I’d served my dancing apprenticeship to the late sixties showbands there.
What bands!
Brendan Bowyer
The Indians
The Freshmen
Those guys came on stage at nine, played non-stop for hours. And did they give it large. Flogged their guts out with cover versions of everything from
“Suspicious Minds”
to
“If I didn’t have a dime...”
If not a time of innocence, it was most definitely an era of enthusiasm.
As I sat on the promenade, The Specials’ “Ghost Town” was playing in my head. A No. 1 from 1981, it caught perfectly the civic unrest of London back then.
Sutton pulled up in a Volvo. It looked seriously battered. I got in and asked,
“Where did you find this?”
It was an automatic and he set it on cruise, said,
“Bought it from a Swede in Clifden.”
He glanced at me, asked,
“What’s the difference with you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you’ve got a shit-eating grin going there.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, like the cat got the cream.”
Then he slapped the wheel with his palm, exclaimed,
“I get it... you got laid... you dirty dog, you did, didn’t you?”
“I got lucky.”
“Well I never! Good ol’ Taylor. Who was it, that rock chick, what’s her face, Cathy B.?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t make me do the hundred guesses trip. Or did you get a hooker, eh?”
“Ann Henderson.”
“The dead girl’s mother?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeez, Taylor, how bright was that?”
Cathy B. had found Ford’s address. When I’d told Sutton, he asked,
“The guy isn’t married?”
“No.”
“Let’s go visit his gaff, see what shakes.”
We parked at the side of Blackrock. The Salthill Towers loomed behind us. Sutton asked,
“Where’s he located?”
“Ground floor.”
Breaking in was a breeze. The lock was one of those Yale jobs. We walked into a spacious living room, expensively furnished. Tidy, too. A long coffee table had a book, open-ended, but nothing else. I checked the title, Finnegans Wake. Sutton said,
“Yeah, like anyone actually reads this.”
We did a thorough search, found nothing. Sutton asked,
“You sure anybody lives here?”
“There’s suits in the wardrobe, food in the fridge.”
Sutton leaned against the sitting room wall, said,
“See this carpet?”
“Expensive, I’d say.”
“But it’s not level. See near the lamp, it rises slightly.”
“So?”
“So, let’s roll that sucker.”
With the carpet back, we stared at loose floorboards. Sutton bent down, pushed them aside, said,
“Bingo.”
Began to hand up a series of videos. A batch of magazines, too. A glance showed the subject, child pornography Sutton said,
“Put all this crap on the table.”
I did.
We checked out two of the videos. More of the same. Sutton asked,
“What now?”
“Let’s wait for him.”
We raided the fridge, found some nice steaks, got them cooking. Round 6.30, I was dozing when I heard a key in the lock. Sutton was standing, looking relaxed. Ford came in, was into the sitting room before he saw us. Sutton had moved to the door. Ford glanced at the table, its piled contents. If he was panicked, he hid it well; he asked,
“What do you want?”
“Information.”
“Ah.”
“Tell me about Sarah Henderson, the other girls.”
He sat down, looked towards Sutton, said,
“More ex-garda.”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“So Mr Ford, tell all.”
“It’s no big deal. Mr Planter likes young girls. Sometimes they get awkward, start making threats. What can I say, they get depressed, go for the long swim.”
Till then, I’d stayed calm. But something in his smug expression, the contempt in his voice, got me. I was up and smacking him across the face. I pulled him to his feet and he spat at me. I threw him from me, and his head came down heavily on the coffee table. He didn’t move. Sutton was over, checking for a pulse, said,
“The fucker’s gone.”
“What?”
“He’s dead.”
“Christ.”
“We better get out of here. We clean off everything.” We even put the videos back in place. As we left, Sutton wiped the door handle, said,
“Let’s hope they think he fell.”
A grim articulation
Sutton dropped me off at my home. We hadn’t spoken en the way. He asked now,
“Do you want me to come in?”
“No.”
“You going to be OK?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Look, Jack... listen. It was an accident. Plus, how big a loss is he? The guy was garbage, the world is better off without him.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you.”
I’d just opened the front door when Linda appeared. She said,
“Ah, Jack.”
I didn’t answer, brushed past her. Heard her exclaim,
“Well, I never!”
The Seer is 91
Like I gave a rat’s ass. First off, I had a shower, scrubbed my skin till it hurt. Could feel Ford’s spittle on my face, like a burn. The phone rang. I growled,
“What?”
“Jack, it’s Ann.”
“Yeah... what?”
“Are you all right?”
“Christsake. I wish people would stop asking that.”
I slammed the phone down. Put on an XL sweatshirt with the logo:
A pair of ultra-faded 501s. One more wash and they were history. Usually, I put this gear on, I chill.
Wasn’t happening.
Got out a bottle of brandy. I’m a philistine, I hate cognac. The hangovers are total slaughter. Cracked the seal. Into the kitchen and washed the glass. The Roches £4.99 was still visible on the base. Rinsed it twice to erase the tequila scent. Back to the sitting room. The steak I’d eaten at Ford’s place sat in my gut like a lump of lead.
I tried to recall all my resolution about the brandy. Especially how J.M. O’Neill said it takes away the very air it gave you.
Aloud I said,
“Yeah, yeah... yada yada,” and sank the first one.
OK.
Not so bad. In fact, if it erred, it was on the smooth side.
Poured another.
In AA they warn about self-pity. “Poor me, poor me, pour me another.” Well, I was already drinking.
Right!
Certainly, pity was the very last thing I was feeling.
Pity the poor fuck who walloped his head offa the coffee table. Or was that — had his head walloped against it? I tried to shut out that image.
What loss was he? A pervert who preyed on young girls.
This wouldn’t fly, I couldn’t fan a single flame of justification.
The phone went. Picked it up, tried,
“Yeah?”
“Jack, it’s Sutton.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“How you doing there?”
“I’m OK.”
“Drinking, huh?”
“What?”
“I can hear it in your speech.”
“What are you? My mother?”
“Hey, drop the tone. I just want to say you’re not alone, buddy. I’ll swing by, we can order up a storm of pizza, catch a vid.”
“Like a date.”
“Jesus, Jack. Whatever you’re drinking, it’s not agreeing with you.”
“Neither are you.”
And I hung up.