“I’m going to call a cab, can I drop you?”
I shook my head. For one awful moment I thought she was going to shake my hand. Instead, she leant over and pecked my cheek.
As I walked down towards Newcastle, the sun hammered me. I held my face up, said,
“Roast me, yah bastard.”
Going mobile
Back at my room, I felt gutted. Wanted to drink so ferociously I could taste whiskey in my mouth. My heart was a dead thing in my chest. Aloud I shouted Irish of my childhood,
“An bronach mhor.”
It’s along the lines of, woe is me, but a more contemporary translation might be,
“I’m fucked.”
Was I ever.
Circling fifty years of age, was I going to get another shot at love?
Dream on.
Out of left field came a thought:
“Wouldn’t it be something to leave Galway sober.”
That got me up and swallowing a beta-b, murmuring,
“I’ve things to do, I gotta prepare for departure.”
Nick Hornby had popularised lists. Well I could do an exit one.
Pack
3 White Shirts
3 jeans
1 suit
some books
two videos
Then said,
“Screw the suit.”
I could carry most in a shoulder bag and be history. Checked my flight ticket, five days to go. Went down to reception, the beta already chilling my soul.
Mrs Bailey asked,
“Mr Taylor, are you OK?”
Sure.
“Your eyes, they look devastated.”
“Aw no, I got shampoo in them.”
We let that lie fly for a moment.
I said,
“Mrs Bailey, I’m going to be away for a while.”
She didn’t seem surprised, said,
“I’ll keep your room for you.”
“Well, it might be quite a while.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be some room.”
“Thank you.”
“I liked having you here, you’re a good man.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Course you don’t, that’s part of your goodness.”
“Could I buy you a nightcap before I leave?”
“Young man, I insist on it.”
A yellow car was parked outside. Above the number plate was a “CLFD” sticker. I rapped on the window. Sutton said,
“‘Tis yourself.”
“I thought we agreed you’d stop following me.”
“I’m not following, I’m waiting.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You’re the detective.”
He got out and stretched, said,
“These surveillance gigs are a bastard!”
He was dressed completely in black. Sweat, combat trousers, Nikes. I asked,
“What’s with the gear?”
“I’m in mourning.”
“I’m not sure that’s in the best of taste.”
He reached into the car, took out a holdall, said,
“I come bearing gifts.”
“Why?”
“I sold another painting; come on, I’ll buy you a drink... whoops... a coffee... and shower you with largesse.”
I decided it would probably be the last time.
We went to Elles on Shop Street. Sutton said,
“They do great cappuccino.”
They did.
Even put an Italian chocolate on the side. Sutton bit into his, said,
“Mm... good.”
“Have mine.”
“You sure, ‘cause these are like... wicked.”
He reached into the holdall, took out two mobile phones, placed one before me, said,
“One for you.”
And placed the second before him. I said,
“I don’t want one.”
“Course you do. I got them cheap. Now we’re truly connected. I took the liberty of putting my number in your menu.”
Into the bag again and out comes a small, framed painting. Nimmo’s Pier. He said,
“You don’t have to tell me it’s good, I already know that. What it is... is valuable. I’m collectable.”
I wasn’t sure how to proceed so went direct, said,
“I’m leaving.”
“Jesus, at least finish the cappuccino.”
“No, I’m leaving Galway.”
He seemed truly astonished, asked,
“To go where?”
“London.”
“That shit hole. I mean, you’re not even drinking. How could you go there sober?”
“Lots do... apparently.”
“Sure, citizens and ghost people. What will you do?”
“Rent a place in Bayswater, hang out.”
“Hang yerself. I give you a week.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Aw... London... for Chrissakes. When?”
“About five days.”
“Are we going to have a farewell drink or what?”
“Sure.”
And I indicated the mobile, added,
“I can call you.”
“Do. Nights are best. I don’t sleep so good.”
“No?”
“Would you... with a guy buried outside the window?”
I stood up, said,
“I appreciate the gifts.”
“Right. Put the painting in the pad at Bayswater. Jesus.”
He was still shaking his head when I left. Shop Street was hopping,
mimes
buskers
fire-eaters
A guy was making models from bits of wire. Constructing amazing shapes in minutes. I asked him if he could make something specific. He said,
“Anything except money.”
Five minutes later, he handed me the assignment. I gave him a few quid, said,
“You’re really talented.”
“Tell the Arts Council.”
“In that day you shall begin to possess the solitude you have so long desired. Do
not ask me when it will be or where or how. On a mountain or in a prison, in a
desert or in a concentration camp. It does not matter. So, do not ask me because I
am not going to tell you. You will not know until you are in it.”
I went to the hospital and had the cast removed from my fingers. Looking at them, they seemed shrivelled, shrunken. The doctor gave me a small ball, said,
“Squeeze this firmly during the day, gradually restoring the strength.”
The nurse was staring and I asked,
“What?”
“You’ll be able to shave now.”
I fingered my beard, asked,
“You don’t like it?”
“Makes you look old.”
“I feel old.”
“Arrah, go on our that.”
I thought I’d miss Irish nurses. I’d arranged to meet Cathy B. at Nestor’s. She asked,
“Where?”
I gave the directions. The weather was holding and the sun cracked against my eyes.
In Nestor’s, the sentry ignored me, so I figured my fame had ended. I took my hard chair and Jeff arrived with the coffee. I put my street purchase on the table. He said,
“Oh, wow!”
It was a miniature Harley, perfect in the small details. I said,
“It’s my way of saying goodbye.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t ask
where
when
or even
why.
Just nodded.
Cathy breezed in, looked round and said,
“What is this... a kitchen?”
“Welcome back, Mrs... what...?”
“Mrs Disappointed.”
“What?”
“Everett’s gone. Met an American in Listowel and legged it.
“Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not, he was a dick-head.”
Jeff came over, said,
“Get you something.”
“Spritzer.”
I was tempted to join her. She watched Jeff walk away, said,