The Guards (18 page)

“Malachy, I can safely say I haven’t a notion.”

“Your friend … Sutton.”

“Yeah?”

“Surly fellah.”

“He doesn’t like priests.”

“Well, he’s a Northerner! I stopped to say hello, asked him if he had a dip?”

I laughed in spite of myself. Malachy continued,

“He told me he can’t swim, can you credit that?”

A woman passed, said,

“God bless you, Father.”

He said,

“I’ll have to go, I’m due on the links in an hour.”

“Gee, the Lord is pretty demanding.”

He gave me the ecclesiastical look, said,

“You never had a bit of reverence, Jack.”

“Oh, I do. I just don’t revere the things you do.”

Then he was gone. Probably a trick of the light, but the shade seemed to have receded.

On the road leading to Rahoon Cemetery is a new hotel. Jeez,
talk about strategic planning. I was tempted to check it out but kept going.

The heat was ferocious. Story of my life, the hordes head for the beach, I’m going to the graveyard. Sunshine bounced off the headstones like calculated revenge. I knelt at Sean’s and said,

“I’m not drinking … OK?”

Then I went to Padraig, said,

“I didn’t bring flowers. I did bring a poem. Which says, even if I’m a cheap bastard, I’m a cheap
artistic
bastard. And God knows, you loved words. Here it is,

They hold the sea on their right hand
Swaying uphill in a light memorial breeze
The fields here are all rock and bog
And dead trees.

The church sits whitefaced in a wet sun
The islands under the stare of her dark door
Small prayers ascend into a low, cold sky,
Earthed no more.

The hearse engine’s out of tune, black
Paint peels to a rust of raw skin, its chrome
Is leafing. Everything comes to its season,
The dead go home.

Perspiration was pouring from me. I began to walk down the path between the graves. Saw Ann Henderson coming down the opposite side. We’d meet at the gate. I considered backstepping, but she spotted me and
waved.

When I drew level she was smiling. My heart began to beat with insane hope. I let myself feel how much I’d missed her. She said,

“Jack!”

I, originally enough, said,

“Ann.”

Dragged my mind to gear, asked,

“Want to get a mineral?”

“I’d love to.”

We walked down to the hotel, her saying,

“Isn’t the heat fierce?”

And how relieved she was at Sarah not being labelled a suicide.

I said precious little. So afraid was I of blowing the slim
chance I felt on offer. At the hotel, we ordered large orange crush, tons of ice. She didn’t comment on my non-alcoholic choice. Before I could get into any kind of appeal, she said,

“Jack, I have wonderful news.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve met a fantastic man.”

I know she talked on but I didn’t hear any more. Finally, we got up to leave and she said,

“I’m going to call a cab, can I drop you?”

I shook my head. For one awful moment I thought she was going to shake my hand. Instead, she leant over and pecked my cheek.

As I walked down towards Newcastle, the sun hammered me. I held my face up, said,

“Roast me, yah bastard.”

Back at my room, I felt gutted. Wanted to drink so ferociously I
could taste whiskey in my mouth. My heart was a dead thing in my chest. Aloud I shouted Irish of my childhood,

“An bronach mhor.”

It’s along the lines of, woe is me, but a more contemporary translation might be,

“I’m fucked.”

Was I ever.

Circling fifty years of age, was I going to get another shot at love?

Dream on.

Out of left field came a thought:

“Wouldn’t it be something to leave Galway sober.”

That got me up and swallowing a beta-b, murmuring,

“I’ve things to do, I gotta prepare for departure.”

Nick Hornby had popularised lists. Well I could do an exit one.

Pack

3 White Shirts

3 jeans

1 suit

some books

two videos

Then said,

“Screw the suit.”

I could carry most in a shoulder bag and be history. Checked my flight ticket, five days to go. Went down to reception, the beta already chilling my soul.

Mrs Bailey asked,

“Mr Taylor, are you OK?”

Sure.

“Your eyes, they look devastated.”

“Aw no, I got shampoo in them.”

We let that lie fly for a moment.

I said,

“Mrs Bailey, I’m going to be away for a while.”

She didn’t seem surprised, said,

“I’ll keep your room for you.”

“Well, it might be quite a while.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be
some
room.”

“Thank you.”

“I liked having you here, you’re a good man.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Course you don’t, that’s part of your goodness.”

“Could I buy you a nightcap before I leave?”

“Young man, I insist on it.”

A yellow car was parked outside. Above the number plate was a
“
CLFD
” sticker. I rapped on the window. Sutton said,

“‘Tis yourself.”

“I thought we agreed you’d stop following me.”

“I’m not following, I’m waiting.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’re the detective.”

He got out and stretched, said,

“These surveillance gigs
are
a bastard!”

He was dressed completely in black. Sweat, combat trousers, Nikes. I asked,

“What’s with the gear?”

“I’m in mourning.”

“I’m not sure that’s in the best of taste.”

He reached into the car, took out a holdall, said,

“I come bearing gifts.”

“Why?”

“I sold another painting; come on, I’ll buy you a drink … whoops … a coffee … and shower you with largesse.”

I decided it would probably be the last time.

We went to Elles on Shop Street. Sutton said,

“They do great cappuccino.”

They did.

Even put an Italian chocolate on the side. Sutton bit into his, said,

“Mm … good.”

“Have mine.”

“You sure, ‘cause these are like … wicked.”

He reached into the holdall, took out two mobile phones, placed one before me, said,

“One for you.”

And placed the second before him. I said,

“I don’t want one.”

“Course you do. I got them cheap. Now we’re truly connected. I took the liberty of putting my number in your menu.”

Into the bag again and out comes a small, framed painting. Nimmo’s Pier. He said,

“You don’t have to tell me it’s good, I already know that. What it is … is valuable. I’m collectable.”

I wasn’t sure how to proceed so went direct, said,

“I’m leaving.”

“Jesus, at least finish the cappuccino.”

“No, I’m leaving Galway.”

He seemed truly astonished, asked,

“To go where?”

“London.”

“That shit hole. I mean, you’re not even drinking. How could you go there sober?”

“Lots do … apparently.”

“Sure, citizens and ghost people. What will you do?”

“Rent a place in Bayswater, hang out.”

“Hang yerself. I give you a week.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Aw … London … for Chrissakes. When?”

“About five days.”

“Are we going to have a farewell drink or what?”

“Sure.”

And I indicated the mobile, added,

“I can call you.”

“Do. Nights are best. I don’t sleep so good.”

“No?”

“Would you … with a guy buried outside the window?”

I stood up, said,

“I appreciate the gifts.”

“Right. Put the painting in the pad at Bayswater. Jesus.”

He was still shaking his head when I left. Shop Street was hopping,

mimes

buskers

fire-eaters

A guy was making models from bits of wire. Constructing amazing shapes in minutes. I asked him if he could make something specific. He said,

“Anything except money.”

Five minutes later, he handed me the assignment. I gave him a few quid, said,

“You’re really talented.”

“Tell the Arts Council.”

“In that day you shall begin to possess the solitude you have so long desired. Do
not ask me when it will be or where or how. On a mountain or in a prison, in a
desert or in a concentration camp. It does not matter. So, do not ask me because I
am not going to tell you. You will not know until you are in it.”

Thomas Merton,
The Seven Storey Mountain

I went to the hospital and had the cast removed from my fingers.
Looking at them, they seemed shrivelled, shrunken. The doctor gave me a small ball, said,

“Squeeze this firmly during the day, gradually restoring the strength.”

The nurse was staring and I asked,

“What?”

“You’ll be able to shave now.”

I fingered my beard, asked,

“You don’t like it?”

“Makes you look old.”

“I feel old.”

“Arrah, go on our that.”

I thought I’d miss Irish nurses. I’d arranged to meet Cathy B. at Nestor’s. She asked,

“Where?”

I gave the directions. The weather was holding and the sun cracked against my eyes.

In Nestor’s, the sentry ignored me, so I figured my fame had ended. I took my hard chair and Jeff arrived with the coffee. I put my street purchase on the table. He said,

“Oh, wow!”

It was a miniature Harley, perfect in the small details. I said,

“It’s my way of saying goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t ask

where

when

or even

why.

Just nodded.

Cathy breezed in, looked round and said,

“What is this … a kitchen?”

“Welcome back, Mrs … what …?”

“Mrs Disappointed.”

“What?”

“Everett’s gone. Met an American in Listowel and legged it.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not, he was a dick-head.”

Jeff came over, said,

“Get you something.”

“Spritzer.”

I was tempted to join her. She watched Jeff walk away, said,

“Nice butt!”

“He’s into bikes.”

“My kinda guy.”

He brought the drink and gave her a dazzling smile. I thought Jeff still had some moves. Cathy said,

“You old guys, you got class.”

I laughed as if I meant it, said,

“I’m moving to London.”

“Don’t bother.”

“What?”

“I’m from London … remember? Save yerself the trip.”

“It’s a done deal. I’ve bought the ticket.”

“Whatever.”

She took a sip, said,

“Perfect.”

“I’m serious, Cathy, I’m off.”

“The bar guy, is he married?”

“No … he used to be in a band.”

“I’m in love.”

“Cathy … yo … could we just focus for a minute here. Do you need money?”

“Naw, I’ve got gigs lined up.”

I stood up, asked,

“Want to take a walk, feed the swans?”

“I’m gonna hang here a bit, put the make on this dude.”

I was expecting a hug, would have settled for an air kiss, said,

“Well, see you then.”

“Yeah, yeah, like later.”

I squeezed the ball in my left hand. If it helped anything, I didn’t notice.

I had one hell of a bad dream. Like you see the guy in the
movie, waking, drenched in sweat, shouting,

“Nam … incoming.”

Like that.

I was dreaming of Padraig, Sean, Planter, Ford, Sarah Henderson. Lined up before me, eyes black in death, reaching for me. No matter how I ran, they were always in front of me. I was screaming,

“Leave me alone or I’ll drink.”

Came to with a shout. The sun was streaming through the windows, and I felt such dread as I had never known. Staggered outa bed and got a beta-b—fast. If I had known how to pray any more, I’d have gone for it. I said,

“Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire.”

The opening of the Hail Mary in Irish. Began to ease. My early schooling had been solely through Irish. Moving up a grade, we had to relearn our prayers through English. During the transition period, I was prayerless.

Believed if I died, I’d go straight to hell. Those were the early nights of terror. As I got the swing of the new liturgy, the terror abated. Somewhere, though, the idea rooted that I’d been safer in Irish.

Serendipity was about to come calling. Coincidence being when God wants to maintain a low profile. When He’s sidestepping the paparazzi.

I’d had my shower, managed a weak coffee and dressed. Wearing a faded-to-white denim shirt, tan needle cords, and the moks, I could have passed for an out of focus American Express ad.

Knock on the door. I hoped to hell it wasn’t Sutton.

Janet.

She said,

“I hate to intrude.”

“That’s OK.”

“Mrs Bailey said you’re leaving.”

“I am.”

“I’d like you to have these.”

She stretched out her hand. A black rosary beads. They appeared to shine. As I took them, they looked like handcuffs against the denim. She said,

“They were blessed at Knock.”

“I am very moved, Janet. I’ll keep them with me always.”

She got shy and I added,

“I’ll miss you.”

A full blush. Not something you see too often any more so, to cover, I asked,

“Do you eat chocolate?”

“Oh God, I
love
it.”

“Well, I’m going to get you a vulgar amount in a fancy box.”

“With the dog on the lid?”

“Exactly.”

She left with the blush in neon.

I put the beads under my pillow. I could use all the help available.

Walking towards the statue of Padraig Ó Conaire, a garda
approached me. I thought,