Tommy signalled for another round, the band had launched into “I Never Will Marry” as if they knew the story. One of those odd moments of serendipity. Tommy said,
“There’s a point here and I’ll eventually make it. The guy, he loads his pockets with stones and the Wellingtons.”
Tommy’s on his feet now, moving his legs sluggishly, attempting to walk, the stones weighing him down, continues,
“The guy can hardly move but he manages to wade in the water, fighting the current, the fucker is determined, these Connemara men, they’re warriors, bro, and eventually, gets to where he’s under the water. Can you see it, Steve?”
“Jesus, not sure I want to.”
The drinks came, clouds rising from the hot glasses, brown sugar melting on the bottoms, black pints riding point. I gave the guy a bunch of notes, he’s staring at Tommy, who’s gasping for breath, the water in his mouth, strangling his lungs, his eyes closed, he says,
“And he’s standing on the bottom, weighed down but upright because of the stones and he drowns, facing out.”
Tommy opened his eyes, sweat on his forehead and I go,
“Some story.”
He selects a fresh pint, inspects the head, then takes a sip, says,
“He left a note.”
“Aw, come on!”
Tommy looks offended, then,
“It was in the paper. The guy said he wanted to be a sentinel, standing there forever, facing America.”
My mood was ebbing so I tried,
“Well, god knows, he was dressed for it.”
Tommy was staring at the ocean, said,
“He’s out there, looking to America, waiting.”
The band took a break, headed to the bar so I asked,
“Waiting for what?”
Tommy pulled his eyes back to me, was silent, then,
“Godot, fuck’s sakes, you don’t get it, do you?”
“What’s to get?”
He drained the pint, up, swallow, down, one motion, then,
“You need an explanation, it’s gone, forget it.”
End of the evening, the band, finished with Christy Moore’s “Ride On.” The girl sang it with such yearning, such loss that I felt a lump in my throat. We got outside, waiting for a cab, the night air hit us like a banshee, catapulting us into another level of intoxication. I pointed at the coast, said,
“You’re thinking of him, the sentinel, out there.”
And got that look from him, he was five years old again, he said,
“Fuck no, I’m thinking of fish and chips.”
Me, I’m Irish, I love music. I’m a huge fan of Springsteen. “Meeting Across the River,” I played that track for Tommy once, he goes,
“Shit, again.”
Three more times, he’s mouthing the lyrics, then says, his version of the line,
“Could be you’re carrying a mate.”
“... There’s a darkness on the edge of town.”
Stapleton had procured three Irish army uniforms, we were in a rented apartment in Salthill, at the rear of the building. You couldn’t see the bay. I asked Tommy,
“Why’d you get a room without a view, what’s that about?”
Tommy shrugged.
“Fucked if I know.”
Then I heard,
“I don’t do views.”
Stapleton had emerged from a bedroom, a characteristic of his, just appearing suddenly. The original stealth bomber. The uniforms lay on a couch, Stapleton said,
“Try one.”
He was dressed in black T-shirt, black combat trousers, bare feet, his arms were a riot of botched tattoos, as if the ink ran out. Prison jobs. I asked,
“And if it doesn’t fit, I’ll what, get it altered?”
He smiled, like he could be a fun guy, shoot the shit, asked,
“The Free State Army, you hear of them being commended for their tailoring?”
Northerners!
The Republic is always the Free State, lest you ever forget their agenda. I tried on the uniform, the tunic was tight and the trousers too long. He said,
“You’ll be armed, that’s what people focus on.”
I took it off and he added,
“Can’t wait to get out of it, you more comfortable with the British one?”
Tommy intervened:
“Whoa, guys, lighten up, we’ve a lot of stuff to cover.”
And to chill me, adds the line from the Springsteen song, changing it a bit:
“Gotta remember not to smile.”
We didn’t have a lot of stuff to cover, nor did we lighten up. The plan was almost beautiful in its simplicity. After we’d been through it a few times, Tommy asked,
“Seem okay to you, Steve?”
Stapleton said,
“It is okay.”
I looked over at the uniforms, said,
“I see Sergeant’s stripes, let me guess, it’s not Tommy and we can be certain it’s not me.”
Stapleton faced me, asked,
“You have a problem taking orders, son?”
I laughed out loud, echoed,
“Son, Jesus, what are you, my old man? My problem is taking orders from you.”
Tommy again:
“Steve, it’s cool, he’s done it lots of times.”
I waved a hand at him, said,
“Butt out.”
Stapleton began a series of flexing exercises, said,
“You and me, son, this job is done, we’ll have a wee chat, how does that sound?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Tommy produced a six-pack, asked,
“Who’s for a brew?”
No takers, so he had one himself, Stapleton asked,
“You know how to handle a SIG?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you’ll be carrying.”
And he strolled back to the bedroom. Tommy was on his second beer, said,
“He’s not so bad, Steve.”
I let it hover then.
“You really believe that?”
He opened another can, said,
“A few more of these, I’ll believe anything.”
Before I left, he said,
“I was watching The Simpsons last night.”
“So?”
“Bleeding Gums, the musician, was teaching Lisa to play the blues.”
“Wow, Tommy, the shitstorm we’re in, I’m glad you get to relax.”
He ignored my tone, he was talking to himself,
“Lisa says she doesn’t feel any better after playing.”
I was with Lisa on that note and Tommy says,
“Gums explains the blues isn’t about you feeling better, it’s about making others feel worse.”
I waited but that was it. I asked,
“That’s it, that’s the point?”
And he laughed, spluttering suds, goes,
“That’s the beauty, there is no point.”
He was tanked, mutilating the Springsteen line,
“Change your clothes ’cos we’re like, having us an encounter.”
I slammed the door on my way out.
Walking along the Salthill Promenade, rain was coming in over the bay and I turned my face into it. What was I hoping, some symbolic washing clean? Behind me was my best friend, guzzling beer at 11:30 in the morning, talking shite.
A paramilitary psycho, just itching to take me apart, bogus army uniforms thrown on a sofa.
Jesus.
All the years of laughter with Tommy, all flushed down the toilet. The oddest thing, I remembered what Patrick Moynihan said when John F. Kennedy was killed. A woman had said to him, We’ll never laugh again. He answered, Oh, we’ll laugh again, it’s just we’ll never be young again.
The light rain became a torrent.
Siobhan only ever got one look at Stapleton, said,
“He’s the devil.”
I warned Tommy,
“You keep him away from Siobhan, away from my home.”
It was two days later and he had his hair cut to the bone, should as the Irish say have taken years off him.