That evening I was sitting in Garavan’s, pint and chaser in play, feeling tired. I’d taken the pup for a long hike and he was now home, knackered. I was in the snug in the hope of no one bothering me. I had about as much chat in me as the government had credibility.
“Damage hardens us all. It will harden you, too, when it finds you. And it will find you.”
(William Landay, Defending Jacob)
A woman came in, stood before me, in that indeterminate age group of forty-fifty. Well groomed, long black coiffed hair, and a face that was striking more than pretty. Her clothes quietly whispered,
“Money and, yeah, class.”
I don’t know if God donates class but I was pretty sure that the devil handed out style. Whatever she was selling, I didn’t want it. I raised my glass, conveying,
“Take it elsewhere, lady.”
She sat. I mean, fuck it, just sat. Said,
“You are Jack Taylor.”
How many times I’d begun a case with just those words and never, fuck never, did it end well. I looked her right in the face, measured,
“I don’t care whether your husband/dog is missing or whatever, your son/daughter/... you hear me? I can’t help you.”
She was unfazed, just leveled those lovely sad eyes on me, said,
“It’s my nephew, Parker Wilson.”
Name rang a bell but I couldn’t be bothered figuring it, said,
“Please go away. Find somebody who gives a rat’s arse.”
She leaned into me, said,
“They are calling him the Grammarian.”
Whoa.
Had to do a whole double take, then,
“Well, lady, he is fucked, signed, sealed, and delivered. Get him a good lawyer, cop for insanity.”
She sat back, took me in with a full eye search, and nothing warm was there. She said,
“You have a rep for finding information that the Guards can’t.”
I shrugged, said,
“You need a miracle, I don’t do miraculous.”
She put a fat envelope on the counter, said,
“I believe you can be... bought.”
Was I outraged?
Indignant.
Nope.
I could be bought — and cheaply.
I asked,
“What is it you want?”
As I asked, the strangest feeling hit me. I began to feel a tingle all along my spine, as if someone trod heavily on my grave, and fuck, barely recognized the feeling, it had been so long, so dormant.
Attraction.
Ah, shite, I needed that like a wallop to the head. My mind muttering,
“No way, no fucking way, not going through all the shit again.”
Even as my treacherous heart began to sing. And I swear, she saw it, in that uncanny way that women have. A tiny smile at the corner of the mouth as she sussed it.
She said,
“My name is Sarah, Sarah Compton, and I want you to prove that Park is innocent.”
Piece of cake.
All biz, I asked,
“Where is he now?”
She looked at her watch, slim Rolex, said,
“Just about making bail.”
As Park was being released, Sergeant Ridge was standing beside him, whispered,
“Enjoy the brief outing. I’ll have your arse back in here so quick...”
He looked at her like a total stranger, then murmured,
“Mind your language.”
Sarah had a car arranged and before the press could engulf him she had him in the back and sped away with cameras flashing at its taillights. Park’s mind was beginning to settle but words and letters still created a small rainbow at the edge of his vision. He said to Sarah, vague distress lining his tone,
“All the letters are lowercase.”
She looked to see if the driver had heard, then said,
“We’re going to bring you to my house. It’s peaceful there.”
He was quiet for a bit, then asked,
“Do you have a Fowler’s Modern English Usage there?”
She thought,
“Uh-oh.”
Said,
“Park, best if you concentrate on getting rest for now.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then said,
“Lowercase implies capital catastrophe is imminent.”
Sarah thought,
“Mad as a hatter.”
But family.
“It was a gesture of forgiveness that had everything to do with the forgiver and little to do with the forgiven. It was forgiveness as powerful arrogance.”
(Gideon Lewis-Kraus, A Sense of Direction)
“The art of punctuation is of infinite consequence in writing; as it contributes to the perspicuity and consequently to the beauty of every composition.”
This edict of Joseph Robertson was running through Park’s mind like good news. He knew it signaled a return to his former self and his dormant energy. His aunt Sarah had fussed over settling him in the guest room, insisting,
“Rest, you need to rest.”
“No.”
He thought,
“I need to kill somebody.”
And he remembered how the female sergeant had scoffed at his language, had sneered,
“Afraid of a little bad grammar, are we?”
The construction of that sentence infuriated him and the casual way she abused and tore apart the very basics of structure revealed the barbarian she was.
He lay on the bed and ran the rudiments of his favorite linguistics, and running alongside this pleasure was the idea of shutting the Guard’s mouth permanently. He asked aloud,
... “Affect or effect?”
I.e.,
The sergeant was affected by the effect of the hatchet.
Emily was standing in the center of my apartment, so enraged that the pup hid under a chair. Loud voices freaked him; didn’t do a whole lot for me either.
Like this,
“My place was burgled, you believe it?”
Oh, I not only believed; I knew. When she was in full riot, her eyes seemed bright green. She was spitting from anger, continued,
“Going through my private stuff, and you know who did it?”
A question or a touch of rhetoric?
I frowned accordingly. She threw her hands in the air. Spat,
“That cunt cop.”
Whoa...
I asked,
“What?”
“Ridge, the gay bitch, she’s had it in for me since I rubbed her nose in it.”
Had to close this down, said,
“Seriously, I don’t think breaking and entering is part of their remit.”
She spun around, eyes spitting iron.
“Ah, you dumb, deluded sap.”
Couldn’t let that go, said,
“I don’t think they use sap outside of earnest chick lit.”
Then she had a sea change, touched my face, tenderly, her eyes now soft, said,
“Ah, Jack.”
And a lightbulb went on. I realized something.
She
Had
Feelings
For me.
Oh, sweet fuck.
How could I not have seen? The huge framed photo on her wall. Always there for me. As I tried to process this, she asked quietly,
“Jack, can we talk?”
Lord above.
I resolved, in my utter blindness, to let her down easy.
Aw, fuck, the arrogance and sheer stupidity. If only I could blame drink, dope, stress, but no, it was all on me, my total lack of cop on is absolutely appalling. I have no excuse save pure bollix.
Me.
I said (oh, the generosity and sensitivity!),
“Let’s go and have dinner, my treat, and we can talk.”
I cringe as I recall the smugness of my tone.
She said,
“Oh, thank you, jack. I knew you’d get it.”
My name in lowercase there as that is how small I feel now.