The Guards (17 page)

I blamed the beard. A few times I hovered near the bar, near shouted,

“Double Jameson and a pint.”

But passed. Cathy asked,

“You don’t wanna drink?”

“Oh I do … but …”

“Gotcha. You’re nicer without it.”

When I was leaving she gave me a huge hug, said,

“You’re cool.”

Everett gave me a slow nod, said,

“Hang tough, dude.”

Words, no doubt, to live by.

Saw the headline as I walked up Dominick Street:

I bought the paper, sat on the bridge to read. The gist of the article was as follows:

A former garda, Brendan Flood, has come forward to allege that Mr. Planter, a prominent businessman, is linked to the deaths of a number of teenage girls. Their deaths had been classified as suicide, but in light of Mr. Flood’s revelations, their cases are being reopened.

Superintendent Clancy, in a brief statement, said Mr
Planter had disappeared from his home and his whereabouts are unknown.

Mr Flood said he’d decided to come forward because of his recent embracing of Christian beliefs.

Another ex-garda, Jack Taylor, was mentioned by Mr Flood as “being instrumental” in his decision to come forward.

I put the paper down, thought, “Fame at last.”

Gave a sigh of something close to relief. So, it was nearly over. Ann was getting what she so desperately required. That the world would know her daughter was not a suicide. Reading the piece, you’d think I’d been a player. Truth to tell, I’d fumbled and fecked, made waves without caution and caused the death of Ford.

I slung the paper.

Back in my room, the thirst was on me. The voice whispering,

“Case closed, mostly solved, time for R and R.”

Took my beta-b and went to bed.

“Clay stood there for a few more minutes, just shaking his head, thinking how
funny it was. Once you fuck up, seems you can’t STOP
fucking up to save your life.”

George P. Pelecanos,
The Sweet Forever

Next morning, early, there was a knock at my door. Expecting
Janet, I said,

“Come in.”

It was Sutton. He said,

“What have you got to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Ah shit, you’re on the wagon again.”

“What can I tell you?”

He sat in the armchair, got his legs up on the bed. I said,

“You’ve heard about Planter?”

“Sure. I can go one better.”

“How do you mean?”

“I know where he is.”

“You’re kidding. Did you tell the guards?”

“You were a guard, I’m telling you.”

I reached for the phone and he said,

“It’s not that kind of gig.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I can bring you to see him.”

Took me a moment, then I said,

“You
took
him!”

He gave that smile, asked,

“You want to meet him or not?”

I figured it was the only deal, then said,

“OK.”

He leaped to his feet, said,

“Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”

It was the yellow car again. He said,

“The colour grows on you.”

After half an hour, I said,

“Clifden? … you’ve got him in Clifden!”

“I told you I got that warehouse. Huge place. I offered you to share.”

“So … you kidnapped a lodger, that it?”

Part of me thought it was some crazy joke, but I had to check it out, asked,

“What are you doing with him?”

“Painting his portrait. He commissioned me, remember?”

Naturally, it was raining when we got to Clifden. About halfway down the Sky Road, he stopped, pulled into a lay-by, said,

“It’s uphill now.”

I looked but couldn’t see a house. He said,

“That’s the beauty, you can’t see it from the road.”

Got drenched going up, slipped twice in the mud. Came over a rise and there it was. Sutton said,

“He’ll be glad of the company.”

The building was painted a drab green, blended perfectly. A series of windows were shuttered close. Sutton produced a key, opened the door, shouted,

“I’m home, dear.”

He stepped inside, then shouted,

“Aw fuck!”

I brushed past him. In the half light I could see a bunk bed. A figure hanging above it. Sutton hit the light.

Planter was hanging from a wooden beam, a sheet around his neck. A leg iron, attached to his ankle, was bolted near the bed. I glanced quickly at his face, and Christ, he had suffered.

A painter’s easel was near the bed, a canvas in preparation. Sutton said,

“The fuck took the easy way out.”

I looked again at Planter’s face, said,

“You call that easy …Jesus!”

Sutton moved to a cupboard, took out a bottle of Scotch, asked,

“Hit yah?”

I shook my head. He took a large gulp, gasped,

“Whoo … that helps.”

I walked over to Sutton, asked,

“Did you kill him?”

The whisky had already reached his eyes, giving them a wild cast. He said,

“Are you fucking mad, what do you think I am?”

I didn’t answer that. He drank more and I asked,

“What now?”

“Let’s dump him off Nimmo’s, poetic justice.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then we’ll have to bury the prick.”

That’s what we did. Behind the house. The rain was savage and digging that hard ground took over two hours.

Finally, it was done and I asked,

“Should we say something over him.”

“Yeah, something artistic, him liking paintings.”

“Any thoughts?”

“Hung in Clifden.”

It was six in the evening by the time we got back to Galway. I was wet, dirty, and bone weary. When Sutton parked the car, he said,

“Don’t sweat it. He confessed, you know. Gave the girls Rohypnol.”

“Why did he drown them?”

“For kicks.”

“God almighty.”

He seemed to be weighing something, and I said,

“What?”

“He told me about the girls. I mean, he seemed to
want
to tell. But …”

“But what?”

“He said the Henderson girl … you know … Sarah …”

“What about her?”

“He didn’t kill her—she killed herself.”

“The lying fuck.”

“Why would he lie? I mean, he admitted the others.”

I started to get out of the car, said,

“Listen … I don’t think I want to see you for a bit.”

“Gotcha.”

He burned rubber out of there.

When the dust settles
you’re left
with dust.

The search for Planter occupied the headlines for a while. After
a few weeks, it tapered off and he joined Shergar, Lord Lucan, in speculative space. Cathy B. went off on honeymoon to Kerry and was gone for a month. I heard nothing from Ann.

I didn’t drink.

Sutton rang me once. Like that.

“Jack … hey, buddy, how yah doing?”

“OK.”

“It’s OK to ring you though, isn’t it? … I mean, we have some history now … eh?”

“If you say so.”

“I hear you’re still teetotal.”

“You hear right.”

“You ever want to cut loose, you know who to call.”

“Sure.”

“So, Jack, don’t you want to hear how I’m doing?”

“If you want to tell me.”

Can you give an audible smirk. Sure sounded like that. He said,

“Man, I’ve been painting, it’s what I do.”

“Right.”

“All right, Jack, don’t be a stranger.”

Clicked off.

Autopsy
Body of a white male
Mid 50’s
Tattoo of an angel on right shoulder
Well nourished
Weight: 180
lbs Height: 6’2”
Cause of death: Ennui

I figured that’s how it would be. I could see my naked white
flabby torso on the metal tray.

Even hear the dry, detached tone of the medical examiner.

They’re the sort of thoughts I was having.

Time to go.

I still had a fair whack of cash. Went into a travel agency. A
middle-aged woman with the name tag “
JOAN
“, said,

“I know you.”

“You do?”

“You were courting Ann Henderson.”

“The operative word is
were!’

She tut-tutted. It’s a bizarre sound. She said,

“That’s a crying shame. She’s a grand girl.”

“I wonder could we do some travel stuff?”

She didn’t like it, said,

“Well,
excuse
me. How may I help?”

“A ticket to London.”

“Departure date.”

“About ten days.”

“The return will cost you … let’s see.”

“Joan … yo … I want a single.”

She looked up sharply, asked,

“You’re not coming back?”

I gave her my dead smile. She said,

“Suit yourself.”

A few minutes later, I had the ticket. I asked,

“Take cash?”

She did, if reluctantly. As I left I said,

“I’ll miss you, Joan.”

Crossing the square, I swear I saw Padraig near the fountain. Asked myself,

“Is this sobriety all it’s cracked up to be?”

Went to Nestor’s. The sentry was there and spoke.

“I read about you in the papers.”

“Ah, that was ages ago.”

The barman smiled. I since learned his name was Jeff. Despite my daily visits, I’d found out nothing else. I’d estimated he was in my age range. The similar aura of bewilderment and battering surrounded him. I thought that explained the easiness I felt in his company.

I took my hard chair and he brought me coffee, asked,

“Mind if I join you?”

I was amazed. Our relationship seemed to have been solidified on friendly avoidance. I said,

“Sure.”

“How are the betas going?”

“I’m not drinking.”

He nodded, seemed to weigh up some possibilities, then,

“Do you want me to tell you the truth or will I just play you along?”

“What?”

“That’s a Tom Waits’ quote.”

“No stranger to a bevy himself.”

He ran his hands through his hair, said,

“I don’t do friends very good. Not that I’m hurting. My wife left me ‘cause she said I was too self-sufficient.”

I had no idea where this was going. But I’m Irish, I know how this works. The verbal tit-for-tat. You get a personal detail, you fire one back. Piece by piece. A friendship evolves—or not.

A tapestry of talk.

I opened with,

“I don’t have a lot of luck with friends. Two of my best are recently buried. I don’t know what they got from me except a couple of cheap wreaths on their graves. That and a pair of thermal socks.”

He nodded, said,

“Lemme get the coffee pot.”

He did.

Recaffeinated, he said,

“I know a bit about you. Not that I asked. But I’m a barman, I hear stuff. I know you helped break that suicide business. How you used to be a guard. Word is, you’re a hard case.”

I gave a rueful laugh and he continued.

“Me … I used to be in a band. Ever heard of ‘Metal’?”

“Heavy Metal?”

“That too, but ‘Metal’ was the band. We were big in Germany, late seventies. Anyway, that’s how I bought the pub.”

“Do you still play?”

“God, no. I didn’t play then either. I wrote the lyrics. And need I tell you, lyrics are not vital for head banging. I have two passions, poetry and bikes.”

“I think that’s logical in a convoluted fashion.”

“Not any bikes. Just the Harley. Mine is a softail custom.”

I nodded as if this meant a lot. It meant zilch. He continued

“Thing is, they’re a bastard to get parts for. And like any thoroughbred, they break down a lot.”

Any more nodding, I’d have a habit.

He was on his feet now. Truth to tell, I envied his enthusiasm. To have such passion. He said,

“Now poetry. It doesn’t break down. Upstairs I have the giants … know who?”

What the hell, I could play safe, said,

“Yeats

Wordsworth.”

He was shaking his head, said,

“Rilke

Lowell

Baudelaire

MacNeice.”

Now he looked right at me, said,

“There is a point to all this, and God knows, I’ll finally make it.”

Handed me a batch of papers, said,

“There are poets among us. These are by people here in Galway. The Fred Johnston one … well, I thought it would help with the deaths you’ve experienced.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t read them now. Grab a quiet moment, see how they read.”

Then he was off doing bar stuff. The sentry said,

“I read about you in the paper.”

I could only hope this wasn’t going to become a mantra with him.

‘He could say it wasn’t fair but he’d already said it a million times in his life. In
spite of its truth, the idea counted far less than it should.”

T. Jefferson Parker,
The Blue Hour

We hit on a week of glorious weather. Sun from morning till late
evening. The city went mad. Work was abandoned and crowds were out getting them rays. Any fear of skin cancer was completely ignored.

Ice cream vendors on every corner. Lager louts in loud array. Worse, men in shorts! With socks and sandals. One of the true horrible sights of the new era.

I don’t do sun.

I’m delighted with the lack of rain and anything over is over-indulgence. I don’t trust it. Makes you yearn. For things that cannot last.

I was sitting in the shade at Eyre Square. Watching girls, already red, going for blisters. Heard my name … saw Fr Malachy. In civvies, chinos and a white t-shirt. I asked,

“Day off?”

“Isn’t this heat fierce?”

Course, fierce is the double-edged. Either fierce good or fierce bad. You don’t ever ask. You’re supposed to know.

I didn’t ask. He said,

“You’re a hard fellah to find.”

“Depends who’s looking.”

“I was on the beach yesterday. Cripes, it was packed. Had a lovely swim. Do you know who I saw?”