“What will I wear, it being a revenge number?”
He considered, then,
“Something cold.”
That lunchtime I got parcel post. No stamp and unfranked, opened it up. The coke. I said aloud,
“Good on you, Sweeper.”
Laid out a line. My nose was healing but still hurt like a bastard. Managed three hits. After a two and a half week layoff, it hit like thunder. Thank God. My gums froze, and I could feel that icy tingle down my throat, froze my brain. Now I could face a mirror. Not good. The nose was tilted to the left. Perhaps the next breakage might realign it. There would be another, always was. Deep blue shadows under my eyes, they’d accessorise a guard’s uniform. New ridges along the corner of my mouth. How frigging old was I getting? Not old enough to ever like George Michael. Flashed the smile, solid. A 100-watt beacon in the wasteland. Maybe my teeth could go out alone. A jingle from my childhood:
“You’ll wonder where the yellow went/when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.”
Ah.
The coke was cranking hard. I had to go out. Show my twenty-year-old smile in the face of fifty. Almost a haiku, it was definitely a shame. Put on a white shirt, slacks and the Weejuns. Next the London leather, and I was the oldest swinger in town. The pouch bounced against my chest like the worst of bad news. Coming out into the light, I couldn’t believe the sun was bright. No warmth but I could fake that. A neighbour said,
“We lost the replay.”
“We did?”
“Can’t beat them Kerry bastards.”
“Maybe next year.”
“Maybe shite.”
My kind of neighbour. I went to Zhivago Records. Declan looked up, said,
“You’re back.”
“How astute.”
“How what?”
“Never mind. I need the King.”
“Elvis?”
“Is there another?”
“Greatest Hits?”
“Exactly.”
“CD?”
“Declan, far be it from me to tell you your business, but if the customer’s over forty, it’s not a CD.”
“You need to get digital.”
“I need to get laid. Now can I have the record?”
“Jeez, Jack, you’re a touchy bastard. What happened to your nose?”
“I told a fellah to get digital.”
He knocked a few quid off, so I forgave him most.
I knew I should visit the cemetery, back all this time and not one visit. Did I feel guilty? Oh God, yes. Guilty enough to go? Not quite.
Met an Irish Romanian named Chaz. He used to be fully Romanian but had gone native. He asked,
“Fancy a pint?”
“Sure.”
We went to Garavan’s. Unchanged and unspoilt. I took a corner seat and Chaz got the round. I took out my cigs and fired up. Chaz came with the pints, said,
“Sláinte.”
“Whatever.”
He helped himself from the Marlboro pack, used the Zippo. He examined it, said,
“This is hammered silver.”
“So?”
“A gypsy made this.”
“Got that right.”
“Sell it to me.”
“It’s on loan.”
“Lend it to me.”
“No.”
The pints went down easy, and I ordered a fresh batch. I took a good look at Chaz; he was wearing an Aran sweater with army fatigues. I asked,
“How’s it going?”
“I’m hoping for a grant from the Arts Council.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.”
“How can you lose?”
“You know, Jack, in Ireland, the people are not fond of Romanians.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“But in Galway it’s different.”
“Good.”
“No, in Galway they hate us.”
“Ah.”
“Lend me a fiver, Jack.”
I did. Said “See you soon” and headed off. Walked slap into my mother. She looked above my head, which read pub. Hardly a halo. Her skin was, as ever, unlined, as if life never touched it. Nuns have the same deal. Estée Lauder take note: check out nuns. The eyes, you look into hers, you see the Arctic, ice blue. Always the same message:
“I’ll bury you.”
She said,
“Son.”
Aware of my Guinness breath, broken nose, I said,
“How are you?”
“You’re back.”
“I am.”
Then silence. Her type thrive on it. Reared on the game, backed by the booze, I could play. Waited. She caved. Said,
“I could buy you a cup of tea.”
“I don’t think so.”
“The GBC, they do lovely scones.”
“Not today.”
“You didn’t think to write?”
Same old tune, whine on. I said,
“Oh, I thought to write. I just didn’t think to write to you.”
Landed home. She sighed. They ever put together an Olympic event for that, she’s a shoo-in. All the time people hurrying by, oblivious to us. I said,
“I have to go.”
“That’s all you have for your own mother?”
“No, actually, I have this.”
Ripped the pouch from my neck, put it in her hand. I was going to add,
“You can put it with my father’s heart.”
Why gild the lily?
“Summer sang in me.”
Edna St Vincent Millay
Sweeper collected me on time. In a white van, spotlessly clean. I got in the passenger seat, four young men in the back wearing black tracksuits. I said,
“Lads.”
They said nothing. Sweeper put the van in gear, eased into the late evening traffic. I said,
“I got you a present.”
He was well surprised, went,
“What?”
I passed over the package. He undid the bag, one eye on the road, said,
“Elvis Presley!”
“Like you, he’s the boss.”
Chorus of amused approval from the back. We were turning at Nile Lodge. He said,
“They live in Taylor ’s Hill.”
“Must have a few bob.”
He looked at me, asked,
“No relation?”
“What?”
“The Hill…Taylor’s?”
I shook my head, said,
“I’m the wrong side of the tracks.”
He mulled over that, asked,
“You ready?”
“For what?”
“Doing as you’re told.”
“Mmmmmmmmm, that’s always been a problem.”
“Try.”
“Well, I’ve always been trying, God knows.”
The quiet section of the Hill, not a pound from Threadneedle Road, we stopped, pulled into a lay-by. Sweeper nodded and the lads slipped out like phantoms. I asked,
“The Tiernans, they own this house or what?”
He gave a grim smile.
“Inherited, neither of them married. They get videos, curries, lager and party on. No women. The cream of Irish manhood, batchelors and proud of it.”
I said,
“You’re married, aren’t you?”
“Yes, with young children, but don’t talk of family now.”
“OK.”
“When the light flashes, we go.”
“One last question.”
“What?”
“Why do they call you Sweeper?”
“We clean chimneys.”
“Oh, and as we speak, what are the lads doing?”
“That’s two questions.”
“You’re counting?”
“The lads are preparing the way.”
“I see.”
“You will.”
The light flashed. I had the 9mm in the waistband at my back, like in the best movies. Jeez, I didn’t even know was it loaded. Didn’t feel it was the time to ask. The house was mock Tudor, acres of ivy obliterating the front. The door was opened, and I followed Sweeper. Down a hall littered with spares, bicycles, stripped down engines. Into a huge living room. The lads were in possession. Two sat on a fat guy on the floor. A skinnier version was sitting in an armchair, a knife held to his throat. Both the men were in shorts and singlets. Sweeper said,
“The fat one on the floor is Charlie; the other, the brains, is Fergal.”
Hearing his name, Fergal smiled. A bruise was already forming on his cheek. He spat, said,
“Taylor, you stupid cunt.”
The lad on the left smacked a fist in his ear. Rocked him, but the defiance stayed full. I said,
“Lads, move away.”
They looked to Sweeper, who nodded. I took out the 9mm, moved over, asked,