“It’s not that kind of gig.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I can bring you to see him.”
Took me a moment, then I said,
“You took him!”
He gave that smile, asked,
“You want to meet him or not?”
I figured it was the only deal, then said,
“OK.”
He leaped to his feet, said,
“Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.”
It was the yellow car again. He said,
“The colour grows on you.”
After half an hour, I said,
“Clifden?... you’ve got him in Clifden!”
“I told you I got that warehouse. Huge place. I offered you to share.”
“So... you kidnapped a lodger, that it?”
Part of me thought it was some crazy joke, but I had to check it out, asked,
“What are you doing with him?”
“Painting his portrait. He commissioned me, remember?”
Naturally, it was raining when we got to Clifden. About halfway down the Sky Road, he stopped, pulled into a lay-by, said,
“It’s uphill now.”
I looked but couldn’t see a house. He said,
“That’s the beauty, you can’t see it from the road.”
Got drenched going up, slipped twice in the mud. Came over a rise and there it was. Sutton said,
“He’ll be glad of the company.”
The building was painted a drab green, blended perfectly. A series of windows were shuttered close. Sutton produced a key, opened the door, shouted,
“I’m home, dear.”
He stepped inside, then shouted,
“Aw fuck!”
I brushed past him. In the half light I could see a bunk bed. A figure hanging above it. Sutton hit the light.
Planter was hanging from a wooden beam, a sheet around his neck. A leg iron, attached to his ankle, was bolted near the bed. I glanced quickly at his face, and Christ, he had suffered.
A painter’s easel was near the bed, a canvas in preparation. Sutton said,
“The fuck took the easy way out.”
I looked again at Planter’s face, said,
“You call that easy...Jesus!”
Sutton moved to a cupboard, took out a bottle of Scotch, asked,
“Hit yah?”
I shook my head. He took a large gulp, gasped,
“Whoo... that helps.”
I walked over to Sutton, asked,
“Did you kill him?”
The whisky had already reached his eyes, giving them a wild cast. He said,
“Are you fucking mad, what do you think I am?”
I didn’t answer that. He drank more and I asked,
“What now?”
“Let’s dump him off Nimmo’s, poetic justice.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then we’ll have to bury the prick.”
That’s what we did. Behind the house. The rain was savage and digging that hard ground took over two hours.
Finally, it was done and I asked,
“Should we say something over him.”
“Yeah, something artistic, him liking paintings.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Hung in Clifden.”
It was six in the evening by the time we got back to Galway. I was wet, dirty, and bone weary. When Sutton parked the car, he said,
“Don’t sweat it. He confessed, you know. Gave the girls Rohypnol.”
“Why did he drown them?”
“For kicks.”
“God almighty.”
He seemed to be weighing something, and I said,
“What?”
“He told me about the girls. I mean, he seemed to want to tell. But...”
“But what?”
“He said the Henderson girl... you know... Sarah...”
“What about her?”
“He didn’t kill her — she killed herself.”
“The lying fuck.”
“Why would he lie? I mean, he admitted the others.”
I started to get out of the car, said,
“Listen... I don’t think I want to see you for a bit.”
“Gotcha.”
He burned rubber out of there.
When the dust settles
you’re left
with dust.
The search for Planter occupied the headlines for a while. After a few weeks, it tapered off and he joined Shergar, Lord Lucan, in speculative space. Cathy B. went off on honeymoon to Kerry and was gone for a month. I heard nothing from Ann.
I didn’t drink.
Sutton rang me once. Like that.
“Jack... hey, buddy, how yah doing?”
“OK.”
“It’s OK to ring you though, isn’t it?... I mean, we have some history now... eh?”
“If you say so.”
“I hear you’re still teetotal.”
“You hear right.”
“You ever want to cut loose, you know who to call.”
“Sure.”
“So, Jack, don’t you want to hear how I’m doing?”
“If you want to tell me.”
Can you give an audible smirk. Sure sounded like that. He said,
“Man, I’ve been painting, it’s what I do.”
“Right.”
“All right, Jack, don’t be a stranger.”
Clicked off.
Autopsy
Body of a white male
Mid 50’s
Tattoo of an angel on right shoulder
Well nourished
Weight: 180
lbs Height: 6’2”
Cause of death: Ennui
I figured that’s how it would be. I could see my naked white flabby torso on the metal tray.
Even hear the dry, detached tone of the medical examiner.
They’re the sort of thoughts I was having.
Time to go.
I still had a fair whack of cash. Went into a travel agency. A middle-aged woman with the name tag “JOAN“, said,
“I know you.”
“You do?”
“You were courting Ann Henderson.”
“The operative word is were!’
She tut-tutted. It’s a bizarre sound. She said,
“That’s a crying shame. She’s a grand girl.”
“I wonder could we do some travel stuff?”
She didn’t like it, said,
“Well, excuse me. How may I help?”
“A ticket to London.”
“Departure date.”
“About ten days.”
“The return will cost you... let’s see.”
“Joan... yo... I want a single.”
She looked up sharply, asked,
“You’re not coming back?”
I gave her my dead smile. She said,
“Suit yourself.”
A few minutes later, I had the ticket. I asked,
“Take cash?”
She did, if reluctantly. As I left I said,
“I’ll miss you, Joan.”
Crossing the square, I swear I saw Padraig near the fountain. Asked myself,
“Is this sobriety all it’s cracked up to be?”
Went to Nestor’s. The sentry was there and spoke.
“I read about you in the papers.”
“Ah, that was ages ago.”
The barman smiled. I since learned his name was Jeff. Despite my daily visits, I’d found out nothing else. I’d estimated he was in my age range. The similar aura of bewilderment and battering surrounded him. I thought that explained the easiness I felt in his company.
I took my hard chair and he brought me coffee, asked,
“Mind if I join you?”
I was amazed. Our relationship seemed to have been solidified on friendly avoidance. I said,
“Sure.”
“How are the betas going?”
“I’m not drinking.”
He nodded, seemed to weigh up some possibilities, then,
“Do you want me to tell you the truth or will I just play you along?”