The Guards (15 page)

I swear, she near skipped off. There was a phone, TV, video. All the essentials. Decided not to unpack. Took the stairs and was on the street in a moment. I wanted a drink so bad, I could taste it on my tongue.

The bookies was empty. Just Hart behind the counter. Without
looking up, he said,

“You’ve ruined me.”

“Didn’t you lay it off?”

“Course I did.”

“Back it yourself?”

“Course.”

“So, how are you hurting?”

“I got blind-sided.”

“Don’t we all.”

“You’ll take a cheque?”

“Never happen.”

“That’s what I thought, here.”

Flung a padded envelope on the counter, said,

“You’ll want to count it.”

I did.

As I was leaving, Hart called,

“Jack!”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t come back.”

”‘Boy,’ Carella said,
‘What a day this was!’”

Ed McBain,
Killer’s Wedge

Walking into Grogan’s, I felt the loss of Sean like damnation.
The place looked different,
was
different. The two perennials at the counter weren’t there. A large fat man came out of the store room. I asked,

“What happened to the sentries?”

“You wot, guv!”

English.

“Two old guys, propped up the bar like clockwork.”

“I got shot of ‘em. Bad for business.”

“You’re Sean’s son?”

He gave me a close look, verging on hostility, said,

“Who’s asking?”

“I was his friend. Jack Taylor.”

Put out my hand. He ignored it, asked,

“Did I meet you at the funeral?”

“I … um … didn’t make it.”

“Not much of a friend then, eh.”

Nailed me there.

He went behind the counter, began busy bar things. I said,

“Could I get a drink?”

“Naw, I don’t think this is your kind of place.”

I stood for a moment and he asked,

“Was there something else?”

“I understand now why Sean never mentioned you.”

He smirked so I added,

“He must have been ashamed of his life of you.”

Outside, I felt a mix of rage and sadness, and it’s a dangerous cocktail. Wanted to go back and flatten the smug bastard. Two Americans stopped, looked at the pub, asked,

“Is this, like, an authentic pub?”

“No, it’s a fake. Go over to Garavan’s, it’s the real thing.” At the off-licence, I loaded up. The assistant said,

“Bit of a party!”

“Bit of a shambles.”

By the time I got back to the hotel, I was feeling the weight. For punishment, I took the stairs. Opened the door of my new room, thought,

“Two seconds to a drink.”

The TV was on. I walked in and Sutton was in the armchair, legs propped on the bed. I nearly dropped the booze. He said,

“They show some shit in the mornings.”

And he clicked it off.

I tried for composure, asked,

“How did you get in my room?”

“Janet let me in, told her we’re brothers. Did you know they have dances here?”

I walked round the chair and he asked,

“What’s in the bag, man?”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I’ve been following you. Make sure you don’t get jumped again.”

“Following me! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

He stood up, hands out in mock defence, said,

“Ah, you’re back.”

“Like you didn’t know, like you ‘forgot’ the gin that night.”

And realised how that sounded. Whine city. As if it was his fault. Tossed him a can, said,

“Stop following me … OK?”

“Okey-dokey.”

We drank in silence till he said,

“I went to the funeral.”

“More than I did.”

“I liked that old bastard. He was a feisty little fuck.”

“His son took over the pub.”

“Yeah! What’s he like?”

“He barred me.”

Sutton laughed out loud and I said,

“Thanks a lot.”

Not too long till we cracked the seal on the Scotch and he said,

“Planter’s done it again.”

“Maybe he didn’t, maybe it
is
a suicide.”

“Come on, Jack. You don’t believe that. Right after we confront him, he goes straight out and does a girl. It’s ‘up yours’ to us.”

“We can’t prove dick.”

“So, you’re going to let it slide.”

“What can I do?”

“You could shoot him.”

I looked at Sutton’s face. Saw nothing there to indicate he was joking.

Next morning, I was frayed but not wiped. I’d gone to bed the
previous lunchtime and, miraculously, stayed there. I was hurting but it was manageable. Hunched over coffee, I was muttering. A knock at the door. Janet. She said,

“Oh, sorry, I can come back later.”

“Just give me ten, I’m outa here.”

She stood at the door and I snapped,

“Was there something?”

“Your brother, I hope I did the right thing.”

“That’s OK.”

“He’s a lovely man, promised me a painting.”

“That’s him all right.”

“Well, I’ll leave you in peace.”

I counted my winnings. Spread the cash on the bed and marvelled.
Then I got some envelopes and put a wedge in for the guy who gave me the tip. Next, a wedge for Padraig, the head wino. An envelope for Cathy B.’s wedding present, and that was it.

Time to visit Sean. There was a bus I could get but felt I’d try to walk through the hangover. It’s a hike. From Eyre Square to Woodquay, out by the Dyke Road, on to the Quin-cenntenial Bridge. Up and on to Rahoon. I remember the old gates of the cemetery. Gone now. A photo of them, by Ann Kennedy, hung in Kenny’s with lines from Joyce’s poem.

My legs were aching in rhythm to my head. I had no intention of visiting my father. Truth was, I felt ashamed. My endeavours of the past weeks were nothing I wanted to bring to him.

Found Sean’s grave without trouble. It was alight with flowers. The temporary marker was the song of forlorn. If I had a cap, I’d have taken it off.

Blessed myself. Some rituals just surface without beckoning, I said,

“Sean, I miss you terrible. I didn’t value the worth of you.

“I’m drinking again and that’s sure to piss you off. I’m sorry I was that very worst of things, a poor friend. I have no pub now either. I’ll come and see you lots. Your son’s an asshole.”

I might have cried had I been able. As I walked away, I glanced in my father’s direction. A woman was kneeling there. For one wild glorious moment, I thought it was Ann. The sheer exhilarating joy.

My mother. Her head down, reciting the rosary. I gave a small cough. She looked up, said,

“Jack.”

I put out my hand to help her up. Couldn’t help but notice how frail she was. The knuckles on her hand, swollen from arthritis. She was, of course, in the regulation black. I said,

“I didn’t know you came.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, Jack.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She looked at the grave, then asked,

“Could we go for a cup of tea?”

“Um …”

“I’ll pay. We could get a taxi, too. Go to the GBC … they’ve lovely buns.”

I shook my head. She added,

“I put a bouquet on Sean’s grave. You’ll miss him.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’ll get a mass for him. At the Augustinian. It’s only a pound there.”

I nearly said,

“That’s right, get the best rate, yah cheap bitch.”

But bit down. She said,

“He liked that church, went to mass there every morning.”

“Look, I … have to go.”

Maybe she said, “Bye, Jack,” but I didn’t hear it. Could feel her eyes as I walked away. Passing through the gates I thought,

“Both my parents are here now.”

The leavings of
an inarticulate thanks.

The next few days, I exerted massive control and kept my drinking
to a level. A level of wanting. Wanting gallons more.

But I was doing two pints at lunch, then holding out till late evening when I’d slow chug two more pints with Jameson chasers.

I knew how fragile this balance was. A gust of wind would plunge me back to hell. The buzz was sufficient to keep me that beat outside reality and I clung fast.

I’d met my tipster and given him his envelope. He was surprised, said,

“Jaysus, I’m surprised.”

“Well, you gave me the information. It’s the least I could do. Did you back it yourself?”

“Back what?”

“Rocket Man! The tip you gave me.”

“Naw, I never do tips.”

I felt he’d have been a whizz in the post office. No sign of Padraig, and I’d checked his haunts.

I rang Ann, felt if I could just see her, we might have a shot. As soon as she heard my voice, she hung up. My beard was full arrived, complete with grey flashes. Told myself it spoke of character, even maturity. Odd times I caught my reflection, I saw the face of desperation.

My plan, as I said at the beginning, was to go to London, get a place by the park and wait. Now I had the money and a reason to wait. Began to scan the English papers for accommodation.

The only thing holding me was a resolution to Sarah’s death. I was in no doubt that Planter was responsible. I hadn’t a clue how to prove it, but I couldn’t leave without some answer.

Found a new pub. Over my years as a garda and after, I’d been barred from every pub in the city. Now though, along with prosperity came new pubs. Tried a few truly horrendous ones. You went in and a babe greeted you with a total welcome.

The

“AND HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”

You half expected to be asked your star sign. Walking into one of these places with a high scale hangover, the last item you wanted was enthusiasm. Hangovers can only deal with surliness.

I found Nestor’s by accident. I was walking down Forster Street when the downpour came. The type of rain that
is
personal.
You’re instantly drenched. Stepped into a side street and there it was. Knew I was in business as a sign on the window proclaimed:

Went in and couldn’t believe it, one of the sentries was propped. He nodded, asked,

“What kept you?”

“Where’s the other guy?”

“He had a heart attack.”

“Jaysus, how is he?”

“If you had one, how’d you be?”

“Right. Can I get you ajar?”

He looked at me as if I’d propositioned him, asked,

“Will I have to buy you one back?”

“No.”

“And you won’t put chat on me?”

“Count on it.”

“All right then.”

The pub was old, like a small kitchen. Could hold twenty customers tops. The barman was in his fifties. Two professions that require age

Barmen

and

Barbers

He didn’t know me. What a bonus. I ordered the drink and looked round. Those old signs for Guinness, a guy lifting a wagon and two dray horses with the immortal words:

Authentic, right down to rust. My own favourite is the pelican with a feast of creamy pints in his beak. Now, that is one happy bird. There were signs for Woodbines and Sweet Afton. Even had the lines from Robbie Burns. The barman said,

“I don’t like change.”

“Gets my vote.”

“Guy was in the other day, wanted to buy the signs.”

“Everything’s for sale.”

“Not here it isn’t.”

I went and grabbed a corner. Wooden table, old hardback chair. The door opened, a large farmer came in, said to no one in particular,

“We’ll hardly get a summer.”

My kinda place.

Mrs Bailey said,

“You’ve got mail!”

“What!”

She handed me a letter. I didn’t know how it could be possible. Opened it:

A Chara,

In compliance with the terms of your termination, it is required you surrender all property belonging to the Government.

See Article 59347A of Uniform and Equipment. It has come to our attention you have failed to return
Item 8234—A regulation garda all-weather coat.

We trust in your speedy return of said item.

I bundled it up. Mrs Bailey asked,

“Bad news?”

“Same old.”

“I’ve noticed, Mr Taylor, you don’t take breakfast.”

“Call me Jack. No, I’m not big on mornings.”

She gave a small smile. I knew she’d never call me Jack. As certain as Item 8234 not being speedily returned. She said,

“I haven’t had breakfast since the fourth of August, 1984.”

“Oh.”

“That was the day my husband died, Lord rest him.”

“I see.”

I didn’t. But what the hell. She continued,

“I had a big breakfast that day. It was after the races and we’d been busy. Oh my, we had the business of the town back then. I remember it so clearly. I had

2 Rashers

Black Pudding

2 Sausages

Fried Bread

And two cups of tea. Then I read the
Irish Independent.

She gave a nervous laugh.

“Whoops. Now you know my politics. Anyway, I went up to call Tom. He was dead. Him lying cold and me stuffing myself.”

I didn’t have a clue as to how to respond. Sometimes, though, when people reveal a piece, they don’t want an answer, just a receiver. Then she said,

“I miss the sausages. From McCambridge’s. They have them made special.”

Now she composed herself, got her hotel face in place, said,

“I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time? Something I’d like your views on.”

“Sure, whenever you like.”

“Grand. I’ll be closing the bar round eleven. We could have a nightcap.”

Bar! Jesus, right under my nose.

Go figure.

I said,

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“God bless, Mr Taylor.”

Outside, considered my options. I wanted to find Padraig. The
envelope for him was burning a hole in my pocket. With my brown envelopes, I felt like a little government.