“They were all asking for you.”
They’d already forgotten him. He knew that. Gave a tight smile. I lit the rollie and put it in his mouth. Coughs and chest rumbles danced him in the bed. He said,
“I needed that. Did I ever acquire your name?”
“Jack.”
“Suits you. That it’s also the name of my favourite beverage is the sharp side of irony. Lying here, nicotineless and gasping for a drink, I pondered God. I think I heard once that He knew my name before I was born. Have you any thoughts on that?”
I took a furtive look round the ward. People were pointedly ignoring us. The word was out on the wino. He began to shiver. The heat was on full throttle. I could feel sweat in my beard. A tea trolley came, pushed by a middle-aged knacker called Rooney.
A small spit of a man who put the taste into venom. My father, the most peaceful of men, was rumoured to have given him a hiding. He distributed tea and dead biscuits to all except Padraig.
“Hey, hey, Rooney,” I shouted.
He pretended not to hear me and the trolley accelerated as he reached the corridor.
Cold.
The cold flash of a killing rage.
Blind.
I caught him near the Coronary Unit. The darting eyes threw the challenge to me. His catering badge “Mr Rooney” gave him status. The look said,
“You can’t touch me!”
I’m over six foot, weigh in at 180 lbs. I felt like two of myself. My voice came gut low.
“Do you get to Casualty?”
“No, I don’t, I go to...”
And he launched into a litany of saints. Representing the various wards. I said,
“You’re going to be in Casualty in about five minutes because I’m going to break your left arm!”
“What’s the matter with you, Taylor? I never did nothing to you. I was a great pal of your oul fellah’s.”
“Go back up that corridor. Wheel your bag of tricks into the ward and offer that man a cup of tea... oh, and one of them mouldy biscuits.”
He raised up on his toes, asked,
“Arrah, a wino... what do you care... what’s he to you? ’Tisn’t tea the likes of him wants.”
As he finished, I stared into his eyes. Let him see what even I don’t acknowledge. He turned the trolley round and served Padraig his afternoon tea... and two biscuits. I even had a cup myself, declined seconds.
After, Padraig said,
“I won’t make the square for the races.”
“You might.”
“No. I’d have liked to wear them new socks. Do you think... do you think you could fit them on me now. I’m perished.”
He surely was.
The socks were red thermal. Said on the front... “Cosy Fit”. That near did me in.
I rolled back the blanket and his feet were a sin. A serious novelist would call them
gnarled
twisted
lacerated
and oh
so very old.
The socks were a size medium and enormous on him. He watched me watching them. I asked,
“How’s that?”
“Mighty, I’m the better of them already. I had a pair of Argylls once, or maybe I just hope I did. You have a rare gift, my friend.”
“Do I?”
“You never probe or pry into a person’s affairs.”
“Thank you.”
Not much of a recommendation for an investigator. It was time to leave. I said,
“I’ll bring you a drop of the creature.” He gave a lovely smile, said,
“Any creature.”
Then leant out of the bed, rummaged in a locker and brought out some battered sheets of paper, said,
“Read this, my friend, but not now. You’ll know the time.”
“That’s a bit mysterious.”
“Without mystery, we are lost!”
Question: “What do you know about money?”
Young Man: “Not a lot.”
Answer: “It’s how they keep score.”
Bill James, Gospel
Outside the hospital, the black dog descended. A cloud of depression that begged, “End it now.”
Used to be, the best early house was right opposite the hospital. Gone, of course. Now you have The River Inn. I chanced it. Not a sign of the river.
A young woman tending bar, complete with name tag:
Jeez, for the days of Mary.
She gave me a smile full of capped teeth. I hated her, said,
“Jameson and water.”
Figured she couldn’t screw that up. She didn’t.
Though she did add ice. Worse, she hovered. I said,
“Don’t you have to floss or something?”
Took a window seat and realised I’d forgotten to give Padraig his money. A middle-aged woman was going table to table distributing leaflets. Dropped one hastily on mine, without eye contact. No doubt Shona had clued her in. I read:
Till now, they and their ancestors have
been in revolt against me. The sons
are defiant and obstinate...
That was enough.
I focused on a phone in the corner and had to suppress a wild ache to call Ann. Bit hard on the ice and waited for the impulse to leak away. A mantra unreeled in my head, like this:
I have money, lots of money. As long as I have that, I’m in the game.
Never-no-mind I can’t figure the game. Cash says I’m in.
Over and over till the ice melted in the glass.
When I arrived at the hospital that evening, I had a bottle of Jack Daniels for Padraig. His bed was empty. I grabbed a passing nurse, asked,
“Is he gone?”
“I’m afraid so. At 4.30, very peacefully.”
“What?”
“He didn’t suffer.”
“You mean he’s dead!”
“I’m afraid so... are you a relative?”
I tried to get my mind in gear, asked,
“What happens to him now?”
She explained that if no one “claimed” him, the Western Health Board would do the burial. I said,
“A pauper’s grave?”
“Well, we don’t term it that any more. There are spaces reserved in the cemetery.”
“I’ll claim him.”
In a daze, I went through the rigmarole of forms and certificates. Even rang an undertaker’s who said they’d handle everything. I asked,
“Do you take cash?”
“We do.”
Padraig’s funeral, the burial, I can only vaguely recall. I was there at every stage but pumped to the eyeballs. Course, there were no mourners. I got this gig all to myself.
Here’s the thing. He’s buried close to Sean. I couldn’t have planned it better. I think Sutton might have showed during some of the proceedings, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking.
Ann certainly didn’t.
When it was done, I had to apologise to Mrs Bailey for missing our nightcap. She gave me the strangest look, said,
“But we had our nightcap.”
Total blank. Trying to cover, I said,
“I meant I wasn’t much help.”
“But you were a tremendous help.”
“I was?”
“Certainly. After your impassioned plea, how could I possibly sell.”
Some mysteries are best left alone. Padraig had that right. Finally, I got round to looking at the papers he’d given me.
This is what he’d written:
An Irish Wino Foresees His Death
(with apologies to W.B.)
Blame it on an intuition
I hadn’t acted
and certainly
would nigh on certainty