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Authors: Ken Bruen

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BOOK: The Guards
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Went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place but I ignored him. I could feel his gratitude. The bar guy nodded and I said,

“You do coffee?”

He held up a mug, said,

“Sure do.”

Took the hard chair. The daily papers were spread on the table. Took the
Independent.
For Mrs Bailey, if no other reason.

Top story was about a man who’d had his new car stolen. He lived in a neighbourhood with a heavy influx of refugees. Later the same day, a Romanian had asked him for money. The man had beaten him to an inch of his life. It turned out a local kid had “borrowed” the car.

My coffee arrived and the bar guy said,

“He lost his car, but the other poor bastard lost his country.”

I put the paper down. He said,

“The new Ireland. Ten years from now, I’ll be serving Romanian-Irish, African-Irish.”

Thought I’d best play my cards, said,

“Better than the parish pump shite of the fifties.”

“Way better.”

On Eyre Square, I approached a band of winos. Most were semiconscious,
nodding to the phantom orchestra. I’d heard some of the music in my time. I asked,

“Anyone seen Padraig?”

A guy with a Boyzone sweatshirt and a Glasgow accent said,

“Wit di ya win wit im, Jimmy?”

Roughly translated means, “Why?”

“I’m a friend of his.”

He conferred with his colleagues. A woman rose from the group. She gave new dimensions to the description “bedraggled", croaked,

“He’s in hospital.”

“What happened.”

“The Salthill bus hit him.”

The way she put it, sounded like the bus had been gunning for him. The Glasgow guy asked,

“Pris i cip i tee, Jimmy?”

I handed over some cash. This brought a shower of blessings, benedictions and spittle. God knows, I needed them.

Only later did it register that the woman had an American accent. The drinking school had gone international. A United Nations of Despair. I checked an old copy of Ross McDonald and found this nugget.

There were drab thumbprints under her eyes. Maybe she had been up all night. Americans never grow old, they died: and her eyes had guilty knowledge of it.

I headed for the hospital. Foreboding writ large.

So that’s the list
I said at last
so full of breeze, so full of
booze,
well let me sign it with
a flourish, end it with
a sadder kiss
just one of course.

En route to the hospital, I brought

Roll-up tobacco

Paper

3 Pairs of thermal socks.

I made enquiries from a porter. He was obstructive as required by his status. Eventually I got through to him. Cash helped. He said,

“The oul wino. He’s in St Joseph’s Ward. He’s had his final blast of meths.”

“Thank you for sharing.”

“What?”

I didn’t recognise Padraig, not only because they’d washed him, but he’d shrunk.

“How yah?” I said.

“They won’t let me smoke.”

“Bad bastards. Will I roll you one?”

“I would be for ever in your debt. They are not overly fond of me here. Do my brethren on the square prosper?”

“They were all asking for you.”

They’d already forgotten him. He knew that. Gave a tight smile. I lit the rollie and put it in his mouth. Coughs and chest rumbles danced him in the bed. He said,

“I needed that. Did I ever acquire your name?”

“Jack.”

“Suits you. That it’s also the name of my favourite beverage is the sharp side of irony. Lying here, nicotineless and gasping for a drink, I pondered God. I think I heard once that He knew my name before I was born. Have you any thoughts on that?”

I took a furtive look round the ward. People were pointedly ignoring us. The word was out on the wino. He began to shiver. The heat was on full throttle. I could feel sweat in my beard. A tea trolley came, pushed by a middle-aged knacker called Rooney.

A small spit of a man who put the taste into venom. My father, the most peaceful of men, was rumoured to have given him a hiding. He distributed tea and dead biscuits to all except Padraig.

“Hey, hey, Rooney,” I shouted.

He pretended not to hear me and the trolley accelerated as he reached the corridor.

Cold.

The cold flash of a killing rage.

Blind.

I caught him near the Coronary Unit. The darting eyes threw the challenge to me. His catering badge “Mr Rooney” gave him status. The look said,

“You can’t touch me!”

I’m over six foot, weigh in at 180 lbs. I felt like two of myself. My voice came gut low.

“Do you get to Casualty?”

“No, I don’t, I go to …”

And he launched into a litany of saints. Representing the various wards. I said,

“You’re going to be in Casualty in about five minutes because I’m going to break your left arm!”

“What’s the matter with you, Taylor? I never did nothing to you. I was a great pal of your oul fellah’s.”

“Go back up that corridor. Wheel your bag of tricks into the ward and
offer
that man a cup of tea … oh, and one of them mouldy biscuits.”

He raised up on his toes, asked,

“Arrah, a wino … what do you care … what’s he to you? ’Tisn’t tea the likes of him wants.”

As he finished, I stared into his eyes. Let him see what even I don’t acknowledge. He turned the trolley round and served Padraig his afternoon tea … and
two
biscuits. I even had a cup myself, declined seconds.

After, Padraig said,

“I won’t make the square for the races.”

“You might.”

“No. I’d have liked to wear them new socks. Do you think … do you think you could fit them on me now. I’m perished.”

He surely was.

The socks were red thermal. Said on the front… “Cosy Fit”. That near did me in.

I rolled back the blanket and his feet were a sin. A serious novelist would call them

gnarled

twisted

lacerated

and oh

so very old.

The socks were a size medium and enormous on him. He watched me watching them. I asked,

“How’s that?”

“Mighty, I’m the better of them already. I had a pair of Argylls once, or maybe I just hope I did. You have a rare gift, my friend.”

“Do I?”

“You never probe or pry into a person’s affairs.”

“Thank you.”

Not much of a recommendation for an investigator. It was time to leave. I said,

“I’ll bring you a drop of the creature.” He gave a lovely smile, said,

“Any creature.”

Then leant out of the bed, rummaged in a locker and brought out some battered sheets of paper, said,

“Read this, my friend, but not now. You’ll know the time.”

“That’s a bit mysterious.”

“Without mystery, we are lost!”

Question:       “What do you know about money?”
Young Man:   “Not a lot.”
Answer:         “It’s how they keep score.”

Bill James,
Gospel

Outside the hospital, the black dog descended. A cloud of
depression that begged, “End it now.”

Used to be, the best early house was right opposite the hospital. Gone, of course. Now you have The River Inn. I chanced it. Not a sign of the river.

A young woman tending bar, complete with name tag:

SHONA

Jeez, for the days of Mary.

She gave me a smile full of capped teeth. I hated her, said,

“Jameson and water.”

Figured she couldn’t screw that up. She didn’t.

Though she did add ice. Worse, she hovered. I said,

“Don’t you have to floss or something?”

Took a window seat and realised I’d forgotten to give Padraig his money. A middle-aged woman was going table to table distributing leaflets. Dropped one hastily on mine, without eye contact. No doubt Shona had clued her in. I read:

Till now, they and their ancestors have
been in revolt against me. The sons
are defiant and obstinate …

That was enough.

I focused on a phone in the corner and had to suppress a wild ache to call Ann. Bit hard on the ice and waited for the impulse to leak away. A mantra unreeled in my head, like this:

I have money, lots of money. As long as I have that, I’m in the game.

Never-no-mind I can’t figure the game. Cash says I’m in.

Over and over till the ice melted in the glass.

When I arrived at the hospital that evening, I had a bottle of Jack Daniels for Padraig. His bed was empty. I grabbed a passing nurse, asked,

“Is he gone?”

“I’m afraid so. At 4.30, very peacefully.”

“What?”

“He didn’t suffer.”

“You mean he’s dead!”

“I’m afraid so … are you a relative?”

I tried to get my mind in gear, asked,

“What happens to him now?”

She explained that if no one “claimed” him, the Western Health Board would do the burial. I said,

“A pauper’s grave?”

“Well, we don’t term it that any more. There are spaces reserved in the cemetery.”

“I’ll claim him.”

In a daze, I went through the rigmarole of forms and certificates. Even rang an undertaker’s who said they’d handle everything. I asked,

“Do you take cash?”

“We do.”

Padraig’s funeral, the burial, I can only vaguely recall. I was there at every stage but pumped to the eyeballs. Course, there were no mourners. I got this gig all to myself.

Here’s the thing. He’s buried close to Sean. I couldn’t have planned it better. I think Sutton might have showed during some of the proceedings, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

Ann certainly didn’t.

When it was done, I had to apologise to Mrs Bailey for missing our nightcap. She gave me the strangest look, said,

“But we
had
our nightcap.”

Total blank. Trying to cover, I said,

“I meant I wasn’t much help.”

“But you were a tremendous help.”

“I was?”

“Certainly. After your impassioned plea, how could I possibly sell.”

Some mysteries are best left alone. Padraig had that right. Finally, I got round to looking at the papers he’d given me.

This is what he’d written:

An Irish Wino Foresees His Death
(with apologies to W.B.)

Blame it on an intuition
I hadn’t acted
and certainly
would nigh on certainty
believe
a life upon the streets
at least for long
Yd not survive.
The sabotage
of hope
for far too long
I’d lived
one drink above despair
a public house
a hearse before
I watched a wino
place his hand
above his heart.

I’d known
a cap
if he had owned
would slow and
very slow
remove
shake so
the shakes … disregarding
… a Silence in Respect.

The cortège pass … press on … to press
his hand … the day across
this moment new
passed nigh beyond
the oldest expectation
a hand towards
reconciliation … not renewed.

The coffin doesn’t pass
the rich hotels
their hands
towards the meth remains
aren’t shaped.

BREAK POINT

Things broke very quickly after that. I can’t say Padraig’s death
was a turning point, but it appears so. A night in Nestor’s, the barman took me aside, said,

“No lectures right, but I used to drink like you do. Which is fine, but I think you have unfinished business.”

“What are you on about?”

“You have the face of a man who needs to be elsewhere. So, here.”

He handed me a packet. I was at my most belligerent, growled,

“What the hell is this?”

“Beta blockers. Chill you right down. Like cocaine without the damage.”

“What makes you think I …”

But he shu … ss … ed me, said,

“Try these … chill … and when you’ve finished whatever the hell’s haunting you, come back … settle into a sedate life of the newspapers, a few pints and a decent pub.”

Then he was gone. I said,

“You need help, you do.”

Put the packet in my pocket all the same.

Wouldn’t you know, next morning, I’d the mother of a hangover. Took one of the tablets in desperation. A little while, I was becalmed.

Looking out the window, or rather, looking calmly out, I said,

“This doesn’t mean I’ll stop drinking.”

But it did.

Cathy B.’s wedding should have been a massive piss-up. It was,
but not for me. The Registrar is in Mervue, opposite Merlin Park Hospital. I said to Cathy,

“Wouldn’t you have liked a church?”

“Negative waves, Jack.”

Her intended, Everett, the performance artist, wasn’t as bad as I feared. Bad enough but tolerable. Early twenties with the shaved skull. He was wearing what I think they call a kaftan … or curtains. To be fair, it appeared to be fresh ironed. For the occasion, I guess. Cathy looked gorgeous. In a simple red dress and killer heels. She asked,

“Wotcha fink?”

“Lady in Red.”

Mega smile. When she introduced me to Everett, he said,

“Ah … the old guy.”

I tried to act as if I cared, asked him,

“How’s … the … performing?”

“I’m resting.”

“Right.”

That was our talk over. God knows, I’ve met bigger assholes. He was simply the youngest. Cathy whispered,

“He’s very modest. He’s got a big gig soon with Macnas.”

“OK.”

I handed her the envelope. She shrieked,

“How
Godfather II.”

The ceremony was

brief

precise

cold.

You need a church.

Reception after in The Roisín. Barrels of drink rolled out. It was packed with arts people. The ones who can tell at fifty yards you’re non-art. Pretty good band though. Playing blue-grass through punk-country to salsa. Got that crowd hopping. A young woman in black denim asked me,

“Wanna dance?”

“Maybe later.”

She gave me an ice appraisal, said,

“I don’t think you got a later.”

BOOK: The Guards
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