She wiped her tears away, said,
“So, takeaway curry tonight and your favorite movie.”
“ Die Hard Th ree.”
If only she knew how ominous that was.
Truth to tell, Tom would watch anything with Bruce Willis. Tess watched him as he watched the movie, wondering if he thought he was Bruce Willis?
Their life wasn’t exactly easy but they relished what they had, primarily each other.
Friday evening, Tom got his wages, and had his ritual in place. Go to Holland’s shop, be polite to Mary, buy the big box of Dairy Milk for his mum, and then walk home. In Holland’s, a girl, looking through the postcards, smiled at him and he blushed. Got his purchases and left. He walked along Eyre Square and headed up Prospect Hill; he always quickened his pace when he came to the alley that led to St. Patrick’s Church. It had shadows and he didn’t like those. Then the customer from the shop, the pretty girl, appeared, asked,
“Could you help me please?”
His mum had instilled in him the virtue of always helping people. But the alley?
The girl had a lovely smile, said,
“I dropped my mobile in there and I’m afraid to look for it by my own self.”
Bruce Willis would help.
He entered the alley and immediately got a ferocious wallop to the back of his neck. Two young men stood over him, the girl right in front, She said,
“Chocolates. Oh, I so love sweetness.”
Tom was getting to his feet, dizzy but still able to stand, protested, “Those are for me mum.”
One of the young men, with a livid fresh scar, lashed out with his Doc Marten, smashing Tom’s teeth, and the other asked,
“Oh, did that hurt?”
And delivered a ferocious kick to Tom’s crotch.
Tom threw up all over the girl’s boots. She said,
“Jesus wept, I just cleaned them.”
Tom was on his knees, still retching, and the girl knelt down to his level, asked,
“You wanna go home to your momma, that it?”
He muttered miserably and the girl said, “But the chocolates, we can’t waste them.”
One of the men grabbed Tom’s head and forced open his mouth, the girl ripped open the cellophane, grabbed a fistful of the sweets and shoved them into his mouth. Then she produced a knife, Tom knew it as a Stanley from work, and she said,
“Little trouble digesting all of them you greedy boy, let me help you.”
And slit his throat in one practiced movement. The other man took the box of Dairy Milk, scattered the remains over Tom’s falling body, said,
“Sweets for the sweet.”
The girl bent down, waited till Tom bled out, said as he gurgled, “Christ, keep it down.”
Then rifled through his jacket, found his pay packet, said,
“Payday.”
They didn’t glance back as they strolled from the alley.
If you woke up breathing
Congratulations!
You have another chance.
– Graffiti on the wall of the Abbey Church
Tom Russell’s powerful new album had his stunning song
“Guadaloupe,” sung by the ethereal Gretchen Peters.
It was unwinding in my head as I crossed the Salmon Weir Bridge. Looked in vain to see a salmon leap.
Nope.
Into our third year of the water remaining: contaminated, poisoned, lethal.
The bottled water companies continued to rake in the cash. No recession for them. The rest of us poor bastards continued to boil the water.
Grudgingly.
A Garda car swerved into the cathedral car park. Call it instinct,
I knew they weren’t stopping to light candles.
A Ban Garda got out.
Wearing sergeant stripes.
Ridge.
Or in Irish, Ni Iomaire.
The uniform suited her. She looked kind of regal. Seeing her, the late winter sun bouncing off the gold buttons on her tunic, I felt the old pang. The deep regret I’d been kicked off the Force. Ridge and I went back even further than Stewart. We weren’t friends. More’s the Irish pity.
Fate seemed to continually throw us together. I admired her. Not that I’d ever tell her. Her family had been scarred by alcoholism and she had an inbuilt loathing of alkies. My last case, she’d received a serious beating but appeared to be recovered. Insofar as you ever get past such an event. I had a limp, a hearing aid, more broken bones than a nun has polished floors.
Ridge was gay and then married an Anglo-Irish landowner with the imposing name of Anthony Hayden-Hemple.
He regarded me as a peasant. Their marriage was truly one of convenience. He had clout, played golf with my nemesis, Superintendent Clancy, and played bridge with the elite of the city. He needed a mother for his teenage daughter, Ridge wanted promotion.
Deal done.
Seemed to be holding.
Sort of.
She leant against the car, her face expressionless. I said,
“Think you may have missed the noon mass.”
She threw a brief glance at the church, said,
“Wouldn’t hurt you to go the odd time.”
I gave her my best smile, full of bullshite and malevolence, said,
“I’ve just been in the Abbey, lit some candles for all sinners.”
She seemed to have many replies to this but let it slide, said,
“You’ll have heard about Father Malachy.”
I said,
“I’ve an alibi.”
Now her annoyance surfaced, she spat,
“Don’t be such a thundering eejit.”
And a shadow of rage and compassion caressed her face as she said,
“And the other attack?”
“What?”
She looked at me, asked,
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
But the temporary feeling of whatever had fled and she snapped,
“What am I? Your private source of information? Buy a bloody paper.”
To needle her, I asked
“How is your husband?”
Leant heavily on the last word. She said,
“He’s away on business.”
I moved to go, said,
“Give him my love. I’m on my way to see Malachy. You think he’d prefer grapes or a pack of cigs?”
She shrugged, cautioned,
“This is Garda business, stay out of it.”
I loved that, the tone of authority, the sheer condescension. I said,
“I’m all done with priests. This is purely a good Samaritan gig.”
She got back in the car, hurled,
“You need to call the Samaritans yourself.”
And burned rubber outta there.
Cops watched way too many cop shows.
Malachy was in intensive care, no visitors. I’d said I was a relative and was told a doctor would see me soon. The health service is so bollixed that that probably meant two days. I had a book so I didn’t mind too much.
The new John Cheever biography, by the same writer who’d done the stunning bio of Richard Wright. The book sure captured the torment, agony, guilt, and utter loneliness of the alcoholic. I didn’t really need it described; I lived it every frigging day, heard “Mr. Taylor?”
A doctor, towering above me. Pristine white coat with all the pens in the top pocket. One, to my joy, was leaking. A name tag identified him as Dr. Ravin. Not Irish then but fuck, few were these days. They’d fucked off to where the money was.
He asked,
“You are a relative?”
Yeah, brothers in animosity, bonded in hatred, and related by booze. I said,
“Yes, first cousins; we are very close.”
Close to murder mostly.
He did the sympathy dance, I nodded idiotically, then he said,
“The padre…”
“Priest.”
I snapped.
How often do you get to correct the medical profession?
Yeah.
He said,
“My apologies, he has suffered severe trauma, he is in a coma and the next twenty-four hours are critical.”