“Hits the spot.”
The falcon was in the corner, hooded and making contented sounds. I was learning to distinguish her vocabulary. Keefer listened, then said,
“There’s been an offer to buy Maeve.”
I’d named her after a nun, a loved wonderful friend who died on my watch.
I asked,
“How much?”
“Three grand.”
As Keefer did most of the bird’s care, I went,
“Up to you.”
He laughed, said,
“Not a fucking chance.”
I was well pleased.
I stood up, said,
“I have to head for town, see to my apartment.”
He nodded, said,
“Take the jeep, make a statement.”
I gave him a look, asked,
“What would that be?”
He thought about it, then,
“Bite me.”
State of the nation:
A hundred thousand patients were on trolleys/chairs in hospitals all over the country. The minister for health said, maybe borrowing from Game of Thrones,
“Winter is coming.”
Brexit continued to limp on, every day bringing new terms to the vocabulary.
Backstop.
Soft border.
Hard border.
The Irish rugby team defeated the All Blacks at the Aviva.
Mick McCarthy took over management of the Irish soccer team.
A small soccer club in Dublin had a fixture postponed due to the death of its star Spanish player; clubs nationwide wore black armbands, tributes poured in.
Two days later the Spanish player was alive and well, working in Galway.
The Blasphemy Act was repealed and, yes, that does sound as surreal as it is.
I parked off Eyre Square, and as I moved away, a car parking guy came running, demanding,
“How long do you intend to remain there?”
He was that lover-of-uniform type, a peaked official cap pulled at what he deemed a menacing angle. He was right up in my face. I asked,
“Is that a metaphysical question as in ‘on this earth’, or simply a can’t-mind-your-own-fucking-business one?”
Rocked him, but he rallied, said,
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
I gave him my best smile, said,
“I just did.”
He pulled out a notebook, the last refuge of the inadequate, said,
“I’ll report you.”
I looked at him, then wearied of the farce, said,
“Trust me, no one cares, no one.”
I went into Garavan’s and, thank Christ, nothing had changed. The barman said,
“Been a while.”
I nodded, ordered a pint and Jay, went into the snug. Was on the best side of both when a tall distinguished man entered. I say distinguished as he was wearing what used to be described as a frock coat, like a gunslinger, had a gleaming white shirt, red tie, and a mop of expensively groomed gray hair. He was in his fifties with narrow mean eyes.
He sat opposite me, declared,
“I am Benjamin J. Cullen.”
What was there to say? So I said nothing.
Didn’t faze him. He reached in his jacket, produced a long match with a red sulfur top, said,
“This is not a safety match.”
I said,
“Fascinating.”
This amused him. He said,
“I have followed your colorful exploits down the years and, no offense, but I think you have been fortunate rather than deductive.”
I thought that was mildly amusing, so went,
“Better lucky than smart.”
He was shaking his head, said,
“Oh, I don’t underestimate your, how should I put it...”
Pause.
“Sheer tenacity.”
I thought there were worse things and asked,
“Is all this meandering eventually going to reach a conclusion?”
He seemed to be weighing this, then said,
“Supposedly a miracle has occurred in our lovely city and I don’t want that sideshow to detract from the main event.”
His tone was completely serious, so I said,
“Lemme guess, you’re going to be the main attraction with whatever lunatic waves that brings.”
A flicker of rage in his eyes but brief. He composed himself, said,
“This is really a courtesy. I don’t seriously think of you as an adversary but I felt it was simply a touch of etiquette.”
He rolled the match in his fingers then placed it in front of me.
I said,
“I don’t want your damn match.”
He stood up, fixed his hair, said,
“No, keep it. Believe me, I have a whole lot more.”
The
First
Time
He
Hit
Me
He
Only
Broke
My
Nose
I was on the good side of the drink, the world isn’t so bad illusion. Of course, I knew it would fade and I’d be
A broken man in a broken country.
But for now, enjoy.
A woman approached, asked,
“Mr. Taylor?”
Lots of descriptions but mister, never.
The booze still clicking, I said in a soft tone,
“Whatever it is, whatever you need help with, I can’t, I won’t.”
Maybe a little harsher than intended.
She was in her early thirties, clothes that were clean but modest, her face with a defeated look — perhaps she’d once been pretty but life had demolished that piece by piece. I’d never like to say a woman was haggard.
She was.
She put an envelope on the table, said,
“It’s not much.”
I took a deep breath but before I could start, she went,
“I can tolerate my husband beating me but now he’s at my daughter. She’s six.”
The words,
“He’s at my daughter.”
Phew, the implications, I really, really didn’t want to hear this.
I said,
“Shoot him.”
Took her by storm, she muttered,
“Shoot?”
I needed another drink and fast. I emphasized,
“Kill the fucker. He won’t stop. The Guards, if they can be bothered, will issue a caution but he won’t stop. They never do.”
She pushed a thin envelope toward me, said,
“’Tis all the money I have.”
Her name was on the envelope, written in a beautiful style, almost Gothic script.
Renee Garvey.
I sighed. The child had nailed me. I said,
“I need only one thing.”
She perked up a little, hope rising, asked,
“What?”
“A hurley.”
I took a walk round the city, feeling off balance from my sojourn in the country. Bizarrely, I missed the falcon on my arm, the sound as she dived from the heights to hit my arm with that almighty thud.
Christ, that felt like life.
In the city, everyone glued to mobile phones, stress etched large, I felt suffocated. I went into Starbucks — shows my state of mind — ordered a double espresso, having run the obstacle course of the barista barraging me with questions, as to
Flavor.
Size, and, worse, asked my name.
Fuck.
I snapped, snarled,
“Look, a plain double espresso. I’m not here to freaking bond with you. Just the coffee and, you know, before Tuesday.”
He didn’t spit in the cup but he sure looked like he wanted to.