The Guards (4 page)

“It’s what I do.”

“Did anyone call the guards?”

“They were the guards.”

“You’re coddin’.”

“I saw their shoes, at closer range than I wanted. They were the boys all right.”

“Jesus!”

He sat down, looking worse than I felt. Then put a Dunnes’ bag on the bed, said,

“Things I thought you’d need.”

“Any drink?”

I felt like the mad priest in “Father Ted”. I rummaged through the bag.

6 oranges

Lucozade

Box of Milk Tray

Deodorant

Pyjamas

Rosary beads

I held up the beads, asked,

“How bad did you hear I was?”

He reached into his jacket, produced a half of Jameson. I said,

“God bless you.”

I drank it from the bottle, felt it move my shattered nose. Bounced against my heart and pounded along my sore ribs. I gasped,

“Mighty.”

Sean nodded off. I shouted,

“Shop.”

And he jumped. Seemed lost and worse, old. He said,

“The heat, Christ … why do they have these places like ovens?”

Maybe the painkillers helped, but I felt absolutely pissed, asked,

“Where’s Sutton?”

Sean looked away and I said,

“What? … come on.”

He lowered his head, mumbled. I said,

“Speak up … I hate when you do that.”

“There was a fire.”

“Oh God!”

“He’s okay, but the cottage is gone. All his paintings too.”

“When?”

“The same. Same night you got hammered.”

I shook my head. Bad idea as the whiskey sloshed behind my eyes. I said,

“What the hell’s going on?”

The doctor reappeared, said,

“Mr Taylor, it’s important you rest.”

Sean stood up, laid his hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll be back tonight.”

“I won’t be here.”

I swung my legs out of bed. The doctor, alarmed, said,

“Mr Taylor, I must insist you get back into bed.”

“I’m leaving … ADA … isn’t it?”

“ADA?”

“Against the doctor’s advice. Jeez, don’t you watch ER?”

I had a moment’s dizziness, but the booze rode shotgun. My blood sang out for creamy pints of Guinness. A whole shitpile of them. Sean had the trouble of the world on his face, said,

“Jack, be reasonable.”

“Reasonable! I was never that.”

I consented to a cab, and as I was wheelchaired to the exit, a nurse said,

“Yah big eejit.”

The nun was reading Patricia Cornwell. She saw me glance at the
cover, said,

“I prefer Kathy Reichs.”

There’s no answer to this. No polite answer anyway. I asked,

“Am I too early?”

She reluctantly put her book aside, said,

“There’s half an hour yet. You could walk round the grounds.”

I did.

The Poor Clare Convent is smack in the centre of the city. Every Sunday, at 5.30, there’s a Latin mass. It’s like a throwback to fifty years before.

Downright medieval.

The ritual, the smell of incense, the Latin intonations are a comfort beyond articulation.

I dunno why I go. Ask me for belief and I reach for the racing page. In an unguarded moment, I told Cathy B. She’d been plaguing me ever since. I said,

“Why? You’re some kind of English heathen.”

“I’m a Buddhist.”

“Jeez, see what I mean? Why on earth would you want to go?

“It’s so
Brideshead.”

“What?”

“In England, High Catholicism is for the special few. Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, all converted.”

She wore me down. I watched now as she turned into the convent. I’d warned,

“Dress appropriately. None of that Goth trip.”

Now she was wearing a full-length dress. Fine for a dress dance at the Bank of Ireland, but mass! Then I saw the Doc Martens. I said,

“Docs!”

“I polished them.”

“But they’re blue.”

“Nuns do blue.”

“How would you know?”

“I saw
Agnes of God”

Then she saw my nose, my fingers in the cast, raised her eyebrows. I told her. She said,

“Wow, like cool.”

“What?”

“Think they’ll come after me?”

“There isn’t a ‘they’ … it’s coincidence.”

“Yeah … sure.”

The bell rang. Cathy asked,

“How will I know what to do?”

“Do what I do.”

“That’s bound to get us slung out.”

Inside, the tiny church was warm and welcoming. Cathy grabbed a hymn sheet, squeaked,

“There’s singing.”

“Not for you.”

But it was.

The congregation joined in the song performance. Cathy loudest of all. A nun came up after to congratulate her, asked,

“Would you like to sing some Sunday?”

I hopped in.

“She’s not one of us.”

Cathy and the nun gave me a look of withering contempt. I slunk outside.

Fr Malachy had arrived. No sooner off his bicycle than he lit a cigarette. I said,

“You’re late.”

He smiled, answered,

“But for what?”

Malachy was like Sean Connery, minus

The tan

The golf.

You couldn’t call him a friend. Priests have other loyalties. I knew him since I was a child. He took in my injuries, said,

“You’re still drinking.”

“This was unrelated.”

He took out his cigarettes. Major. The green and white packet. As strong as a mule kick and twice as lethal. I said,

“You’re still smoking.”

“Me and Bette Davis.”

“She’s dead.”

“My point exactly.”

He watched two nuns and said,

“Great shiners.”

“What.”

“Polishing. No one can touch them for it.”

I looked round then asked,

“Where’s the Church on suicide these days?”

“Leaving us, are yah?”

“I’m serious. Is it still the ‘can’t be buried in hallowed ground’ stance?”

“Ah, you’re very out of touch, Jack.”

“That’s an answer?”

“No, that’s a sad fact.”

Cathy B. and I were literally “eating out”. At the Spanish Arch,
with Chinese takeaway, watching the water. She said, “I have my report.”

“Let’s finish the grub first.”

“Sure.”

I threw some chow mein to the swans. They didn’t appear to like it much. A wino approached, asked,

“Gis a fiver.”

“I’ll give you a quid.”

“Long as it’s not a Euro.”

He eyed the food and I offered him mine. With great reluctance he took it, asked,

“Is it foreign?”

“Chinese.”

“I’ll be hungry again in an hour.”

“But you have the quid.”

“And my health.”

He ambled off to annoy some Germans. They took his photo. Cathy said,

“Before my report, can I tell you a story?”

“I can do stories.”

She launched.

“My dad was a second-rate accountant. You know the old joke … ‘How can you tell an extrovert accountant? He looks at
your
shoes.’ Anyway, he worked without promotion till he was fifty. My mother nagged him ferociously. What I remember most is he had ten suits. All identical and the object of my mother’s wrath. She was, to quote the Irish, ‘a holy terror’.

“He always treated me with kindness and generosity. When I was nine, he lost his job due to drink. My mother ordered him out. He took his ten suits and went to live under Waterloo Station. In the tunnels there, he’d put on a fresh suit, and when it was dirty, he threw it away. At his last one, he stepped under the 9.05 from Southampton.

“The express.”

“I hated him ‘cause my mother did. Then, when I understood who
she
was, I began to comprehend him. I once read that Hemingway’s mother sent him the gun which his father used to kill himself. My mother would never have gone in for studied viciousness. After her death, I had to clear out her things. I found a train timetable for arrivals at Waterloo. Perhaps she thought he’d finally come up to speed.”

She was crying, the tears rolling down her face and hitting the curried noodles with a soft plink, like rain off a sheet of glass. I opened our lone bottle of wine, handed it over. She waved it away, said,

“I’m okay Are you still techno ignorant?”

“I am.”

“I’ll keep it simple. I fed a number of items into the computer, teenage suicides over the past six months, and got two hits. Ever hear of Planter’s?”

“Who make peanut butter?”

“No, it’s a massive DIY shop at the rear of Edward Square.”

“Where the new Dunnes is?”

“Yes.”

“Jeez, Edward Square! I mean … come on. In the middle of Galway, how Irish is that?”

She gave me a look, then continued.

“Of three suicides, three of the girls worked part-time there.”

“So?”

“So it’s strange. The owner, Bartholomew Planter, is a transplanted Scot. Rich as the lottery.”

“It’s a reach, Cathy.”

“There’s more.”

“Go on.”

“Guess who protect the premises.”

“I dunno.”

“Green Guard.”

“And?”

“They employ moonlighting guards.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right.”

She took the wine, drank, asked,

“What now, hot shot?”

“Maybe I’ll go see Mr Planter.”

“Mr Ford.”

“Ford?”

“He runs the place.”

“Well, I’ll go see him then.”

She watched the water for a time, then,

“Wanna fuck?”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Jeez, you’re all of what… nineteen?”

“Are you going to pay me for my work?”

“Am … soon.”

“So, at least let me get laid.”

I stood up, said,

“Anything else?”

“Of course.”

“Well.”

“Mr Planter likes to play golf.”

“I don’t think that falls under suspicious behaviour.”

“It does if you know who he plays with.”

“Who?”

“A Superintendent Clancy, that’s who.” I walked away.

I was going to say that I put on my best suit but I only have one.
Bought in Oxfam two years ago. It’s dark blue with narrow lapels. Makes me look like a wide boy. Remember the Phil Collins video where there’s three of him. That’s the suit. I can only pray it doesn’t make me look like Phil Collins. If I say it was less than a tenner, you get the idea.

Course, that was before Oxfam got notions. I had a white shirt that unfortunately I washed with a navy t-shirt. I act like this is an accessorised outfit. A tie, loosened to give the “Mister, I don’t give a fuck” effect. Solid brown brogues. The shoe maketh the man. Spit shined till you could see your reflection.

Checked myself in the mirror. Asked,

“Would you buy a car from this man?”

No.

I had a mobile phone number for Sutton and rang that. Got
the answering service and left a message. Walking into town I tried to feel like a citizen. Couldn’t quite pull it off. At the abbey, I went in and lit a candle to St Anthony, the finder of lost things. It crossed my mind to ask him to find
myself,
but it seemed too theatrical. People were going to confession, and how I wished I could seek such a cleansing.

Outside, a Franciscan bid me good morning. He was the picture of robust good health. My age, without a line in his face. I asked,

“Do you like your work?”

“God’s work.”

Served me right for asking. I continued on to Edward Square. Walked through Dunnes and saw six shirts I couldn’t afford. On through to Planter’s. It was big. Covered the whole of what used to be a parking lot. At reception I asked if I could see Mr Ford. The girl asked,

“Have you an appointment?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But she didn’t. She rang his office and he agreed to meet me. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. His office was modest and he was on the phone. Hand waved me to a chair. He was small, bald, with an Armani suit. An air of controlled energy from him. Finishing the call, he turned to me. I said,

“Thank you for seeing me. I’m Jack Taylor.”

He gave a brief smile. Small yellow teeth. Flash suit and bad teeth. The smile had no connection to warmth. He said,

“You say that name as if it means something. It means zero to me.”

I could smile too. Show him what Ultra-Brite might achieve, said,

“I’m investigating the death of Sarah Henderson.”

“Are you a policeman?”

“No.”

“Have you any official standing?”

“Zero.”

Nice to hop the word back. He said,

“So, I have no obligation whatsoever to talk to you?”

“Save common decency.”

He walked round the desk, adjusted the razor crease in his trousers, sat on the edge of the desk. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor. His shoes were Bally. I know so well what I can’t afford. Argyll socks with a snazzy pattern. He said,

“There’s no good reason not to sling your sorry ass on out of here.”

I realised the guy loved to talk, no sound so sweet as his own voice. I said,

“Would you be surprised to hear three girls, now dead, all worked here?”

He slapped his knee, said,

“Have you any idea of the hundreds of staff we put through our doors? I’d be amazed if they all lived for ever.”

“Did you know the girl?”

I don’t think I knew what sardonic really meant till I heard him laugh, he said,

“I very much doubt it.”

“Would you check, as a favour to the girl’s mother?”

He hopped off the desk, hit the intercom, said,

“Miss Lee, rustle up the file on a Sarah Henderson.”

He sat down, the portrait of relaxation. I said,

“That’s impressive.”

“An intercom?”

“No, how you didn’t even have to think for a second to get the girl’s name.”

“It’s why I’m sitting here in a suit worth three grand and you’re … shall we say … in last year’s remainder.”

The secretary arrived with a thin folder. Ford reached for glasses, pince-nez, naturally. Made a series of

M … m …’s

Hm … m …

Ahh’s …

Then closed the file, said,