I took a deep breath, then,
“I know two of the men, in a photo Emily has, were already arrested, your husband is... um... out of the picture, so that leaves Wilson, and I have been asked to try and clear his name.”
She stared at me in amazement, uttered,
“You?”
I said, with tight control,
“It’s what I do.”
She pondered this, then,
“They all drank a great deal and I’ve learned in my program that normal inclinations become perverted by alcohol.”
Fuck’s sake.
I said,
“Blame the demon drink, eh?”
A thin, mean smile danced along her lower lip. She said,
“One feels you have experienced some demons of your own.”
Bitch.
I gave up, said,
“Here’s my mobile number. If you think of anything that might help your friend’s defense, I would be grateful.”
I called the pup, who decided to show off and made an impressive leap into my arms.
Who knew?
I was at the door when she said,
“I would like to say it’s been a pleasure but I have learned that honesty is essential. It says so in The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous.”
I looked at her, the smug expression, figuring she’d scored the last point, and said,
“That same book talks about a state of mind that I think you may have.”
“Oh, and what might that be, Mr. Taylor?”
I let the moment build, then,
“A state of mind that only can be described as savage.”
“‘The king died and then the queen died,’ is a story.
‘The king died, and then the queen died of grief’ is a plot.”
(E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel)
Park’s aunt Sarah had a conference with the lawyer representing him.
You get what you pay for and, in this case, as she was laying out a shitload of green, she had the whiz kid of the city. But smarmy.
Oh, yeah.
Sarah knew to be suspicious of any man who wore more jewelry than she did. And not only that, but classy gear. And he did that annoying thing of shooting his cuffs to emphasize a point and, of course, to show you the Cartier watch, etc.
His office alone cost as much as the salaries of the Irish Water Board. And he was just as arrogant as those charlatans. He said,
“I’ve been in touch with Sergeant Ridge. She is the chief cop on the case and a dyke.”
Sarah wanted to ask,
“And this sexual data helps... how?”
But every question cost another five hundred euros. She nodded sagely. Not easy when you did not wish to draw attention to your double chin. He continued,
“It seems our boy used to give himself ECT.”
She thought,
“What?”
The lawyer smiled and this had the effect of her checking to see if she maybe had something stuck in her teeth. He said,
“If we go the insanity route, this will be a huge advantage.”
Then he suddenly stood up, majestic in the movement, spluttered,
“Good gracious, where are my manners?”
He had the Trinity accent that those who attended in the ’70s acquired. Not quite posh but cultured, showed learning more than breeding. It let you know they were indeed better but not showy with it.
“Coffee, tea, we have Earl Grey and Darjeeling.”
She refused, wanted to get to the bottom line. He continued,
“Our Mr. Wilson administered a voltage of five hundred watts to his brain on frequent occasions. You might say his mind was indeed scrambled.”
Sarah was, dare I say, shocked. She made a small
“Oh.”
The lawyer seemed to think this was appropriate and said,
“Mind you, there is now a bracelet on the market that gives you three hundred forty watts. It comes as a black rubber wristband with an LED light buried inside it; they are calling it a wearable personal trainer. Two copper terminals deliver the current with a simple two-second warning.”
Sarah was aghast, wondering if he was trying to sell one to her. She asked,
“Good heavens, why?”
He chuckled, genuinely amused, said,
“It’s named the Pavlov bracelet after the Russian who conditioned the dogs.”
This she knew about but she was mystified, said,
“I am mystified.”
He elaborated,
“It is designed to stop us yielding to our addictions.”
Sarah was shaking her head. He tried to elucidate.
“Invented by a Stanford whiz kid of the name Maneesh Sethi, it sells at a price of three hundred euros.”
He waited and when she had nothing, said,
“We can use this to show that Park, though obviously off his fucking head...”
She jumped at the obscenity as he intended. He liked to have her full attention. Then,
“Was at least trying to, shall we say, cure himself.”
She was dubious, asked,
“And that would, um, fly?”
He laughed again, a more brutal tone having leaked across his words, said,
“It’s bullshit but at least it shows he is at worst a harmless eccentric.”
Sarah didn’t know if this meant that Park would walk or be confined so she asked,
“What are his chances?”
Lawyers love, just fucking love, questions, and the sillier the better, plus, a long answer stretches out those billable hours, as he’d learned from Boston Legal. He saw himself with the cachet of William Shatner and the chutzpah of James Spader. He’d learned those two c words in the past week and used them frequently. He adopted that lawyerly look, eyes above the pince-nez so you thought you were seeing double. You were certainly paying double, and said,
“If we draw Judge Fahy, we are in with a shout because she is très simpatico to madness. The worst would be Bennett. He let two rapists walk recently and is determined to jail some poor bastard.”
Sarah was still lost, said,
“The press are camped outside my home.”
He shrugged that away — not his problem — said,
“Thing is to try and make our dear Park appear...”
He cleared his throat, noisily, then,
“... Normal.”
She gave a cynical shrug, as in,
“Good frigging luck with that.”
He nearly smiled but went with,
“Couldn’t you get him a copy of Lynne Truss and let him, I don’t know, be seen with that and somehow have the focus on his intellectual side?”
She had no idea of who that person was but this was why God invented Google.
She stood up, said,
“Thank you.”
He stood, too, had to now that he might be a hoot but at least a hoot with manners. For a horrible moment she thought he might actually kiss her hand. He said,
“C’est ne pas rien.”
“‘Call me Ishmael.’ She stared blankly, then grinned. ‘I’m going to hit the keg — need a refill?’ He sighed. No one reads anymore.”
(Frank Byrns, “Talking of Michelangelo”)
Storm Rachel finally hit, the west coast worst of all. Howling winds, snow, ice, monsoon rain, power cuts, and flooded homes, all the usual outriders of Armageddon in a green wave. The pup doesn’t really do storms or, indeed, most bad weather. He hides under the sofa with my Galway GAA hurling shirt as a security blanket. I’d have gone in there with him if there was room.
But hey, I had a date. No wonder the elements were deranged. A rib broke in the devil. I tried to envision my own face when Emily told me she loved me. Christ, let me be humble and gracious, and let the bitch down easy.
I did neither