Tall ships
... Breaking on the turbulent waves.
Could read their names:
Albion
The Medora
Elizabeth Hughes
C. H. Appleton
Coldstream
St. George
Valhalla
These were the famine ships,
Known as the coffin ships.
Between 1845 and 1850
These ships had serviced Galway in a desperate bid to save the starving, dying population.
I shook my head and the visions evaporated.
I felt a speech or some sort of spoken words would be fitting on the day I finally
Dropped the hammer.
My mind resonated with the most powerful death passage in movie history
... Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) in Blade Runner:
“I’ve seen things like
You people wouldn’t believe:
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion;
I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the the Tannhäuser Gate.
All those moments
Will be lost
Like tears in rain.
Time to die.”
The image of Roy Batty dying in the rain seemed so damn apt.
If you want to tear the very heart from your chest. Watch the clip
On YouTube.
I had allowed these words, this image, to sear into my psyche. I almost lived the end of Under the Volcano where they dump a dead dog into the hole after the body of the consul.
On the edge of the Claddagh Basin, I met Cathy. The woman whose daughter, Serena-May, had died on my watch.
In a life-affirming book, the type of shite that would get you on Oprah, Cathy would have embraced me and cooed,
“I love and forgive you.”
Right?
She spat in my face,
Cursed,
“May you never have a day’s peace.”
Joanna Taylor, in an essay on film noir, suggested Ray Batty aligned himself with Wagner’s Tannhäuser, a character who has fallen from grace with men and with God. Both are characters whose faith is beyond their control.
Got a message from Sister Maeve. She had located the man and boy. They had indeed been on Aran but questions from locals had them depart fast. The man had seemed, in the words of the locals,
... to be a little overaffectionate to the boy.
Yeah, right.
So the fuck legged it.
Now the chances were good he might still be in Galway. I called Owen Daglish, a disgruntled Guard, still on the force but very bitter with the powers that wanted a new type of policeman.
Meaning, not Owen.
He was old school.
Translate, he never had a suspect who didn’t respond to the lesson of the hurley. As in, beat the living shite out of him without leaving the marks. Did I concur with this form of faux vigilantism?
Pretty much.
You wanted something from Owen, you had to buy him drink.
Lots of.
We met in Garavan’s, the barman greeting,
“Jack, I heard you were in jail.”
People heard all sorts of shit about me, never... ever... like
... you joined the Samaritans
Or
Even
... you volunteer at Age Concern.
Nope.
It was always down and dirty.
And,
Whisper it,
Shabby.
Some of it was even based on truth.
Owen was already working on a pint, chaser riding point. He looked
... fucked.
Par for the course for a Guard on the way out and down. He was wearing what had once been euphemistically termed a wax jacket. Now it not only was non-wax but barely resembled a jacket. Some guys, they let three days go unshaven and get that
Don Johnson
Jason Statham
Vibe.
Others
Look
Vagrant.
Guess which Owen was.
He said,
“Stanley Reed? Supposedly he and his son have some history.”
You had to appreciate his straight down to biz attitude. The barman brought a refill for Owen and a pint and chaser for me. No words were exchanged. This is the almost sacred ritual between good bar guys and valued customers.
Valued, as in
They tip.
A lot.
I said,
“Tell me.”
“Mr. Reed has a sheet of sex offenses as long as a tax bill. The boy, Daniel, is actually a nephew but UK cops believe he is indeed, if you’ll pardon my French...”
Pause.
... “Diddling the poor lad.”
Jesus.
He produced a sheet of paper, said,
“This cost, Jack.”
I passed over an envelope, laden with euros. He flicked through the notes, went,
“Humph.”
Signifying nothing, nothing at all. He said,
“I don’t expect them to last long there as the Guards are attempting to get an English warrant.”
Delay and deferral, the name of the bureaucratic game. I asked,
“Can’t they hold him on some pretext?”
He sighed, sank the pint, said,
“See, Jack, the fuckup with the Grammarian, they are not rushing to arrests so much.”
He played with his empty glass and I signaled for a refill. He added,
“That whole clusterfuck, Ridge is for the high jump.”
“What?”
He gave a bitter laugh, said,
“Someone has to carry the shit can and she’s the designated driver.”
I said,
“I owe his aunt some money for supposedly trying to prove Wilson was innocent.”
He examined the fresh pint for flaws, found none, said,
“Don’t think she’ll much care by this stage. The mad bastard is no longer an issue.”
He glanced at the paper in my hand, asked,
“What are you planning to do with that, Jack?”
I smiled, malice in my soul, said,
“Something fucking biblical.”
He touched his glass against mine, said,
“We expect nothing less.”
“Suddenly the years catch up with the old swan and it glides to a small fern protected by reeds. Laying its majestic head on its sad breast, it emits a tiny shriek and lets the water take it.”
Finally tracked down Em, by using her
... greenhell@gmail.com
Tag.
We met in McSwiggans and she showed up in Chrissie Hynde mode. Jet-black hair, kohl makeup, a tiny gold guitar brooch on her black leather jacket, and, if I’m not mistaken, a ripped Vivienne Westwood black T-shirt. It said on the front
... this is a ripped Westwood T-shirt.
I was post Guard 1970.
As in item 1834, black 501s, and a sour expression. I said,
“You’ve covered all the icons there I think.”
She struck a pose, said,
“Brass in pocket.”
For a vague tense moment, it seemed we might hug but it evaporated. She shouted,
“Yo, barkeep, service before the fall.”
Then she leaned over and gave me a forceful puck in the chest, said,
“You shithead, how many months are you gone under the radar?”
We ordered a couple of longnecks and got the look from the barmaid. Em snapped at her,
“We’re down-home folks so get to it.”
She did.
Reluctantly.
She gave me a searching look and you know you have been full measured and assessed when an Irishwoman does that.
And
Found wanting.
She said,
“You’re different, Jack.”
Death sentence will do that I guess. Did I share?
Did I fuck?
Went with,
“How’s your mom?”