The Magdalen Martyrs (15 page)

I said,

“Jeez, Jeff.”

“Teach him some manners.”

“But you’re a musician; where did you learn that stunt?”

“It’s called improvisation. Wouldn’t be much of an artist without that.”

“He’ll know . . . Jeff, he’ll know you took it.”

“I’m seriously hoping you’re right.”

“She had a stuffed animal collection. I was pretty sure. Her Corolla
had either a smiley face or afesusfish affixed to the bumper. She read
John Grisham novels, listened to soft rock, loved going to bridal showers
and had never seen a Spike Lee movie.”

Dennis Lehane,
Prayers for Rain

As best as I could, I avoided the Claddagh. Not that I disliked
the area. On the contrary, it used to be part of my heritage. The whole deal: feed the swans, walk to Grattan Road, make wishes from the end of Nimmo’s Pier.

But it sure held bad karma.

These days, now that the depression was in chemical abeyance, I was suffused with memory. Veered from the bitter-sweet to crucifixion. Did books save my sanity? You bet your ass.

On any given day, I’d have a volume in my jacket, read, read, read.

As if I meant it.

Most times I did.

Walking down Quay Street, now being touted as the Temple Bar of Galway, I noticed the remnants of the English stag parties. Truly a blight on any landscape. The street ablaze with coffee shops, pizzerias, bistros, all staffed with non-Irish. You’d be lucky to hear English, never mind a hint of a brogue. Holding some sort of anchor was McDonagh’s, the place for fish and chips. Always packed. Get a hint of sun and people would be sprawled as far as Jury’s. If I want real fish and chips, I go to
Conlon’s, handily situated opposite Keohane’s bookshop. Another family business. Take a window seat in Conlon’s, order up a mess of chowder, watch the books across the way. Last time I was in, Martin Sheen was tucking into cod and chips. Nobody paid him a blind bit of notice. Despite
The West Wing
being de rigueur viewing for most of the city and all the young girls with renewed crushes on Rob Lowe.

Me, I liked Toby, the intense Jewish worrier. Stands to reason. When God was bestowing “Lighten Up “ on babies, he skipped me. Probably knew I was destined for the guards.

For the Spanish Arch, I strapped on the Walkman; Bono launched into “One”. Wanted to roar along with him. If U2 have had their day, where does that leave me?

The copy of
Tales of Ordinary Madness
was published by City Lights and beautifully produced. The feel, bind, print are all part of the value. Magical photo of Bukowski on the cover, smoking a cheroot, his face looking destroyed, but in an interesting fashion. You don’t think ruined; you think lived to the burn. I got an espresso takeaway and sat on the steps, a Thai restaurant to my rear. How Irish is that?

Began to read. Bono had given way to Johnny Duhan’s
Flame,
his most intense, personal album. Not easy listening.

I glanced back at Quay Street. Teeming with tourists and not noon yet. How the city had changed. When I was a child, this was one of the most depressed and depressive areas. Renowned for two things: a pawnshop and the Kasbah.

A man went drinking on Saturday, in his best suit; Monday, the suit went into the pawn. Depending on the rent man, it stayed a few days or a month.

The Kasbah had its own glory. Beyond a dive, it was run by Nora Crubs, and you did not fuck with her.

Ever.

When the pubs closed, you knocked at the Kasbah. Admittance depended purely on whim. Once inside, you could have a drink, the whole point of the exercise. What you also got was a plate of pigs’ trotters, the aforementioned “Crubeens”. The taste was primarily of salt. There’s a lot to be said for salt.

It was a favourite spot of the guards, big country lads who always called for seconds. In these days of multicultural population, I don’t think the non-Europeans would have appreciated the menu.

A shadow fell. I looked up to see a ban garda. She said,

“You’ll have to move along, sir.”

Before I could protest, she broke into a smile. I recognised the girl from our encounter in McSwiggan’s. Reached for the name, said,

“Ridge . . . right?”

Sigh, then,

“I told you, it’s Nic an lomaire. We don’t do English.”

“Like I give a fuck.”

The expletive rocked her. She rallied, said,

“I could do you for offensive language.”

“Go for it.”

She looked round, then,

“I need to talk to you.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Ridge.”

“It’s important. . . I’ll buy you drink.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“Brennan’s Yard?”

Hesitation, then,

“Isn’t that dear?”

“You mean expensive? Yeah . . . so I hear.”

“All right . . . tomorrow night . . . half eight?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I better go. I don’t want to be seen talking to you.”

She turned to go, and I said,

“Ridge!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t wear the uniform.”

I was watching the England—Greece World Cup qualifier. Beckham as captain had just scored the most amazing goal. With Schole’s previous one, it was a Greek goodbye. The English commentator had gone ballistic. Even the Mohawk hair-style of Beckham was nearly forgiven. The phone rang. I said,

“Yeah.”

One eye on the television.

“Hey, big boy.”

“Hello, Kirsten.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching football.”

“Want to play with me?”

I sighed. Not in my mother’s class but heartfelt, said,

“Not really.”

“Aw, come on, Jack, you’re no fun.”

“I am invited to a party though.”

“Oh, I do love to party.”

“Meet you here in an hour.”

“I’m counting the minutes.”

Click.

Turned the telly off. Had a tepid shower, did some ‘ludes and surveyed my vast wardrobe. Figured white shirt, jeans and
sweater; maybe wear the sweater over my shoulder, hanging loose. If I’d shades, I could perch them on my head and be the total asshole. No, the forecast was rain . . . a real surprise . . . so dug out my garda all-weather coat. Unlike me, it improved with age. Turned the collar up . . . get that edge. Checked the mirror and realized, I’d become my father.

When did that happen?

I took out the Heckler & Koch and smelled the barrel. You’d know it had been fired recently. I wrapped it in oilcloth, got on my knees and stashed it between the springs of the mat-tress. If Janet got round to that level of cleaning, she’d get the land of her life.

Back to the wardrobe, I took out the GHB, the liquid E I’d got from Stewart, the drug dealer. He’d been adamant about the correct dosage. If your evening includes a possible husband killer and a gay party, then you need all the help available. I put it in my pocket.

Took the stairs and hung around the lobby.

A yellow Datsun pulled up, the door opened, and I saw a long nyloned leg. If Kirsten had a shorter skirt, she’d have been arrested. It was made of shiny PVC, and she’d a sleeveless halter top. In red. Her hair was tousled. I’m fond of that word. Suggests bed and heavy to heavier sex. Mrs Bailey was at reception. She said,

“The word hussy springs to mind.”

That is not a word I’m fond of. I stepped outside, and Kirsten did a pirouette, asked,

“Like it?”

“It’s hard to miss.”

Two young lads passing went,

“Jesus.”

She gave them a huge smile. I said,

“I’m not travelling in a yellow car.”

“Is it too much?”

“Doesn’t accessorise.”

“It’s a rental. We’ll walk.”

She linked my arm, and her perfume did giddy things to my head. She said,

“Paris.”

“What?”

“My scent.”

“You’re a mind-reader now?”

“Only the dirty ones.”

As we drew near Terence’s place, she stopped, said,

“Hold on a goddamn minute.”

“Yeah?”

“Terence lives this way”

“It’s his party, he’ll cry if he wants to.”

She glared, said,

“You’re bringing me to a party given by that Nancy boy?”

“He said it was a seventies theme. You seem a seventies kind of girl. Was I wrong?”

She examined me closely, asked,

“What are you on?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Taylor, I know the score. It’s not coke; you don’t have the motor mouth. Something softer . . . double valium?”

“Quaaludes.”

She was delighted, near screamed,

“They’re still making them! Shit, where’s my Eagles albums?”

We had reached Terry’s place on Merchant’s Road, another dead-end street of my youth, now a line of flash apartments and businesses like cosmetic surgery. His building was constructed from that fine Connemara granite. Hewn out of the stubborn
ground to become a facade for the new rich. I rang the bell and we were buzzed through. Kirsten said,

“I can’t believe I’m going to this little prick’s party.”

“I didn’t think women used that word.”

“How else do you think we stay amused?”

The party had spilled out into the corridor, and yes, that seventies theme was evident. Flares, nay elephant flares, stacked heels, crushed velvet jackets and big hair. On both sexes. The music sounded suspiciously like “Ballroom Blitz”.

I wish I didn’t know that.

Pushed our way through as Kirsten said,

“Your era evidently.”

Someone handed me a joint and I took a hit, offered it to Kirsten, who said,

“I don’t do strange spittle, at least not with an audience.”

Terence appeared. Tight yellow shirt and skintight yellow flares with a wide red belt. I said,

“He matches your car.”

Sweat was pouring from his headband. Big smile till he saw my “date”, then,

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

I offered the spliff, said,

“Chill, man.”

A Spaniard in his twenties, impossibly good looking, came up, took Terence’s hand, said,

“I am Geraldo.”

“Like Gerald?”

“Sí.”

I think he’d served me coffee on Quay Street. He was wearing a black silk shirt and pants to match and a huge gold chain round his neck. Now that you could have taken to the pawn, got them excited.

Gerald extended his arms, said,

“The wet bar is in the corner.”

Terence stomped off, saying,

“I’ll see you later, Taylor.”

I turned to Kirsten, said,

“He didn’t call you Mum.”

The barman I recognised from O’Neachtain’s. He leaned over, whispered,

“I’m not gay.”

“Did I say a word?”

“No . . . but. . .”

He indicated the same sex couples, already partying down, said,

“I wouldn’t want you to think . . . ”

“I think we’d like a drink.”

“Gotcha . . . for the lady?”

“Scotch rocks. Make it two.”

He did.

The music was now Gary Glitter: “Do You Want to Be in My Gang?”

Kirsten said,

“They play Village People and I’m, like, outa here.”

I laughed, and she said,

“A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, stars, horses and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the Uneaments of his own face.”

She stopped, knocked back the scotch like a docker. Having seen a lot of the docks recently, I knew. I said,

“Impressive.”

“It’s by Jorge Luis Borges . . .
El Hacedor.”

“You should run it by Geraldo.”

“Please, he couldn’t spell dick, no pun intended.”

I thought of Jeff and his Dylan piece and wondered why people were memorising such odd stuff, asked,

“And what, you learnt that piece by heart? Why?”

“No choice.”

“They’re teaching Borges now?”

Gave me a cool, slow, languid look. The scotch had already hit her, giving her sensuality, always simmering, a blatant edge. She said,