Headstone (11 page)

utterance. The cleaning crew arrived, I gave them

the spare set of keys and they assured me I’d be

able to return by five at the latest. I asked if they

preferred cash or cheque and we all smiled at the

absurdity of this. Cash it was. To kill the early part

of the day, I went to see Kathryn Bigelow’s
The

Hurt Locker
. Last movie of hers I’d seen had

Lance Henriksen in the ultimate Vampire/Rock ’n’

Roller.

The cinema was nigh empty, no screaming kids, no

groups of eejits with buckets of popcorn. You

come out of the cinema alone, there is usually a

terrible sense of loss, but hey, I had Laura due, no

more ticket for one. I went to Faller’s, bought a

gold Claddagh pendant for her. Checked my watch.

I was doing good, time for a jar, or three.

Went to the Roisin Dubh. Had intended to be out of

there in time to get back and tip the cleaners. But I

got involved in a session, someone started singing

“The Cliffs of Doneen” and a guy joined in on the

spoons, another with a bodhran, and we were off

and reeling. It was way past six when I staggered

out. I decided to take a shortcut along the canal.

Stopped about a hundred yards up to light a cig,

muttering about the amount of litter dumped in the

water. Thought I heard footsteps and then received

an almighty blow to the base of my skull. Saw the

cigarette float down into the water, like a tiny light

of hope. Blackness took me as my legs buckled.

I came to with a start and a ferocious fright. I

couldn’t see. Jesus, was I blind? Took some deep

breaths, which set off an already thundering

headache. Then I realized I was blindfolded. And .

. . tied down.

The fuck was this?

The DTs in a whole new guise?

My wrists and ankles were manacled and, by

moving my body a bit, I knew I was spread-eagled.

Not good. A voice, distorted with one of those

robot gadgets, said,

“Jack, you’re back.”

Behind the metallic sound, you’d have sworn there

was concern.

He was standing at my head but, once I began to

orient a bit, I sensed there were others to my sides.

He said,

“To satisfy your curiosity, you’re laid out on a

headstone.”

A pause.

Added,

“Better than under it.”

Laughter from the others. Jesus, a psycho with a

sense of humor.

He continued,

“You had a call from an American lady. I hope you

don’t think we exceeded our brief but my female

colleague answered, said, and I think I quote her

correctly,

“……………………..Jack is rather deep in me as

we speak so fuck off home and harass Iraq.”

Oh, Jesus.

I managed to say nothing, mostly as I had nothing I

could possibly think of that didn’t involve threats,

heavy obscenities, and, when you’re tied down,

it’s not really the best course of action. I could

distinctly hear him drinking something and I’d have

sold a lot for a drop of whatever it was. He said,

“The cunt took the very next flight out. It’s none of

my business, Jack, but just how devoted to you can

she have been when she baulked at the first

hurdle?”

I managed to find some semblance of a voice,

cracked, hoarse, asked,

“Could I have some water?”

He gave an artificial “Whoops,” said,

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Jack, where are my

manners? Of course you can. We’re not animals.

Sparkling or still?”

Despite the robotic device, something in his

terminology triggered a memory. I’d heard this

prick before. I’d deal with that later, if there was a

later. I said,

“Long as it’s wet.”

He laughed, said,

“Ah, that spirit Jack, why we love you.”

My mouth was wrenched open, a bottle put to my

lips and glorious cold water poured. I coughed,

spluttered but got it down.

No Jameson tasted as sweet. The voice said,

“Now to business, I think we share a dislike of

chitchat.”

A hectoring tone now behind the device, said,

“As a lover of America, I think you’ll appreciate

our somewhat altered version of the following.”

He took my silence as assent. Intoned,

“……………………………….Give

us

your

wretched,

your poor,

your infirm,

your dregs,

your outcasts.”

Stopped, said,

“You get my drift?”

I managed,

“How fucking complicated is it?”

He gave a bitter laugh, said,

“That’s my boy, bitter and vicious. We’ve added

our own little kicker. Would you like to hear it?”

I croaked,

“I have a choice?”

Received a sharp vicious jab to my kidneys, with a

bat . . . a baseball bat? It hurt like bejaysus. Heard,

soon as I got my wind back.

“We’re being nice here Jack but we can do

hardball too. Are we clear?”

I managed,

“Crystal.”

“So, would you like to hear our addendum?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Okeydokey, after the rigmarole of give us your

scum and such, we’ve added

………………………………….and

we’ll

annihilate them.”

Sweat coursed down my body. He continued,

“Misfits,

retards,

gays,

the parasites,

oh, yes, I nearly forgot, especially for you Jack,

alkies.

We shall cleanse the planet of them. Recognize

anyone familiar in there, Jacky boy?”

Total silence reigned for a few blessed minutes,

then his voice in an almost jolly tone said,

“But Jack, hermano, buddy, you’re sweating like a

bloody pig.”

Maybe the worst thing of all, in this horror show,

he touched my cheek with two fingers, almost

caressingly, said,

“Chill big guy, we’re not ready to take you off the

board . . .”

A single beat, then,

“Yet.”

Chills and sweats were running down my back, my

hair was literally saturated from panic. It was

about to get worse, a whole lot.

He said,

“We have a rather fascinating dilemma for you.

You get a choice, not unlike
The Dice Man
or

Sophie’s Choice
. I mention books to help you de-

stress.”

Guess what? It wasn’t helping.

He asked,

“I need to know first, though, which hand do you

drink with?”

Without thinking, I said,

“The one that shakes the least.”

Received a second stunning blow to my gut that

was so fierce I threw up—threw up the water and

some other stuff I don’t think I want to know. I

stuttered,

“My….right………right hand.”

“Just one more question buddy and we’re nearly

done. Would you prefer to read or drink?”

The fuck was this lunatic going? I said,

“To read.”

I think that’s true.

He said,

“Good choice. Blinding you would be a trifle

messy so just bear with us a minute.”

My right hand, manacled, was gripped, pinned

down, my fingers forcibly spread. I heard,

“Stanley knife, please.”

The sound of one hand clapping.

I came to in a hospital bed. For some bizarre

reason, an old proverb in my befuddled mind,

“Only dead fish swim with the stream.”

Shaking this off, I tried to get a handle on where I

was. Then the previous events came slithering

back and my whole body went into a mini spasm. I

tried to sit up. Stewart was perched in an armchair,

moved fast, said,

“Best to lie still, buddy.”

Buddy?

He ever call me that before?

Fuck, meant I was in serious bad shape. I took

some deep breaths, trying to fend off the tidal wave

of panic about to engulf me.

I asked,

“Could I have some water?”

He gently put some ice cubes in my mouth and

nirvana, they tasted so fine. I lay back, refusing to

look at my right hand. Between the glorious

coldness of the ice, I asked,

“How’d I get here?”

He moved back to his chair, never taking his eyes

off me, said,

“They had your mobile phone, found my number,

said—”

He hesitated.

I pushed,

“Spit it out, Stewart.”

He swallowed.

Maybe he could use an ice cube?

Said,

“They said, we’ve left the garbage outside your

door.”

I suppose they could have recycled me.

He continued,

“Ridge has been staying with me. You’ve been

missing for nearly a week.”

I asked,

“How are Chelsea doing?”

He looked so ill at ease, no Zen gig helping, it

seemed, so I cut to the chase, asked,

“How bad?”

I didn’t mean my football team.

He inhaled deeply, then,

“They took two fingers from your right hand.

They’d, ah, cauterized the . . . remains, otherwise

you’d have bled to death.”

A chill ran down my spine but I had to know,

asked,

“Did they leave the digits, the severed ones?”

Oh, Christ, the freaking desperate hope that they

did and that the surgeons did their magic and

reattached them. Stewart looked stricken. I said,

“I guess that’s a no.”

It was.

He said,

“Ridge is working round the clock, trying to find a

lead.”

My mind, maybe in an effort to save whatever

tattered remnants remained, muttered,

“The moving finger, having writ, moves on.”

I nearly laughed.

Hysteria?

You bet your arse.

I asked,

“How is Malachy?”

He shook his head, said,

“No change.”

Then he did a thing that broke every rule Stewart

held close. He moved over, had a lighted cigarette

in his hand, said,

“You’ll be wanting some of this I’m thinking.”

I’ve always had some incomprehensible bond to

him but, I swear by all that’s holy, I fucking loved

the guy right then. He said,

“The nurses will massacre me.”

I nearly smiled, said,

“Jesus, they’d need to be quick.”

The cigarette done, he took it, extinguished it, put it

in his jacket.

Opened a window to let the smoke evaporate.

Either that or he was going to jump. He waved his

arms futilely, said,

“You caused quite a stir, Jack. The Guards were

here. Even Clancy showed up.”

Venom washed over me, I said,

“No doubt he wept.”

Then I zoned, it was to be like that, into and out of

consciousness, lucid one moment, stark raving mad

the next. I heard, as if from a great distance, a

poem by Márín De Brun, based on Dalton

Trumbo’s book,
Johnny Got His Gun
. The lines

uncoiling in my head like a soured mantra:

Sightless, soundless

Your day’s begun

Tearless, wordless, no songs be sung

Your hand in ruins

Your head in hell.

Snapped back to hear Stewart say,

“Clancy said it was self-mutilation, your self-

loathing reached boiling point.”

I said,

“It’s a theory.”

Maybe the nicotine, maybe Clancy, but I finally

looked at my heavily bandaged hand, asked,

“How long before I get out of here?”

He told me the truth, said,

“Few days but, Jack, get some rest, OK?”

I thought,

“Rest in peace.”

Before he started on the bullshit of:

They can do great things these days.

Lots of artificial appendages.

Etc.

I told him,

“They had me spread-eagled on a slab of granite,

said it was a headstone.”

I could see the dots connecting in his head, I said,

“Stewart, be real careful, you hear me?”

Rare to rarest did Stewart allow his real feelings

to surface. Zen kept the six years of prison under

wraps and, too, the death of his beloved sister. He

utilized that deathly calm to block out the torrents

of simmering lethal rage. Kept a mask of amused

detachment to keep the world behind philosophical

glass.

Not now.

Fury wrapped his face. His eyes were slits of

sheer menace. He said,

“I hope to fuck they have a run at me.”

The nurse came, did that fluffing of pillows they

do, then gave me a shot, hurt like a bastard.

Stewart said,

“I’ll be back later, Jack. Here’s your mobile, it

was in your jacket.”

I was slipping back into sleep, said to Stewart,

“They answered the phone to Laura, said enough to

send her fleeing back to London.”

He looked truly sorry, said,

“Ah, no, that’s just the bloody pits.”