“Jack?”
It was Jeff and his voice was heavy. He said,
“Pat Young is in hospital.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was attacked.”
“By who?”
He took a moment and I knew he was selecting his words carefully, then,
“The current terminology is, I believe, by person or persons unknown.”
The sarcasm dripped from the phone. I’d known Jeff in most moods, seen him grope through pain, despair, but never, never had he used this pitch and especially not with me. I tried to move away from that, asked,
“Is he badly hurt?”
“Depends on how you define badly.”
My anger flashed but I kept my tone level, asked,
“Is he conscious?”
“Luckily, no.”
Now I was unable to rein it in, said,
“Are we going to dance around much longer? What do I have to do, take three guesses?”
“Gee, Jack, you sound worked up. I didn’t think you cared that much what happened to Pat?”
I let that go, probably because it was true. If I let rip-and every fibre of my being urged me to-our friendship might not recover. My mouth had been the cause of numerous disasters, so for once I didn’t get into the ring. I waited, then asked,
“Is he going to make it?”
“I hope not.”
Took me blindside and I was unable to proceed. He said,
“If you were castrated, would you want to make it?”
The end words were spat, the venom in full flight. I said,
“Jesus.”
“I don’t think He had much to do with it.”
“Who did?”
Now his voice was winding down and a deep fatigue moving in. He said,
“I already told you; actually I told you twice.”
What had he told me? I’d no idea, asked,
“What did you tell me?”
He let out a long suppressed breath, said,
“You weren’t listening. Like Cathy says, you never do.”
Click.
I held the phone in my hand, the dial tone mocking me. I wanted to go down to Nestor’s, confront him and find out what the hell he was talking about. But I hadn’t the energy. Got into bed and felt as bad as I ever did. Expected to spend the night tossing and turning. Sleep came fast and deep. The dreams were vivid.
My mother, in an open grave, shouting, “Jack, I can’t move. Help me.” I had a shovel in my hand and began to pile in the clay. Jeff, holding a copy of Synge’s book, whispering “Why don’t you listen?” and then tossing the book. As is the way with dreams, logic wasn’t evident. The book landed beside the grave and I screamed, “I can’t bury that. I don’t understand what’s happening.” Then I was limping along the coast road, without my cane. Margaret and Ridge were further along, taunting, “Hey, catch up.”
I couldn’t.
When I woke in the morning, the bed seemed like a bomb had hit it. I was covered in sweat. I was experiencing what they term an emotional hangover. Nearly as bad as the real thing. Dragged myself to the bathroom, risked a look in the mirror.
Jesus.
How old was I getting? Could definitely see new lines on my face, deep imbedded ones. Took a long scalding shower and was clean if nothing else. Over coffee, I resolved to start tracking “The Dramatist”. Dressed to detect, in faded cords, sweatshirt and my guard’s coat. As I left the room, I wish I could say I was filled with zeal or a sense of purpose. No, I was tired. Mrs Bailey, peering intently at the Irish Independent, said,
“Guards, guards, guards.”
“What?”
“In Donegal, there’s a fierce scandal about bribery, intimidation, cover-ups, and in Dublin seventeen guards have been suspended after that public demonstration. In my day, a guard might turn a blind eye to poteen, but now they’ve lost the run of themselves.”
A whole lost era in that expression “to lose the run of yourself”. It’s a desperate crime in the Irish catalogue, to have ideas above your station, believing yourself above the common herd. It’s akin to having “notions”, and that is the bottom rung on the vanity ladder. My own battered history with the guards makes me an unlikely advocate on their behalf. I said,
“They’re all we’ve got.”
She actually blessed herself… “In the name of the Father…” Then added,
“God help us all.”
That ended the case for the defence. I left her to the paper and the state of the country, walked down to the Augustinian church and considered lighting some candles. The amount of people needing help would require more candles than I could light. I passed by. Next to the church is a French restaurant, then a steep flight of stone steps, followed by a store front. I moved to the right of the steps, tried to visualise how the student had fallen. No doubt that a fall from them could kill you. Across the street is a small outlet that sells silver jewellery. Seems to do a brisk trade. A woman came out, watched me, and I gave a noncommittal wave. That seemed to decide her and she crossed over.
She had a gypsy look, dark hair to her shoulders, dark eyes, sallow complexion. Wearing one of those long billowing skirts that suit nobody. They proclaim, “I’ve lousy legs.” I’d have put her age at forty, but lines around her eyes, the side of her mouth-maybe older. What she most definitely was, was attractive. A grace in her movements. She said,
“Quel dommage, what a pity.”
French?…or affected?
I asked,
“Did you know the girl?”
“Yes, she had a small apartment at the top of the steps.”
I looked again, went,
“People live up there?”
“She did. In the city now there are apartments in the most unlikely places.”
Her English was perfect but with a slight overlay of accent. Also a trace of an Irish tone that people acquire who learn English in Ireland. A softening of the vowels and the barest hint of a lilt. I decided to plead ignorance, see what she’d tell, said,
“I don’t really know what happened.”
She seemed happy to oblige, said,
“Karen, Karen Lowe, she’d have been living there about a year, often popped into the shop. The night it happened, she’d been out with some friends and left them around ten. At 10:45 p.m. someone saw her lying there, called the ambulance and the guards.”
I tried to frame the next question as delicately as possible, asked,
“Could she have been drinking?”
Vehement shake of the head.
“No, I know her…oh, mon dieu…knew her. She’d go to the pub but never more than a glass of shandy.”
Then she stared at me, said,
“You’re not the police?”
“No, no,…I’m a…from the insurance company.”
She near spat, said,
“Merde! They like to make the people pay the money but to pay back…never. You know how much my premium is for the shop?”
I didn’t want to carry the can for an insurance company but had to venture,
“A lot?”
Her head was nodding furiously, a trace of spittle at the corner of her mouth. I reassessed my original opinion as to her being attractive. I now had her pegged as demented. She said,
“You tell them cocksuckers…”
Pause.
She looked at me, asked,
“Is that the correct word?”
Who was I to argue? It was not the description I’d have expected from a French lady. I’d have thought something classier, insulting but elegant, as is their birthright. But my turn to nod, if less energetically, and she continued,
“You tell them to pay up.”
“I will.”
And I moved away. For a brief moment I’d been thinking I’d ask her out; now I thought she needed locking up. When I got to the Oxfam shop, I risked looking back. She was still there, hands on hips, seething. I turned right and headed for the Eyre Square Centre. I wondered was this “the mall” my American teenager frequented? On the ground floor, there’s an open plan café. I went to the counter, got an espresso, saw the young blond guy who’d been tailing me. He waved, indicated a free table and sat down.