She gave a tiny whisper of breath on a Thursday morning and gave it up. I often hear that slight breath, like a sigh. I didn’t cry and I’m not crying now.
I’m glad she’s dead.
Sitting now in a New York bar, a large drink in my hand, I remembered how often she’d implored me,
“Promise me you won’t drink, Stephen.”
Yeah, right.
There’s a line in The Colossus Of New York: A City in 13 Parts, by Colson Whitehead, “Maybe we become New Yorkers the day we realize that New York will go on without us.” I asked myself... if maybe Tommy is finally buried the day I realize life goes on without him? As they’d say back home, perish the thought.
The barman asked,
“Hit you again?”
And I nodded. Memory has a hold like that on you, you better have hold of something equally lethal, a gun or a bottle. The barman gave me a friendly smile, asked,
“On vacation?”
“No.”
Shut him down. I wanted a new friend, I wasn’t going to get one in a bar. I was running a tab and he looked like he wanted to say something but turned, went off to do bar stuff.
The evening Tommy said,
“I’m going to be gone for a bit.”
I made light of it, tried,
“Bro, you’ve been gone for years.”
Didn’t fly.
And he didn’t smile. We were in a new apartment I’d rented, along by the canal. On the top floor, you looked out, you could see the ducks. He said,
“I’m serious.”
Like a horse’s ass, I wouldn’t go with, persisted,
“Tommy, serious isn’t what you do, that’s my gig, remember?”
I was beginning to irritate him and myself, so added,
“You mean it?”
“Yeah, I’m in a bit of bother, it’s best if I go out of town, let the heat ebb.”
Ebb.
I wanted to say I’d go with him, but I’d just met Siobhan, my father was alone and hurting and... and... I didn’t want to go, said,
“Is it money, what?”
He waved his hand, dismissive, went,
“It’s shit is what it is, I need to be on my own, see how I do.”
He’d do terrible; even with me riding shotgun, he didn’t do so well. Veered from flush to broke and all stops in between. His drug intake was upped alarmingly, from Valium (daily basis) through speed to evenings on coke. It showed. His face was gaunt, he’d lost a ton of weight, and his nerves, his nerves were fucked.
I’d seen him low many times, it was what Tommy did, not so much hit bottom as bounce off it, then somehow gouge back to a level of... if not normality, then maintenance. But now, his whole spirit seemed crushed, I had to jack up his tyres, tried the old bullshit, near sang,
“Hey, bro, we’re buddies right?... semper fi and all that marine gung ho. We’re the O.K. Corral, backs against the fence, still firing.”
He shook his head, asked,
“You remember a song, old song... had a line... getting mighty tired of southern comfort...?”
Took me a moment, well longer, then, I finished the line:
“Go north.”
He smiled sadly, then,
“You always know, don’t you Steve, always?”
The penny dropped, he was going over the border. For our generation, like the ones who went before, going north meant only one thing.
Deep shit.
“Waiting for the Light to Turn Green.”
Tommy was gone for nine months. I got intermittent calls that told me little, save he was wired, I asked if I could come see him but no way. Whenever I tried to probe, he’d cut the connection. A guy I knew had set up a music shop, a small operation but he needed assistance. I wasn’t doing a whole lot, so said I’d help out. Began with two days a week then got interested and ended up doing six, getting a real buzz. I was seeing Siobhan regularly and we were comfortable, easy round each other. My life settled into a routine that was the signal for me to glance towards the abyss.
Tommy returned, bringing if not hell with him, then certainly its embodiment.
Stapleton.
I was at home, seven in the evening, watching The Simpsons, Siobhan asked,
“Why do guys love Homer?”
You need to ask?
The phone went, I picked up, heard,
“I’m back.”
“Tommy! That’s great, come round, we’ll—”
“I’m not alone.”
I immediately jumped to a conclusion, the wrong one, went,
“Great, bring her round.”
A pause, and I had to go,
“Tommy, you still there?”
“It’s not a woman, it’s a... a guy, a fellah I’ve been working with.”
His tone was flat and I knew there was something amiss, said,
“Well, okay, we can do men, Siobhan and I will come meet you guys, where you at?”
“Garavan’s.”
One of the great old unchanged pubs.
“Right, say half an hour.”
“Steve...”
“Yeah?”
“Come alone.”
Click.
I relayed the conversation to Siobhan and she said,
“That’s odd.”
Which turned out to be some understatement. I put on a leather jacket I’d bought in New York, in the East Village. It looked beat up, shit it was beat up, leather fraying on the collar. Seemed appropriate. I kissed Siobhan, like I meant it, said,
“I won’t be late.”
She fixed the collar, licked her hand, patted down my hair, said,
“I’ve a bad feeling about this.”
“It’ll be fine.”
I was wrong.
They were in the snug. Garavan’s is one of the very few establishments that hasn’t moved on, time has stood still, thank Christ. Among its many blessings no muzak is one of the top. Tommy looked shagged, he’d grown his hair, it looked lank and, yeah, dirty. His weight had gone way down and his cheekbones bulged against the skin. He was wearing a combat jacket, the pockets overflowing. Pints of Guinness, shorts, lined the table. You’d have thought party save for the atmosphere. Heavy and lethal.
The man beside Tommy was also in a combat jacket. Older, in his fifties, with a shaved head. The light bounced off it, sending dark illumination. Sallow skin with deep ridges down his cheeks. Lots of lines round the eyes but you’d never call them laughter lines. A nose that’d been broken more than once, and oddly, a full sensual mouth. A livid scar across his forehead.
He had brown eyes with the oddest aspect, as if he were sleepy, one beat from closing down. They carried no message at all and that was worrying. Tommy said,
“Steve.”
I waited, expecting him to stand, get a hug. Wasn’t happening. He added without looking at him,
“This is Stapleton.”
I put out my hand and it hung there, no one rushed to hold it, I let it fall to my side, Tommy said,
“We got you a pint.”
Then the worst, he giggled. Not a suppressed laughter or god forbid, even what writers call a chuckle, no, a fucking giggle. Like some ten-year-old schoolgirl and said,
“Fuck, we got you lots of pints.”
I said,
“Hey, maybe the timing’s off, I’ll hook up with you tomorrow.”
Stapleton said,
“Don’t be a bollocks, sit down.”
An order.
I looked at him, he seemed to be enjoying a private joke, so I asked,
“Was I talking to you?”
Tommy let out a deep breath, went,
“Whoops, it’s not going well.”
Stapleton stared at me, no discernible change in his eyes, said,
“You’re the guy took the king’s shilling.”
There it was.
Hundreds of years of history in one line. The insult used to describe a turncoat, an Irishman who enlisted in the British army. All the very worst of our past was contained there, informers, traitors, betrayal.