Oddly, he referred to his dad as him. Said him came back, three sheets to a whiskeyed wind, asked,
“You like Robbie Coltrane?”
Before I could answer this nonsense, he added,
“They have a betting shop on board.”
Just what the world needs.
His face had that barroom tan, the high color you get when you fast swallow the drinks and the booze suffuses your cheeks with a false sheen of health. And he had that limited bonhomie that is as intense as it is short-lived. I said,
“I’m Jack Taylor and I’ve already met Daniel.”
He shot the boy a warning glance, as in,
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
He said,
Turning,
“So poking your nose in my affairs already.”
Coming hard arse at me, it’s where I live, what I love. I snapped,
“Depends on what you’ve got to hide.”
His eyes flashed, rage pushing to be let out. I could help there. I put out my hand, the mutilated fingers on full show, gritted,
“So, your name?”
He gave a shrill laugh, well, more of a giggle, said,
“Good Lord, you sound like a cop.”
Daniel blurted,
“He’s not my father.”
Pause.
Now we had us a whole other interesting game of hurling. Instinctively he raised his fist and I said, real quiet,
“Touch the boy and I will fuck you over the side.”
Needless to say, this was something of a conversation killer.
The guy blurted,
“No need to get all het up.”
I asked, steel leaking all over my tone,
“What are you to the boy?”
Maybe I read it wrong but the boy seemed to be suppressing a smile. The guy offered his hand, said,
“We seem to be off on the wrong foot. I’m Stanley Reed, and I’m the boy’s uncle.”
In pedophile talk, uncle has a whole other connotation, and the guy suddenly realized that, tried,
“The boy’s mum is poorly and I’m taking him for a bit of a break to the Aran Islands.”
I stood up and he reached for my arm, pleaded,
“Please give me a minute,”
Looked at Daniel, added,
“Away from the boy.”
We moved out to a corridor but it was jammed. Between the cinemas, bowling, bingo, the place was a mini mall. We headed into the men’s room and
He started,
“You like hookers and margaritas?”
WTF?
Then,
“Who doesn’t, right? My treat?”
I asked,
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You think I want to go...”
Reached for the description,
“Do you want to party?”
Added,
“With you?”
He sighed, said,
“Guess not.”
Then sucker-punched me in the gut; it hurt.
As I bent over, he grabbed my hair, used his knee to break my nose, let me fall, and did a rapid series of vicious kicks to my head and face. In my head, Elton John was unspooling.
“I can see Daniel waving good-bye.”
Reed bent down, whispered in my ear,
“I paid good money for that little cunt, and you know what, hotshot? He is nearly too old for my taste already.”
Paused.
“How time flies when you are fucking...”
Another pause.
“... Sweetness.”
“An event may be considered decisive when it utterly destabilizes your life. This event which sends a jolt of electricity through your nervous system is readily distinguishable from life’s other misfortunes because it has a particular force, a specific density; as soon as it occurs, you realize that it will have overwhelming consequences, that what is happening in your life is irreparable.”
(Pierre Lemaitre, Camille)
Lapsing into a Comma
(Bill Walsh)
They used to say that you came to a full stop when you died. I’ve had many beatings in my time, with
Hurleys
Steel-capped boots (courtesy of two rogue Guards)
Baseball bats
Blunt instruments of various hues, including whiskey bottles and KA-BARs.
But this hiding in the toilet of the ferry was close to being the worst.
In the movies, the hero takes a beat-down, he rises with designer bruises and gung ho attitude. They don’t show you soiling yourself to add shame to the hurt. Lying there, in piss and blood, you do your damnedest not to cry.
Doesn’t work.
This blubbering mess of myself was airlifted to the Beaumont hospital. And another month lost as I rallied, relapsed, suffered, and withered. But they persevered and a few days before my release Sergeant Ridge traveled all the way from Galway to interrogate me.
Sweet girl.
Ridge looked tired and old. She stood at the end of my bed, disapproval writ large and largest. As I struggled to sit upright and face the shitstorm, the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails, “Somewhat Damaged,” riffed in my head. I asked,
“What kept you?”
She shook her head, said,
“Always the mouth.”
I’d have murdered somebody for a drink, a cig, asked,
“You bring any tidings of good cheer, or refreshments?”
Her face was locked in distaste, she was not going to bend an inch. Said,
“You disappear. For months, not even your wacko bitch friend, the Emily cow, knew where you were. Couldn’t find her or even a trace of her, as if she was a figment of your deranged imagination.
“I’ve been told you were paid by Parker Wilson’s niece to prove his innocence. I’m simply here to see if you have any information to move the whole mess forward, though from your appearance I’d guess it was just your usual piss-up, disguised as an investigation.”
The guy on the ferry beat me up professionally. Now Ridge was going to beat me down with guilt. I said,
“There’s a man, a pedophile, traveling with a young boy, heading I think for the Aran Islands. You need to find them.”
She sighed, a sigh my cursed mother would have owned, said,
“And I’m your messenger boy? Am I to gather this guy beat the holy crap out of you?”
I tried,
“Put your personal feelings for me aside. A boy is in serious danger.”
She nearly smiled, a smile of utter joylessness, said,
“I put everything about you aside a long time ago.”
We traded a few more insults but, truly, they were halfhearted, we had kind of lost the ability to really wound each other after Stewart died. I gave her the description of the man and boy, asked,
“How is the case on the grammar guy progressing?”
She was going to ignore that but veered, said,
“Another murder and we still can’t pin it on him.”
She took out a notebook, wrote down the details of the man and boy, said,
“I’ll do background on the man, see if we get a red flag.”
I wanted to say thank you but knew she’d blow that down so settled for,
“Well, mind yourself.”
Lame as fuck but in Ireland we say it when we don’t really want to go with
“Go fuck yourself.”
She did that long searching look, the one that implies,
“Surely there is something of merit in you...”
But
“Fucked if I can see it.”
She said,
“No point, Jack, in wishing you luck, you are so far out on borrowed time, it’s beyond comprehension.”
And she was gone.
Leaving a blank space that whispered,
“All is ashes.”
The nurse came in, did the annoying fluffing pillows gig, said,
“I thought you were going to be arrested.”
I settled down in the bed, said,