– Irish saying
The next week passed in a daze, Stewart and I trying to get a solid line on Headstone, both now feeling that time was of the utmost. That the major event these lunatics were planning was edging closer. Friday morning, I was up early, not booze early, but eight o’clock.
Like that.
Feeling numb, feeling dead. You kill an innocent friend, you get to hoping the fires of hell will be roasting. Dwell on it, and they already are. I had my coffee, black, bitter, strong, no sugar. No sweetness, Jesus, God forbid. Showered, shaved, Xanaxed to the goddamn hilt, switched on the radio.
Galway Bay FM.
Jimmy Norman’s breakfast show. Helped me chill. He plays the best music-music that makes you yearn. And he keeps it light, keeps it moving. He was saying that Keith (Finnegan) on the top of the hour had some special guests but…
He had the Saw Doctors on the line from Australia.
Their manager, Ollie Jennings, is just about one of the nicest people I ever met.
And seeing as I don’t do nice, that is something unique. The Saw Doctors, from Tuam, just down the road a piece, were the perfect blend of traditional Irish, rock ’n’ roll, and their own spin on live gigs was to be seen to be believed. They’d been around almost as long as I’d been slogging my befuddled gig in Galway. But they’d gone global. A new drummer, new album, and they sounded as down-to-earth as if they’d just released their first single. Not a notion in their repertoire. In America, they’d said they were fans of Jodie Foster, she got in touch and, as the lads said,
“Went for a burger with them.”
I just loved that.
And, they said,
“She was quiet.”
There is something awesome in that apparently simple meeting.
When a legend blends with the iconic, and the result is humility, fuck, you want to shout,
“Bono, hope you’re taking notes.”
Jimmy asked if they’d do a song, live, right then and there, and they did. Just sang.
My foot was tapping along, just in the groove with the best of Irish, when the phone rang.
You get a call out of the proverbial blue that knocks the bejaysus out of you. I’d had a dream, on Thursday night, that I still hadn’t been able to shake. Laura was back in my life. I swear, I could feel her hand in my mine.
For reasons not at all.
We were feeding the swans at the Claddagh, and she leant back into my shoulder and I was so deliriously happy.
And woke.
Tears on my face, coursing down my cheek.
Hard arse that.
Had muttered, in a vain attempt to shake it away,
“’Tis the holy all of it.”
The awful loss had paralyzed me. I’d sat on the side of my empty bed, woebegone. In fucking bits, then shouted,
“Get a fucking grip.”
Had
Kind of.
I’d made my own self busy, and then pulled on a sweatshirt that bore the logo:
NUIG, Ropes.
My oldest 501s and my winter crocs, the ones that whispered,
“We love you, love your feet.”
You are getting love from shoes, you are so seriously deranged, it’s pathetic.
And I’d been relishing Jimmy’s show, with the Saw Doctors, hated having to answer the damn phone. Said,
“Yeah.”
In that icy tone.
“Mr. Taylor, it’s Sister Maeve.”
I had given her my number, never… never expecting to hear from her. But nuns, they give nothing away, in every sense. I said,
“Ah, good morning, Sister.”
Lame, right?
She replied,
“Mr. Taylor, you are a very unusual man, a mix of tremendous sadness and such violent acts.”
I’d need a little more to go on than my character analysis, said,
“I’ll need a little more to go on.”
I swear to God, she seemed to be suppressing utter joy, said,
“Father Gabriel and his… housekeeper have taken off and with all of the Brethren’s funds.”
Gabe did a runner? I knew I’d got his attention but that he legged it, phew-oh. I was literally lost for words, tried,
“Really?”
Now she let it loose, said,
“Oh, Mr. Taylor, it means the Brethren are a spent force. Their terrible shadow has been lifted.”
I said,
“That’s great.”
Meant it. She replied with,
“Mr. Taylor, I’ve become familiar with your methods and I don’t much approve, but this… I knew you were involved and you turned it around, did our Church a true service. God bless you, Jack.”
And rang off.
I was still trying to digest this when my mobile shrilled.
Stewart.
“Jack, starting today, I’m going to be at my head shop every day at three. I’ve let my routine out along the grapevine so people know where they can find me. If you’re right and they’re trying to make a move on me, well, here is a routine they’ll find.”
I said,
“Give it three, four days, they’ll bite.”
“What makes you so sure?”
I thought about all we’d discussed, tried to figure it out, said,
“They are working towards a very definite timetable and everything needs to be in place for the mad bastards.”
He gave that some thought, then,
“Why are you so certain they’ll target me?”
Easy answer if not exactly true,
“You got a headstone in the mail, as did Ridge and I, we have both been… shall we say… contacted.”
He sounded just that little bit wary-not a trait he displayed much-asked,
“You’ll have my back, right?”
“Count on it, buddy.”
He lingered, reluctant to ring off, said,
“Three to four days, you think.”
“Absolutely.”
For the first time in my chaos-ridden life, I’d called it right on the money.
I was staring out at the lone Galway Hooker, at easy anchor in the bay, like a Galway snapshot of a particular era. No, not a working girl, the beautiful boat built in Galway. It gave me a vague comfort that is inexplicable. I’d taken a moment to go down to the docks and just stare at it, knowing this might well be the last visual peace I’d have. Then turned to the city and the business of bait.
As we waited for Stewart to establish his routine, I went to the city center each day, never knowing how some chance encounter might yield information. I nearly looked for Caz, had to switch channels, focus on the job at hand. Had an encounter all right, just not one of any normalcy.
I was limping along Shop Street, trying to avoid all the buskers; you give to one, you’d better give to all. A man stopped me. I vaguely remembered him from way back, when I had a career and he had notions. Not either of us, not no more. Life had walloped the slate clean. Dave. I don’t know how I dragged up his name but he’d been a player in the property game. Rode it till the bust and went belly-up himself. I always kind of liked him as, beneath his past posing, I’d detected a deep hurt from childhood. The industrial schools that only Seamus Smyth has ever really captured on paper. Concentration camps for young boys, militarized by the church. Dave tended to talk in sound bites, lest you ever nail him down. He launched,
“Jack, the cunt bank refused my plea for an extension of my mortgage.”
You’d infer from this that I saw him regularly, was intimate with his life. Such are the Irish, tell you all or fuck all. I hadn’t laid an eye on him for over ten years. He’d weathered that decade bad, if appearances were any indication. Shabby clothes, furtive eyes, a face of broken veins, and that purple complexion of the desperate drinker.
He continued,
“I’m going to lose my house, and what am I going to tell my daughters? The youngest is only eleven.”
I wanted to scream,
“The banks will lend you millions but crush you if you owe a paltry sum.”
But asked,
“How much to buy you some time?”
His eyes nearly rolled in his head. If not salvation, at least a lifeline. He considered, then gave a figure. Not the amount he wanted to give but he knew me well enough not to act the bollix. I could just about manage that, from Father Gabriel’s blood money, said,