The Dramatist (3 page)

A cloud passed her face, touched the corners of her eyes. She said,

“Oh yeah, right, like they’re going to upgrade someone of my orientation.”

I was confused, said,

“Because you’re a woman?”

She was out of patience, went,

“What, you don’t know?”

What the hell was she on about? I truly had lost the thread, asked,

“Know what?”

“That I’m gay.”

God knows, for a so-called investigator, I am blind in all the obvious areas. There have been times, albeit rare, when I’ve made impressive deductive leaps. For the rest, it seemed like life sailed on by with me in the constant dark. There are probably a million permutations on the correct reply to the admission “I’m gay”. Apart from noises of solidarity, empathy, support, there are even replies that include not only encouragement but humour. I came up with,

“Oh.”

She stared at me and I grasped the meaning of “a loaded silence”. That’s what we had for the next five minutes. Then she stood, said,

“I must return to my seat. Margaret will be wondering where I am.”

Was Margaret the significant other? I hadn’t the balls to ask. She looked at the rack above me, no luggage, said,

“You’re up for the day.”

I wanted rid of her, said,

“I’m going to jail.”

“It’s where you belong.”

And was gone.

At Heuston I lingered on the platform, hoping for a glimpse of
her—well, of Margaret really—but they’d given me the slip. I hopped on a bus and it went straight to O’Connell Street.

What a dump.

Jesus, whatever we were doing in Galway, it had to be better than this. The once impressive street was cheap, dirty and depressing.

As I headed for the Royal Dublin, a middle-aged man stopped, whispered,

“Do you know where the Ann Summers sex shop is?”

“What?…Are you kidding? How the fuck would I know?”

Thought, steady, you’ll have to get a grip.

The hotel had an impressive foyer and the receptionist was friendly, asked,

“Has Sir a reservation?”

I did.

And,

“Does Sir require smoking or non-smoking?”

Take a wild bloody guess.

My visit was slotted for 3 p.m. so I caught a cab, said,

“Mountjoy, please.”

The driver eyed me but didn’t comment. Silent taxi drivers don’t exist and after a few minutes came,

“Is that a Galway accent?”

“Yes.”

I said it in a tone to discourage further inquiry. It didn’t work.

“Long trip to the Joy for you, eh?”

He took my answering grunt as interest, said,

“You’ll have seen the match on Sunday?”

I hadn’t but that makes no difference. I didn’t even know which one he meant and certainly wasn’t about to ask. In Ireland, there is always a match and, more to the point, there is always one to discuss. I tuned him out. Finally, the cab stopped and he said,

“There she is, second home to the cream of the country.”

I got out and he asked,

“Want me to wait?”

“No, could be a while.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He burned rubber as he took off. No doubt the sound was bitter music to the carjackers behind the walls. I stared at the prison for a moment and lit a cig. My daily quota would be shot to hell. Looking, I felt a dread along my spine. The very appearance was intimidating, and no way would you mistake it for anything other than what it was: a place of deprivation, of punishment. I shook myself and headed in. Not an easy building to gain access to; the number of checks and double-checks took ages. My time as a guard wasn’t cutting me any slack. Eventually, I took my position with the other visitors, predominantly women and young children. They seemed to know each other well and engaged in a mocking banter. It was almost like bingo night. Sign of the new Ireland was the two black women. They sat apart and seemed drained of all emotion, a weariness hanging above them.

Then a warden shouted and the visitors shuffled forward. I was body searched again and the contents of my plastic bag examined.
Puckoon
was opened, felt, even the spine was handled, then I was passed through.

“I am neither an occultist nor a mystic. I am a child of my time despite all forebodings and I hold strictly to what I see. But there is a frightful riddle here, and I come back again and again to what appears to me to be the answer. What I saw gliding by there, like the Prince of Darkness himself, was no human being.”

Friedrich Reck-Malleczewen,
Diary of a Man in Despair

Put it down to movies. I’d expected our meeting to take place
with glass between us, using phones to communicate. I was wrong. The inmates sat at tables, watchful wardens at the wall. A vending machine was in full flow, and the atmosphere was almost like a picnic. Took me a minute to focus. Stewart was in the middle of the room, raised his arm. I moved over, not sure how I should behave. It wasn’t like I was family or even a friend. He was wearing a denim shirt, loose jeans—too loose. I’d anticipated him losing weight, but he had the flabbiness you get from starchy food and no exercise. Already he had the prison pallor, and his left eye was bruised, almost closed. I gave him the book and he put out his hand, said,

“Thanks for coming.”

I took his hand and we shook. His former appearance of smugness, money and comfort was gone, replaced by a fierce control, as if he was willing his eyes not to dart wildly in all directions. I sat, nodded at his eye, asked,

“What happened?”

He gave a vague smile, not even aware of it, said,

“A minor disagreement, over a rice pudding. It’s what prison is about really, who gets to eat your dessert.”

I didn’t know a whole lot about this and said nothing.

He touched his eye delicately, said,

“I’m learning though; I’ve hired a minder. I was always a fast study, but it took me a while to adapt.”

I was curious, asked,

“How’s that work, the minder?”

A small laugh, then,

“Like everything else, on money. I pay the biggest thug to mind my back.”

I couldn’t picture it, said,

“I thought they’d have frozen your accounts. I mean, isn’t that what they do, with drug money?”

Now he gave a full smile and I noticed he still had his teeth. The minder was earning his wages. He said,

“They froze some of the accounts. I was always smart with money, it’s no big thing. You get a sharp solicitor, you’re in the game.”

I looked round at a continuous line for the snacks, the forced smiles on the faces of the visitors and the bored eyes of the wardens. I asked,

“You call this being in the game?”

He let his control slip and I glimpsed a scared kid, but he reined it in, said,

“I had a sister, Sarah.”

I noted the tense, echoed,

“Had?”

“Two weeks before my bust, she was found dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

He tilted his head to the side, as if he was listening to some faraway music, then,

“You didn’t know her, why on earth would you be sorry?”

I was going to say “Well, then fuck you,” but he continued,

“Sarah Bradley. Twenty years old, final year at NUI, doing an arts degree. Look…”

He reached in his shirt, took out a photo, slid it over. A very pretty girl, black curls framing two large eyes, strong cheekbones and wide open smile, brilliant white teeth. The camera had caught a sense of quiet confidence, a girl who knew exactly what she was doing. I said,

“Lovely girl.”

And slid it back. He let it lie, said,

“She lived in Newcastle Park, shared a house with two other girls. They were at a party and when they got home, they found her at the foot of the stairs. Her neck was broken.”

He stared at me and I said,

“Terrible accident.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

I’d lost the thread, tried,

“You don’t think it was terrible?”

“I don’t think it was an accident.”

That hit me blindside; I began to see where this was going, the purpose of my visit. I reached for my cigs and said,

“Whoa…”

He put up his hand, near barked,

“Don’t smoke! I have nicotine clouds 24/7, so allow me a little breathing space.”

What the hell, I decided to humour him. A drug dealer intolerant of smoke was beyond comment. Not to mention the blitzkrieg of smoking from the other inmates. He used his hands to hold his face, then physically geared his body, continued,

“Under my sister’s body, under Sarah’s body, was a book by Synge.”

“Synge?”

“Even you’ll have heard of
The Playboy of the Western World
. Sarah hated him, all that keening bullshit. She wouldn’t have him in the house, and before you start, it didn’t belong to the other girls. I asked. They never saw it before.”

I rallied my thoughts, then,

“Come on, Stewart, you said she was studying an arts course; Synge had to be on it.”

He leaned over and I could smell his breath, a mix of toothpaste and breath freshener. His face was intense.

“All I’m asking is you check it out. I’ll pay well, very well. Here, I’ve written her address, details…Please, Jack.”

I don’t know what it takes to get you through prison, what obsession pulls you through the days. I decided to be honest—never a smart move.

“Stewart, I don’t think there’s anything to check out.”

He lay his hands flat on the table, summoned all his energy, said,

“So you’ve nothing to lose. You get a fat payday for, what…a few inquiries? I’ve never, and I mean never, asked anyone for a single thing. In court, the solicitor suggested, as a first time offender, I ask for consideration. I didn’t and here I am, begging you.”

I had hoped to never check out another death. I’d become involved with the previous cases against my instincts and with horrendous results.

I decided to go through the motions, asked,

“What did the guards say?”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. Heads turned from other tables and he said,

“Get real, Jack. A dope dealer’s going to get a lot of help from them? What they said was, pity it wasn’t me broke my bloody neck.”

“Was there a coroner’s report?”

“Sure. No drugs or alcohol in her system; the verdict was misadventure. What do you think? Should I put that on her headstone?”

People were standing, getting coats, and I felt a wave of relief, said,

“OK, I’ll take a look, but I can’t promise anything.”

He put out his hand, said,

“Thanks, Jack, and thanks for the book: Spike Milligan, perfect material for this madhouse. You won’t regret helping me, I guarantee it.”

Boy, was he ever wrong about that.

Back in the waiting room, a warden was escorting us out, touched my arm, whispered,

“You’re Jack Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

“Used to be a guard?”

I was taken aback, considered denying it but went,

“That’s right.”

“And now you’re visiting drug pushers?”

A flash of anger surfaced and I debated telling him to go fuck himself. Alas, I might need to visit again, though I fervently hoped not, said,

“So?”

He moved me along, then,

“No wonder they kicked your ass out. You’re a bloody disgrace.”

Outside as the gates closed, my face still smarting from the remark, I had a powerful urge to drink. Could taste Jameson in my mouth, feel my hand reach for a pint of the black, sink the first in a series. I had almost decided to go for it when a taxi passed. I hailed it. As we took off, I didn’t look back. The driver said,

“You know why Man U should never have bought Rio Ferdinand?”

I was thinking about a man named Michael Ventris, who deciphered Linear B. Lived his whole life trying to crack the hieroglyphs dating back 4,000 years inscribed on stones unearthed in Crete and for decades posing the greatest puzzle in archaeology and linguistics. Ventris finally solved it, but the achievement left him empty. He ended his life by driving into the back of a lorry. His lifelong obsession had gone; the most extraordinary mind of his decade had lost focus. I was sorely tempted to grab the driver, go,

“Shut the fuck up, here’s a story.”

Then ask,

“What happens when you get to the top and it’s barren, a wilderness?”

We’d arrived in O’Connell Street and he was going,

“Don’t even get me started on Leeds.”

I paid him and found the urge to drink had abated. Crossed the street to the Kylemore and ordered steak and chips. Ate it without tasting a bite. The waitress said,

“You enjoyed that.”

“Yes.”

“Dessert? We’ve some lovely apple tart and custard.”

I passed.

How to kill the night in Dublin? Thing was, I felt edgy, off balance. If I’d been drinking, I’d have headed for Mooney’s, end of story. Instead I went into the hotel, asked for my room key. The girl gave me a smile, asked,

“Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Immensely.”

In the room, I contemplated a bath but couldn’t summon the energy. Lay on the bed and figured a nap would revive me. Slept twelve hours. Dreamt of my father. He was holding a book by Synge, said,

“The answers are here.”

“But I don’t even know the questions.”

I think I was shouting. Then I was in a cemetery, trying to read the names on the headstones, but they all said Linear B. I don’t recall the rest, but obviously it was distressing, as I woke with tears on my cheeks. I said aloud,

“What the hell was that about?”

Showered and packed up. My plan to do the round of bookshops was no longer appealing, so I caught the train at 11 a.m. No trolley service; I think I missed the Ukrainian. Now I was able to read and had been anticipating
High Life
by Matthew Stokoe. Started it as we hit the outskirts of Dublin and never looked up till we reached Athenry.

It was Chandler on heroin, Hammet on crack, James M. Cain with a blowtorch, and it matched my mood with a wild ferocity. The writing was a knuckleduster to the brain, a chainsaw to the gut. It not so much rocked as walloped the blood with a rush of pure amphetamine. The prose sang and screamed along every page, a cesspit of broken lives illuminated with a taste of dark euphoria. I felt downright feverish. How often is a novel like a literary blow to the system? I felt Jim Thompson would have killed for this. If James Ellroy had indeed abandoned the crime genre, then here was his dark heir.