We dug deeper
To bury
Our compassion,
Our mercy
And
Our very humanity.”
Amid all this horror, you strove desperately to find a reason even to stir from bed. Got some through football.
For once, the beautiful game was... beautiful.
Barcelona were four down going into the second match with Paris Saint-Germain. The papers had crucified Barca in the week leading up to the second match.
Incredulous, I read descriptions of
Has been
Finished.
I mean, seriously?
You can never, ever write off such a team. I knew that team would roar back with absolute ferocity.
Did they just.
Not only had they to score four but, when PSG scored, they had to up the ante again.
And again.
And, fuck me,
Again.
Never have I seen such a comeback.
I’m not your up-on-his-feet shouting at matches unless it’s Galway in the hurling and even then I’m relatively mild.
I was up
Shouting
Wild.
And only sorry I hadn’t my beloved pup to dance with.
Thinking of dogs, my heart was scalded by the memory of my gorgeous dog.
Storm.
And a tiny hurricane he was.
Jesus.
I wept when they killed him.
And in such a vicious bloody fashion.
The maniac who did it had a warped awful sense of twisted humor.
Cut the pup’s heart out
And
Left this note, with the heart literally in the middle of the sentence:
I heart Fenians.
I made an unholy pact to enter the darkness of my own mind. The cold place where nothing lives.
I did so with vengeance aforethought.
Did I fucking ever.
And knew such a price as would ensue from that dark territory. They mutter,
“For revenge, then dig two graves.”
I dug a whole brutal field.
I was not consoled.
I would never again go gentle into any sane night.
Ever.
I knew and I was content.
Back Rank Checkmates
In chess, a rank is a row of squares across the board.
Your back rank is the row where you place your king.
Be very careful. Many checkmates are delivered
On the back of the board.
6
I was listening to Jimmy Norman’s show. He plays the best music for rock heads. News on top of the hour revealed that
1,487
Bodies of children were now believed to be in the septic tank in Tuam.
1,487. Jesus indeed wept.
The nuns named in the allegations, Bon Secours, whose very name implied
Help and succor, were hiding behind a PR lady who told a newspaper,
“You’ll find nothing in the tank but old bones from the famine.”
She had since remained incommunicado.
The night before, reeling from Irish horrors, a search-and-rescue helicopter rushing to the aid of a Russian seaman was lost off the Mayo coast, with all four crew missing.
Desperate for mind distraction,
I binged on
Suburra
Spotless
Gomorrah.
Then found a small gem of a Western,
Bone Tomahawk.
With Kurt Russell and Patrick Wilson.
I made a double espresso, black, bitter like the very air of the present, heard
Marc Roberts on his show give a shout-out to Johnny Duhan’s Winter.
The doorbell chimed and I swore, muttered,
“Better be bloody good.”
Opened it to a stranger.
A man in a very fine long suede jacket, dark cords, and what seemed to be white
Converse. He was tall, in that vague fiftyish bracket, buzz-cut black hair, a hawk nose, and eyes that the romantic novelists might call burning.
He had that Russell Crowe gig of quiet smoldering going on. I snapped,
“Yeah?”
He put out his hand, a rough callused one, said,
“They call me Tevis.”
I had no clue, said,
“I have no clue.”
He gave a wide grin, the kind of shit-eating one that Trump would like, said,
“You saved my life. From drowning.”
I wittily said,
“Oh.”
He asked,
“Might I come in?”
Why not.
He took a brief scan of the living room, checked the panorama of the bay, said,
“Fantastic view.”
I offered,
“Something to drink?”
He seemed to like that, said,
“I could go a stiff one.”
Somehow, in that Brit fashion, investing it with a vague lewdness. Caught that his own self, added,
“I’m a bit nervous. I mean, how often do you get to thank your savior?”
I detected a hint of sarcasm, so went with,
“If you’re Catholic, just about every day, they recommend.”
He smiled, great capped teeth, no National Health dance there. He said,
“They told me you were a hoot.”
“They?”
“Don’t be coy, Jack. May I call you Jack? The dogs in the street tell tales about you, man! You’re a goddamn genuine legend,”
Suddenly, I was tired.
He smiled, asked,
“Where are we on that drink?”
I said,
“Bar’s closed. It’s Good Friday.”
He did a mock emo face, then put his hand in his jacket. I shot out, grabbed his wrist, said,
“You best just have attitude in there.”
Raised his eyebrows, said,
“Bit jumpy, fella, maybe cut back on the caffeine.”
Then handed me a small marble figurine.
“As my thanks to you, Jack, I am going to teach you some first-rate chess.”
The figure was heavy in my hand and beautifully carved, I said,
“It’s a knight.”
He gave a short hand clap, said,
“See? You’re learning already.”
When I finally persuaded him that he had to actually leave, he said,
“A man of books like your good self will know what the Chinese say.”
I sighed, sounding horrendously like my mother, who could have sighed for Ireland and did,
Often.
I asked,
“Do tell?”
“You save a man’s life, you are thus responsible for that life.”
“Like fuck,”
I answered.
He headed for the door, said,
“You and me, buddy, now we are joined at the hip.”
I watched him from the bay window. He stood on the promenade, gazing at the water. I could hope he might be reassessing that body of water for another go.
He turned, gave what can only be described as a cheery wave.
I poured a large Jay, the bishop lined up alongside. The glass hit against it, knocked it to the ground. I bent, picked it up, noticed letters on the base.
Peered close, read,
2
4
J
Part 1
The Chessman Cometh
7
Peter Boyne was a pedophile
And
Proud.
No fake remorse, no contrite wailing.
He had been a priest for years but even the Church couldn’t cover for him and booted him. He even looked like the notorious Brendan Smith. Soft build, weak face, and bulging eyes.