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Authors: Ken Bruen

The Guards (12 page)

BOOK: The Guards
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“You’re a cranky oul bastard.”

At a recent mass in Galway Cathedral, a young New Age traveller horrified the
congregation by walking up the aisle waving a replica gun.
He was charged but released on bail of 6p, because he was broke.
His New Age friends, locals later discovered, had tamed eleven rats that they
christened and cared for in their tents.
Like the guy in the Carlsberg commercial, one can only ask, “Why?”

I was heading down Quay Street. Hardened locals pronounce it
“Kay” and it’s “Key” to the rest. A rib must have been broken in the devil as a shard of sun hit the buildings.

A shadow fell. The head wino. I knew him as Padraig. The usual rumours beset him. Supposedly from a good family, he had been

A teacher

A lawyer

A brain surgeon

As long as I’d known him, he was in bits and fond of the literary allusion. Today, he was semi-pissed, said,

“And greetings to you, my bearded friend. Are we perchance partaking of the late winter solstice?”

I smiled and gave him a few quid. The tremoring of his hand we both ignored. He was about 5’5” in height, emaciated,
with a mop of dirty white hair. The face was a riot of broken blood vessels, swollen now. The nose was broken and I could sure empathise.

Blue, the bluest eyes you’d ever get… underlined in red, of course. Ordnance surveyed. He said,

“Did I know your father?”

“Paddy … Paddy Taylor.”

“A man of subtlety and taste. Was he not?”

“He had his moments.”

“One deduces from the use of the past tense that he’s no longer with us—or worse—in England.”

“Dead, he’s dead.”

At the top of his lungs. Padraig began to sing. It put the heart crossways in me. He sang or roared,

Blindly, blindly

at last

do we pass away.

He stooped to snatch a fag end, lit it from a battered box of kitchen matches. I looked furtively round, hoping the song was through. He ate deep from the cigarette and in a cloud of nicotine bellowed,

But man may not linger

for nowhere

finds he repose.

He paused and I jumped in.

“Will you stop if I give you more money?”

He laughed, showing two yellowed teeth; the rest, obviously, were casualties of combat.

“Indeed I will.”

I gave him another pound. He examined it, said,

“I take Euros, too.”

I was crossing into Claddagh with the Spanish Arch to my left. Padraig continued to match stride, said,

“You are not a man who gives away a lot… a lot, that is, in the information department. What you do say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.”

Before I could reply to this, briefly or clearly, he was assailed with a series of gut wrenching coughs. Up came phlegm and various unidentifiable substances. I gave him a handkerchief. He used it to dry his streaming eyes.

“I am indebted to you, young Taylor. It has been many the mile since I was offered a fellow pilgrim’s hanky.”

I said,

“Your accent is hard to pin down.”

“Like a steady income, it has an elusive quality … not to mention effusive.”

There was no reply to this, I didn’t even try. He said,

“At one dark era of my existence I was, I believe, from the countryside of Louth. Are you at all familiar with that barren territory?”

“No.”

My concentration was focused on not talking like him. It was highly contagious. He rooted deep in his coat, a heavy tweed number. Out came a brown bottle.

“A touch of biddy perhaps?”

He wiped the neck with the clean end of my hanky. I shook my head. He wasn’t the least offended, said,

“The only advice I remember is it’s better be lucky than good.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Lucky?”

He laughed deep.

“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”

A bunch of winos emerged from the football wall. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy, said,

“My people await me. Perchance we’ll talk again.”

“I’d like that.”

Not wild enthusiasm but a certain tone of approval.

Finally, I made Salthill and hit out along the prom. I thought again about the sentries in Grogan’s. Any given day, come noon, they took off their caps, blessed themselves for the angelus. Even bowed their heads as they quietly whispered the prayer.

Save for those odd pockets of remembrance, the angelus, like the tenements and pawn shop of Quay Street, had been blown away by the new prosperity. Who’s to measure the loss? I couldn’t even recall the prayer.

When you come off the booze, you acquire a racing mind. A hundred thoughts assail you at once.

Three lads in their barely twenties passed me. They were holding cans of Tenants Super. I could have mugged them. The smell of the lager called loud.

I’d come across some books by Keith Ablow. A practising psychiatrist with a specialty in forensics, he wrote,

You need a drink. That’s how it starts. You need. And the need was real, always is. Because I did need something. I needed the courage to face what I had to do next. And I didn’t have it. The booze makes you forget that you’re a coward, for a while. Until a
while runs out. Whatever you needed to face has grown claws and become a monster you don’t ever want to meet. Then the monster starts pissing out booze faster than you can pour it in.

Walk that.

Remember the primary laws of physics: every force begets an equal and opposite
force. If you perform an act of grace, you buck the system. It’s like throwing down
the gauntlet to Satan. All kinds of hell can come looking for you.

Next day, invigorated from my walk, I decided to get my hand
checked.

I had a doctor, but over the years of drink, I’d lost contact. Once, I’d gone to score some heavy duty tranquillisers and he ran me.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive. Took the chance and went to the Crescent.

A pit stop connecting the seaside and the city. It’s the Harley Street of the town. His nameplate was still there. Went in and a young receptionist asked,

“Can I help you?”

“I used to be a patient, but I dunno if I’m still on the books.”

“Let’s see, shall we.”

I was.

She glanced through the file, said,

“Ah, you’re with the gardai.”

Jeez, how long since I’d been? She looked at my beard and I said,

“Undercover.”

She didn’t believe that for a second, said,

“I’ll check if the doctor’s free.”

He was.

He’d gotten old, but then, who hadn’t? He said,

“My word, you’ve been in the wars.”

“I have.”

Gave me a full examination, said,

“Fingers can come out of plaster in a few weeks. The nose you’re stuck with. What about the alcohol?”

“I’m off it.”

“Time for you. They measure alcohol in units now. How many per day? I’m old school, I suppose; I measure how many people it puts in units.

I didn’t know if this was humour so let it slide. Dismissing me, he said,

“God bless.”

I didn’t go to Grogan’s, thought,

“Today I can live without Sean’s tongue.”

Met Linda outside my flat and she reminded me.

“You have two weeks to find a new place.”

I thought of a range of answers but decided on confusion, said,

“God bless.”

I was watching Sky Sports that evening when the phone rang. It was Ann. I breezed,

“Hi, honey.”

“Jack, there’s been an accident, a bad one.”

“What? Who?”

“It’s Sean … he’s dead.”

“Oh God!”

“Jack … Jack, I’m at the hospital. They have Sean here.”

“Wait there, I’ll come.”

I put the phone down. Then drew back my left hand, punched the wall. The force against my mending fingers made me scream. Four, five times, I systematically pounded the wall then slumped from the pain. A howl of anguish terrified me till I realised I was making the sound.

Ann was waiting at the hospital entrance. She made to hug me
but I waved her away. She saw my hand, asked,

“What happened?”

“I fell and no, I wasn’t drinking.”

“I didn’t mean …”

I took her hand in my right one, said,

“I know you didn’t. Where is he? What happened?”

“It was a hit and run. They say he died instantaneously.”

“How do they know?”

On the third floor a doctor and two gardai. The doctor asked,

“Are you family?”

“I dunno.”

The gardai exchanged a look. I asked,

“Can I see him?”

The doctor looked at Ann, said,

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Do I know you?”

He shook his head and I continued,

“That’s what I thought, so how the hell would you know?”

One of the gardai said,

“Hey.”

The doctor said,

“Come with me.”

He led me down the corridor, stopped in a doorway, said,

“Prepare yourself. We haven’t had a chance to really clean him up.”

I didn’t answer.

Curtains had been pulled round a bed. The doctor gave me one final glance then pulled the curtain, said,

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Sean was lying on his back, heavy bruising covered his forehead. Gashes ran along his face. His trousers were torn and a bony knee protruded. He was wearing a navy sweater I’d given him for Christmas. It was soiled.

I leant over him and to my horror, my tears fell on his forehead. I tried to brush them off. Then I kissed his brow and said,

“I’m not drinking, isn’t that great?”

You live your life
of cold hellos
and I
being poorer
live for nothing, nothing at all.

Ann persuaded me to have my hand seen to. I got a fresh plaster
and a bolloking. The nurse snapped,

“Stop breaking those fingers.”

Which was definitely cutting to the chase. Ann wanted to come home with me, but I persuaded her I needed some time alone. I said,

“I’m not going to drink.”

“Oh, Jack.”

“I owe it to Sean.”

“You owe it to yourself.”

Argue that. I didn’t.

I’d wrangled some painkillers. Strict instructions to only take two daily. When I got home, I popped three. In jig time I was floating. A feeling of mellow detachment. I got into bed
with a working smile. Whatever I was dreaming, I was liking it.

A tugging at my shoulder dragged me reluctantly awake. Sutton stood over the bed, saying,

“Man, you were gone.”

“Sutton, what the … how the hell did you get in?”

Even in the darkness, I could decipher the smile. He said,

“You know me, Jack, I can get in anywhere. Here, I made us some coffee.”

I sat up and he pushed a mug at me. Raised it to lips and smelt the brandy. I shouted,

“What the hell is this? You’ve spiked it.”

“Just to help the shock. I am so sorry about Sean.”

I pushed the coffee away, got out of bed and pulled jeans on. Sutton said,

“I’ll wait in the other room.”

In the bathroom, I checked the mirror. My pupils were pin points. Shuddered as I thought, “What if I’d lashed brandy down on that?”

Put my head under the cold tap and let the water gush. It helped, the grogginess eased. Went out to Sutton, asked,

“When did you hear?”

“Only a little while ago. I found a place to live and was preoccupied with moving in. Sorry, Jack, I’d have been here sooner.”

“Where’s your place?”

“You know the hills above the Sky Road?”

“Vaguely.”

“An American had a huge warehouse of a thing there. But the weather got to him. I took a year’s lease. You want to come share?”

“What? No … I mean … no, thanks … I’m a city boy.”

I noticed a stone bottle on my press, asked,

“What’s that?”

“Oh, that’s mine. It’s Genever, Dutch gin. I’ll bring it with me when I go. I just wanted to check you were OK. I know what Sean meant to you.”

“Means!”

“Whatever.”

We talked for a while about Sean. Sutton said,

“You really loved … love that old codger.”

Then he stood up, said,

“I better head. If there’s anything I can do, you got it… understand? I’m here for you, buddy.” I nodded.

A few minutes later, I could hear him pull away. I stayed sitting for the next half hour. My head down, my mind near blank. Slowly, I turned round and focused on the stone bottle. I could swear it moved. Moved towards me. I said aloud,

“Thank Christ, I don’t need that.”

Began to wonder what it smelled like. Went over and picked up the bottle. Heavy. Unscrewed the top and took a whiff. Wow, like grain alcohol. Put the bottle back down, without the cap, said,

“Let it breath … or is that wine?’

Went into the kitchen, figured a tea with tons of sugar would be good. A voice in the back of my mind tried to say,

“You’re in the zone.”

I shut it down. Opened the cupboard and there was the Roches glass. I said,

“No way, José,” and let it crash into the sink. Didn’t break, and I said, “You stubborn bastard.”

Got a hammer and pounded it to smithereens. A piece of flying glass cut my left eyebrow. I threw the hammer in the sink and went back to the other room. Walked over, took the gin and drank from the neck.

“TOP OF THE WORLD, MA!”

James Cagney,
White Heat

To keep the account balanced, I should mention my mother, Ann
had said,

“You talk about your father a lot. I know you think about him all the time, but you never say anything about your mother.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

Terse.

My father highly rated Henry James. It was an unlikely choice. A man, working on the railway in the West of Ireland reading an American from a totally different world. He said,

“James seems so polished and stylish, but beneath there lurks…”

BOOK: The Guards
9.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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