The Magdalen Martyrs (19 page)

I had to ask, so,

“Were you surprised he . . . did what he did?”

“Killed himself?”

“Yes.”

“I was shocked, but I don’t know if I was totally surprised. He was a man who needed to passionately believe in something. You probably don’t understand that.”

I held the empty glass, asked,

“You think I have no beliefs?”

“Alcohol. . . that’s all you have.”

“Nice. You’ll go far in the force; they appreciate thickness.”

“Uncle Brendan respected you and seemed to like you.”

“Which you don’t.”

“I hate waste.”

“Jesus, you’re some ball-buster.”

“If you’re going to fumble around in the Magdalen case, I felt you should at least know what’s going on.”

“Thanks.”

She stood up, said,

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Right.”

She placed a card on the table, said,

“My phone numbers, home and mobile. If there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You could order me a pint as you leave.”

“Order it yourself.”

And she was gone.

I lit a cig and muttered,

“Oh, fuck.”

I knew I had a whole mess of figuring out to do, but I couldn’t get my mind in gear. Her revelations had sucker-punched me. Stood up and thought,

“I’m right beside Sweeney’s now.”

The docks were out the door and turn right. You could hear the seagulls with that shrill sound of annoyance. Bill’s local was that near. What was I going to do . . . or say to him?

No idea.

Fr Malachy was on the path, sucking on a cig. I said,

“The sodality is a no smoking zone?”

“Some of us respect the feelings of others.”

I took a long look at him till he snapped,

“What?”

“You’d have made a fine guard.”

“Better than you anyway.”

“No, really, you have the cut of them.”

“God called first.”

I began to move away, said,

“I’m not certain of much, but I’m convinced it wasn’t God.”

Whatever he shouted after me, I didn’t hear it. Nothing up-lifting anyway Your life is in some bizarre state when priests are throwing abuse at you on the street.

“Too harsh a push, to do this stuff alone.”

K.B.

Sweeney’s was closed. No sign of any activity. A guy was passing,
and I asked him what had happened. He said,

“Sold. Just like everything else in the town. They’ll have luxury apartments up in no time. That’s what we need, more frigging apartments.”

The books arrived from Charlie Byrne’s, an eclectic mix of poetry, crime, philosophy, biography. Vinny had managed to mostly obtain hardbacks. There’s a world of difference between them and paperbacks. The only merit I’ve ever found in the latter is the price. Among the poets were Rilke, Coleridge, Lowell, Yeats. The crime had the foundation of Thompson, Cain, Chandler, Derek Raymond. I didn’t pay much attention to the philosophers, simply stacked them against the wall. My frame of mind could hardly register titles, let alone content. Biography had a fine mix: Fitzgerald, Graham Greene, Rupert Graves, Branson.

Branson!

I slung that. I could see the smile on Vinny’s face. Knew it would knock a rise out of me. A knock on the door. I said,

“Yeah?”

Janet came in, looking even more fragile than ever. She asked,

“Do you need any help in arranging your books?”

“No, I enjoy the job.”

She peered at the various stacks, said,

“You’re a holy terror for reading.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Will you read them all?”

“I sure hope so.”

“I’m reading a book.”

“Are you . . . that’s good . . . would I know it?”

“A life of Matt Talbot.”

“Oh.”

I thought,

“Jesus, him again.”

A light in her eyes as she said,

“He’d been a martyr to the drink. When he stopped, he used to scourge himself.”

I nearly said,

“I’ve been fairly scourged myself.”

A hesitancy in her expression, then,

“I could lend it to you.”

I indicated the books, said,

“Maybe not right now, but hey . . . ”

I moved across the room, retrieved the discarded volume, said,

“This is for you.”

She stared at the cover, said,

“Richard Branson.”

“Another remarkable man.”

She was unsure and who could blame her? She said,

“My husband might read it.”

“Terrific.”

“Thank you, Mr Taylor.”

When she’d gone, I surveyed my library. Definitely improved the room. Most of all, what they gave me was reassurance. I put on my second new suit and felt I was halfway to being a citizen. Outside, a light drizzle was coming down. In Galway, that’s almost a fine day. Decided not to go back for my all-weather coat. My plan was to find Bill Cassell and revisit Rita Monroe.

I was throwing this around in my mind as I walked up Eglington Street. Nearing the chemist, I heard shouting. A man was roaring at his children. He was over six foot, broad, and with a face suffused with rage. I don’t know what the kids had done, but they were clearly now in the grip of total terror. They couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. As I neared, the man leaned down and began to lash the boy across the face. The boy’s sister screamed,

“Daddy . . . Daddy . . . don’t.”

He smacked her on the head. I said,

“Hey.”

He turned, hand raised again, said,

“Fuck off.”

I looked round. People were staring. The man’s hand began its descent. I grabbed his arm and he turned, tried to head-butt me. That’s the first thing you learn as a guard on the street. At Templemore you hear about it; on the street, you learn how to fend it.

I stepped to the side and said,

“Take it easy.”

He didn’t seem drunk. That would have been simple to quell. His eyes were steady but aglow with meanness. I’d seen their type and knew that reasoning was out of the question. Brutality was their currency. I moved back, and he gave a small smile, said,

“I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

Rushed me. I swung low with my right, caught him solid in the stomach. Could have left it at that; he wasn’t going to be roaring any more. A suspended moment, as there has been throughout my life, when I could have pulled back from the recklessness that has blasted through my existence. Think I saw the little girl’s face, the fear he had put there, but it wasn’t just that. He was a bully, and I was sick of them.

Took a step, then, leaning into it with my shoulder and all my weight, I launched with my left hand. The force hit him under the chin, up off his feet, sent him crashing through the plate glass window of the chemist. The people gathered gave a collective “Ah”.

They say there are two types of people in jail. The first adapt well, control the cigarette trade, prey on the weak and thrive on the petty rituals. The second are totally unable to adapt. Are wounded and hunted from their first moment.

And the one sure person who should never go to jail is a policeman.

Both of the above are higher on the food chain than a dis-graced cop. It’s payback time for the inmates and complete contempt from the wardens.

Within minutes of my lashing out, two squad cars arrived and an ambulance. Guards grabbed me, bundled me into the back of the car. I glanced at my hand, bruising already spreading across the knuckles. We didn’t leave then. No, the guards took statements. People stared in at me, a mix of excitement and cruelty on their faces. Did not bode well for what they were relating.

What I most remember of the scene, though, is the face of the little girl. Backlit by the broken window, she appeared to be
forgotten in the turmoil. She stared at me with huge eyes, her thumb in her mouth. Her image is burned on my soul. If I had to describe her expression, I can only say it was pure hatred. I can’t blame the father for that. I was taken to the barracks, charged and led to a cell. It had two bunks. A man, sleeping or unconscious, occupied one; I sat on mine, tried to catch my breath. The suit had a tear in the sleeve and already appeared as if someone had slept in it. A fatigue hit me, but I didn’t want to sleep. Jesus, to nap and then come to in a cell . . . I stood and moved to the window. Through the bars, I could see a bare wall. I’d taken two tranquillizers that morning, their effect long dissipated.

Tremors ran up my chest, turned, ran down my arms. Tried to identify a sound I was hearing. Oh God, the grinding of my teeth. If I ever got out, I’d have a bath in liquid E. An hour passed, and I paced back and forth. The man in the other bunk ranted in his sleep, loud streams of obscenities, punctuated by sighs. Hard to say which was worse. At one stage, he began to vomit, and I turned him to prevent his suffocating. He clawed at my face. When I had him turned, I sank on the bed in near exhaustion. The smell of raw alcohol in the air was nearly overpowering. I felt it gag in my mouth. It being that rare of rarest days, not a drop had I taken. More time passed and the cell began to darken. Then the lights flicked and bathed us in harsh un-yielding light. I paced anew. A guard appeared, began to unlock the gate, said,

“Come on, you’re wanted.”

As I moved, he warned,

“No funny business . . . hear?”

I nodded.

He led me to an interview room and left, locking the door. There was a metal table, two chairs and a seriously misshapen
ashtray. When I’d been charged, the contents of my pockets had been emptied, put in an envelope. I’d have murdered for a cigarette and caused untold mayhem for a pill, not to mention a double scotch. I sat on a hard chair, tried not to consider my situation. The door opened and Clancy breezed in. A shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He seemed elated, said,

“Well, well, well.”

“That’s a neat line. You should jot it down, trot it out at one of those golf club functions.”

His uniform was pressed to perfection. If anything, his grin widened. He said,

“Didn’t I tell you, boyo, one of these days you’d fuck up big time and I’d have you.”

“I don’t suppose due process applies.”

He cupped his hand to one ear, asked,

“What’s that, boyo. Speak up . . . don’t worry about shouting; there isn’t a soul will disturb us.”

“Don’t I get a solicitor, a phone call?”

He loved that, answered in an awful parody of an American accent,

“As the Yanks say, ‘Who you gonna call?’ ”

I waited, as if I’d any choice. He said,

“The fellah you put through the window, you couldn’t have picked a worse one.”

“I wasn’t exactly checking references.”

Big guffaw. He truly did seem to be having himself a time, said,

“You’re priceless, Jack. But yer man, the window fellah, guess who he is.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Ah, go on, guess.”

“I could care less.”

His hand slammed down on the table.

“Begin to care. He’s one of the top businessmen in the town. He was one of the ‘Man of the Year’ nominations.”

My turn for a half smile, answered,

“I can see where he might have been.”

Now he sat. The table between us, his eyes bored into mine. He said,

“You won’t like prison, Jack.”

“I’d say you’re right.”

“More to the point, prison won’t like you. Especially when they hear you were a guard.”

“No doubt you’ll spread the word.”

“Story like that, Jack, gets round like wildfire.”

I didn’t answer. When they come to gloat, it’s as well to let them rip, get it done. He added,

“They’ll be lining up for you, Jack, know what I mean?”

He stood, asked,

“You’ve enough tea, cigarettes . . . have you?”

He let his eyes sweep the empty table, said, “And no doubt you’ve already made a connection for your drug habit. They say you can score almost anything in prison. I have to go, a round of golf before dinner.”

He banged on the door, looked back at me, said, “I’d like to throw you some lifeline, some words of comfort in your darkest hour.”

I met his eyes, said,

“On account of how we were friends once?”

“Alas, all I can offer is . . . if you think it’s bad now, it’s going to get much worse.”

The door opened and he was gone. I was taken back to my cell. The guy in the other bunk was snoring peacefully. Maybe the worst was over for him. A few hours later, a sergeant
appeared in the corridor. He was in his fifties, his bad fifties. Moving over to the cell, he said,