“What’s that?”
“For your time, your help.”
He considered, then pocketed it, said,
“I’ll give it to the missions.”
“Don’t you have a family?”
“God is my family.”
He stood up, said,
“So. Congratulations are in order.”
“What?”
“You have a wife now.”
“No, that was a rumour masquerading as fact.”
“God mind you well, Jack.”
Later, much later, Jeff said,
“You better go home, Jack.”
“I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here.”
“You have a wife, go home. I think Cathy’s going to have the baby real soon. I need some sleep.”
“Right, call me when the time comes.”
“Sure.”
“Promise.”
“I promise. Now go.”
When I got to my front door, I checked for Tiernans. Nope, no warriors. Staggered inside, said,
“Kiki, you awake?”
Fumbled my way to the kitchen, checked the time. Three thirty in the morning. How did that happen? Thought,
“I’ll do one line of coke, clear my head, then see if Kiki’s up for some serious love-making.”
I was smiling; this was a good plan. Kiki would learn I could be a stud. Just get me started, I could last as long as Sting. A note was propped up against the kettle. Beside it were the bullets from the 9mm. They shone as if they’d been polished. Before the note I decided to coke up a little more. Stashed in the fridge, between the Flora and the low fat yoghurt, keep it chilled. Got the line, a fatter one than planned, and snorted. Knocked me against the wall, felt like it blew a hole in my gut. I went,
“Phew-oh.”
Then,
“Whoops, keep it low, folk trying to sleep.”
My mind focused, I tiptoed to the note…maybe sneak up on it. It read,
Jack,
Not “Dear Jack”. Already it was looking ominous. Read on.
I have checked into a hotel. I am going back to London tomorrow. You bastard, you humiliated me and still I love you. I do not want to see you. I found the weapon when I searched for detergent. You make me so afraid. My present to you I left on our…no…your bed.
Kiki
I said,
“Bummer.”
And slumped on the floor. Late next morning, I came to with paranoia screaming at me. My neck was cramped, I’d been sick on my leather coat and my nose howled. Muttered,
“Could be worse.”
Then I resaw the note. Trudged upstairs, and there on the bed was a parcel. Opened it to reveal brown Bally boots. Serious comfort. Kick the crap out of them and they came back, holding class. If I was to be buried in my boots, let them be Ballys. Came as close to weeping as self-pity will allow. Endured a shower, then put all the clothes in the wash, even the leather. Turned the mother on, thought,
“Too late for fabric softner.”
The phone went. I put a cig together, picked up, went,
“Hello.”
It wasn’t Kiki, but heard,
“ London calling.”
“What? Keegan?”
“That’s right, boyo.”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Rang the guards, spoke to a prick named Clancy. He doesn’t like you, mate.”
“Good Lord, wow, I mean hello.”
“Hello yourself. I have leave.”
“Leave?”
“Holidays, squire. I’m going to hop a flight.”
“Now?”
“You betcha. You want me to come, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“OK then, eleven tonight, I’ll be in that Quays pub.”
“Tonight?”
“Get your skates on, pal; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
He hung up. I thought about his arrival, then thought,
“Why the hell not?”
And long before the final cry
A thin taut whisper
Filters down
To ask for one last song.
K.B.
If I dreamt, it was of nothing good. Woke in a coke sweat, muttered,
“Incoming!”
Horror of horrors, reached for Kiki and touched the Bally boots, whispered,
“Och, ochon.”
Which is Irish for “Oh sweetfuck”. Is it ever? The old Jackie Gleason Show, in black and white, he’d begin each episode with “How sweet it is.” I crawled into the shower, got it to scald and burned my way up. Checked the wardrobe and heard the refrain the drugs used to whisper to Richard Pryor:
“Getting a little low, Rich.”
Wore a white T-shirt – well, whiteish – the 501s, and pulled on the new boots. Perfect, which was a pity as that made me so guilty about Kiki. Alkies have to be the strangest animals on the planet, like the song says, a walking contradiction. Kris Kristofferson wrote the best lines of drinking despair. He was the personification of De Mello’s “Awareness”. If you really listen to “Sunday Morning Coming Down”, it’s the alky anthem. Particularly when you get the smell of someone frying chicken. That’s close to the loneliest line I’ve heard. London, wet Sunday afternoon, the pubs are shut, you’re battling that wind off Ladbroke Grove and, for an instant, a whiff of a home-cooked meal. You are seriously fucked.
Down to the kitchen, checked the time: eight forty-five. Brewed up some tea and dry toast, managed that. An impulse nagging at me. Figured I better make an attempt. Good old yellow pages. I began phoning.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Imperial Hotel, how may we help you?”
“Do you have a…Mrs Taylor registered?”
“One moment, sir, I’ll check.”
For one awful moment, I feared my mother might come to the phone. Then,
“Sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone by that name registered.”
Click. I trawled through half a page. My tea got cold and the toast curled. Now there’s a country song. Was phoning by rote when,
“Yes, sir, we did have a Mrs Taylor, but she checked out.”
“Did she leave a forward?”
“I believe a cab took her to the airport.”
I missed her. Loaded the wet clothes into the dryer, including the leather, said,
“Melt, see if I care.”
My only other coat was Item 8234, my all-weather issue. They kept writing, demanding it back. The Mounties might always get their man, but the guards do not get their coat, not yet. Wrapped the coat tight. Didn’t do the coke, didn’t have a drink, but I could taste them. One final call; dialled, got,
“Simon Community, can I help?”
“May I speak to a Ronald Bryson?”
Heard a shout, an answer, then,
“Ron is off till noon tomorrow.”
“Could I see him then?”
“He’ll be here.”
Click. Enough detective work for one day; time to party. Checked my wallet and headed out. Five minutes to Nestor’s, how easy does it get? Decided to cut through St Patrick’s Church, shake a few memories. Stopped at the grotto. If I was to pray, it should be for Kiki. Heard,
“Well, I never. Jack Taylor in prayer.”
Fr Malachy, in all his smug glory. Even if I didn’t like priests, I wouldn’t like him. Ever. He was sucking the guts out of a dying cig. I said,
“Still smoking.”
“I was just with your mother.”
“Gee, that’s a shock.”
“Shock, is it? The poor woman is in deep trauma since she met you. To give her…teeth.”
“My teeth.”
He was raising his eyes in that “Lord give me strength” deal they learn at priest school. He said,
“She’ll never be the better of it.”
“Mmm, I’d say she’d recover.”
“What on earth possessed you?”
“The drink, Father, the drink made me do it.”
His right hand came up, automatic reflex when they’re crossed. So many years they could safely lash out without repercussions. I smiled and he fought back the urge. I turned to look at the statue, asked,
“If I claimed it moved, would it help business?”
“You’re a pup.”
He pulled out the Majors, got one lit, dragged madly as if he could inhale the rage. I said,