“Bit of a shambles.”
By the time I got back to the hotel, I was feeling the weight. For punishment, I took the stairs. Opened the door of my new room, thought,
“Two seconds to a drink.”
The TV was on. I walked in and Sutton was in the armchair, legs propped on the bed. I nearly dropped the booze. He said,
“They show some shit in the mornings.”
And he clicked it off.
I tried for composure, asked,
“How did you get in my room?”
“Janet let me in, told her we’re brothers. Did you know they have dances here?”
I walked round the chair and he asked,
“What’s in the bag, man?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I’ve been following you. Make sure you don’t get jumped again.”
“Following me! Who the fuck do you think you are?”
He stood up, hands out in mock defence, said,
“Ah, you’re back.”
“Like you didn’t know, like you ‘forgot’ the gin that night.”
And realised how that sounded. Whine city. As if it was his fault. Tossed him a can, said,
“Stop following me... OK?”
“Okey-dokey.”
We drank in silence till he said,
“I went to the funeral.”
“More than I did.”
“I liked that old bastard. He was a feisty little fuck.”
“His son took over the pub.”
“Yeah! What’s he like?”
“He barred me.”
Sutton laughed out loud and I said,
“Thanks a lot.”
Not too long till we cracked the seal on the Scotch and he said,
“Planter’s done it again.”
“Maybe he didn’t, maybe it is a suicide.”
“Come on, Jack. You don’t believe that. Right after we confront him, he goes straight out and does a girl. It’s ‘up yours’ to us.”
“We can’t prove dick.”
“So, you’re going to let it slide.”
“What can I do?”
“You could shoot him.”
I looked at Sutton’s face. Saw nothing there to indicate he was joking.
Next morning, I was frayed but not wiped. I’d gone to bed the previous lunchtime and, miraculously, stayed there. I was hurting but it was manageable. Hunched over coffee, I was muttering. A knock at the door. Janet. She said,
“Oh, sorry, I can come back later.”
“Just give me ten, I’m outa here.”
She stood at the door and I snapped,
“Was there something?”
“Your brother, I hope I did the right thing.”
“That’s OK.”
“He’s a lovely man, promised me a painting.”
“That’s him all right.”
“Well, I’ll leave you in peace.”
I counted my winnings. Spread the cash on the bed and marvelled. Then I got some envelopes and put a wedge in for the guy who gave me the tip. Next, a wedge for Padraig, the head wino. An envelope for Cathy B.’s wedding present, and that was it.
Time to visit Sean. There was a bus I could get but felt I’d try to walk through the hangover. It’s a hike. From Eyre Square to Woodquay, out by the Dyke Road, on to the Quincenntenial Bridge. Up and on to Rahoon. I remember the old gates of the cemetery. Gone now. A photo of them, by Ann Kennedy, hung in Kenny’s with lines from Joyce’s poem.
My legs were aching in rhythm to my head. I had no intention of visiting my father. Truth was, I felt ashamed. My endeavours of the past weeks were nothing I wanted to bring to him.
Found Sean’s grave without trouble. It was alight with flowers. The temporary marker was the song of forlorn. If I had a cap, I’d have taken it off.
Blessed myself. Some rituals just surface without beckoning, I said,
“Sean, I miss you terrible. I didn’t value the worth of you.
“I’m drinking again and that’s sure to piss you off. I’m sorry I was that very worst of things, a poor friend. I have no pub now either. I’ll come and see you lots. Your son’s an asshole.”
I might have cried had I been able. As I walked away, I glanced in my father’s direction. A woman was kneeling there. For one wild glorious moment, I thought it was Ann. The sheer exhilarating joy.
My mother. Her head down, reciting the rosary. I gave a small cough. She looked up, said,
“Jack.”
I put out my hand to help her up. Couldn’t help but notice how frail she was. The knuckles on her hand, swollen from arthritis. She was, of course, in the regulation black. I said,
“I didn’t know you came.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Jack.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She looked at the grave, then asked,
“Could we go for a cup of tea?”
“Um...”
“I’ll pay. We could get a taxi, too. Go to the GBC... they’ve lovely buns.”
I shook my head. She added,
“I put a bouquet on Sean’s grave. You’ll miss him.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I’ll get a mass for him. At the Augustinian. It’s only a pound there.”
I nearly said,
“That’s right, get the best rate, yah cheap bitch.”
But bit down. She said,
“He liked that church, went to mass there every morning.”
“Look, I... have to go.”
Maybe she said, “Bye, Jack,” but I didn’t hear it. Could feel her eyes as I walked away. Passing through the gates I thought,
“Both my parents are here now.”
The leavings of
an inarticulate thanks.
The next few days, I exerted massive control and kept my drinking to a level. A level of wanting. Wanting gallons more.
But I was doing two pints at lunch, then holding out till late evening when I’d slow chug two more pints with Jameson chasers.
I knew how fragile this balance was. A gust of wind would plunge me back to hell. The buzz was sufficient to keep me that beat outside reality and I clung fast.
I’d met my tipster and given him his envelope. He was surprised, said,
“Jaysus, I’m surprised.”
“Well, you gave me the information. It’s the least I could do. Did you back it yourself?”
“Back what?”
“Rocket Man! The tip you gave me.”
“Naw, I never do tips.”
I felt he’d have been a whizz in the post office. No sign of Padraig, and I’d checked his haunts.
I rang Ann, felt if I could just see her, we might have a shot. As soon as she heard my voice, she hung up. My beard was full arrived, complete with grey flashes. Told myself it spoke of character, even maturity. Odd times I caught my reflection, I saw the face of desperation.
My plan, as I said at the beginning, was to go to London, get a place by the park and wait. Now I had the money and a reason to wait. Began to scan the English papers for accommodation.
The only thing holding me was a resolution to Sarah’s death. I was in no doubt that Planter was responsible. I hadn’t a clue how to prove it, but I couldn’t leave without some answer.
Found a new pub. Over my years as a garda and after, I’d been barred from every pub in the city. Now though, along with prosperity came new pubs. Tried a few truly horrendous ones. You went in and a babe greeted you with a total welcome.
The
You half expected to be asked your star sign. Walking into one of these places with a high scale hangover, the last item you wanted was enthusiasm. Hangovers can only deal with surliness.
I found Nestor’s by accident. I was walking down Forster Street when the downpour came. The type of rain that is personal. You’re instantly drenched. Stepped into a side street and there it was. Knew I was in business as a sign on the window proclaimed: