“Meet me in the Quays tomorrow, at twelve noon. I’ll have it in cash for you.”
He was stunned, said,
“You’re a good man, Jack.”
My dad was a good man.
I wasn’t.
And you’ve got to think,
“The fuck was with that?”
Trying to buy redemption with one measly act of generosity?
I don’t know, maybe.
The next day, I delivered the money as promised. After, did I feel better?
Did I fuck.
I was torn apart from fresh dreams of Laura and the sheer loss of her. A shrink telling me one time, when I was in the home for the bewildered, the confused, the looney bin:
“Jack, it’s not that you’re afraid to be happy but you’re terrified of making someone else unhappy.”
I stopped at Wolfe Tone Bridge, the city swirling around me, my heart in scorched ribbons, tears trying to make inroads on my beaten face. Then got a grip, sort of, muttered,
“A pint and chaser mightn’t help but, sure as rain, might bring oblivion.”
I turned towards O’Neachtain’s, not a pub I much used as it was so busy but now I needed the sound of people. The sheer volume of a thousand stories that had no bearing on my life, just to drown in the variations.
Buttoned my all-weather coat, my act in gear, if not really in place.
The sad line of slow suicides.
– Jack Taylor, watching a batch of huddled drinkers
There weren’t a whole lot of things, then, to make you smile but I was flicking through the Irish Daily Mail, came across a cartoon by the gifted Graeme Keyes. Showed a full shot of the Sanctuary at Knock. The Irish answer to Lourdes.
A bewildered pilgrim, with rosary beads around her neck, staring at a signpost which read
To Knock
To Mass
To Mass Hysteria.
And in the corner, an excited pilgrim gasping,
“The sun actually danced.”
Facing him is a less exalted pilgrim who sighs,
“Wow, the sun actually appeared.”
Classic.
Summed up the whole nation. I was waiting for Stewart. He’d arranged to come to my apartment and I’d mocked him,
“Bring your own herbal tea.”
He did, arriving at noon as the Angelus bell rang. I was probably one of the three remaining people in the country who still said the prayer.
Stewart brought: herbal tea, box of McCambridge’s cookies, and an attitude.
None of which I welcomed.
I pointed at the kettle, said,
“Knock yourself out.”
No disrespect to the aforementioned shrine. He made the tea, placed the cookies on a plate, I kid thee fucking not. A plate?
Said, with gusto,
“Join me.”
Right.
I got a bottle of Blue Moon from the fridge, joined him at the table, and dared him to comment. His eyes were fixated on the gun. He asked,
“Is that a Mossberg?”
I was impressed, said so, added,
“Modified to fit in my jacket.”
He had an avalanche of comments, reined them in, bit down on a cookie, then noticed my glove. I got there first, said,
“Keeps me from freaking out.”
He drank his tea, seemed to enjoy it, then,
“The attacks on the vulnerable are continuing. The Guards insist they are isolated incidents and not connected.”
Looked right at me, asked,
“Are you familiar with Darwin?”
I flexed my nonexistent fingers, tried,
“ Origin of Species. I’m waiting for the movie.”
He ignored that, said,
“Certain things Darwin wrote and said have been used and subverted -let’s say, reinterpreted-to fit the delusions of various whack jobs.”
I waited, he took out a notebook, read a piece, asked,
“Know who wrote that interpretation?”
I said,
“No.”
He was all focus now, said,
“Columbine, the two high school killers.”
The lightbulb nearly exploded over my head as I realized, said,
“Columbine. The fucker who took my fingers, they called him Bine.”
And with the awful understanding then of what my mind had been edging about, I said,
“Jesus, they’re going to hit a school, be the first Irish event.” He nodded, could see I was coming fast up to speed. Christ, I needed to chill, went to the bedroom, drew down two Xanax from my stash. Dry-swallowed them, my mind ablaze. I came back to Stewart who was about to say something but I cut him off with,
“Drink more tea, let me think, don’t talk, do some Zen shite or something.”
He did. Leant back in the chair, curled his body up into a ball of relaxation, closed his eyes, went… away.
I scanned the notes I’d made, let all the data saturate, pumped the Mossberg to keep me hyped, then after fifteen, twenty minutes, I said,
“Stewart, they’re going to hit a special needs school.”
He was appalled, hadn’t got that far in his own musings, asked,
“What are we going to do?”
I knew, beyond a shadow, said,
“Keep with the bait gig.”
Course, he had to ask, sooner or later, ever since I’d suggested he establish a routine,
“You think of me as bait?”
Had to defuse it a bit, said,
“Truth to tell, I rarely think of you at all.”
To soften it, I added,
“I’ll be there in the shadows, and if… if we can just grab one of the bastards…”
My whole history of, let’s say, reliability was not a great recommendation, and I could see it flit across his face, so he had to ask, “What if you’re not… not able to intervene effectively?”
I told the truth, said,
“Then you’re seriously fucked.”
When he was leaving, he’d admitted,
“I’m a little spooked Jack.”
I lied, said,
“Spooked is good, keeps you alert.”
I sat on the sofa, drenching myself in all that had happened, thought, a Judas goat? Is that what I was doing to Stewart?
Fucked if I could deny it.
Then told myself, I’d better get in the routine my own self. Start shadowing Stewart as I’d promised.
I got my coat and the Mossberg, and headed out.
Checked my watch. Stewart wouldn’t be at the head shop yet so I figured on a fast pint.
No.
I owed it to him to at least appear to be together. I went to the tiny cafe at the bottom of Quay Street. It was quiet and I ordered a double espresso. Was on the first sip when a stunning woman came in, looked round, and caught me looking at her.
She walked over, asked,
“Mr. Taylor?”
“Jack, but yes.”
“May I sit?”
Was she kidding? She could sit forever and I wouldn’t stir. The truly beautiful are almost painful to see. You know that such a gift has to bring a price of some kind, if only age alone. Sure enough, she seemed to carry an aura of sadness. She had that French elegance, effortless, compelling, and utterly fascinating.
And she knew it and was not at ease with the knowledge. Before I could catch my breath or offer a coffee, she said,
“I’m Irini.”
And I knew, deep down, with a sense of dread, this was not going to make me feel good. I said,
“Kosta.”
She nodded and began to speak.
One meeting, can it change your life? Maybe. It can certainly twist and forge your whole previous way of thinking.
When she left, I knew what I’d have to do and hated it. No ducking this bullet. It had my name on it, in neon.
Stewart and I had met again after the first day of his laying down his routine, going over our respective roles and what would go down after-if there was an after. Finally, when all had been gone over so many times, he reached in his jacket, handed me over a syringe. I said,
“You think we need this?”
He was edgy, snapped,
“You’ll need it. This is your half-arsed plan.”