The Magdalen Martyrs

The laundry was doing great business, to such an extent that locals began dropping in their clothes. No compassion from them. The girls had chalk complexions, and as they rarely left the building, they resembled the starched sheets they were cleaning. The lack of sunlight and the stifling conditions added to the look of utter hopelessness the girls shared. Known as penitents, they were expected to say the rosary as they worked. Visiting clergy reminded them of their fall from grace and how far they’d have to climb if redemption was ever to be achieved.

Lucifer entered the laundry each time with an almost dizzying sense of power. Her eyes had become accustomed to the harsh emanations from the soap, bleach, steam and constant boiling water. The smell of perspiration and the stench of un-washed bodies only served to stoke her simmering rage. She hated these girls for reasons even she couldn’t understand.

Next day, before the funeral, I rang Bill Cassell. He barked,

“What do you want, Taylor?”

“Gee, Bill, what happened to Jack?”

“Don’t fuck with me today, fellah.”

“I found the woman.”

Intake of breath, then,

“Where?”

“Newcastle.”

“Tell me about it.”

I did.

He was silent as he digested the data. I said,

“So, we’re quits... right?”

“What?”

“You said I could wipe the slate if I found her.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re clear.”

I could have left it, but I wanted to needle the fuck, said,

“You don’t sound so good, Bill.”

“Casey got shot.”

Push a tad further, asked,

“Who’s Casey?”

Low mean chuckle and,

“Surprised you’ve forgotten him. Big guy in a white track-suit, held you during our last little chat. Course you never got to see Nev, and if you’re lucky, you never will.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, some cowardly shite kneecapped him.”

“That’s gotta hurt.”

“Like you care.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Well, I can safely rule you out.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. One, you’re usually too pissed to aim your dick, and two, you haven’t the balls.”

Click.

Hard to say if I’d scored on that exchange. I was wearing the dark suit again, conscious that today Brendan Flood would be six foot under. His letter was beside my bed. I hadn’t yet been able to open it. Dropped two ‘hides and made some coffee. Turned the radio on. Bob Dylan was sixty.

Finally got the Oscar for his song in Wonder Boys.

They played it, “Things Have Changed”.

Had they ever.

As the English say, and changed “irrevocably”.

Good word, makes you feel educated. Best to use it sparingly.

I would.

Checked my watch, realised the ’ludes had kicked as I’d forgotten to drink the coffee.

Lit a cigarette.

Took a breath, opened the envelope, my mind going,

“And the winner is...”

It began:

I folded the letter carefully, put it in my wallet. Beside the photo of the girl with the brown ringlets, a relic of Padre Pio was riding back up. The Irish word for sadness is bronach. But it means so much more than that. It’s akin to desolation, and my heart was shot through with it.

In the lobby, Mrs Bailey asked,

“Breakfast?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you all right? You look shook.”

“I’ve to go to a funeral.”

“Somebody close?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll say a prayer for him.”

“Thank you.”

After the funeral mass, I elected to walk behind the hearse. A custom that’s fading, I need it like confession. Still, despite rampant commercialism, passers-by stopped, took off caps, blessed themselves. That touches me in a way that religion never has. Walking, too, was a sprinkle of guards. Not in uniform but present. As always, they gave me the cautious nod, Brid Nic an lomaire among them. I am of... but not among them.

I was one of the men who helped hold the ropes that lower the casket into the hole. God, it was heavy. We lost it a bit towards the end, and the coffin hit the dirt with a sound like “AH”.

Like the gentlest sigh escaping

Fr Malachy intoned,

“Man, who has but a short time to live, is full of misery.”

I hate that piece. As if things weren’t bad enough. After, he made a beeline for me, but I wasn’t in the mood for the ejit, said,

“Piss off.”

I saw the gravediggers smile.

For that alone, it was worth it.

In the Celtic tradition, there was the beautiful notion of “anam cam”; anam is the Irish word for soul and cara is the word for friend. In the anam cara, friendship, you are joined in an ancient way with the friend of your soul. So wrote John O’Donohue in his book, Eternal Echoes.

For too long I’d been neglecting Jeff and Cathy. Told myself,

“ ‘Cause, they have a new baby, give them space.”

I half believed this shit sometimes. The old saying,

“If you have to know any act, let it be your own.”

Whoops.

Wore a sweatshirt that read:

And the faded 501s.

Then remembered the AIB. Got out the account number, checked it and memorised it. Mrs Bailey was reading the Irish Independent, said,

“Do you know who’s dead?”

It doesn’t get more Irish.

I said,

“I already know who’s dead, believe me.”

She gave me a head on look, said,

“That’s a very relaxed outfit.”

“I’m a relaxed kind of guy.”

She gave a polite smile, with,

“Not a description I’d have applied myself.”

Went to the bank first. A non-national was perched on a mat outside, asked,

“Euro please.”

“Gimme a minute, all right?”

“One minute, I am counting.”

The temptation to crack his skull rose with the rejoinder,

“Count on that.”

Make local headlines with

And they would.

Into the bank and presented my account number to a cashier. She had the moneyed face, hard, hard, hard.

A nametag proclaimed “Siobhan”.

She tapped in the numbers, said,

“This account has been opened for Jack Taylor.”

I gave her the refugee smile, said,

“I am he.”

No brownie points. She frosted,

“I’ll need to see some ID.”

I’d been expecting this, plonked the following down: passport, driver’s licence, library card.

She examined them like a tax inspector, snapped,

“This licence has expired.”

“A metaphor for my life.”

She looked up, obviously not happy with my appearance. I said,

“Siobhan, lighten up, this isn’t a tribunal.”

“There is a considerable sum here.”

“No shit?”

Came involuntarily, but who could fault me? She stood up, said,

“I’ll have to consult a manager.”

“Gee, that’s surprising.”

Eventually a suit approaches, says,

“Mr Taylor, welcome to the AIB.”

I’m wondering how much is a considerable sum?

And asked exactly that.

He looks round, says,

“You can have a printout of the balance.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

When I get it, I didn’t look, shoved it in my pocket, said,

“Tell Siobhan I love her.”

Came out to find the guards arresting the refugee. I, like the horseman, passed by.

Into Baravan’s, shouted a pint and took a seat in the snug.

Snug it is.

The pint came, I took a belt, pulled out the statement, shouted,

“Brandy, large.”

And punched the air. It wasn’t retirement money, but for some time to come, I wouldn’t be counting the shillings. Not with any caution anyway. When the brandy came, the guy asked,

“Celebrating?”

“I am. What will you have?”

“A decade of the rosary.”

You can never impress them in that bar. I wanted to sit there all day, but my conscience whined,

“Yo, what about Jeff and Cathy?”

So I went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place, his half before him. Jeff was washing glasses. The sentry said,

“Didn’t you used to drink here?”

Jeff smiled.

I climbed on a stool, said,

“Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

“Good to see you, Jack.”

“How’s Cathy?”

“Good.”

“And the baby?”

Blame the brandy, I couldn’t remember the baby’s name. Mortified, I fumbled for my cigs, cranked up as Jeff said,

“She’s thriving.”

And the conversation died. Didn’t splutter to a slow stop or meander some cliched route and collapse. I said, after a horrendous amount of time,

“A pint, Jeff.”

“Coming up.”

Got that and moved to what used to be my office. Hard chair and table, with my back to the door, thinking,

“Finish the pint and flee.”

Jeff came over, mug of coffee in his hand, asked,

“Join you?”

“Sure.”

He did.

Then asked,

“Where are you on Bob Dylan?”

“In the dark mostly.”

Head shake, wrong answer.

He launches.

“Look back for a moment to Don’t Look Back, the documentary film of his ‘65 visit to Britain, when he was young and beautiful. Here he is, just turning twenty-four, with the world of celebrity and glamour kissing his feet. He is the most perfectly hip creature on earth.”

Jeff pauses, caught in the sheer wonder of this image. Shakes his head, continues,

“Imagine how you would cope with this. Even 10 per cent of it would turn your head. But Dylan does cope, telling the man from Time magazine, ‘You’re going to die. You’re going to be dead. It could be twenty years; it could be tomorrow, anytime. So am I. I mean we’re just going to be gone. The world’s going to go on without us, you do your job in the face of that, and how seriously you take yourself, you decide.’

“This is the Dylan stance. Thirty-six years on, he’s still all alone in the end-zone, determinedly unimpressed by the hullabaloo he has engendered and endured throughout.”

Jeff took a swipe of his coffee, beads of sweat on his brow. Mr Cool, Mr Mellow, Mr Laid back had got passion. Before I could say that, he said,

“That’s not my rap; it’s from a piece by Michael Gray, a Dylan chronicler from way back.”

“And what? You learnt it by heart?”

He caught my tone, defended,

“What if I did?”

“Come on, Jeff, you were a musician, nigh on Dylan’s era. You’ve survived, too.”

The bar radio kicked in, and the Kinks’ “Lola” began. We both smiled. Perhaps it was the last comment on us.

Like asking,

“Riddle me this?”

I said,

“Did you read Ray Davies’ book?”

“What, you don’t think I’ve enough grief”

I’d finished the pint and was debating another when he said,

“Do you know what it’s like to have a Down’s syndrome child?”

I’d no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

“Would you like to know?”

Before I could answer, he reached in his jeans, took out a folded paper, said,

“That will tell you.”

“Did you write it?”

“No, I live it.”

Then he was up, said,

“I’ve a beer delivery. They’ll throw the barrels all over the yard unless I’m there.”

I opened the paper, read

It was a long piece about planning a trip to Italy. Goes into lengthy detail about the excitement of the trip. This is the one you’ve planned all your life. You’ve even learnt the language and have all the sights outlined that you’ve always wanted to see. But when the plane lands, you’re in Holland; and bewildered, you ask how this can happen? All your arrangements are geared for Italy. After the initial shock has worn off, you begin to slowly see the wonders of Holland, different though they are from everything you had anticipated. You have to learn the new language and change all the expectations to adapt to this new landscape. Gradually, you begin to enjoy the benefits of Holland, though it takes a huge shift of perspective. In time, you actually come to love Holland, the last thing you’d have believed.

I sat there, my heart in ribbons. I no longer wanted that drink. One way or another, I felt, I too had been mourning Italy all my life.

I did the only thing I could. I went out and bought a bunch of tulips for Cathy.

Friday evening, a young man came out of his FAS course. He was doing well. He had a few bob in his pocket and was meeting the lads in Cuba.

The club, not the country.

A buzz was in the air, with all the false promise of the weekend. He stood for a minute at the back of the cathedral. Course, being the sparkling new generation, it never occurred to him to bless himself. Why would he? That ritual was rare to rarer. Who needs God at seventeen?

On a whim, he crossed over to the embankment, down the steps to where the ducks are. He stood at the edge, feeling good. Never heard the man. People use that path from the old mill up to the bridge regularly. It’s a snatch of tranquillity from the hectic Newcastle Road.

The man stopped, put two bullets in the young lad’s head, turned and went back towards the mill. If the splash of the body was loud, it didn’t cause him to look back. He flicked the empty wrapper from the gum into the river.

Witnesses, yet again, would provide a maelstrom of conflicting information. I heard about it in Nestor’s. Jeff said,

“God almighty, what’s with the world?”

The sentry said,

“I blame the tribunals.”

Before I could comment, the door opened and Terry Boyle came storming in. The blond hair awry, his tall frame rigid with anger, he was wearing a very good suit. Towered over me, shouted,

“What the hell am I paying you for?”

I was at my regular table, a book before me. I used my index finger to indicate the other hard chair. He said,

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

For a moment, I could see the veins throb at his temples. Weighing the odds. Jeff had tensed, and Terry glanced round, sized him up, then snapped,

“Barkeep, a vodka tonic and make it soon.”

He sat.

I noticed lesions on the tips of his fingers. Tried to recall anything I’d learned in my Templemore days. He had said he was in software, so I said,

“Those from typing.”

The sneer turned his mouth ugly, and he near spat his reply,

“Jesus, you old guys. Nobody types any more; it’s called keying.”

I leant near, said,

“Come here.”

Startled look and,

“What?”

“Come on, move closer.”

He didn’t, so I said,

“You shout at me again, and I mean ever, I’ll put your balls out through your throat... key that.”

He straightened his back, said,

“I practise Kai-tai-wan.”

Least I think that’s what he said. Before I could respond, Jeff plonked his drink on the table, said,

“Sonny, you burst into my pub like a lunatic again, you’ll need that Kai whatever.”

And was gone.

Terry let out his breath, whined,

“What’s with you old guys? You’re so goddamn touchy.”

The lapse into American didn’t endear, but I let it slide, got my smokes out, and fired up. He said,

“Haven’t you heard of the patches?”

“Terry, take a moment, have your drink, and we’ll start over. How would that be?”

He did.

I said,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

“I haven’t received a single progress report. How are you spending my money? Kirsten is spending money like a drunken sailor. My father’s money.”

Truth to tell, I’d all but forgotten the whole deal, said,

“I’m working on a definite line of inquiry.”

Stopped myself from adding

“An arrest is imminent.”

He eyed me with huge disbelief, said,

“You’re on to something?”

“Am I ever?”

He took a sip of the vodka, grimaced, said,

“And you can drink... what... like every day?”

“It’s my duty.”

He let that go, rubbed his hands, said,

“OK, this is very promising. You think the bitch will go down?”

I nodded solemnly.

He reached in his jacket, his very expensive jacket, took out his chequebook, said,

“A further two weeks’ retainer sufficient to nail the cunt?”

I nearly gasped. The word hits me like a gossip in heat. Felt my fists clench but went for economic damage, said,

“To wrap it clean, let’s say a month.”

He wrote the cheque. I noticed the pen, a beautiful piece of work. I was schooled the old way Hammered knuckles over wooden desks to perfect our penmanship. We got stinging fingers but legible handwriting. About as useful as a reference from Fianna Fail. He caught the stare, said,

“It’s a Mont Blanc, the Agatha Christie limited edition. Want to hold it?”

“I don’t know? I might not want to give it back.”

He offered. Felt the weight immediately, examined it slow. True artistry, made me long for things I didn’t need. He took it back, said,

“Out of your league, Pops.”

“Terence, you’re really going to have to mind your language.”

His expression now was rampant with the New Ireland, smug, greedy, knowing. He said,

“I have a set of these, cost more than you’d earn in your whole miserable life.”

I decided he was too stupid for a slap in the mouth. I could wait. Jeff moved out from the bar, began to sweep the floor. I had never seen him do that. Terry didn’t notice; the hired help was of no consequence. He said,

“Are you free tonight?”

“You’re what? Asking me for a date?”

He gave a small titter. I wish I could call it a laugh, even settle for its relation, the giggle... but no... it was rough. He said,

“Geraldo and I are holding a soiree in my pad.”

“Pad! And who’s Geraldo?”

He gave the first real smile I’d seen, said,

“My significant other. It’s our anniversary.”

I lit another cig, drew deep. He continued,

“We’ve been an item for twelve months.”

“And this, it’s for gays only I suppose.”

“Ah, Jack... you don’t mind if I call you that?... we have friends in every walk of life.”

“And you want me to come... why? Bit of rough trade?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jack. You have a certain primitive allure. My address is on the card I gave you. It’ll be a fun thing.”

Then he was up, saying,

“Eight-thirty onwards, dress seventies.”

“I thought I already did.”

At the door, he collided with the sweeping Jeff. Neither apologised. He moved to Jeff’s right and was gone. A few minutes later, Jeff started back for the counter, dropped something on my table. The Mont Blanc.

I said,

“Jeez, Jeff.”

“Teach him some manners.”

“But you’re a musician; where did you learn that stunt?”

“It’s called improvisation. Wouldn’t be much of an artist without that.”

“He’ll know... Jeff, he’ll know you took it.”

“I’m seriously hoping you’re right.”

As best as I could, I avoided the Claddagh. Not that I disliked the area. On the contrary, it used to be part of my heritage. The whole deal: feed the swans, walk to Grattan Road, make wishes from the end of Nimmo’s Pier.

But it sure held bad karma.

These days, now that the depression was in chemical abeyance, I was suffused with memory. Veered from the bitter-sweet to crucifixion. Did books save my sanity? You bet your ass.

On any given day, I’d have a volume in my jacket, read, read, read.

As if I meant it.

Most times I did.

Walking down Quay Street, now being touted as the Temple Bar of Galway, I noticed the remnants of the English stag parties. Truly a blight on any landscape. The street ablaze with coffee shops, pizzerias, bistros, all staffed with non-Irish. You’d be lucky to hear English, never mind a hint of a brogue. Holding some sort of anchor was McDonagh’s, the place for fish and chips. Always packed. Get a hint of sun and people would be sprawled as far as Jury’s. If I want real fish and chips, I go to Conlon’s, handily situated opposite Keohane’s bookshop. Another family business. Take a window seat in Conlon’s, order up a mess of chowder, watch the books across the way. Last time I was in, Martin Sheen was tucking into cod and chips. Nobody paid him a blind bit of notice. Despite The West Wing being de rigueur viewing for most of the city and all the young girls with renewed crushes on Rob Lowe.

Me, I liked Toby, the intense Jewish worrier. Stands to reason. When God was bestowing “Lighten Up “ on babies, he skipped me. Probably knew I was destined for the guards.

For the Spanish Arch, I strapped on the Walkman; Bono launched into “One”. Wanted to roar along with him. If U2 have had their day, where does that leave me?

The copy of Tales of Ordinary Madness was published by City Lights and beautifully produced. The feel, bind, print are all part of the value. Magical photo of Bukowski on the cover, smoking a cheroot, his face looking destroyed, but in an interesting fashion. You don’t think ruined; you think lived to the burn. I got an espresso takeaway and sat on the steps, a Thai restaurant to my rear. How Irish is that?

Began to read. Bono had given way to Johnny Duhan’s Flame, his most intense, personal album. Not easy listening.

I glanced back at Quay Street. Teeming with tourists and not noon yet. How the city had changed. When I was a child, this was one of the most depressed and depressive areas. Renowned for two things: a pawnshop and the Kasbah.

A man went drinking on Saturday, in his best suit; Monday, the suit went into the pawn. Depending on the rent man, it stayed a few days or a month.

The Kasbah had its own glory. Beyond a dive, it was run by Nora Crubs, and you did not fuck with her.

Ever.

When the pubs closed, you knocked at the Kasbah. Admittance depended purely on whim. Once inside, you could have a drink, the whole point of the exercise. What you also got was a plate of pigs’ trotters, the aforementioned “Crubeens”. The taste was primarily of salt. There’s a lot to be said for salt.

It was a favourite spot of the guards, big country lads who always called for seconds. In these days of multicultural population, I don’t think the non-Europeans would have appreciated the menu.

A shadow fell. I looked up to see a ban garda. She said,

“You’ll have to move along, sir.”

Before I could protest, she broke into a smile. I recognised the girl from our encounter in McSwiggan’s. Reached for the name, said,

“Ridge... right?”

Sigh, then,

“I told you, it’s Nic an lomaire. We don’t do English.”

“Like I give a fuck.”

The expletive rocked her. She rallied, said,

“I could do you for offensive language.”

“Go for it.”

She looked round, then,

“I need to talk to you.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Ridge.”

“It’s important... I’ll buy you drink.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“Brennan’s Yard?”

Hesitation, then,

“Isn’t that dear?”

“You mean expensive? Yeah... so I hear.”

“All right... tomorrow night... half eight?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I better go. I don’t want to be seen talking to you.”

She turned to go, and I said,

“Ridge!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t wear the uniform.”

I was watching the England — Greece World Cup qualifier. Beckham as captain had just scored the most amazing goal. With Schole’s previous one, it was a Greek goodbye. The English commentator had gone ballistic. Even the Mohawk hair-style of Beckham was nearly forgiven. The phone rang. I said,

“Yeah.”

One eye on the television.

“Hey, big boy.”

“Hello, Kirsten.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching football.”

“Want to play with me?”

I sighed. Not in my mother’s class but heartfelt, said,

“Not really.”

“Aw, come on, Jack, you’re no fun.”

“I am invited to a party though.”

“Oh, I do love to party.”

“Meet you here in an hour.”

“I’m counting the minutes.”

Click.

Turned the telly off. Had a tepid shower, did some ‘ludes and surveyed my vast wardrobe. Figured white shirt, jeans and sweater; maybe wear the sweater over my shoulder, hanging loose. If I’d shades, I could perch them on my head and be the total asshole. No, the forecast was rain... a real surprise... so dug out my garda all-weather coat. Unlike me, it improved with age. Turned the collar up... get that edge. Checked the mirror and realized, I’d become my father.

When did that happen?

I took out the Heckler & Koch and smelled the barrel. You’d know it had been fired recently. I wrapped it in oilcloth, got on my knees and stashed it between the springs of the mat-tress. If Janet got round to that level of cleaning, she’d get the land of her life.

Back to the wardrobe, I took out the GHB, the liquid E I’d got from Stewart, the drug dealer. He’d been adamant about the correct dosage. If your evening includes a possible husband killer and a gay party, then you need all the help available. I put it in my pocket.

Took the stairs and hung around the lobby.

A yellow Datsun pulled up, the door opened, and I saw a long nyloned leg. If Kirsten had a shorter skirt, she’d have been arrested. It was made of shiny PVC, and she’d a sleeveless halter top. In red. Her hair was tousled. I’m fond of that word. Suggests bed and heavy to heavier sex. Mrs Bailey was at reception. She said,

“The word hussy springs to mind.”

That is not a word I’m fond of. I stepped outside, and Kirsten did a pirouette, asked,

“Like it?”

“It’s hard to miss.”

Two young lads passing went,

“Jesus.”

She gave them a huge smile. I said,

“I’m not travelling in a yellow car.”

“Is it too much?”

“Doesn’t accessorise.”

“It’s a rental. We’ll walk.”

She linked my arm, and her perfume did giddy things to my head. She said,

“Paris.”

“What?”

“My scent.”

“You’re a mind-reader now?”

“Only the dirty ones.”

As we drew near Terence’s place, she stopped, said,

“Hold on a goddamn minute.”

“Yeah?”

“Terence lives this way”

“It’s his party, he’ll cry if he wants to.”

She glared, said,

“You’re bringing me to a party given by that Nancy boy?”

“He said it was a seventies theme. You seem a seventies kind of girl. Was I wrong?”

She examined me closely, asked,

“What are you on?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Taylor, I know the score. It’s not coke; you don’t have the motor mouth. Something softer... double valium?”

“Quaaludes.”

She was delighted, near screamed,

“They’re still making them! Shit, where’s my Eagles albums?”

We had reached Terry’s place on Merchant’s Road, another dead-end street of my youth, now a line of flash apartments and businesses like cosmetic surgery. His building was constructed from that fine Connemara granite. Hewn out of the stubborn ground to become a facade for the new rich. I rang the bell and we were buzzed through. Kirsten said,

“I can’t believe I’m going to this little prick’s party.”

“I didn’t think women used that word.”

“How else do you think we stay amused?”

The party had spilled out into the corridor, and yes, that seventies theme was evident. Flares, nay elephant flares, stacked heels, crushed velvet jackets and big hair. On both sexes. The music sounded suspiciously like “Ballroom Blitz”.

I wish I didn’t know that.

Pushed our way through as Kirsten said,

“Your era evidently.”

Someone handed me a joint and I took a hit, offered it to Kirsten, who said,

“I don’t do strange spittle, at least not with an audience.”

Terence appeared. Tight yellow shirt and skintight yellow flares with a wide red belt. I said,

“He matches your car.”

Sweat was pouring from his headband. Big smile till he saw my “date”, then,

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

I offered the spliff, said,

“Chill, man.”

A Spaniard in his twenties, impossibly good looking, came up, took Terence’s hand, said,

“I am Geraldo.”

“Like Gerald?”

“Sí.”

I think he’d served me coffee on Quay Street. He was wearing a black silk shirt and pants to match and a huge gold chain round his neck. Now that you could have taken to the pawn, got them excited.

Gerald extended his arms, said,

“The wet bar is in the corner.”

Terence stomped off, saying,

“I’ll see you later, Taylor.”

I turned to Kirsten, said,

“He didn’t call you Mum.”

The barman I recognised from O’Neachtain’s. He leaned over, whispered,

“I’m not gay.”

“Did I say a word?”

“No... but...”

He indicated the same sex couples, already partying down, said,

“I wouldn’t want you to think...”

“I think we’d like a drink.”

“Gotcha... for the lady?”

“Scotch rocks. Make it two.”

He did.

The music was now Gary Glitter: “Do You Want to Be in My Gang?”

Kirsten said,

“They play Village People and I’m, like, outa here.”

I laughed, and she said,

“A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, stars, horses and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.”

She stopped, knocked back the scotch like a docker. Having seen a lot of the docks recently, I knew. I said,

“Impressive.”

“It’s by Jorge Luis Borges... El Hacedor.”

“You should run it by Geraldo.”

“Please, he couldn’t spell dick, no pun intended.”

I thought of Jeff and his Dylan piece and wondered why people were memorising such odd stuff, asked,

“And what, you learnt that piece by heart? Why?”

“No choice.”

“They’re teaching Borges now?”

Gave me a cool, slow, languid look. The scotch had already hit her, giving her sensuality, always simmering, a blatant edge. She said,

“Whoa, down boy. You’re always reaching conclusions. Nothing is ever as it appears. My husband, my dear departed, had it pinned above the bathroom mirror. I guess it stuck.”

“YMCA” began, to delighted shrieks from the crowd. Kirsten pushed the empty glass into my hand, said,

“I warned you.”

And was gone.

Went after her. My arm grabbed in the corridor. Terry, now seriously dehydrated, shouted,

“What’s your game, Taylor?”

“A ploy... face to face with her accuser, she might confess.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“That, too.”

Kirsten was heading fast towards the Augustinian. A very drunk businessman was swaying at the door of his BMW, singing “A Galway Girl”.

Last time I’d heard it, Steve Earle had been on stage in the Town Hall. This guy was beeping the locks of the car in time to the song, on, beep, off, beep, hiccup,

Like that.

He appeared deliriously happy.

Envy writ large, I swallowed, shouted,

“Kirsten... Jeez.”

Caught her at the top of Buttermilk Lane. She said,

“Terry shouted ‘whore’ at me before I left, then he spat.”

“Christ.”

“I told him to relax, unless he wanted a heart attack.”

She hailed a taxi, asked,

“You coming?”

“Sure.”

The cab driver told us why the people rejected the Nice Treaty, said,

“Can’t have Europe bullying us, am I right?”

No one answered him. Kirsten gave him directions, and undeterred he went on to discuss the Danes. At the house, she hopped out, said,

“Pay him.”

And disappeared inside

As I rummaged for money, the driver surveyed the house, said,

“You’re in there, pal.”

“I’m the hired help.”

He winked, then,

“Them FÁS courses are mighty.”

And burnt rubber down the drive. I went inside; no sign of her. A shout from upstairs,

“I’m in the shower, make yourself at home.”

I tried.

Found the bar, poured a scotch, plonked myself on the sofa.

A scatter of books on the table, including Jackie Collins, Alice Taylor, Maeve Binchy.

And lo and behold, a beautiful slim volume titled The Legend of the Holy Drinker by Joseph Roth. Translated by Michael Hofmann.

I was definitely caught.

I read the flap:

I said aloud,

“Thank Christ.”

And lit up a cig. No sign of an ashtray. Read on:

Published by Granta. Am I old or what? I remember when Bill Buford began the magazine and the book he wrote, Among the Thugs.

Should be mandatory for guards dealing with football hooligans.

It crossed my mind to nick it. Just slip it into item 8234’s voluminous pocket, say nowt. I put it back on the table.

Kirsten walked in, towelling her hair. Barefoot, wearing a short silk kimono. That’s an image that’s always worked for me. It’s so casually intimate. I’ve only glimpsed it rarely, and that is the indictment of my isolation. I savoured it then. She glanced at the book, said,

“Cross your mind to steal it?”

“What?”

“I know you, Jack. That’s how I got it.”

She moved to the bar, began fixing a drink, humming softly. Jesus, I hate that; it’s a notch below musak. Still, I thought I recognised it, asked,

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I keep hearing it on a golden oldies station.”

Came to me. I said,

“Jeez, Kevin Johnson.”

“Who?”

“ ‘Rock and Roll I Gave You All the Best Years of My Life.’”

A bottle of Stoli held midair, she asked,

“That’s a confession?”

“The name of the song.”

“I like it.”

“There’s a line in there, sums up my years in the guards.”

“What’s this, Taylor, you’re getting all choked up on the past?”

I ignored that, said,

“I don’t remember the line exactly, but like this: ‘Trying to go it solo in someone else’s band’.”

She poured the drink, took a hefty belt, said,

“That’s you... the maverick.”

I rooted in my pocket, asked,

“Want to do GHB?”

“Oh, punishment, you pervert.”

Produced the liquid E, began,

“You have to be very careful with this.”

Her eyes alight, she went,

“Fuck that, let’s get it on.”

We did.

All the promised effects: inhibitions, clothes and self-control did disappear.

Stewart had guaranteed it gave euphoria and libido.

He wasn’t kidding.

Course he’d advised extreme caution with alcohol, but I figured care was an area I’d never given much time to. Too old to begin then.

Came to in broad daylight, sat up. Where was I? In a huge bed, white silk sheets. Two things hit me: I was naked and unhungover. No sign of Kirsten. A clock on the bedside table read 12.05.

Past noon, high or otherwise.

How long had I been out? No idea. I could recall magnificent gymnastic sex. Me! Boy, would my body pay when reality returned. But the lengthy sleep... An alcoholic skirts as close to insomnia as it gets. Enough booze to put down Young Munster, yet wakes after an hour, replete with hangover. The rest of the night consists of a befuddled series of fevered naps, nightmares, dread and sweats.

And waiting at daybreak, the whole sorry circus over again, Groundhog Day with the emphasis on hog. I didn’t leap out of bed but was nearly agile. No sign of my clothes. Went to a large wardrobe, opened it.

Jesus.

One of those walk-in jobs. Must have been fifty suits, as many sports jackets and, lined in military precision, shoes. Close to a hundred. Imelda Marcos would have sung. I pulled a heavy cotton shirt and a pair of Farah slacks. Fit pretty good. Went back to the bedroom, saw my cigs, lighter on the bureau. Fired up.

The door opened and Kirsten entered with a tray. Wearing the kimono, she’d a shit-eating grin, said,

“Well good morning, stud.”

I groaned.

She set the tray down. I saw toast, eggs, OJ, folded napkins and, God, a red rose. Silver coffee pot, steaming. I said,

“I’d kill for a coffee.”

Malicious smile, then,

“Is that appropriate to say to a murder suspect?”

She poured and passed me the cup. It smelled fantastic. Actually tasted near as good. It’s one of life’s jokes that coffee never fulfils its promise. If you based your life on that truth, you’d probably become a TD. She buttered some toast, laid a wedge of egg on it, said,

“Open wide, Romeo.”

Shook my head,

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t want me to feed you?”

“No.”

“I used to feed my husband.”

“And he’s...”

She shrugged. I drank the coffee, asked,

“Where’s my clothes?”

“I burned them.”

“Seriously, where are they?”

“I seriously burned them.”

“Christ, why?”

She turned to look at me, said,

“You’re going to be with me, you’re going to have to smarten up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think you’re going to smarten up... or you don’t think you’re going to be with me?”

“Both.”

She pointed to the wardrobe, said,

“My husband’s clothes will fit, and believe me, they’re the very best. I bought them.”

A thought struck me, and I grabbed her arm, shouted,

“The coat... my garda coat... did you burn that?”

“I tried... you’re hurting me.”

I tore down the stairs, the hall, through the kitchen and could see the fire in the garden. Flung the door open and approached the flames. The coat was thrown to the side, badly singed but intact. I grabbed it, the smell of smoke in my nostrils. Kirsten was at the door, hands on her hips, asking,

“What’s the deal? It’s a piece of shit.”

“That, lady, is my history, my career, the only link to my past.”

“What a pathetic history then.”

I brushed past her, went through to the front room, searching. She followed and I asked,

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The GHB.”

Half smile curling, she said,

“We used it all.”

“Like I’ll take your word for it. Where’s the empty bottle?”

She waved towards the garden.

“With your clothes. Want to check?”

I took a deep breath, said,

“Kirsten, I hope that’s the truth. You don’t want to fuck with that stuff. It can cause a coma.”

Now she was smiling, said,

“It sure set your motor running.”

I went upstairs, selected a heavy pair of brogues. Tight on the toes, but hey, pain was familiar. She shadowed me all the way, asked,

“When are we getting together?”

“Kirsten... what do you do?”

“Do?”

“You know, with your life, during any given day.”

“Shop and fuck.”

“What?”

“The town is full of young guys. They give it up for the price of a drink.”

I shook my head, unable to ask about condoms, protection. I truly was afraid of the answer. Instead I asked,

“So what do you want me for?”

“You amuse me.”

I headed down the stairs, and she asked,

“You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“You think you can fuck and fly?”

Is there an answer?

I got the front door open, and she called,

“Yo, Jack.”

“What?”

“That liquid E?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a killer.”

The bad drop.

I’m not talking about a pint of Guinness gone sour. It’s a concept I tried once to explain to Clancy, back when we were friends. It’s a slice of ice in your heart. And not a bad thing, the ability to lash out at the final moment, a shard of preservation that comes into play when you’re backed up, right against the wall. You don’t even know you have it till it’s absolutely vital.

Then, suddenly, a voice takes over, goes,

“Fuck with me... you have no idea of the ferocity I am capable of.”

Clancy had shook his head, gone,

“Ary, that’s mad talk.”

He went on to become the embodiment of a very bad drop. Now, as I headed down Taylor’s Hill, the voice kicked,

“So Kirsten, screw you.”

And felt it.

I walked past Nile Lodge, turned at Scoil Ursa, and the Gaelic connection reminded me I had a date with a ban garda. I was looking forward to it; at least I could pretend so. A guy near the site of the Sancta Maria Hotel was playing a tin whistle, a cap for donations at his feet. If there’s a worse spot to busk in Galway, I couldn’t think of it. Nobody walks along that road. It’s true ghostville. People shunned the area if they could. The hotel had burned to the ground with a tragic loss of life.

I found some coins in my burned coat and put them in the cap. His eyes widened and he asked,

“Are you on fire?”

“Not any more.”

He ran a withered hand over his brow, said,

“I thought I was losing it.”

He raised his thumb behind him, continued,

“That, you know, maybe... you’d come out of there.”

Drink had mottled his face to a full purple, and his body gave odd tremors. I said,

“This isn’t the best spot for your art.”

He gave a knowing smile, said,

“Look at the moon, stop listening to the dogs in the street.”

Go figure.

The circle of addiction, how it comes in many guises. I was tripping on the beat of no hangover, then looked into the face of raw alcoholism.

The mix rolls, and you never can predict what the result will be. Now it rolled the dice and churned out a coke craving.

I could see a neatly rolled line of pure white. A guy said to me once,

“Come on, Jack, it’s so eighties.”

Like I care about the era or am aware of current trends.

I’m mostly locked in some seventies mode when hope had an actual face.

Two lines of coke and the world throws its doors open. The white lightning across my brain, the ice drip along the back of my throat. Oh fuck, I felt my knees sag.

When the Charlie lights, you get this huge sense of purpose. Plus a bliss that convinces you of total insanity. Like that you can sing. And sing you do. It doesn’t get much crazier than that.

But the downside: few crash like cokeheads do. From soaring to a descent to hell itself, thrashing, sick, paranoid. The physical side is no advertisement either: the lost eyes, the constant sniffles and the erosion of the membranes of the nose. Eventually the septum is totally eaten away.

The tabloids trot out poor Daniella Westbrook, the soap star, with malignant glee. Photos of how she used to be and then, close up, the ravaged nose. If not a deterrent, it is certainly a shot across the bow of glamour.

I’d reached the cathedral and felt the need of a quiet moment. Pushed open the thick brass door, and it clanged shut behind me. The relic of St Therese had attracted U2-type crowds, but it was silent now. I moved along a side aisle, the Stations of the Cross marking time with my feet. Knelt in a pew near the main altar.

Without thinking, I began,

“Glór donAthair

I’d learnt my prayers in Irish, and they only held true resonance if said thus. Course no more than any other frightened Catholic, I’m partial to a blast of Latin. The easy majesty talks to my peasant soul. The cathedral is built on the site of the old Galway Jail. Not only male prisoners but women, too. Outlandish sentences for petty crimes, an early echo of the malignancy of the Magdalen. A priest crossed my vision, paused, said,

“Mind if I sit?”

I wanted to say,

“Your gig.”

Nodded. He sat in the seat in front. He was in his early forties, tall, with the dark features of a Spanish-Irish heritage. I stayed on my knees, nearly began,

“It’s been thirty years since my last confession.”

But he wasn’t giving off the priest vibe. If anything, he’d an aura of quite serenity. He said,

“It’s good to take a moment.”

“It is.”

“Are you a guard... a somewhat burned guard?”

He smiled, and I went,

“Burnt out.”

“I’ve been there.”

And he put out his hand, said,

“Tom.”

“Jack Taylor.”

I didn’t feel the urge, the in-bred traditional knee-jerk “Father”. In fact, I felt he wouldn’t go for it. He said,

“Sometimes it’s as much as I can do to get out of bed.”

My turn to smile, say,

“Kind of your job though.”

He raised his eyes to heaven. It seems to hold an added dimension when a cleric does it. He said,

“Sermons, they’re the bane of my life. Telling ordinary decent people how to live when their lives are riddled with harsh reality.”

“You could tell the truth.”

He wasn’t shocked, even taken aback, said,

“I did, once.”

“And?”

“The bishop sent for me.”

“Oh, oh.”

“Asked me if I was practising disobedience.”

I thought about that, said,

“Sounds like the guards.”

He grinned, went,

“Something tells me you didn’t toe the line.”

“Not exactly. I smacked a guy in the mouth.”

He savoured that. I asked,

“Where is the Church on suicide these days?”

He gave me the concerned look. I held up my hands, said,

“Not me... a friend of mine hanged himself.”

He made the sign of the cross. I wasn’t sure if I should do the same. He said,

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

“Am I?”

“Shouldn’t you wonder where God stands on the subject?”

“Where does He stand?”

“I think God has tremendous compassion for a person in such a terrible frame of mind.”

“Hope you’re right.”

He stood up, held out his hand, said,

“I enjoyed meeting you, Jack.”

I took his hand, answered,

“You did me good... Father.”

Big smile, then,

“It’s supposed to be my job.”

“Well, it’s a long time since a priest did me any good.”

He turned, genuflected in front of the altar and was gone. I headed out. At the main door, a nun was tidying pamphlets. She glared at me. I said,

“Excuse me?”

“What?”

“Fr Tom, what’s his surname?”

“There’s no Fr Tom.”

I described him, and she said,

“Are you deaf? There’s no such priest in this parish.”

I didn’t get back to Bailey’s till late afternoon. You take a walk through Shop Street, you better not be in a hurry. You meet your past, remnants of a shaky present and forebodings of the dark future. The past is represented by school friends, who appear old, shook and furtive. The present dances in a swirl of rain, refugees and lost winos, the future through the number of mobile phones and the hieroglyphics of text. An overall effect of bewilderment.

Years ago, a radio programme called Dear Frankie ruled the waves. Frankie sounded like Bette Davis on a particularly bad day. The whole country knew the show. Problems sent to her seemed more ordinary, more solvable. Her answers were terse, acidic and shut down the prospect of long debate. Interspersed with commercials were snatches of Sinatra. You couldn’t call her anything as lofty as the nation’s conscience, but she did seem to embody a combination of good humour with scathing wit. Behind the gruffness, you got the impression she cared.

It seemed a long time since you could say anyone gave a toss.

During the terrible events of my previous case, a bright light had briefly shone. I’d met a young girl named Laura, a very young girl. In her twenties, when you’re hitting fifty, that’s near as young as it gets.

Worse, she was very keen.

I can’t say I was totally smitten, but I sure liked her a lot. She did the almost impossible, made me feel good about myself. What drugs and alcohol provided was an ease from the demons. She supplied a whole natural feeling. Who knows what it might have become. I was on the precipice of the most tragic judgement of my life. Too, I was barely over the speedy termination of my marriage. These are hardly sufficient explanation, but it’s where I was.

Her mother confronted me publicly, saying,

“You should be ashamed of yourself. Laura is young enough to be your daughter.”

Did I stand up to her, fight my corner and declare I was prepared to do anything to keep Laura?

Did I fuck?

I slunk away like a scalded child. Worse, rang Laura and told her I’d met someone else.

Brave... huh?

I had seen her a few times since, only in the distance. Once near Supermac’s, she’d stopped, but I turned on my heel, moved fast away. Time heals most things or reaches an accommodation whereby you can function. Jeez, how I long for the truth of that. No amount of years will clear away the shabbiness of my behaviour.

I’ve tried to lump it among the other debris of a road badly travelled. Doesn’t cut it. Dislodges itself from the warehouse of shame, to stand alone and cry,

“You acted appallingly.”

The moving finger, having writ, has not moved on.

Kafka, in his diaries, said,

From all of this, I learnt one simple thing.

Times are, I’m a bad bastard.

When I got back to Bailey’s, I was close to beat. Mrs Bailey was behind her desk, said,

“I saw Dana today.”

Surely there’s a coherent reply. I waved vaguely and took the stairs. Thought,

“Gonna grab me some shut-eye.”

Opened my door to a scene of chaos. The room was destroyed. My books, torn, were scattered on the floor, the bed upturned and deep gashes in the mattress. Clothes were strewn everywhere and ripped asunder. A strong smell of urine came from the ruined wardrobe. The curtains had been jammed in the sink.

I closed the door, tried to get my mind in gear. Moved through the wreckage and checked the springs of the bed. The gun was gone.

In the wardrobe, I’d previously gone to great pains to lift a board and stash the drugs. Lifted it and let out a small sigh of relief. They hadn’t been touched.

Grabbed two heavy-duty tabs and dry swallowed them.

Moved to the sink in search of a water glass. It was in smithereens. I pulled the sodden curtain away and let it slump to the floor. Bent my head and drank from the tap. Straightening, I reached for my cigs, fired one up. Gazed at the heap of clothes. Jeez, did I have the energy to shop anew? I kept having to start over. The prized collection of books made me want to weep. Not only were they torn but appeared to have been savagely mutilated, pieces of covers barely visible. The backbone of whatever education I had... Merton, Chandler, Yeats.

Poets, crime writers, philosophers, chancers, all woven together in a mess of destruction. I’d rarely find a better epitaph for my life.

Kiki, my ex-wife, had tried to give me a crash course in philosophy, to get me to think.

I’d protested,

“What I most want is not to think. What do you suppose the oceans of booze are for?”

She’d persisted.

Course, I seized on any shard of despair, any piece of damage. I couldn’t pronounce Kierkegaard with any degree of confidence, but I did remember this:

By my reckoning, my vision now should be all encompassing. Alas, nothing could be further from the truth. Was I clogged with self-pity? You betcha.

Alongside whining, dreaming and shite talk, it’s what an alcoholic does best.

I trudged downstairs, approached Mrs Bailey. She gave a tentative smile and my heart sank. I said,

“I’ve some disturbing news.”

“Ah, don’t tell me you’re off to London again.”

“No... no. My room has been trashed.”

“Trashed?”

“Ransacked... broken into. It’s been gutted.”

“The pups.”

“What?”

“Ah, the blackguards who are loose today. No respect for anything.”

“I’ll pay for the damage.”

“Go way our that. Let the insurance cover it.”

“You’re insured?”

“No, but I always wanted to say that.”