“One of the best crime writers.”
“Aw, shite talk; there’s only Ed McBain.”
He took a huge swallow of his pint, half in one swallow. Even the barman’s jaw dropped. Keegan waited, then belched, said,
“My black pudding’s near repeated.”
“You ate that?”
“Oh, yea. Jury’s give the full Irish job, including sausages, fried tomatoes, two eggs, bacon…”
“Rashers?”
“What?”
“In Ireland, we call bacon ‘rashers’.”
“Why?
“Because we want to.”
“I was thinking of getting a tattoo.”
“What?”
“With Éire and a shamrock, do you think?”
“Jeez, Keegan, it’s hard to keep up with you.”
“Drink up, that’s my boy.”
We got a table and he asked,
“How did you get on with that chick?”
“Come on…chick. Nobody calls them that except Terry Wogan.”
“And?”
“It went good; it went brilliant.”
“Me, too. I was riding half the night.”
He spoke in a loud London boom so all the pub knew about the “ride”. He looked like such a pig nobody challenged him. He asked,
“Didn’t you go to see that social worker?”
“Bryson.”
“The name sounds familiar.”
“There is Bill Bryson the travel writer.”
“I only read McBain. So how did it go?”
I ran it down. When I’d finished, he asked,
“What’s your instinct?”
“He did them.”
“Whoa, that’s a jump, laddie.”
“It’s him.”
“So now what?”
“I’ve got to find out all I can about him.”
He took a pen out. To my amazement, it looked like a gold Parker. He said,
“It was a present from Unsworth.”
“Unsworth?”
“A black woman cop, on my patch.”
I was surprised, said,
“You’re friends with a black person, with a black woman?”
He looked up, said,
“I have some moves. I’m not what I front…bit like you, Jack.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
We did. I gave him all I knew about Bryson. He said,
“I’ll get on the blower to my DI. If this monkey’s a London boy, we’ll dig him up.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Yea, so how come you’re not getting the drinks in?”
Later he said,
“What’s the plan in the immediate?”
“Soon as I find out where he lives, I’ll go and burgle him.”
“Count me in.”
“You sure?”
“B and E is my speciality, OK? I’m going to get my tattoo…saw it on Home and Away.”
“You watch that?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
In that moment, I don’t know why, but I felt a surge of affection for him. He was standing there, like a fucked Popeye Doyle, sweating and heaving. Luckily he was gone before I said anything. The barman said,
“Jack.”
“Yea.”
“The Spice Girls have their ninth No. 1.”
“Christ, why are you telling me?”
“Don’t you like to stay informed?”
“Jesus.”
The last time I saw the Spice Girls, I was coked to the far side of the moon. Posh looked uncannily like the young Cliff Richard. I still don’t know which of them that’s the worst news for; Beckam definitely.
When I got to Hidden Valley, I was in the bag. Finally took the clothes out of the dryer. They weren’t so much dried as baked. The leather could stand up on its own, which was definitely the jump on me. I ironed it. They don’t suggest, they bloody roar,
“Don’t ever iron leather.”
Fuck them.
The day before Cemetery Sunday, I finally went to visit my dead. Sweeper had lent me the van. He’d come early in the morning and asked me my plans for the day. I said,
“At Rahoon, those I have loved best and treated worst are lain. Over a year and I have not said Kaddish.”
“Ka…what?”
“Respect.”
He nodded solemnly; this he understood. If the clans comprehend one thing better than us, it’s grief. God knows, they get enough practice. He asked,
“Do you wish me to keep you company?”
“No, I better do this alone.”
“I will give you the van.”
“Is it taxed?”
Big smile.
“Now, Jack Taylor, you sound like a guard. They say you were a fair one.”
“I’ll take the fifth on that.”
The van was left in the lane within the hour. Chock-a-block with flowers. No more than Keegan, Sweeper had some moves. I wore the suit from Vincent de Paul. Fit fairish. In other words, you knew it hadn’t been bought with me in mind. Sweeper had listened to my Bryson encounter, asked,
“You think it’s him?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll kill him.”
“Jeez, hold on. I have a few more checks to make.”
“Then I’ll kill him.”
“Sweeper, for Christsakes, will you stop saying that. You asked me to help, you have to trust me.”
“I trust you.”
Begrudging.
“So no killing?”
“I’ll wait.”
“OK.”
I drove the van up to Rahoon gates, took an armload of flowers. Two kids were kicking a ball just outside. One asked,
“Mister, you a tinker?”
“What do you care?”
“That’s a tinker’s van.”
“How do you know?”
“No tax.”
“Oh…should you be playing here?”
The second kid jerked a thumb at the dead, said,
“They don’t care.”
I levelled a look right at his eyes, asked,
“You sure?”
They left. First I said hello to my dad. I can say with my hand on my heart that he was a real gentleman. In the old sense of that. A woman once told me,
“Your dad, he was gallant.”
What a great word. He deserved it. Further on, I found Padraig’s grave. The head wino for a brief glorious reign. He led his pack with flair and humour till he was run over by the Salthill bus. Some terrible irony in that, but it escapes me. I poured a small Jameson into the soil. That’s a prayer he’d appreciate. Then Sean, the erstwhile owner of Grogan’s. His delight in my once brief period of sobriety was too much to recall. He was murdered because of me. Guilt overload. I put roses there and I didn’t say anything. While I was drinking, he wouldn’t want to hear it. Nor could I possibly utter it.
The sheer bastardry of alcoholism. I wanted a drink so badly, I could taste it.
The fourth and final grave: Sarah Henderson. A teenage girl, her grave was immaculate, weeded, tidied and laden with framed poems and fluffy toys. Everyone from Britney through Barbie to a Barney doll. Her mother had come to me, pleading I prove her daughter was not a suicide. A number of young girls had died in an apparent “suicide epidemic”. The case got solved. The girls had been murdered. The awful kicker was, Sarah did kill herself. Of course, I never told her mother. By then I was madly in love with her. I blew it all to hell and gone. A voice said,
“Jack.”
For a moment, I thought Sarah had called. Then a shadow fell across me. Ann Henderson, looking radiant. Her face glowing, those eyes looked at me. Summoning all my repartee, I said,
“Ann.”
She looked at her daughter’s grave, said,
“You brought six white roses.”
“Well.”
“You remembered, how wonderful.”
I had no idea what to do. Tried to get my mind in gear, but would it help? Would it fuck. She was examining me closely, said,
“Your nose has been broken again. Oh, Jack, what are we going to do with you?”
We!
She, however, could do whatever her heart desired. Am I weak? Oh boy…and she was saying,
“But you have lovely teeth; are they crowns?”
“Mmm…sort of.”
You’d think I’d have settled, got some bearings. No way, José. She asked, in that awful concerned fashion exclusive to those you’ve lost,
“How are you, Jack?”
I was giddy and, worse, reckless. Call it punch drunk. Said,
“I’m married actually.”
Wouldn’t that actually blow your head off? It did mine. I prayed she wouldn’t be happy for me. She gushed,
“Oh, Jack, how wonderful. Is she a local girl?”