The Guards (14 page)

A large man, familiar if not instantly recognisable. He asked,

“Might I have a word?”

I put my left hand on the table, said,

“Come to break them again.”

It was the guy from the security firm, the guard who’d given me my original beating. He pulled out a chair, said,

“I want to explain.”

The waitress brought the coffee, looked at him, but he waved her away. I said,

“This I’ve got to hear.”

He began.

“You know I’m a guard. The security is a good nixer, lots of the lads do it. When Mr Ford told me you were causing trouble, I helped out. I didn’t realise what he was. He’s dead, did you know?”

“I heard.”

“Yeah, well, turns out he was a pervert. Hand on my heart, I’d never stomach that. After … after we’d done you … I found out you used to be on the force. If I’d known … I swear, I’d never have done it.”

“What is it you want, forgiveness?”

He lowered his head.

“I’ve been reborn in the Spirit.”

“How nice.”

“No, it’s true. I’ve resigned from the force and the security. I’m going to do God’s work now.”

I sipped the espresso. Bitter as unheard prayer. He said, “I hear you’re still on that case, the young girl’s suicide.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to help. To make amends.”

He produced a piece of paper, said,

“This is my phone number. I still have contacts, and if you need anything…”

“I’ll have God on my side, is that it?”

He stood up, said,

“I don’t expect you to understand, but He loves us.”

“That’s a comfort.”

He put out his hand, said,

“No hard feelings.”

I ignored his hand, said,

“Cop on.”

After he’d gone, I looked at the piece of paper. It had his name

And a phone number.

I was going to sling it but changed my mind.

Went to the florist’s. It was the same girl who’d sold me the roses. She said,

“I remember you.”

“Right.”

“Did they work?”

“What?”

“The roses, for your lady?”

“Good question.”

“Ah … that’s a pity. You’re going to try again?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“I need a wreath.”

A look of horror, then,

“Did she die?”

“No … no, somebody else, a friend.”

“I am sorry.”

A small priest walked by. He said,

“How ya.”

He had the jolliest face I’d seen in a long time. The girl asked,

“Do you know who that is?”

“He’s a small priest.”

“He’s the bishop.”

“You’re coddin’!”

“And the lovliest man you’d ever meet.”

I was astonished. As a child, I’d known bishops who ruled like feudal lords. That you’d see an exhalted cleric bounce down the street, in relative anonymity, was a revelation.

The girl said if I wrote down the name and details, she’d see to it the wreath was delivered, adding,

“I don’t think you want to carry it round town.”

I toyed with the notion of bringing the wreath into the bookies but let it go. The girl gave me a measured look, said,

“I’d say you were a fine thing when you were young.”

“It’s a good year for the roses.”

Elvis Costello

Harte’s was located off Quay Street. They’d had a bookies shop
through three generations. Then the big English firms bought out the local outfits. Harte took the money, then opened right next door. The town was delighted. Not often you got to stick it to the Brits financially.

I’d known Tom Harte a long time. When I entered, he was leaning over form sheets, enveloped in cigarette smoke, said,

“Jack Taylor, by the hokey. Is this a raid?”

“I’m not a guard any more.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I want to get a bet on.”

He extended his arms, encompassing the premises, said,

“You’ve taken the right turn.”

I gave him the name and asked for a price. He checked the teletext, said,

“Thirty-five to one.”

I wrote out a docket and laid all my cash beneath. He read it, lowered his voice, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“As the grave.”

Two other punters studying the dogs sensed the change in atmosphere, strained to hear. Tom said,

“Jack, I’m a bookie but you’re one of our own. There’s a hot thing in this race; he’ll hack home in a common canter.”

“All the same.”

“I’m trying to do you a favour here.”

“Will you take the bet?”

He gave a shrug they perfect in bookie school. I said,

“Right, I’ll be seeing you.”

“Sure you will. Hold that thought.”

I checked the docket again and headed out. One of the punters followed, called,

“Jack.”

I stopped outside Kenny’s, let him catch up. He had the pallor of turf accountant’s confinement. The smell of nicotine was massive. The eyes had the mix of fawning and slyness that takes years to achieve. He’d peaked. Gave me the half smile of the damned, asked,

“Got something?”

“Well, I dunno is it any good.”

“Come on, Jack, I need a break.”

“Rocket Man.”

He looked stunned. As if his winning ticket had been disqualified. He said,

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Arrah, feck you. What did I expect from a guard?”

Near the Protestant school, just a Catholic away from Victoria
Square, is Bailey’s Hotel. Now, this is old Galway. New hotels are built on every available space, but Bailey’s seems to have escaped the gallop to prosperity. It hasn’t been

sold

revamped

rezoned.

In fact, it’s rarely noticed.

You don’t hear of “commercial travellers” nowadays. But if you’d a mad passion to find one, they’d be at Bailey’s. Country people go “for the dinner”. The exterior is pure weathered granite and the small sign reads “
OTEL”.
The
H
is back in the fifties, lost in the mist of Morris Minor aspirations.

On a whim, I went inside. A reception desk is tucked in the
corner. An elderly woman was leafing through
Ireland’s Own.
I asked,

“Mrs Bailey?”

She looked up and I’d have put her age at eighty. But her eyes were alert. She said,

“Aye.”

“I’m Jack Taylor, you knew my father.”

It took her a minute and then,

“He worked on the line.”

“He did.”

“I liked him.”

“Me, too.”

“Why have you a beard?”

“Notions.”

“Foolish notions. Can I help you, young Taylor?”

“I need accommodation … long term.”

She waved a hand at the décor, said,

“We’re not fancy.”

“Me either.”

“Mm … mm … there’s a bright room on the third floor that’s been vacant.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Janet, she cleans every other day, but she sometimes forgets.”

“That’s fine. Let me pay you.”

This was purely a gesture. All my cash was with the bookie. She asked,

“Have you a credit card?”

“No.”

“That’s good ‘cause we don’t take them. Pay me the last Friday of the month.”

“Thank you. When could I move in?”

“I’ll get Janet to air the room and put a kettle in. Anytime after that.”

“I really appreciate it, Mrs Bailey.”

“Call me Nora. It’s just a room, but I hope you’ll feel at home.”

I already did.

FROM: The Four Agreements
by
Don Miguel Ruiz
NUMBER 2: “Don’t take anything personally.
Nothing others do is because of you.
It simply reflects their own life
expressions and the training they
received when they were children.”

“… dream on.”

Jack Taylor

That night, I packed. Didn’t take long. Punctuated by the six
pack. Telling myself,

“Ease on slow with these, maybe I can chill.”

Like all lies and the best illusions, it helped me function short time. I lined four black bin bags along the wall, said,

“My wordly possessions I thee endow.”

With those

broken fingers

a broken nose

and a beard

I wasn’t an advertisement for the Celtic tiger.

The phone went. Picked it up, hoping it was Ann, said,

“Hello.”

“Jack, it’s Cathy B.”

“Oh.”

“That’s warmth?”

“Sorry, I’m packing.”

“A magnum?”

“Gee, that’s funny. I’m moving out tomorrow.”

“Are you moving in with yer old lady?”

Sign of my age. Thought she meant my mother.

“What?”

“She likes you, Jack. At the gig, she couldn’t take her eyes off you.”

“Ann! Jesus, no … I’m moving into a hotel.”

“Weird city, dude. What hotel?”

“Bailey’s.”

“Never heard of it.”

I was glad, meant it was still a Galway thing.

“My friend Sean died.”

“The old geezer, who had the pub?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I think I liked him. Hey, I can get a van, help you move.”

“Naw, a cab will handle it.”

“OK. Are you free next Friday?”

“Unless they catch me.”

“I’m getting married.”

“You’re kidding … to who?”

“Everett, he’s a performance artist.”

“I’ll pretend that makes sense to me. Wow … congratulations … I think … how long have you been dating?”

“Dating! Get with the millennium, Jack. I’ve been with him … like … zonks.”

I had to allow for her being English and that they’d lost the grip on language, asked,

“How long?”

“It’s nearly three weeks.”

“Phew, how can you stand the pace?”

“Will you give me away? I mean … you’re the only old guy I know.”

“Thanks … sure, I’d be delighted.”

Horse time.

Put the TV on, brought up the teletext. Was I nervous? Wiped a light perspiration from my brow. OK … that’s the beer. Here we go … results … scrolled to them. First off, couldn’t see it… shit … maybe he didn’t run. Come on … come on …

Oh my God.

Won!

Finished at 12’s and I’d got 35’s. Did a little jig, then punched the air, roared,

“YES!”

Kissed the screen, said,

“Yah little beauty.”

Did some fast heart-pounding sums. Seven big ones. Got the docket out, ensured there was no mistake. Nope, it was clear as day. A knock at the door.

I pulled it open. Linda. I said,

“Yeah.”

“Jack, I hate to be pushy but I wonder if you’d made any arrangements?”

“I have.”

“Oh, that’s great. Is it nice?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t want us to part on bad terms.”

“Of course. Just ‘cause you’re evicting me, it shouldn’t affect our friendship.”

“I feel bad.”

I laughed out loud, said,

“That’s a tragedy. God forbid you should feel that.”

And I shut the door.

All in all, my last evening was one for the books.

“In matters of grave importance
style
not sincerity
is
the vital thing.
Violence requires a cold and deadly style.”

Oscar Wilde

Next morning, I was having coffee, checking everything was
ready to go. The news was on. I was only half listening till the local news and

A young girl’s body was taken from the water at Nimmo’s Pier this morning Gardai at the scene tried unsuccessfully to revive the girl. This brings to ten, the number of teenage suicides this year from the same spot.

I said,

“He’s done it again.”

The phone went. It was Ann, no preamble, launched,

“You heard the news.”

“Yes.”

“You could have prevented it.”

And she hung up.

If I had a bottle, I’d have climbed in. Called a cab. I carried my stuff outside and waited by the canal. When I closed the door of the flat, I didn’t look back.

The cab driver was a Dub and full of it. I said,

“Bailey’s Hotel.”

“Where’s that?”

I gave him directions and he said,

“How did I miss it?”

I didn’t answer. He spent the journey explaining where the GAA were going wrong. I gave appropriate grunts. At the hotel, he gave it the once over, said,

“Jeez, it doesn’t look much.”

“It’s like the GAA … you have to be on the inside.”

Mrs Bailey was at Reception, asked,

“Need a porter?”

I didn’t know if it was a pint or help but shook my head. She added,

“Janet has the room lovely.”

She handed me a set of keys, said,

“Come and go as you please.”

Beat that.

I’d imagined Janet to be a girl. If anything, she was older than Mrs Bailey. Waiting outside my room, she actually shook my hand, said,

“’Tis great you’re from Galway.”

The room was bright, spacious, with large windows. A vase of flowers on the table. Janet had followed me in, said,

“Just to welcome you.”

A bathroom with a massive tub and acres of fresh clean towels. Beside the double bed was a coffee pot and a pack of Bewley’s best. I said,

“You went to a lot of trouble.”

“Arrah, not a bit. We haven’t had a long-term since Mr Waite passed on.”

“How long was he here?”

“Twenty years.”

“I’ll do the same.”

She gave a huge smile. One from the heart. The type that guile or spite has never shadowed. Looking out into the corridor, as if someone might hear, she said,

“We have dances on a Saturday night.”

“Really?”

Her face lit up, like a nun with chocolate; she said,

“It’s not advertised, not ever. The Swingtime Aces … do you know them?”

I didn’t, said,

“I do. Great band.”

“Oh they’re
fabulous.
They do foxtrots and tangoes, it’s as lively. Do you dance?”

“You should see my rumba.”

She near squeaked with delight. I said,

“Save the last dance for me.”