Purgatory (9 page)

Yes.

Sorry the fuck wasn’t dead.

Laden with white roses, box of Ferrero Rocher, I arrived in Ridge’s room to find Stewart sitting by her bed. He went,

“What kept you?”

I ignored him, put the stuff down, moved to Ridge. Her face was covered with those yellow-blue marks that are a sign of healing. You can only surmise from their ferocity how bad the beating was. Her eyes were clear but something new in there, a wariness.

Fear?

I hoped to fuck not. A frightened Ridge raised a mayhem of biblical shouts in my head. I was saved from hugging her by the IV. She smiled, said,

“Tactile as ever, Jack.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a horse’s arse. I said,

“Good news.”

Ridge looked like that would be impossible. I added,

“The guy they figured did for you, Brennan, someone paid him a visit.”

She sighed.

“Oh, Jack, you didn’t?”

True, I had some mileage in this field, but protested.

“I’m guessing it’s the C33 lunatic.”

Stewart said,

“C33 doesn’t leave the victims alive. You’d remember that if you were paying attention.”

I swung around, snarled,

“The fuck is the matter with you?”

He waved at Ridge, said,

“I’ll be back later, babe.”

Strode out.

I was after him, Ridge calling me back.

Caught up with him outside the hospital, a batch of huddled smokers to the right, like the ones God cast out of heaven and as cowed. Stewart gazed at them, muttered,

“Wish I smoked.”

I grabbed his shoulder, snapped,

“The fuck is with you?”

He stared me down but something was amiss with his focus and for a bizarre moment I thought he was stoned.

Stewart!

No way, ever. He’d been a dealer, did his time in jail, he’d eat a bullet before that. But . . .

He said,

“Brennan is at death’s door.”

I read it wrong and, Jesus, not the first time, asked,

“You think I did it?”

He gave a bitter smile.

“If it was you, Jack, the bastard would be dead, right?”

He moved to go, I asked,

“You’re thinking C33, but we didn’t get a letter, like the other times.”

“Jack, I’m working with all me might to think nothing, nothing at all.”

And was gone.

I went back to Ridge and tried to make desultory talk, until she exclaimed,

“Jack, you seem out of sorts.”

I sighed, sounding horrifically like my despised mother, said,

“Certainly out of something.”

13

If you don’t have sex and you don’t do drugs, your rock ’n’ roll better be awfully good.

—Abbie Hoffman

Purgatory is what the Americans term . . . a plea deal.

Since my evening with Reardon, I’d stayed clear of the booze but wondered what the tipping point would be for the headfirst dive into oblivion. Tried to tell myself I’d done good with the cigs.

“Hey, not smoking, no coke—way to go, fucking Saint Francis.”

I was having the first coffee of the morning, strong, heart-kick gig, using a small hand exerciser to build up the strength in the right hand, try to compensate for the lost fingers. I’d promised Ridge I’d be there to collect her on her release from the hospital. Her husband was hunting with the local hounds club. I kid thee not, fox hunting still being permitted on his lands.

His lands.

How utterly fucking Irish is that?

But like the rest of the country, he was in hock to his balls and, yet, the hunt must . . . run.

Fuckers.

The date for the household tax deadline had passed, less than half the population had paid it for the simple reason the others couldn’t. And now, still reeling from the sheer bullying tactics in the empowering of this, they were going to introduce water meters in every home. It was like they figured,

“We’ve broken the spirit of the people, now let’s really kick them in the nuts and then fuck them.”

Only a short time in power and they already had the distinction of being the most hated government of all time.

Some achievement.

The weather was once again doing its peekaboo act, rain to sun to wind to storm and freezing. I wrapped myself in my Garda coat, Galway United scarf, headed out. A man I’d swear I never saw before fell in step beside me, asking,

“You don’t mind if I walk with you, Jack?”

He looked harmless but what does that mean anymore? In his shredded forties, he was short with a very flash leather jacket, as if he expected a slot on
The X Factor
. I stopped, asked,

“I know you?”

Letting the aggression of no cigs leak over my words. He smiled—good teeth; bad, mean eyes—said,

“Ah, sure, you won’t be remembering me, Jack-o.”

The faux stage-Irish with the frigging O on my name got to me in ways I’d forgotten. Ways that conjured up the flash of a hurley and steel toe caps. That is, my days as a Guard.

He said,

“I used to help your mum, you know, carry the shopping, look after the garden.”

My mum!

Fucksake.

Like she was a slice of Irish whimsy.

She’d been a walking bitch, spat and snarled her way through a sham religiosity, with a tame priest as buffer. I stopped, asked,

“What did you call her?”

His eyes, startled, went,

“What?”

My voice was cold as yesterday’s Mass, asked,

“Did you call her ma’am, Mrs., your ladyship?”

Relief flowed, he said,

“Oh, right, I am . . . Mrs. Taylor, you know.”

He wasn’t even worth a wallop for his worthless lie. I asked,

“And you’ll want, how is it? A little something for your . . .
thoughtfulness
?”

He was unsure now, maybe stories of my erratic behavior had reached him. I shot out my hand, shook his shoulder, said,

“If only we had more of your kind, we’d be a richer country.”

And moved past him, a dumbfounded expression on his face. I got to the hospital, went into the patients’ shop, bought some very expensive flowers, box of flash chocolates, and the daily tabloid. The headline screeched about the new sly tax the government was planning.

A water charge.

In Ireland.

Where we were surrounded at every turn by it, now we were to pay for it, with meters to be installed
free of charge.
The woman behind the counter said,

“Now I’ll have to give up water, like everything else.”

As I came out of the shop, I saw a woman on the edge of my vision and stopped, frozen. The tilt of the head, the way her body moved, then, no, saw her face and it was not who I thought. Time back, I’d been as close to commitment, a relationship, as it ever gets for a loner like me. An American woman, for a few months, it was bliss. Made me believe I could even feel good about me own self and that’s some leap.

One conversation had leaped into my mind. She’d been listening to my fear,

“It’s the dread of becoming boring, that the gold dust will fade, the glitter evaporate.”

She’d said,

“Jack, you’ll never be boring to me.”

I’d snapped,

“Not talking about you.”

Outside Ridge’s room, I thought about sharing this with her and realized it wouldn’t much improve my standing, walked in, and found an empty bed. Shock at first, thinking,

“Jesus, she’s dead.”

Until a passing nurse told me she’d checked out last night. We both looked at the array of stuff in my hands. I asked,

“Will you give them to the children’s ward?”

She would.

Back at my apartment, I’d done a fevered job of cleaning, not so easy when one hand is missing digits but I’d learned to compensate. Not smoking, drinking, drugging, I sure had the time, and even, part-time, the energy. Lady Antebellum on the radio, singing about being a little drunk after midnight and needing you now.

Trouble was, I didn’t know anymore who I missed the most.

Distracting my own self, I arranged the boxed DVDs for the second time, it gave me a fragile sense of order, of weak control, and the titles were a testament to all the shows that had been canceled after one or two seasons, the ones that didn’t cut it.

Eastbound and Down

The Riches

Testees

Bored to Death

Seemed apt I’d go for shows that didn’t last the distance. I phoned Ridge, told her I’d been to the hospital, tried to keep the whine out of my tone. She lashed,

“Oh,
I’m sorry
; should have immediately called you when I got released.”

Fuck.

I asked, not so much caring now.

“You doing okay?”

Deep sigh, then,

“Long as I don’t have to run any errands for you, I should be fine.”

Jesus, the bitterness. I did the only thing you can do, said,

“God bless.”

And hung up.

You had to figure: this is how I got on with my friends, imagine the rest of the world. No wonder I drank, the truth being, maybe I wasn’t drinking half enough. Shook myself. I’d be buried in a bottle in a jig time and I had a meal to prepare. Yup, I was cooking dinner for Kelly. Where did that place our relationship? Dark side of the manic moon.

Okay, I could do this.

I’d watched
Come Dine with Me
.

How hard could it be?

Starter.

Fuck, who needs a starter?

Main course.

Could only be Irish stew. You’ve served your time in the Guards, two things you can do:

Use a hurley

Make stew.

Got all the ingredients laid out

Mass of potatoes

Ton of vegetables

Salt

Chorizo

I kid thee not, chorizo gives it a kick like bargained absolution. Profane but exhilarating. Washing the veg, then slicing, even with my dud hand, was a comfort, as if normality might be accessible, like in a patch. Lashed the lot, with the spuds, into a huge pot, added a wee dram of the Jay, now leave to cook for a few hours. The smell permeated the apartment, like a childhood revisited, save we never had the peace such aromas supposedly bring.

I had white wine cooling, Kelly said it was her preference. Made the bed, clean sheets, and ignored what this might entail. Set the table, with a red candle centerpiece, then surveyed.

Not bad.

Wanted to call Ridge, describe it, then roar,

“See, I can do this shit.”

But she’d say I was drunk. I’d taped the big match, Man City versus Man U in the game of the decade. Didn’t think Kelly would want to watch but you could dream. I put the Pogues on, sat back as Shane gnarled his way through
Dirty Old Town
. Their thirtieth anniversary this year. Who figured Shane would still be around? He made me seem positively teetotal—part of the reason I loved the band.

Now all I had to do was wait.

A tricky gig when I’d oceans of booze right there but I managed, barely. I’d just checked on the stew, added some more Jay, left it to simmer when the doorbell went off.

“Game on,”

I whispered.

* * *

Kelly looked divine, black silk shirt, tight, over white jeans and scuffed boots with a serious heel. Her hair, tumbling over her face in the way that begged wrap your fingers in this. I said,

“Jeez, you look great.”

“I know.”

She came in, gave that detailed inspection that women do. Said,

“Zen via poverty.”

I laughed, went,

“I’m not that deep.”

She plunked herself down on the sofa, said,

“Oh, I know that.”

I offered a drink and got,

“Only if you’re joining me.”

Hmmm . . .

Took that long to reach my decision. As she sipped on a vodka tonic, I drew from a Shiner Bock, checked my stew, sure smelled . . . strong. The slug of Texas beer only increased my nervousness. Second drink in, I suggested we might try the dinner but, no, she produced a spliff, said,

“We mellow out, won’t no ways matter how bad the food is.”