“Do you want to come in, grab a shower?”
“Naw, I’m for the leaba.”
I got out and waited. Sutton shook himself, said,
“Jack, you wouldn’t ever think of selling me out?”
“What?”
“‘Cause I wouldn’t like that. You ‘n’ me, we’re tied together.”
“Who’d I sell you out to?”
“The guards. You know the old saying... once a garda! You might want to score some points with your old mates.”
“That’s mad talk.”
He gave a long look, then,
“You’re shaping up to be a citizen, you know that. God knows, you were some fuck-up drinking, but at least you were predictable.”
“Get some sleep.”
“And you, Jack, get some focus.”
He put the car in gear, screeched into traffic. I went into the flat, tried to rustle up some breakfast again. But my heart wasn’t in it. Settled for coffee and sank into a chair. I considered what he’d said and wondered if there was any truth in his accusations. One drink and that would burn any righteous notions. Burn everything else, too.
I thought about Planter and couldn’t see how I was going to prove he was responsible for Sarah’s death. Time was running out, too, on my accommodation. If I was going to be homeless, at least I had the beard for it.
The next few days, I heard nothing from Sutton. Checked at the Skeff but no sign. Went into Grogan’s and Sean provided the real coffee. I asked,
“What? No biscuit?”
“You don’t need back-up no more.”
“Sean.”
“What?”
“You’ve known me... how long?”
“Donkeys.”
“Right. You’ve seen me in all kinds of states.”
“That I have.”
“So, all told, you know me better than anyone.”
“Too true.”
“Would you say I’d be capable of selling out a friend?”
If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. Seemed to give it serious thought. I’d been expecting an immediate “course not”. Finally he looked me right in the eye, said,
“Well, you used to be a guard.”
And I have held your hand
for reasons
not at all.
In reality, time doesn’t pass. We pass. I have no idea why, but I think that’s one of the saddest things I ever learnt. God knows, anything I have learnt has been the hard way.
An alcoholic’s greatest defect is a complete unwillingness to learn from the past.
What I knew from mine was if I drank, chaos reigned. I was no longer under any illusion. Yet I’d have given anything to crack the seal on a bottle of Scotch and fly. Or even, a feast of pints. Close my eyes and there was a table. Wooden, of course. Dozens of creamy Guinness lined in greeting. The head... ahhh, just perfect.
Stood up and physically shook myself. This was eating me alive. Galway’s a great walking town. Walking the prom is the favoured route. Used to be only Galwegians followed a particular ritual. You started at Grattan Road, then up past Seapoint. Stop a moment there and hear the ghost of all the showbands past:
The Royal
Dixies
Howdowners
The Miami
I can’t say if it was a simple age. But it was a whole lot less complicated. In the middle of a jive, no mobile phone blew away the magic. Then on past Claude Toft’s, along the beach till you reached Blackrock. Here’s where the ritual kicked in. At the wall, you touched it with your shoe.
Word is out though. Even the Japanese aim a semi-karate shot to the stone.
I don’t begrudge them the act, but somehow it’s been diluted.
Go figure.
I walked into town and decided to get a blast of caffeine for the trip.
As long as I remember, there’s been sentries. Two men who perch on stools at any given hour. Always the same duo. They wear cloth caps, donkey jackets and terylene pants. Never together. They sit at opposite ends of the bar. I wouldn’t swear they even knew each other.
Now here’s the thing.
No matter how you sneak up on these guys or what way you approach them, it never changes. Two pint glasses of Guinness, half full. It’s synchronicity gone ape. You couldn’t plan it. Some day, to walk in and see either full glasses or even empty, then I’ll know change is here to stay.
As I headed for my usual seat, I glanced to check. Yup, the two in place, halves at the ready.
Sean was as contrary as a bag of cats. Plonked coffee down in front of me, saying nothing. I said,
“And a good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t get lippy with me.”
Suitably chastised, I sipped the coffee. Not so hot, but I felt it wasn’t the morning to mention it. I glanced at the paper. Read how the gardaí wouldn’t be part of a new EU force as they weren’t armed. A fellow I vaguely knew approached, asked,
“Might I have a word, Jack?”
“Sure, sit down.”
“I dunno do you remember me. I’m Phil Joyce.”
“Course I do.”
I didn’t.
He sat and produced tobacco and papers, asked,
“Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fire away.”
He did.
He was one of those skull smokers. Sucked the nicotine in so hard it made his cheekbones bulge. He blew out the smoke with a deep sigh. Whether contentment or agony, it was a close call. He said,
“I knew you better when you were doing your line.”
God be with the days. Doing a line was all but redundant. Then, you met a girl, went to the pictures, for walks and, if you were lucky, held her hand for reasons not at all. Now, it was “a relationship” and you were ambushed at every stage by
issues
empowerment
and
the inner child
The only lines now were of cocaine.
You didn’t bring flowers any more, you brought a therapist. He said,
“I heard you were off the gargle.”
“A bit.”
“Good man. Will you give me a reference?”
“For what?”
“The Post Office.”
“Sure, but I’m not sure I’m the best choice.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want the job.”
“Excuse me?”
“Keep the Social Welfare off me back. Look like I’m trying.”
“Um... OK.”
“Right, thanks a lot.”
Then he was gone. I stood up and made to leave money on the table. Sean was over, asked,
“What’s that?”
“The price of the coffee.”
“Oh... and since when did you start paying?”
I’d had it, barked,
“What sort of bug is up your arse?”
“Watch your language, young Taylor.”
I brushed past him, said,
“You’re a cranky oul bastard.”
At a recent mass in Galway Cathedral, a young New Age traveller horrified the
congregation by walking up the aisle waving a replica gun.
He was charged but released on bail of 6p, because he was broke.
His New Age friends, locals later discovered, had tamed eleven rats that they
christened and cared for in their tents.
Like the guy in the Carlsberg commercial, one can only ask, “Why?”
I was heading down Quay Street. Hardened locals pronounce it “Kay” and it’s “Key” to the rest. A rib must have been broken in the devil as a shard of sun hit the buildings.
A shadow fell. The head wino. I knew him as Padraig. The usual rumours beset him. Supposedly from a good family, he had been
A teacher
A lawyer
A brain surgeon
As long as I’d known him, he was in bits and fond of the literary allusion. Today, he was semi-pissed, said,