The name he uttered:
“Stapleton.”
I don’t do friends well.
It starts out okay but they soon tire of the drinking and my temper.
Stapleton seemed the exception.
As the Americans say, “He had my back.”
Until I realized he was slowly but surely planting a knife there.
We’d ended up on Nemo’s Pier, the scene of so many of my worst moments.
In the midst of a ferocious storm.
Not quite as fierce as the storm in my heart.
I threw him into the water, knowing he couldn’t swim, and despite the wind I thought I heard him scream.
My own scream was,
“Fuck you.”
7
The only difference between
A grave
And a rut
Is the dimension.
I was still reeling from the revelation of Stapleton’s son. Stapleton had been one of the best friends I’d ever had.
But
I ignored the old chestnut
... keep your enemies closer.
He was a force of malignant nature. His past included:
Paramilitary time,
British army,
Sundry mercenary black ops.
Or so it was rumored.
In Galway, he’d reincarnated himself as an artist.
If you want to pose as an artist,
Wannabe poet,
Author,
Galway is your nirvana.
All you have to do is declare yourself so,
Carry a copy of Joyce/Beckett/Heaney—
The more battered the copy, the more convincing—
And, best of all, you never have to read the fuckin’ things, just go
“Ah,”
Shake your head a lot,
Take deep breaths before answering a question,
And, most vital,
Scratch yourself
A lot.
Oh, a combat jacket and scuffed Docs add to the portrait.
And be on the dole as you avail yourself of all the arts council grants.
Attend the lit parties.
Network like a frenzied banshee.
Stapleton fooled me for a long time, I truly believed he was my mate.
Phew-oh.
Turned out to be one of the most cunning ice psychos I’d ever had the bad karma to meet. When I drowned him, I said with utter conviction,
“Good fuckin’ riddance.”
Meant it then, mean it now.
I stood outside Freeney’s, lost in the past. A guy passing said,
“Hey, Taylor, have you been to the new pub in Bohermore called Harry’s, like some Hemingway vibe, you think?”
All this dark remembrance needed some serious drink, so I went into Harry’s off Water Lane, a new boutique pub.
Yeah, God help us.
Translate as,
“Locals not welcome and we have fierce notions.”
In I went, ordered a hot one. The bar guy had a ponytail — clue one to hostility.
He asked in a beat above disdain,
“What will Sir have?”
Sir.
In fuckin’ Bohermore?
Seriously.
I said, in a measured tone,
“Large hot one, Guinness chaser.”
Pause.
Then,
“Will Sir require cloves?”
Fuck.
I snapped,
“If Sir requires cloves, Sir will be quick to mention it.”
Then dialing it back, I tried,
“Bitter out there.”
He near sneered.
“It is February.”
Gotcha.
I said,
“I didn’t know a reprimand was part of the service.”
Took my drinks, moved to a window, and no sooner than that,
A woman passing did a double take, came in.
Uh-oh.
She had been a showstopper in her day, maybe fifty now but a kind of classical beauty lingered as testament to her former glory. Grief or its neighbor had played hard with her features.
She asked,
“Mr. Taylor?”
“No,”
I said.
“But I am often mistaken for that reprobate.”
She asked,
“May I sit?”
Wouldn’t you fucking know it, the surly bar guy then decides to be affable, goes,
“Need a refill?”
‘Course, he could just have been mind-fuckin’.
The woman said, “You are Mr. Taylor.”
I looked at the woman, smiled, said,
“Busted.”
She allowed a minute smile but fleeting, said,
“I know it’s rude to bother people when they’re having some quiet time.”
“’Tis,”
I said.
“Rude.”
She wrung her hands, a gesture that pains my very heart, despair writ small. I noticed her nails were bitten to the inflamed quick, so fuck it, I asked,
“What’s the story?”
Thinking, Oasis, “Morning Glory.”
She began,
“My name is Amy Fadden. My daughter, Rachel, is ten.”
Sob.
“Was ten.
She was drowned, deliberately.”
Phew.
I asked,
“Who drowned her?”
Long silence.
Then,
“A boy named Jimmy Tern.”
She looked at me in utter horror, said,
“Jimmy Tern is eleven.”
“Tern?”
I echoed.
She nodded, said,
“The mayor’s son.”
Oh, fuck.
I asked, with skepticism leaking all over my tone,
“He drowned your daughter?”
She said that Tern, Rachel, and a girl named Alison were fooling around in a boat on the canal. Rachel fell in and then Tern leaned over the side of the boat and held Rachel’s head below the water until... until...
God in heaven.
I tried,
“Go to the Guards, get what’s-her-name, Alison? To tell them what occurred.”
“She won’t.”
I shook my head, asked,
“What on earth can I do?”
She raked her nails along the table, a screeching sound, said,
“Make him talk.”
I felt for her. God knows I knew the grief of losing a child, and I also knew the price you pay for cold and ruthless revenge. I had taken such a step and, as hell is my dark witness, I was glad and am still glad I killed the fucker who took my child. But would she be able to carry the burden of revenge and, worse, or rather more to the point, would I be able to carry the extra weight of payback on her behalf?
She had said,
“Make him talk.”
But we both knew she wanted the ice-cold rush of retaliation. I stood up, said,
“I will talk to him. That I can do, but anything else and I can’t promise what will ensue.”
She grasped my hand, kissed it, swore,
“I’ll make you glad you did.”
I left her with a pounding in my blood, my heart hammering, and my hand scorched from where she’d kissed it.
8
“I think that crime writing is quite serious
And has been accepted as such, but it is about crime.
I couldn’t write a poem about kiddy pornography.
Perhaps my vocabulary is closer to the gutter than not
But it doesn’t mean I’m not serious about what I’m writing.”
I was a little over the limit, truth to tell, and asked my own self,
“Who gives a fuck?”
Looked out across Galway Bay, all the way to the desired U.S., and the ocean rolled back a resounding