I reached over, took her hand, said,
“I’m delighted. I’ve felt so guilty, so ashamed of leaving her in that kip. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
She was all lit up, said,
“You can have your mother transferred immediately.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Back at her home, I made love as if I meant it. She said,
“That was wonderful.”
Which is pushing it, but it was a whole lot better. Margaret had an early shift at the hospital, so I slipped out of there just before 1 a.m. She was already asleep, and I touched her face with my fingertips, tracing the line of her jaw. Even in sleep, you could see the strength she possessed.
Outside, a cab passed but I felt too good, decided to relish the walk. A sense of well-being coursed through me and I wanted to savour it. Coming up on Newcastle, I vaguely registered a black van parked ahead. As I drew level the door slid open, and before I could look, I got a crack to the side of my head.
Blackness.
When I came to, the first realisation was the intense pain behind my eyes. I was sitting in a hard chair but not restrained. I was in some type of basement, seated at the end of a long wooden table. Turned my head. Christ, it hurt. Two men in black hoods were behind me. I faced front and saw a man at the opposite end, also seated. Two men behind him, like we were playing poor man’s chess. All were hooded, with holes for eyes, nose, mouth. Their clothing was dark, casual, but suggested a military slant.
The seated man had a bulky upper body, thick wrists, stubby fingers. His hands were joined loosely, relaxed. He said,
“Ah, Jack, let me apologise to you for the manner of your transportation. The blow to your head was professionally administered. You’ll have an ache but nothing serious.”
I found my voice, said,
“That’s a fucking relief.”
He smiled, smoker’s teeth against the hood. I saw two long metal poles behind the standing men, crisscrossed like an emblem. He followed my look, said,
“Pikes.”
I brought my eyes back to him, asked,
“What are ye, paramilitaries?”
He laughed, turned for a moment as if to share the joke with his men, said,
“No, but we are fighting a war.”
I remembered Jeff’s friend, Pat, suspected of molesting the young girl, arrested, released, then savagely mutilated. I said,
“The Pikemen…Jesus, you’re the crowd who near killed Pat Young.”
He nodded, as if bowing to an achievement, and that infuriated me. My voice rose, went,
“Fucking vigilantes.”
And got a crack to the side of the head. He said,
“No obscenities, Jack. If we are to stem the tide of decay, we must apply standards in every sphere of our lives.”
I massaged my head, said,
“And you’ll set the standards, that it?”
The nicotine-stained smile again, then he stood, moved to the metal poles, said,
“Behold the formidable pike. In 1798, during the rebellion, they were easier to use than a musket or bayonet.”
A note of pride and admiration had entered his voice. He continued,
“Pikes were the principal weapon used by the rebels-very effective for the close-in stuff, the man-to-man combat. The original pike was six inches long and spear-shaped. The handle, originally, was about six feet, but we’ve allowed ourselves a little leverage.”
I gave a short laugh now, said,
“It’s not all you’ve allowed yourselves.”
Anger sparked in his eyes, and I could gather he didn’t like interruption. Here was a guy accustomed to lecturing while others listened. He gave a brief cough and I could hear the wheezing in his chest; he’d been, or still was, a heavy smoker.
VICIOUS CIRCLE
“He likes a drink
And that’s to understate
What is, in fact
The whole of life for him.”
Gerard Hanberry: from Rough Night
The guy moved to the wall, tenderly took down one of the pikes, ran his fingers along the top, said,
“Later on, a hook was added to the side of the pike head. Apart from anything else, it could be used to sever the reins of the horses to dismount the rider.”
He droned on about the lethal beauty of the weapon, its ferocious simplicity. I felt the guys behind me shuffle their feet. They’d heard this before. Their shoes, I looked at them, raised my head, said,
“These guys, they’re guards.”
He raised the pike above his head, shouted,
“We are the new guards.”
And slammed the pike into the centre of the wood table, the head imbedded a good three inches. The handle quivered with the force. Yeah, it got me and my body gave a jump. I felt anger build, asked,
“That what you used on the poor bastard, to disembowel him? How many of ye to hold him down?”
He gave the smile again,
“We’ve been watching you, Jack. In your own small way, you too have been fighting the evil that goes unpunished. You were a guard, too. Join us.”
I was lost for words, wanted to laugh out loud, said,
“Go fuck yourself.”
He gave a slight shake of his head-not anger, disappointment-then nodded to the men. They grabbed my arms, tied my hands behind me, pulled a cotton hood with no openings for eyes or mouth, over my head. I asked,
“What, you going to do me, too?”
I felt him close up, then a hand on my shoulder. He said,
“Jack, you will join us. As a demonstration of our belief in you, we’ve done you a special service this evening. I get the feeling you weren’t paying attention in your history class, so here is a brief summary. The rebellion began when the hated Yeomen burned the church at Boolevogue. Fr Murphy, who had advised his parishioners to give up their arms, now told them to die courageously rather than be butchered. Once the rebels took Vinegar Hill, the whole country rose up. The most effective weapon they had was the pike. A solid mass of Wexford pikemen could only be broken by heavy artillery fire.”
Then I was pulled to my feet and marched up some stairs, out to the street. I stumbled a few times. Being deprived of sight gives a complete sense of vulnerability. The van door opened and one of the guys said,
“Watch your step, Jack.”
His voice was friendly, slightly amused. Within ten minutes we stopped and my hands were untied, the door opened and I was pushed out. Gaining my balance, I pulled off the hood as the van disappeared round a corner. I was close to the hotel and, save for a lone student, the streets were deserted. He looked as confused as I felt, with traces of vomit on his jeans. He said,
“Party town, eh?”
And wandered in the direction of Eyre Square.
I went into Bailey’s, got to my room without seeing anyone and slumped on the bed. My head hurt but I didn’t think it was serious. I could now tell Jeff I knew what he was talking about, and who else? Ridge? She’d say there was nothing to pursue. Or I could go to the top, to the superintendent of the guards.
Clancy and I had been friends, pulled early duties together. My career had ended and he’d gone to the very top. Our paths had crossed in the years since, and we were, if not enemies, at least adversaries. He viewed me with contempt. Whenever I’d tried to enlist his help, he’d laughed in my face. I got into bed, no plan formulated. I needn’t have fretted; the superintendent was coming for me.
I was in a deep sleep when I felt myself pulled awake, muttered,
“What the fuck?”
Two guards towering over me. For a crazy moment, I thought it was the Pikemen again. The first said,
“Get dressed, Taylor.”
I tried to shake the sleep away, and the second one pointed at my pillow, traces of blood, said,