The Guards (19 page)

“Uh-dh.”

He asked,

“Mr Taylor? Mr Jack Taylor?”

They call you mister, call a lawyer. I said,

“Yeah.”

“Superintendent Clancy would like a word. This way.”

He led the way to a black Daimler. The back door opened and a voice said,

“Get in, Jack.”

I did.

Clancy was in full uniform. All the epaulettes, insignia on show. He was stouter than our previous meeting. I said,

“Not getting to the links too often?”

“What?”

“Golf. I hear you play with the big boys.”

His face was purple, the eyes bulging. The guy used to be skinnier than a rat. He said,

“You should take it up, good for the health.”

“I can’t deny you’re the living proof.”

Shook his head, said,

“Always with the mouth, Jack.”

The driver was built like the proverbial shithouse. Muscles bulging in his neck. Clancy said,

“I might owe you an apology.”

“Might?”

“The suicides. Seems you were on to something.”

“And, Super, are you on to something… like the whereabouts of Mr Planter?”

Clancy sighed, said,

“He’s long gone. Money buys a lot of clout.”

I didn’t want to push too far in this direction, said,

“I’m leaving Galway.”

“Indeed. Any hope your friend Sutton will go with you?”

“Don’t think so. His muse is here.”

Clancy was quiet, then,

“Did you know he once applied to the force?”

“Sutton?”

“Oh yes. Turned him down, there are standards.”

“Are you sure? They took us.”

He allowed himself a grim smile, said,

“You could have gone far.”

“Wow, maybe even turned out like you.”

He put out his hand. I was fascinated by his shoes. Heavy
black jobs, with a shine you could see yourself in. I took his hand. He asked,

“Are you leaving because of Coffey?”

“What… who?”

“You remember him, a gombeen from Cork.”

I let go his hand, pulled my eyes away from those shoes, said,

“Oh yeah, a big thick yoke. Fair hurler though.”

“He works under me, and to hear him tell it, the Ann Henderson wan is working like a whore under him.”

The words hung in the air. I could see the driver shift awkwardly behind the wheel. A line of sweat popped out along my brow. I could feel Clancy’s grin in my back. The world spun for a minute and I thought I’d fall. Must have been the sudden exposure to the sun. Took a second, then leant back into the car. With all my might I spat on those fine garda shoes.

I went into Supermacs on the square. Needed something very
cold. Got a large Coke, ice-loaded, and took a window seat. My eyes were stinging, and I squeezed the ball in my left hand till my fingers ached. Took a long swallow of the Coke, felt the ice click against my teeth. A red cloud seemed to bend my vision. More Coke, then the sugar rush kicked.

It helped.

My vision cleared and I stopped the incessant squeezing. A man approached my table, said,

“Jack.”

I looked up. Knew the face but couldn’t place the name. He said,

“I’m Brendan Flood.”

“Ah … the God guy.”

“May I sit?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, pal. I’m all out on guards.”

“Ex-guards.”

“Whatever.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Is it about God again?”

“Everything’s about God.”

He sat and I looked out the window. Despite the sunshine, I could see black clouds on the horizon. Flood said,

“A storm is coming!”

“Are you being biblical or informative?”

“I heard it on the news.”

I didn’t answer, figured he’d spout some homily and be gone. How long could it take? He said,

“My condolences on the death of your friend Sean Grogan.”

“Thanks.”

“There is information.”

“What?”

“On the car.”

“Tell me.”

“A yellow car.”

“But there’s a lot of those.”

“Eye witnesses say it looked deliberate.”

“Deliberate?”

“The guards interviewed the witnesses but they missed one. A boy of eleven, he collects number plates. He didn’t get the actual digits but he did see a sticker.”

He paused, then,

“It was
CLFD
.”

“Clifden!”

He stood up, nodded at the approaching storm, said,

“God’s intense displeasure.”

I had shopping to do. Went to Holland’s and got a mega box of chocolates. The cute dog on the lid. Next to the off-licence, and took some looking, but located a stone bottle of Dutch gin. Back to the hotel and left the chocolates at Reception. Mrs Bailey said,

“These are for Janet?”

“They are.”

“She’ll be delirious.”

“Are we on for our nightcap tonight?”

“Lovely, around eleven?”

“Great.”

On the western shore of the Corrib, it stretches from the Claddagh Quay
past Ringhanane Quay. Designed by Alexander Nimmo, it was built in
1822. The locals at the time were heavily opposed to it. Remained in
use until the new commercial dock made it redundant in the early
1840s. The Claddagh Piers were repaired between 1843-51 and all
had been linked to Nimmo’s Pier by 1852.

Rats the size of domestic cats have been sighted on the eastern rim of the pier.
They remain, as yet … un-christened.

Round seven in the evening, the heavens opened and rain lashed
the city. Heavy and unrelenting. I lay on my bed and listened. My mind I kept blank and refused to ponder the endless possibilities.

At eleven, I went down to the bar, and Mrs Bailey was waiting. I’d worn my suit. She was all decked out, said,

“We’re two dotes.”

I’m sure it was a lovely evening. ’Cept, I don’t remember it. My mind had moved to a place of ice, and Mrs Bailey talked for two. I do know she said,

“You’re not touching the hard stuff.”

“For now.”

She didn’t press. I watched the clock over the bar. When it got to two, Mrs Bailey said,

“I’ll have to call it a night.”

Her parting words:

“If you ever need a friend …”

Her hug near touched me but not enough.

I went to my room, looked out the window. If anything, the rain was heavier. I got my holdall and put the gin in. Next, I put on my guard’s all-weather coat. Then I phoned Sutton, heard,

“‘Lo?”

“Sutton, it’s Jack. You said you don’t sleep much.”

“Got that right.”

“I need to see you.”

“Sure … tomorrow … OK.”

“Now! I have a bottle of gin.”

“Ah,
now
you’re talking. Where will I meet you?”

“Nimmo’s Pier.”

“What, there’s a bloody gale out there.”

“It’s beautiful like that. Jeez, you’re the artist, do I have to convince you?”

“Yeah, wild gin on a wild night. I love it.”

“See you there.”

Not a soul on the streets. As I got to Claddagh, the wind threatened
to blow me over the quay. I could see the swans huddled against the boats.

When I got to Nimmo’s, I leaned against the wall, watching the black bay. It was fiercely beautiful. A car’s headlights turned at the football pitch, began to cruise down the pier. Reaching out, the lights illuminated me. I waved. The engine was turned off and Sutton opened the door. He had only a t-shirt and jeans, shouted at the night,

“I love it.”

Fought against the wind to join me, said,

“Yah mad bastard, this was a great idea. Where’s the booze?”

I unzipped the holdall, handed over the bottle. He said,

“Genever … mighty.”

He took a huge swig and I asked,

“Do you remember the time we went to the dance in South Armagh?”

He lowered the bottle, said,

“Yeah …”

“A car followed us and I asked you which
side
they were on.”

“Vaguely.”

“You said the bad side, and I asked which one was that.”

He nodded, I continued,

“You said the one that follows you at four in the morning.”

He gave a gut laugh, most parts gin. I said,

“It’s near four in the morning now, and you’re the bad side.”

“What?”

“You killed Sean. The Clifden tag on a yellow car, it was spotted.”

He put the bottle down, considered, then,

“I did it for us.”

“For us?”

His words came in a rush.

“One night, late … in Grogan’s, I was pissed, trying to get a rise out of him. I told him we killed Ford.”

“And you think Sean would have told!”

“Not then … but he hated me. The bastard took my painting down. Sooner or later he’d have made a call.”

I said,

“Sutton.”

And kneed him in the balls. Grabbed his t-shirt and dragged him towards the edge. He screamed,

“Jack … Jesus … I can’t swim.”

I waited a few moments, braced against the wind and said,

“I know that.”

Threw him over. Picked up the stone bottle and smelled it. The power reached all the way to my toes. Reaching back, I threw high and long.

If there was a splash, I didn’t hear it.

As I buttoned up against the wind, I remembered the time in the Newry pub. Sutton had grabbed “The Hound of Heaven” from me and said,

“Francis Thompson died roaring; it’s how alkies die!”

I couldn’t verify this. The wind was too loud.