards, said,

“Here’s looking at you, Jimmy.”

Now, I thought, I just have to find Nev, the one who’d played the Russian roulette, and I’d have something medieval for him.

In 1985, we had the summer of moving statues. All over the country, the statues were on the move. I was stationed at Mount Mellary in Waterford, and for nine nights, the Virgin appeared to three children. I was assigned crowd control, and I was too pissed to control a match. The very air was full of expectation as each night the people gathered to see the Virgin. By then, my cynicism had kicked in full time and I asked my sergeant,

“So, if the crowd get excited, am I to use the baton on them?”

He gave me the look, sighed and said,

“In a country where statues walk and children speak directly to Our Lady, do you seriously think a baton is going to make the slightest difference?”

All I’d learned in the intervening years was that if you wanted to make a difference, a gun sure tipped the balance. The statues had long since ceased to move, but the country had gone to the dogs. The message from the visionaries had been that Ireland would be saved! The Celtic Tiger gave the lie to that. I picked up a book. This train of thought had sparked a memory, and I found the passage that went like this:

From Hollowpoint by Bob Reuland.

Next morning, I pilled ahead of the hangover. Cut it off at the pass. Brendan’s funeral, I’d have to look half right. Went to the abbey, asked for a mass card. The guy there looked about a hundred. And to judge by his manner, none of them easy years. He barked,

“Name of deceased?”

“Brendan Flood.”

“Single or series?”

“What?”

“One mass or a whole bunch?”

I tried to appear as if I was seriously contemplating this, then,

“Single, I guess.”

Was going to add,

“With salt and vinegar.”

But let it slide.

His expression said,

“Cheap bastard.”

I asked,

“How much is that in Euro?”

It was a lot. I was tempted to say,

“Couldn’t I just rent a mass?”

But he was already shutting the grille, and I barely slipped in,

“God bless.”

Next to order a wreath. Went to the same florist, same girl I’d been to so many times. She gave me a huge smile, said,

“ ‘Tis yourself.”

You have to be Irish to catch the full flavour of that. Then,

“Is it wedding or funeral?”

I let her see my face, work it out. She did.

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Something simple or decorative?”

“Something expensive.”

She gave me the saddest smile. We knew. The banner riding front, guilt riding shotgun. I gave her the details and she asked,

“A message?”

“Yes, ‘To the Last Guard’.”

A Galway girl, she had the class not to ask the meaning. I’m not altogether sure I could have explained anyway. When I was going, she said,

“You’re a good man.”

“Don’t I wish?”

Saw the crowds as I neared the funeral home. Had to fight to view the remains. Relatives were lined inside the door. I put the mass card in the basket, joined the queue to file past Brendan. An open casket.

Fuck.

He looked like a wax effigy. His neck, of course, was covered with a high collar. Despite the undertakers’ best efforts, they couldn’t disguise the grimace of his mouth. If you’ve been almost beheaded, smiling you weren’t. What scarred me the most was a bruise on the bridge of his nose. Deep and... sore, oh God.

His hands were folded on his chest, a rosary beads interwoven through the fingers. Like handcuffs. I wanted to touch his hand, but the coldness would freak me. I’d lose it entirely, muttered,

“Goodbye, buddy.”

Lame... and don’t I know that.

Shook hands with a gaggle of relatives. I said,

“So sorry.”

They intoned,

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Murder.

A brief blessing and a decade of the rosary before the priest dismissed us. Outside, the men produced packs of

      Carroll’s

      Major

      and

      Silk Cut Ultra’s.

Leaning against the wall, in civvies, was Superintendent Clancy, his finger up, beckoning me. He’d dropped a few pounds; he sure needed to. I clocked two burly minders a few yards away. Serious protection.

I strolled over, said,

“Super.”

“Jack, good to see you.”

The bonhomie was worrying. A time we’d been friends. Oh... so very long ago. I said,

“Been to Weight Watchers, eh?”

“Stress, laddie... that and golf.”

“Good of you to show for Brendan.”

I half meant it.

Clancy looked round, as if fearful he’d be overhead, said,

“He could have been a great one, real nose for investigation, but he got religion.”

He made it sound like a disease, paused, then,

“Like you, Jack, except the bottle got your arse.”

I could have let it slide but for Brendan. Some effort was necessary. I said,

“Gee, either of us might have climbed the ladder and got... what?... golf... and fat?”

He signalled to his minder, brushed lint off his lapel, said,

“Guy got shot last night.”

“Yeah?”

“A runner for your old mate, that piece of work, Bill Cassell.”

“You’ll no doubt be conducting a thorough investigation.”

He looked me right in the eye, said,

“I won’t lift a bloody finger.”

He smirked, turned to the minder, snapped,

“What are you standing there for? Get the bloody car.”

My turn to smile, said,

“Authority you wear like a loose garment.”

Stomped off.

I noticed Brid Nic an lomaire among the mourners; she must have been on duty and arrived late. She looked devastated. I figured it was her first guard death. Even if he was an ex-guard, you are never really out of the loop.

I thought I’d go over to her, but she had moved away.

Fr Malachy, as always the presiding priest, was lighting one Major from the butt of another. I said,

“Nice service.”

“Ah, there’s little you can say about a suicide, little that’s any good anyway.”

Through a cloud of smoke, he glared, said,

“They’re well rid of him.”

“Wow, you bleed with compassion.”

Then his expression changed, a sly glint to his eyes. There’s few more chilling than a sly priest. It’s all that theological backup as weight. He said,

“When I heard an ex-guard topped himself, I thought it was you. Would have laid odds on it.”

“And break my poor mother’s heart?”

He waved me away, but I wasn’t done, asked,

“You still getting ‘contributions’ from her then?”

He went pale, had to physically rein in, said,

“You’d like a good puck, wouldn’t you?”

“That is a ‘P’, isn’t it. Unless it’s a whole other deal.”

Before he went coronary, a woman approached, said,

“Jack Taylor?”

I turned... Mrs Flood, in the black mourning gear, like a withered jackdaw. I said,

“So sorry for your loss.”

“He’s no loss. Here.”

Shoved an envelope at me. Brendan’s note. I didn’t know what to say. She said,

“Oh don’t worry, I didn’t open it.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Yes, you did. You might not wear the uniform but you’re still a guard. God blast ye.”

She hadn’t spit on me, but I wiped my face as if she had, muttered,

“Enough.”

Walked towards Forster Street. Walked fast.