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Authors: Ken Bruen

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BOOK: The Guards
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A horrendous concept.

Grogan’s was my office. I sat there most mornings and waited for the world to come knocking. Sean would bring me coffee. A measure of brandy poured in—"to kill the bitterness”.

Some days, he seems so frail I fear he’ll never make the few steps to my table.

The cup rattles on the saucer like the worst of bad news. I’d say,

“Use a mug.”

He’d be horrified, say,

“There are standards!”

Once I asked, as he shook in unison with the cup,

“Will you ever retire?”

“Will you ever stop drinking?”

Fair enough.

A few days on from Cheltenham, I was at my usual table. I’d won
a few quid on the Champion Hurdle and hadn’t yet squandered it. I was reading
Time Out.
Most every week I’d buy it. The London guide, listing nigh on every event in the capital.

My plan.

Oh yeah, I had one. Few things more lethal than a drinker with a plan. Here was mine.

I’d gather up every penny I had, borrow more, then head for London.

Rent a fine flat in Bayswater and wait. That was it. Just wait.

This dream got me through many’s the awful Monday.

Sean rattled over, put my coffee down, asked,

“Any sign of you going?”

“Soon.”

He muttered some benediction.

Took a sip of my coffee and it burned the roof of my mouth.

Perfect.

The brandy after-hit lit among my gums, battering my teeth. Those moments before the fall.

Paradise encapsulated.

J.M. O’Neill in
Duffy is Dead
wrote that brandy gives you breath, then takes it away. More, you had to get up earlier and earlier to drink yourself sober enough for opening time.

Try explaining that to the non-afflicted.

A woman came in, looked round, then moved to the counter. I wished I was more than I was. Putting my head down, I tried out my detection skills. Or rather, my power of observation. Had only glanced at her; how much could I recall? A fawn medium-length coat, expensive cut. Brown hair to her shoulders. Make-up but no lipstick. Deep-set eyes over a button nose, strong mouth. Pretty, but not overly so. Sensible shoes of good brown leather.

Conclusion: out of my zone. She spoke to Sean, and he pointed at me. I looked up as she approached. She asked,

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

“May I have a few words?”

“Sure, sit down.”

Up close, she was prettier than I’d seen. The lines around her eyes were deep. Her age I’d put at late thirties. I asked,

“Can I get you a drink?”

“The man is getting me coffee.”

While we waited, she examined me. Not in a discreet fashion, openly without subterfuge. Sean came with the coffee… and behold, a plate of biscuits. I eyed him and he said,

“Mind yer business.”

After he’d gone, she said,

“He’s so fragile.”

Without thinking, I said the worst thing,

“Him? He’ll bury the both of us.”

She flinched as if to duck. I stormed on,

“What do you want?”

Composing herself, she said,

“I need your help.”

“How?”

“I was told you help people.”

“If I can.”

“My daughter … Sarah … she … she committed suicide in January. She was only sixteen.”

I made appropriate noises of sympathy. She continued,

“I don’t believe she’d … kill herself… she …just wouldn’t.”

I tried not to sigh. She gave a brief bitter smile, said,

“It’s what a parent would say … isn’t it? But, something happened after.”

“After?”

“Yes, a man rang, said, ‘She was drowned.’

” That threw me. I fumbled to get in gear, asked,

“What?”

“That’s what he said. Nothing else, just those three words.”

I realised I didn’t even know her name.

“Ann … Ann Henderson.”

How far behind was I lagging? Time to crank up. I bolted my laced coffee. Did something, said,

“Mrs Henderson … I …”

“It’s not Mrs—I’m not married. Sarah’s father lit out on us a long time ago. We only had each other … that’s why she’d never … leave me … alone.”

“Annie, when a tragedy like this happens, weirdos and cranks come out of the woodwork. It’s a beacon to them. They ghoul-in on pain.”

She bit her lower lip, then raised her head, said,

“He
knew.

Rummaging in her bag, she produced a fat envelope, said,

“I hope there’s enough there. It’s the savings for our trip to America. Sarah had it all planned.”

Next she laid a photograph beside the cash. I pretended to look. She said,

“Will you try?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

I know there were a lot of things I should, could, have said. But I said nothing. She asked,

“Why are you a drunk?”

Caught me blindside. I said,

“What makes you think I have a choice?”

“Ah, that’s nonsense.”

I was halfway angry, not all out but circling, asked,

“How come you want … a
drunk
… to help you?”

She stood up, gave me a hard look, said,

“They say you’re good because you’ve nothing else in your life.”

And she was gone.

“… responds quickly to the task at hand.”

Assessment Report

I live by the canal. But a scarf away from the university. At
night I like to sit, listen to the students roar.

And they do.

It’s a small house, the old two-up, two-down. The landlord has converted it to two flats. I have the ground floor. A bank clerk named Linda is above. A country girl, she has adopted all the worst aspects of urban life. A sort of knowing cunning.

She’s a looker, in her early twenties. Once, when she forgot her key, I picked the lock. Emboldened, I asked,

“Fancy an evening out?”

“Oh, I never break my golden rule.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t date drunkards.”

Time later, her car had a flat and I changed the tyre. She said,

“Listen, that other time—I was outa line.”

Outa Uriel

Everyone is quasi-American in the worst way.

I stood up, grease covering my hands, waited. She continued,

“I shouldn’t have said, you know… the awful thing.”

“Hey, forget it.”

Forgiveness is a heady fix. It makes you stupid. I said,

“So, you want to go out, grab a bite?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“What?”

“You’re too old.”

That evening, under darkness, I crept out, punctured her tyre again.

I read. I read a lot. Between bouts of booze, I get through some
print. Mostly crime. Recently, I’d finished Derek Raymond’s autobiography
The Hidden Files.

Class act.

He’s the man.

That the drink had finally taken him out was a further bond. Over my bathroom mirror I’d placed his:

Existence is sometimes what a
forward artillery observer sees
of enemy lines through field glasses.
A distant and troubling view
brought suddenly into focus with a wealth of obscene detail.

It’s the obscene detail I want to obliterate with every drink. But
it’s imprinted on my very soul, fetid and rank. No shaking it loose.

God knows I’ve tried; since the death of my father, I’ve fixated on death most days. I carry it, like a song, half-remembered.

A philosopher, Rochefoucauld, wrote that death is like the sun. No one can stare at it directly. I ploughed through books on death.

Sherwin Nuland—
How We Die

Bert Keizer—
Dancing with Mister D

Thomas Lynch—
The Undertaking.

I dunno if I sought

Answers

Comfort

Understanding.

I didn’t get them.

A hole had opened in my gut that felt for ever raw. After the funeral, the priest said,

“The pain will pass.”

I wanted to roar—"Fuck that, I don’t want it to pass. I want to hug it to me lest I forget”.

My father was a lovely man. As a child, I remember he’d suddenly clear all the furniture in the kitchen. The chairs, tables, piled against the wall. Then he’d take my mother’s hand, and up and down the kitchen they’d dance. Laughter gurgling in her throat, she’d shout,

“Yah eejit.”

No matter what was happening, he’d say,

“As long as you can dance, you’re ahead.”

He did for as long as he was able.

I
never dance
.

“Dead children do not give
us memories,
they give us dreams.”

Thomas Lynch,
The Undertaking

I visited the grave of the dead girl. She was buried in Rahoon
Cemetery. Where Nora Barnacle’s dead lover lies.

I can’t explain why I wanted to touch base there. My father’s grave rests on the small hill. I was too ragged to say hello. Felt as if I was sneaking past. There are those days I feel his loss too sharply to say hello.

Sarah Henderson’s plot was down near the east wall. It’s one of the few spots to catch the sun. A makeshift, temporary cross read:

SARAH HENDERSON

Nothing else. I said,

“Sarah, I’ll do what I can.”

Outside the gates I found a phone box, called Cathy B. She answered on the ninth ring with

“What?”

“Whoa, Cathy … nice phone manner.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you?”

“I’m at the cemetery.”

“Better than
in
.”

“Can you do some work?”

“Oh yeah, like I need the bread, so totally.”

I gave her the background, the details, said,

“Talk to her school friends, boyfriend …”

“Don’t tell me my job.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be. I’ll call in a few days.”

Click.

About a year ago, I was heading home late along the canal. It’s a
happening place after midnight. Drinking school, dopers, eco-warriors, ducks, and the no-frills crazies. I fit right in.

A non-national offered to sell me his coat, but otherwise it was uneventful. As I got to the end of the canal, I saw a girl on her knees before a man. For one illucid moment, I thought he was getting a blow job. Until I saw his hand go up, come crashing down on her head. I came behind, used my elbow to hit him on the neck.

He fell against the railing. The girl’s face was cut, and bruising already showed on her cheek. I helped her up. She said,

“He’s going to kill me.”

I elbowed him again and he went,

“Urg … gh.”

I said,

“I don’t think so.”

I asked her,

“Can you walk?”

“I’ll try.”

I grabbed the guy by his shirt.

Up

One

Two

And over.

Let his own weight launch him into the canal.

As I was opening the door to my flat, we could hear roars from the water. She said,

“I don’t think he can swim.”

“Who cares?”

“Not me.”

I made tower-block hot whiskeys.

Tons of sugar

Cloves

Gallon of Jameson.

Put the glass in her two hands, said,

“Get that in yah.”

She did.

I put Lone Star on the speakers, kicking off with ‘Amazed’. She said,

“Is that Country and Western?”

“Sure is.”

“It’s shite.”

“Drink up, you won’t care.”

I took a full look at her. Spiked hair, pierced eyebrow, trowel-thick black make-up. Somewhere in there was a pretty
girl. Her age could be sixteen or thirty-six. Her accent was London, blunted a little by Irish inflexion. The effect was as if she was for ever about to launch into what the English believe is a brogue.

That she never did is to her ever-lasting credit.

No wonder I liked her.

A marathon of heavy silver bracelets lined her left arm. Didn’t quite hide the old tracks. I said,

“You were on the gear.”

“What are you, the Old Bill?”

“Used to be.”

“You what?”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Bleedin’ hell.”

That’s how I met Catherine Bellingham. She’d washed up in Gahvay in the wake of a rock group who played the Black Box. They split, she stayed.

“I sing,” she said.

Without preamble, she launched into “Troy". Unaccompanied, it must be the most difficult choice. I had never been an avid Sinead O’Connor fan but, hearing this, I reconsidered.

Cathy made it a dirge of bleak beauty. I was astonished, held my drink up to the light.

“This is powerful shit.”

Immediately, she followed with “A Woman’s Heart”.

Yeah, Mary Black would also require reassessment.

It was like I’d never heard those songs. After, I said,

“Christ, you’re good.”

“I am, amn’t I?”

I poured more drink, said,

“Here’s to beauty.”

She didn’t touch hers, said,

“I never do the next song, but I’m drunk so …”

It was “No Woman, No Cry”.

I’m an alky, I was born to these sentiments. Listening to her, I wished I had the strongest Colombian available. Conversely, it made me feel I had a shot. But at what I didn’t know. Cathy stopped, said,

“That’s it, show’s over.”

I said, without considering,

“No people sing with such pure voices as those who live in deepest hell.”

She nodded, said,

“Kafka.”

“Who?”

“He said that.”

“You know him?”

“I’ve known hell.”

KEENING

In Ireland they say, “If you want help, so to the guards-if you
don’t want help, go to the guards.”

I went.

Since my dismissal, every few months, I’d receive the following letter:

THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

A Chara,

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

See Article 59341A of Uniform and Equipment. It has come to our attention you have failed
to return Item 8234—A regulation gar da all-weather coat.

BOOK: The Guards
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