“It reads, Medugorje.”
I asked,
“You’ve been?”
She shook her head at such an idea, said,
“No, my sister went, and, you know, she said, ‘The sun danced in the sky.’”
Like all nuns, she had that flawless skin. Why the cosmetic companies aren’t researching them is a mystery. Her eyes were clear blue, lit with a lovely hint of devilment. She asked,
“What do you think of that?”
I had no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
She pulled out a batch of cards, asked,
“Your name, please, for the draw?”
“It’s Jack but honest to God, no need to put me on the tickets.”
She seemed surprised so I tried,
“I’ve never been lucky.”
I was about to leave when she took the piece from round her neck and slipped it over my head, I began,
“I can’t…”
She said,
“Better be blessed than lucky.”
That moved me so.
Go figure.
My last encounter with a nun had resulted in murder. Outside, the sky was darkening and the deadly ice they were predicting seemed to hang, waiting. A guy was selling DVDs outside, I guess he figured even nuns watched movies.
Newly blessed, I bought:
Orphan,
Traitor,
Passengers,
District 9, and I swear to God
Sam Raimi's
Drag Me to Hell.
There is some mega-metaphysical irony in all the above but I’m fucked if I can join the dots. As I headed off, the guy said,
“Cool chain dude; Medugorje rocks.”
Bono must have played there.
A new off-license had opened, the budget had been announced and. .. the price of booze was lowered.
In a country devastated by alcohol, they were encouraging us to drink. It was state of the art premises and even offered loyalty cards! And brews you’d never see ordinarily so I stocked up on my favorite hard-to-get brands:
Shiner Bock,
Blue Moon,
Asahi,
Sam Adams.
I’m an alkie, I’m hurting, I’ll drink anything, even aftershave, and have done so.
Though I suggest you avoid Old Spice.
But as Derek Raymond said, in The Crust on Its Uppers, I can be a beer buff.
What this flashy new place showed, though, deep in recession, we were not only drinking as mad as ever, but with some discernible taste. I got back to my apartment, anticipating a blast of Blue Moon and twenty minutes of Johnny Duhan’s new album. I had a wad of cash in my jacket, new DVDs, the literal blessing of a good nun, and a new case. Laura would soon be coming from London.
How good can it get?
I don’t do happy.
But I was real close then.
Wouldn’t I just love to be the poster boy for Prozac, have a kickarse smile perpetually in place, plaster my face on those Prozac bottles, with the logo,
“We Rest Our Case.”
But my past was too littered with the wasted and the wounded. Ever hear Marc Roberts sing “Dust in the Storm”? Listen and weep.
I’m not a total eejit, I’ll grab the moments of peace, fleeting though they be, when they deign to appear. That’s how I was feeling. Opened the door of the apartment, a ton of junk.
I’d won ten million in the Nigerian Lottery, got a voucher for a free pizza from Papa Joe’s, an appeal for orphans, till I came to a small tightly wrapped parcel.
In black paper.
Uh-oh.
Neatly printed in red Gothic lettering on the front was
“Jack Taylor.”
Not good. A gut feeling, I fingered the Medugorje chain round my neck. My apartment opens up to a large room, which has the books, TV, laptop, and leads to a small kitchen. Marble-top counter from Connemara constitutes the dining area. I placed the package there and pulled back from it. Opened the fridge, pulled out a Shiner, drained half that in jig time. No shite but those Texans make good beer. I approached the package as if it were incendiary. My history of such mail was all bad.
Took a deep breath and tore it open.
Out, onto the marble top, fell a perfect miniature sculpture.
A headstone the size of a Bic lighter.
I stared at it, muttering,
“The fuck is this?”
It was exquisitely carved, polished to a high sheen.
Any other circumstances, I’d have admired the sheer artistry.
In a state of alert, I reached for the dictionary, looked up the definition, got
“A stone at the head of a grave.”
All my instincts screaming,
“Throw it out… now!”
Halloween was already gone, so I felt this was less trick or treat as more trick and threat.
No coincidence that the clocks were due to go back to winter time and when that happened, it was a long time to the light.
If the package was meant to unnerve me it did.
I felt the urge to get the hell out of there, be among people. Put on my all-weather Garda coat and, in the side pocket, the Walther PPK I’d had since the time of the devil. Just the weight of it eased my growing paranoia. Once outside, I felt better-not great but getting there. What I needed was a large Jameson but maybe some caffeine would be wiser first.
I turned left at Nun’s Island, moved along to the low bridge close to the Samaritans, stole a furtive glance at Mill Street, the Garda headquarters, a pang,
“never to belong there no more.”
Muttered,
“Get a grip.”
Turned left again and across O’Brien’s Bridge. Saint Patrick’s school looming large and off-white. In my time, the teachers were mostly Patrician Brothers. They wore a green sash like a belt and were very fond of the reed cane. They could lash with impunity and did. At least once a week I staggered home, my legs bruised and battered, welts clearly visible on the bare skin. No one questioned their authority. They walloped the bejaysus out of you, it was simply the norm.
It wasn’t that they were always right, simply that a cowed populace never thought to ask if they might be wrong.
All has changed, utterly. Corporal punishment is illegal. And in a ferocious, ironic turnaround, the teachers were now the ones being bullied.
I had replaced their reeds of punishment with a whole new way of lacerating myself.
Called it Jameson.
Stood there for a moment, thinking,
“If I continued to dig the hole, I was going to need the headstone sooner than expected.”
Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk.
That will keep your mouth shut.
– Irish proverb
I walked down Quay Street, stepped into Cafe Du Journal. Real Irish place, right?
I half hoped I’d run into Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop but, no, the place was half empty. I got a corner table, old cop habit, so you can see who’s coming at you. Ordered a double espresso, a large Danish. I had no appetite but figured it would soak up the inevitable Jay. The sugar rush wouldn’t hurt either. Far end of the cafe was a Goth girl. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. They are harmless, do their gig, despite ridicule, and carry a continuous torch for The Cure.
I admire tenacity.
The girl, beneath the white makeup, the black eye shadow, black lipstick, couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was staring right back at me. She was pretty, in a sort of wounded way; even the Goth stuff couldn’t quite hide that. Her eyes, a deep brown, were boring into mine, so I asked,
“Help you with something?”
She moved from her table, took the seat opposite me, and, when she spoke, I noticed the stud in her tongue. How do they eat with that?
Maybe they don’t.
She said,
“You don’t know me.”
Statement.
I asked,
“Any reason why I should?”
Allowing a hint of force in there. If she was here to bust my balls, she’d chosen the right fucking day and the right fucking time to try it.
Her accent was the new cultivated Irish that spoke of: money, education, confidence, and fuck you.