believe
a life upon the streets
at least for long
Yd not survive.
The sabotage
of hope
for far too long
I’d lived
one drink above despair
a public house
a hearse before
I watched a wino
place his hand
above his heart.
I’d known
a cap
if he had owned
would slow and
very slow
remove
shake so
the shakes... disregarding
... a Silence in Respect.
The cortège pass... press on... to press
his hand... the day across
this moment new
passed nigh beyond
the oldest expectation
a hand towards
reconciliation... not renewed.
The coffin doesn’t pass
the rich hotels
their hands
towards the meth remains
aren’t shaped.
Break point
Things broke very quickly after that. I can’t say Padraig’s death was a turning point, but it appears so. A night in Nestor’s, the barman took me aside, said,
“No lectures right, but I used to drink like you do. Which is fine, but I think you have unfinished business.”
“What are you on about?”
“You have the face of a man who needs to be elsewhere. So, here.”
He handed me a packet. I was at my most belligerent, growled,
“What the hell is this?”
“Beta blockers. Chill you right down. Like cocaine without the damage.”
“What makes you think I...”
But he shu... ss... ed me, said,
“Try these... chill... and when you’ve finished whatever the hell’s haunting you, come back... settle into a sedate life of the newspapers, a few pints and a decent pub.”
Then he was gone. I said,
“You need help, you do.”
Put the packet in my pocket all the same.
Wouldn’t you know, next morning, I’d the mother of a hangover. Took one of the tablets in desperation. A little while, I was becalmed.
Looking out the window, or rather, looking calmly out, I said,
“This doesn’t mean I’ll stop drinking.”
But it did.
Cathy B.’s wedding should have been a massive piss-up. It was, but not for me. The Registrar is in Mervue, opposite Merlin Park Hospital. I said to Cathy,
“Wouldn’t you have liked a church?”
“Negative waves, Jack.”
Her intended, Everett, the performance artist, wasn’t as bad as I feared. Bad enough but tolerable. Early twenties with the shaved skull. He was wearing what I think they call a kaftan... or curtains. To be fair, it appeared to be fresh ironed. For the occasion, I guess. Cathy looked gorgeous. In a simple red dress and killer heels. She asked,
“Wotcha fink?”
“Lady in Red.”
Mega smile. When she introduced me to Everett, he said,
“Ah... the old guy.”
I tried to act as if I cared, asked him,
“How’s... the... performing?”
“I’m resting.”
“Right.”
That was our talk over. God knows, I’ve met bigger assholes. He was simply the youngest. Cathy whispered,
“He’s very modest. He’s got a big gig soon with Macnas.”
“OK.”
I handed her the envelope. She shrieked,
“How Godfather II.”
The ceremony was
brief
precise
cold.
You need a church.
Reception after in The Roisín. Barrels of drink rolled out. It was packed with arts people. The ones who can tell at fifty yards you’re non-art. Pretty good band though. Playing blue-grass through punk-country to salsa. Got that crowd hopping. A young woman in black denim asked me,
“Wanna dance?”
“Maybe later.”
She gave me an ice appraisal, said,
“I don’t think you got a later.”
I blamed the beard. A few times I hovered near the bar, near shouted,
“Double Jameson and a pint.”
But passed. Cathy asked,
“You don’t wanna drink?”
“Oh I do... but...”
“Gotcha. You’re nicer without it.”
When I was leaving she gave me a huge hug, said,
“You’re cool.”
Everett gave me a slow nod, said,
“Hang tough, dude.”
Words, no doubt, to live by.
Saw the headline as I walked up Dominick Street:
I bought the paper, sat on the bridge to read. The gist of the article was as follows:
A former garda, Brendan Flood, has come forward to allege that Mr. Planter, a prominent businessman, is linked to the deaths of a number of teenage girls. Their deaths had been classified as suicide, but in light of Mr. Flood’s revelations, their cases are being reopened.
Superintendent Clancy, in a brief statement, said Mr Planter had disappeared from his home and his whereabouts are unknown.
Mr Flood said he’d decided to come forward because of his recent embracing of Christian beliefs.
Another ex-garda, Jack Taylor, was mentioned by Mr Flood as “being instrumental” in his decision to come forward.
I put the paper down, thought, “Fame at last.”
Gave a sigh of something close to relief. So, it was nearly over. Ann was getting what she so desperately required. That the world would know her daughter was not a suicide. Reading the piece, you’d think I’d been a player. Truth to tell, I’d fumbled and fecked, made waves without caution and caused the death of Ford.
I slung the paper.
Back in my room, the thirst was on me. The voice whispering,
“Case closed, mostly solved, time for R and R.”
Took my beta-b and went to bed.
“Clay stood there for a few more minutes, just shaking his head, thinking how
funny it was. Once you fuck up, seems you can’t STOP
fucking up to save your life.”
Next morning, early, there was a knock at my door. Expecting Janet, I said,
“Come in.”
It was Sutton. He said,
“What have you got to drink?”
“Coffee.”
“Ah shit, you’re on the wagon again.”
“What can I tell you?”
He sat in the armchair, got his legs up on the bed. I said,
“You’ve heard about Planter?”
“Sure. I can go one better.”
“How do you mean?”
“I know where he is.”
“You’re kidding. Did you tell the guards?”
“You were a guard, I’m telling you.”
I reached for the phone and he said,