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Authors: Ken Bruen

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BOOK: The Guards
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“Ann.”

She gave me a huge hug, then stood back to study, said,

“The beard is lovely.”

“Thanks.”

“You look completely different, it’s not just the beard.”

Not knowing what else to do, I reached for the flowers. Wow, were they a hit!

We sat.

She kept glancing at the flowers then at me. If I had to reach for how I felt, I’d have to admit, shy. Nearly fifty years old and feeling that. She said,

“I think I’m a bit shy.”

“Me too.”

“Oh are you, Jack? I’m delighted.”

A waitress came and we ordered up a storm

Chow meins

Dim sum

Sweet and sour

Then the waitress asked,

“To drink?”

I got right to it, said,

“I’ll have another Coke … Ann?”

“Oh, Coke for me too.”

After she’d gone, Ann said,

“That’s it, your eyes, they’re white.”

“White?”

“No, I mean … clear.”

“It’s OK, I know what you mean.”

A silence. Then she said,

“Should I ask or … leave it alone?”

“I’m new to this myself, but sure, ask away.”

“Is it difficult?”

“A bit.”

Then the food came and we moved on and away. I liked to watch her eat. She caught me, asked,

“What?”

“I like to watch you eat.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so.”

After, we took a walk down Quay Street. She linked my arm.
Among good gestures, it’s right up there. At Jury’s, we stopped and she said,

“I have to go to the cemetery now. I go every day, and on such a wonderful day, I’d like to share it with Sarah.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Would you?”

“It would be a privilege.”

Caught a cab at Dominick Street, and we were no sooner settled than the driver asked,

“You heard about the scene on the square?”

Ann said,

“Oh, wasn’t it awful?”

I said nothing. The driver, of course, was contrary, said,

“People are fed up with the guards and the courts. They’ve had enough.”

Ann was having none, said,

“Oh, surely you don’t condone what happened.”

“Listen, ma’am, if you saw the yokes that get in here at night and the carry on of them.”

“But to set fire to a person.”

“Weren’t they the same pups doing that to winos? Even the guards know that.”

“All the same.”

“Now, ma’am, with all due respect, if something happened to
your
child.”

RECIPE FOR THE UPBRINGING OF A POET:
“As much neurosis as the child can bear.”

W.H. Auden

We walked to Sarah’s grave in silence. She was no longer linking
me.

More’s the Irish pity. I could have done with it most then.

The grave was incredibly well kept. A simple wooden marker with her name. All round were

Bears

Snoopy

Sweets

Bracelets

And arranged in formation.

Said Ann,

“Her friends. They’re always bringing her things.”

I think that was the heartbreaker of all. I said,

“Ann, let her have the roses.”

She lit up.

“Really, Jack, you don’t mind? She loves roses … or loved. I can’t get the tense right. How can I consign her to that awful one, the past?”

She laid the roses gently down and then sat near the cross. She said,

“I’m going to have
POET
put on the stone. Just that. She wanted to be one so badly.”

I wasn’t sure of the etiquette of the dead. Did I kneel or sit? Then, I realised Ann was talking to her child. Soft, easy sounds that reverberated against my soul.

I backed away. Started to walk and nearly collided with an elderly couple who said,

“Grand day, isn’t it?”

Jesus. I kept going and arrived at my father’s grave. I said,

“Dad, I’m here by default, but then … aren’t we all?”

No doubt, I was raving. If Sutton saw me, he’d have force-fed me drink. The headstone was up and that’s the worst. It’s so final, no more appeals. Least while it’s only the plain cross, it stays temporary.

Ann arrived behind me, asked,

“Your dad?”

I nodded.

“Did you like him?”

“Oh God, I did.”

“What was he like?”

“Well, I don’t think I ever wanted to be him, but I did want to be liked the way people liked him.”

“What did he work at?”

“On the railways. Those days, it wasn’t a bad job. Every evening round nine, he’d get his cap and go for a few pints. Two pints. Some nights he wouldn’t bother. The test of an
alcoholic is, if you take two daily and leave it at that. Me, I’d wait the week and have fourteen on Friday.”

She gave an uncertain smile.

The talk was on me now. Rabid.

“When I joined the guards, he didn’t comment except, ‘Mind it doesn’t lead you to drink.’ Then when I got bumped, he said, ‘The manner of your departure befits you better than past glories.’ Early on, in Templemore, an instructor said, ‘We can safely assume Taylor has a bright future behind him.’ What you’d call a ‘gas man’. He’s a minder for the taoiseach now, so he got his just desserts. My father loved to read, was always on about the power of print. After he died, a fella stopped me in the street, said,

“Your father was a hoor for books.”

“I should have put it on his stone. He’d have been happy with that.”

Then I was near spent. But a thought or two to stagger home. I said,

“I have a friend, Sutton. He used to wear a t-shirt that read:

IF ARROGANCE IS A BLESSING
BEHOLD THE HOLY CITY.

Ann didn’t get it, said,

“I don’t understand it.”

“Nor would you understand him. I don’t think I do either.”

Ann asked if I’d like to come visit her house. I said, sure.

She lived in Newcastle Park. Right by the hospital. A road comes out from the mortuary and it’s named the Mass Path. I don’t know could I walk that too often.

The house was modern, bright, clean and comfortable. It had the lived-in look. She said,

“I’ll make some tea.”

Which she did, emerging with a tray piled high with sandwiches. Good old-fashioned type with thick crusty bread, lashings of ham, tomato, butter. I said,

“God, those look good.”

“I get the bread in Griffin’s. It’s always packed.”

After a second cup of tea, I said,

“Ann, I have to talk to you.”

“Oh, it sounds ominous.”

“It’s about the investigation.”

“You’ll need money. I have more.”

“Sit down. I don’t need money. I had a … pharmaceutical windfall, so don’t worry. Look, if I told you the man responsible for Sarah’s death was dead, could you be satisfied with that?”

“How do you mean. Is he?”

“Yes.”

She stood up, said,

“But nobody knows. I mean, she’s still classed a suicide. I can’t leave her friends, her school, believing she did that.”

“OK.”

“OK? What does that mean, Jack? Can you prove the truth.”

“I don’t know.”

It meant I’d have to go after Planter. If she had agreed with what I proposed, I’d have left it alone.

I think.

But Sutton certainly wasn’t going to let him off, so I don’t think I had any choice.

“I haven’t any morals to preach.
I just work as closely to my nerves
as I can”

Francis Bacon

Later in the evening, we’d gone to bed. I was as nervous as a
cat. Told her, said,

“I don’t think I’ve ever made love sober.”

“It will be better, you’ll see.”

It was.

Round midnight, I got dressed and Ann asked,

“Why don’t you stay?”

“Not yet.”

“OK.”

Then she was out of bed and gone. Back a few minutes later, carrying something. She said,

“I want you to look at something.”

“Sure.”

“It’s Sarah’s diary.”

And offered a pink, leather-bound book. I physically recoiled, said,

“Jesus, Ann, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t go through a teenage girl’s diary. It’s wrong.”

“But why? It will give you an idea of who she is … who she was. Please.”

“Oh God, I really don’t want to do this.”

I couldn’t tell her that nothing would have me reaching for a bottle quicker than that. A glimpse into the mind of a young dead girl.

Ann still held it out. I said,

“I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be able to but I’ll give it a shot.”

She put her arm round me, kissed my neck, said,

“Thanks, Jack.”

Walking home, I felt its weight like a bomb in my pocket. I thought of calling Cathy B. Asking her to read it. But I couldn’t just hand it over. Ann would never go for that. Cursing like a trooper, I was home in under ten minutes. I put it under my bed so I wouldn’t see it at first light. No way was I opening those pages at night.

Next morning, I showered, coffee’d, paced, then decided to face
it.

The cover was well worn, the pink leather frayed from use. Inside was:

This diary is the property of
Sarah Henderson,
Poet,
Ireland
And is PRIVATE
So no peeking, Mom!

Christ! It was worse than I thought.

Blanked my mind and tried again. A lot of the entries were predictable. School, friends, music, clothes, diets, crushes.

Was able to get through this but every so often.

Mom says I can have a mobile
phone at Christmas.
She’s like the BESTEST.

And I’d want to scream.

Got to where she began work part-time at Planter’s.

Mr Ford is like so un-cool.
All the girls tease him behind
his back. He is so weird city.

Then the tone changed. Now she was excited, flushed, enraptured.

Bart asked if I’d like a lift home.
His car is mega. I have like the
biggest crush.

Then Bart… just the name … or a heart with Bart and Sarah … for pages. The final entry:

I can’t keep this diary any more.
Bart says it’s for children. He’s
promised me a gold bracelet if I
go to the party on Friday.

I got on the phone, called Cathy. She said,

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Undercover.”

“Under the bleeding weather.”

“That, too.”

“You’ll be wanting some-fink?”

“Pretty simple thing.”

“Yeah.”

“When you did research on Planter, did you keep notes?”

“Course.”

“Good girl. What’s his first name?”

“Lemme check.”

Then,

“Got them, let’s see … oh yeah, here it is… Bart… holomew.”

“Great!”

“Don’t go yet. Listen, I’ve got a gig.”

“Terrific, when?”

“This Saturday, at The Roisín; will you come?”

“Definitely. Can I bring somebody?”

“Bring hundreds.”

A GALWAY LAMENT

You watched—through
April
from
a place of
forbearance

… called fortitude.

The Roisín Dubh has showcased most of the major music acts. It
still retains the atmosphere of intimacy. Read crowded. Ann was wearing a short leather jacket, faded 501’s, her hair tied back. I said,

“Now, that’s gig gear.”

“Is it OK?”

“Dynamite.”

I’d faded to black. Sweatshirt and cords in that colour. Ann said,

“You look like a spoilt priest.”

“Petulant?”

“No, spoilt as in … ruined.”

“Mm … we could work on that.”

We squeezed through the crowd, got near the stage. I said,

“Listen, I’m just going to see how Cathy’s doing.”

“Will she be nervous?”

“I am.”

Cathy was in a tiny dressing room, said,

“I knew you’d come.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, you still have some moves, even for an old guy. Here …”

She pushed a glass at me, it was a double, no a treble something. I asked,

“What’s that?”

“Jack … as in Daniels. Get you kick-started.”

“No, thanks.”

“What!”

“I’m not drinking.”

She turned round, said, “You what?”

“Been a few days. I’m working at it.”

“Wow!”

I’d have given my back teeth for it. The light seemed to catch the glass, made the liquid sparkle. I looked away. Cathy asked,

“And the beard? What’s with that?”

“Notions.”

“That’s an Irish answer. Tells me absolutely zero. Go … I need to focus.”

I bent down, kissed the top of her head, said,

“Star trouper.”

Ann was holding drinks, said,

“Cokes … I didn’t mean to presume.”

“Coke is great.”

Various people shouted hello, commented on the beard, scrutinised Ann.

Lights went down and I thought I spotted Sutton near the bar.

Then Cathy was up. The crowd went quiet. She said,

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

Straight into a punk version of “Galway Bay”. Like when Sid Vicious did “My Way”. Difference being that Cathy could sing. Gave the song a poignancy I’d lost over too many hearings. Next came Neil Young’s “Powderfinger”.

She covered a huge range, from Chrissie Hynde through Alison Moyet, to conclude with Margo Timmins’ “Misguided Angel”. Stormed through that. Then she was gone. Huge applause, whistles, calls for more. I said to Ann,

“She won’t do an encore.”

“Why.”

“Never keeps a reserve—she’s done.”

She was.

The lights came up. A wave of camaraderie, good will pervaded the place. Ann said,

“She’s brilliant. What a voice.”

“Drink? Have a real one, I’m OK truly.”

“White wine.”

“Sure.”

When I got it, I turned to find Sutton blocking my path. He looked at the glass, said,

“Wine? It’s a start.”

“Not for me.”

“Whatever. That English chick can sure belt it out. I’d say she’d murder you in bed.”

“Not your type.”

“They’re all my type. You’ll remember our Mr Planter?”

“Sure.”

BOOK: The Guards
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