“By all that’s holy, no man is ever… ever going to put his fucking hands on me again.”
After the encounter with Anthony, after a fierce day of families in deep distress over the flooding, she was exhausted. When she left work, her spirits were as low as the final decade of the rosary. She longed for intimacy and her car just took its own self to Devon Park. She thought she’d just sit for an hour, let misery wash over her. Seeing the two regulars walking their dogs began the balm. She thought of Jack and, God knows, he was no angel, as maddening as Anthony, but he did listen to her, attentively. Despite their long decade of bruised, compromising, caring skirmishes, he remained an enigma. As likely to give twenty euros to a homeless person as bring his hurley to a bully. The time a guy had been verbally abusing his young boy in broad daylight, and Jack, oh sweet Jesus, Jack, he’d put the guy through a plate glass window.
Or
Those awful days when she’d been terrorized by a stalker, who’d she call?
Jack.
And he….took care of business.
Or
His stricken face when his surrogate son took the bullets meant for him.
Jesus.
How was he still getting out of bed in the morning?
Or
When Serena-May went out the window on Jack’s watch, he’d gone to bits, even ended up in a mental hospital. And, God knew, he was a hopeless drunk, and, she suspected, addicted to every illegal substance available but no matter, your back was to the wall, it was this aging, hearing-aid, limping wreck that you called.
And…he showed up, always.
Anthony despised him, not only because he’d been reared in the wrong side of town but because of his total lack of respect for his betters. Anthony had described him once, in a fit of pique, as an alkie vigilante with notions above his station. To her eternal shame, she’d said nothing.
Silent affirmation.
In an effort to understand Jack, she’d borrowed some of his mystery novels. Jack was always on about mystery being the literature of the street. No Booker literature shite for him. Whatever else, Ridge was a cop of the streets. He’d given her James Lee Burke, commenting in that way he had,
“We’ll start you at the top, work yer way down.”
Pegasus Descending.
A line in that book pierced her soul.
“…Marry up, screw down.”
And the titles, like poetry in their own selves:
In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead,
The Tin Roof Blowdown, and her absolute favorite,
A Stained White Radiance.
Pushed by an almost irascible need, she got out of the car. So, OK, maybe Jen had a new lover or would simply slam the door in her face. But she had to try. When she reached the path, two guys in hoodies seemed to materialize from the shadows. She saw the glint of a very large knife in the nearest one’s hands.
She cautioned,
“Whoa lads, back up a bit, I’m a Ban Garda.”
The second hissed,
“You’re a fucking dike is what you are.”
The nearest one lunged, fast. She sidestepped easily, swung around, almost balletic, rammed her right foot in his balls. The second one whined,
“Jesus, no need for that.”
And launched at her. She did a twirl, enjoying her own self, used a high left kick to smash his nose, followed with a right kick to his gut. Then she was pinned to the ground by the fucking dog walkers! She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A girl appeared from, like, nowhere, helping the hoodies to their feet, saying to the local heroes, the dog guys,
“She tried to attack those young men, I think she had a knife.” She could hear a siren in the distance-coming for her?
Ah, for fooks sake.
A bank is a place that will lend you money if… you can prove you don’t need it.
I needed to visit me money. So many banks were going down the toilet and, like the clergy, being exposed for every abuse possible. With Laura arriving soon, I wanted to be able to show her I was, am, viable, at least financially.
I went to my local branch on Eyre Square. I managed to secure a face-to-face with one of the asssistant managers. He had a small walled-in space and a very harried look. I put out me hand, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
He was in his mid-thirties, with a posture that suggested a hundred. He took my hand, one of those dead fish shakes. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, just one of us working stiffs. He said,
“I’m Mr. Drennan.”
Mr.!
You have to be at least seventy and somewhat affable for me to call you Mister. But I rolled with the play, asked,
“How is my account?”
He had my file before him, peered through it, said,
“You have a very healthy balance, Mr. Taylor.”
I said,
“Show me.”
Threw him.
He asked,
“You want to see it?”
“My money, my call.”
He pushed it over reluctantly.
It was looking good. I was very relieved. He said,
“You are earning very little interest in that savings account.
Might I suggest some shares you could buy?”
“No.”
He was confused, asked,
“You don’t want to make some money?”
I looked him straight in the eye, said,
“If I wanted to make more money, you think I might have mentioned it? I want to see my money. The newspapers, they seem to think you guys have stolen every euro in the land.”
He looked around but help was not to hand, tried,
“You’d like a printout of your account?”
Unheard of in banking circles it seemed, so no wonder they were getting away with frigging wholesale larceny.
I sat back, relaxed. You get to fuck with the banks, enjoy.
I said,
“Unless you want to bring me the actual cash-and I have no problem with that, believe me. Put it in a bin liner and I’ll stroll out of here as happy as a Galway oyster.”
He rose, said,
“I’ll get right on it.”
I don’t think he meant the bin liner.
I got the readout and said,
“You need to chill mate, get out, have a few brews and tell yer own self, tis only money.”
He didn’t wish me God bless.
No wonder the fucks are in trouble.
It was pissing like a bastard, rain that is.
My dad was a lot on my mind those days. Probably the only hero I still had. I’d given up on wanting to be him. But it was a comfort while living in a new land of vultures and predators to think of him. He’d worked on the railways and to my surprise taken early retirement. I never asked him about it but I knew it weighed heavily on his mind.
He’d said to me one time, when per usual the banks were threatening the wrath of God as our mortgage fell behind,
“Jack, if you owed the bank fifty quid, they’d take the house from under you.”
I never forget that.
I never forget him.
Stewart was sitting in one of the very few authentic vegan cafes in the city. Situated but a lovely grilled T-bone steak from the Augustine Church, it was fundamental in its strict no-meat policy. Word was, a guy was turned away for wearing a leather jacket. Urban myth.
And footwear: canvas was, dare I utter, kosher. Stewart was wearing his winter crocs, differed from the summer style in that you wore socks.
A guy telling me about the Irish wardrobe during the summer, said,
“Roll up the sleeves on your sweater.”
Stewart was intent on his new venture. Investing in the growing boom of head shops. Legal highs in the High Street. He had a wedge of cash invested in one and was fretting about the government threats to close down the loopholes that allowed the shops to sell dope in all varieties. But clouds were gathering. Two students had died as a result of the products and the public was becoming volatile about the virus of new outlets.
One had even been burned out in Dublin.
Plus, the dope gangs were mightily pissed off about the loss in revenue this was costing them. He was seriously considering cashing out before the axe fell. That was his main gig, getting out before the shite hit the fan.