The Magdalen Martyrs (6 page)

He took a deep breath, and I offered to buy him a pint. He said yes but not to expect any more talk; that was his week’s ration. I left, visualising the dead girls that were never claimed.

I was heading towards the hotel wThen a BMW pulled up. A man got out, said,

“Jack Taylor?”

He was definitely the largest man I’d ever seen. At garda
training at Templemore, I’d seen some of the biggest the country can produce. The midlands in particular yielded men who’d give new meaning to the term massive. Oddly enough, they made lousy cops. This guy towered above me. His head was bald, adding to his menace. Dressed in a white tracksuit, he eyed me with derision. What else could I reply but,

“Who’s asking?”

He stretched out his hand and literally flung me into the car, then crowded in beside me. Said,

“Bill would like a word.”

With his bulk, there wasn’t a whole lot of room. I was jammed up against him, said,

“I hope you showered.”

“Shut your mouth.”

I did.

They took me to Sweeney’s. Ominously, not a customer in the pub. The giant pushed me ahead, said,

“Bill’s in the cellar.”

Bill was wearing a boiler suit, said,

“Don’t want to get my clothes dirty.”

A single hard chair in the middle, surrounded by barrels; the smell of yeast was overpowering. I must have made a face, as Bill said,

“I’d have thought it was mother’s milk to you.”

“You’d have thought wrong.”

He gave a tight smile, said,

“Always the mouth, Jack; maybe we can do something about that. Sit down.”

“No, thanks.”

The giant grabbed my shoulders, shoved me down, tied my hands and put a blindfold on me. Bill said,

“Casey doesn’t like you, Jack.”

“Gee . . . that’s worrying.”

I got a wallop to my left ear. It hurt like a bastard. Bill said,

“Excuse the dramatics, but you don’t want to actually see Nev. He’s kind of shy. He’s a huge fan of
The Deer Hunter
and he likes to play, so I’ll talk you through this.”

I could smell Juicy Fruit, and the strength of the scent made me want to gag. I heard a gun being cocked, and Bill said,

“You owe me twice,Jack.”

“I thought we were working on that.”

“But you need to focus, Jack. You’re not paying attention. Nev is holding an old revolver ‘cause he’s an old fashioned guy, and he’s put two bullets in there and yes, that sound you hear is him spinning the barrel. OK, folks, here we go; let’s play.”

The sound of the hammer hitting an empty chamber put the fear of God into me, and I thought I’d pass out. Bill said,

“Gee, lucky.”

Sweat rolled into my eyes. I realised I’d bitten my tongue, could taste blood in my mouth. The gun was withdrawn, and Bill said,

“Halfway there, but to hell or salvation? How you doing, Jack?”

I wasn’t doing too good.

I said,

“Fuck you, Bill.”

“You want me to spin or just go for it?”

The muzzle against my head again, the giant sniggering. I swear he was grinning. Nev thumbed the hammer, fired.

Click on empty.

A tremor shook my whole body. I hadn’t vented my bowels but it was close. My teeth were chattering. Bill said,

“Jeez, talk about luck.”

I couldn’t find my voice and he added,

“I think we’ve got you focused. Get results real soon, Jack.”

And I heard him walk away, Nev talking quietly with him as they went. The giant tilted my chair, and I went face down on the stone floor. Water, beer and God knows what else had pooled together. He untied my hands, pulled the blindfold roughly and spat; then he, too, walked to the stairs.

I pushed myself up and another spasm hit. I leaned against a keg, trying to still my hammering heart. Finally, I moved and I slowly climbed up the stairs. The bar was hopping, almost all the space occupied. No sign of Bill, Nev or the giant. Black dots danced before my eyes and I pushed forward, shouted,

“Large Jameson.”

N o response. I edged in past a docker who gave rne the look. Whatever he saw in my face, he decided to give me room. The barman continued to ignore me. I shouted,

“Gimme a bloody Jameson.”

He stopped, grinned, said,

“You had your shots; now you’re barred.”

Guffaws from the crowd. I slunk out of there with my soul in ribbons. Wouldn’t you know, the weather had picked up, an almost bright sun, high in the sky. A man passing, said,

“Isn’t it great to be alive?”

I had no answer. Least none that didn’t require fisticuffs.

Pure rage can operate on either of two levels. There’s the hot, smouldering, all-encompassing kind that instantly lashes out. Seeking immediate annihilation. There’s the second that comes from a colder place. Fermented in ice, it withdraws upon itself, feeding on quiet ferocity for a suitable occasion. This is the deadliest.

Most of my battered life, I’d been afflicted with the second, and with dire consequences. As I watched the sun bounce off the water, I submerged in this. The claws of patience sucking
deep into my psyche felt as dangerous as I’d ever felt.

Such times, to stir the cauldron, my mind seizes on a mantra to keep the madness corralled. A mental front to help me function as the fires are built within. There is never rhyme or reason to the chant. My subconscious throws up some non-related barrier to maintain my mobility. When I’d been discharged from the guards, I’d had one session with a psychiatrist and outlined the above.

He said,

“You’re bordering on pathological psychosis.”

I’d stared at him for full five minutes, then answered,

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

He’d offered a course of tranquillizers, and to that I’d given him my police smile. The one that says,

“Watch your back.”

As I turned from the docks and walked towards Merchant’s Road, the mantra began.

Hannibal Lector’s words to Clarice Starling in the dungeon for the criminally insane:

You are an ambitious, hustling little ruhe. Your eyes shine like cheap shoes but you have some taste, a little taste.

Over and over, those words played, and I was back at the hotel before I realised. A homeless person approached, and I mechanically handed over some money. He wasn’t pleased, asked,

“That’s all you got?”

I turned to him, touched his shoulder, said,

“I’ve some taste, a little taste.”

He took off like that bat out of Meatloaf’s hell.

_______

In my room, I’d lain on the bed, fully clothed, and shut my eyes. Not sleep or even a close approximation but a trancelike state that pulled me down to an area of nonconsciousness. Teetering on catatonia, I remained thus till darkness fell.

When I came to, the fear had fallen away. I acknowledged a hard granite-like lump lodged beside my heart and said,

“The show must go on.”

“Olivia leaned forward in her turn and patted his thigh affectionately.
‘You know what we have in common, sweetheart? We’re both
nonentities. Nonentities in reckless pursuit of nonentity.’ ”

A.
Alvarez,
Hunt

I was sitting on the bed, trying to read, couldn’t concentrate,
so put it aside.

I headed for Nestor’s. The sentry was in position, gave me a look and said,

“Watch out.”

He did an unheard of thing. He actually moved stools, away from me. I could only guess at how hostile was the vibe I was transmitting. Jeff said,

“How’s it going, Jack?”

His expression said,

“I’m not sure I want the answer.”

I gave a slow smile, said,

“Couldn’t be better. Can I get something?”

“Sure . . . coffee OK?”

“No . . . it’s not, . . . I’d like a large Jameson.”

He looked round as if help was available. It wasn’t. He asked,

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Did I miss something, Jeff? I could have sworn I asked for a drink, not your opinion.”

He wiped at his mouth, then,

“Jack, I can’t.”

I stared into his eyes, took my time, said,

“You’re refusing to serve me?”

“C’mon, Jack, I’m your friend. You don’t want to do this.”

“How on earth would you know what I want to do? If I re-call, when you went on the piss, I didn’t get righteous on you.”

I turned to leave, and he called,

“Jack, wait up, Cathy has some news for you.”

I shouted over my shoulder.

“I have news for Cathy: I don’t give a fuck.”

Outside, I gulped air, trying to calm my adrenaline, muttered,

“Great, you’ve just hurt your best friends. How smart was that?”

The off-licence was jammed with under-age drinkers. Cider, vodka and Red Bull were definitely the drug of choice. The guy behind the counter was in his bad thirties. Whatever bitter pill he’d had to swallow, it was still choking him. Without looking at me, he grunted,

“What?”

“A bit of civility for openers.”

His head came up, and he asked,

“What?”

“Bottle of Jameson.”

I was going to add,

“Quickly.”

But let it slide.

As he wrapped, he said,

“You think I should ask for ID?”

I knew he meant the line of teenagers, but before I could reply, he said,

“If I refuse, I get my windows smashed.”

I gave him the money and said,

“The guards can shut you down.”

“Like they give a toss.”

I was walking along the bottom of Eyre Square. Under a street lamp, a woman in a shawl asked,

“Some change, mister?”

She was one of those Mediterranean gypsies who stalked the fast food joints. Her mouth was a riot of gold teeth. The light threw a malevolent shape to her silhouette. I thought,

“What the hell?”

And reached in my pocket. Didn’t have a single coin. Had left my change on the counter. I said,

“Sorry, I’m out.”

“Give me something.”

“I told you, I’m tapped.”

She eyed the brown bag, pointed, and I said,

“Dream on.”

I moved past her and she hissed. I turned back. She was literally standing on my shadow. Throwing her head back, she drew saliva from the core of her being, spat on that dark shape, said,

“You will always break bread alone.”

I wanted to break her neck, but she moved fast away. I am no more superstitious than your average Irish guilt-ridden citizen. Using my shoe, I tried to erase the stain her spittle had left on the pavement. Nearly dropped the bottle, muttered,

“Now that would be cursed.”

_______

Luc Sante in
Low Life
wrote:

The night is the corridor of history, not the history of famous people or great events, but that of the marginal, the ignored, the suppressed, the unacknowledged; the history of vice, of fear, of confusion, of error, of want, the history of intoxication, of vain-glory, of delusion, of dissipation, of delirium. It strips off the city’s veneer of progress and modernity and civilization and reveals the wilderness.

I said “Amen” to that.

Outside the hotel, I noticed a very impressive car. An elderly man was staring at it. He said,

“That’s an S-type Jaguar.”

“Is it yours?”

“No such luck.”

His eyes were shining as they took in the sleek black body. He said,

“The thing is, with all the power and luxury of a 3-litre V65-type at your disposal, even your business miles are positively a pleasure.”

He sounded like a commercial. I said,

“You sound like a commercial.”

He gave a shy smile, said,

“That baby doesn’t need a commercial.”

I made to move by and he said,

“Do you know how much that costs?”

“A lot, I should imagine.”

I could almost see the cash register in his eyes. He said,

“You’d need half a decent Lotto.”

I let out a low whistle, said,

“That’s got to be a lot.”