The connection hit. I said,
“He follows Laura, deliberately, assaults her, knowing what she’ll do. That she’ll call me. I’ll come charging and my house is empty.”
Keegan nodded, said,
“Let’s get down there.”
“He’ll have been and gone.”
“But let’s see what he’s gone and left you.”
On our way there, he said,
“You think, Jack, that I don’t get the Irish. That I’m some sort of plastic paddy.”
I started to protest but he ploughed on.
“Just because I love the blarney shit doesn’t mean I’m blind. My mother was Irish, and when they’re rearing kids in England, they’re more Irish than you’ll ever know. She used to say, ‘Rear? I didn’t rear ye, ye were kept at room temperature like Fruitfield jam.’ You might have lived here, laddie, but I was fucking marinated in it. I knew what a hurley was before I could walk. When she used it, I definitely couldn’t walk. So do me a favour, pal, don’t pull Celtic rank on me.”
I was saved from a reply as we’d arrived at the house. The door was open. Keegan went,
“Uh-oh.”
And went first. The smell hit straight away. A huge crap in the kitchen. All the crockery was smashed and excrement smeared on the walls. In the front room, the new books were in tatters, the remains piled on the slashed sofa and reeking of urine. Keegan said,
“I’ll get cleaning.”
I went upstairs. My new clothes in bits and stuffed in the toilet, a note left on my pillow.
“Wanna play, Jack?”
Keegan shouted,
“Bad?”
The coke was gone, but more worrying, so was the 9mm. I was debating whether to tell Keegan when the phone rang. He said,
“I’ll get it.”
Obviously I only got Keegan’s side, which went like this.
“Jack’s not available. Oh, I know who you are, Ronald. Who am I? I’m Detective Sergeant Keegan from the Met, and I’ve a full report on you, son. Quite a work record. Oh dear, that’s very foul language. Yes, I’ve seen your actions here. Very impressive. I do hope you wiped your arse. Don’t shout, Ron, that’s a good lad. You’re leaving the country! Think about this, boyo; some day soon, you’ll get a tap on the shoulder and guess who? We have something in common…Oh, yes, I have a very dodgy past. I’m the animal you Guardian readers get orgasms about. No, no, Ronald, don’t worry about jurisdiction, because I certainly won’t. You’ll get to shit your pants again, and I’ll make you eat it. Okey-dokey, cheerio…lovely to chat with you.”
I was standing next to Keegan as he hung up, asked,
“He’s leaving?”
“So he says.”
“I had a gun here; it’s gone.”
“No sweat, I’ll make him eat that, too.”
“I don’t think he’ll go yet.”
“Me neither.”
Keegan said he’d yellow-page it and have the house cleaned, told me,
“Go see your girl.”
“Thanks, Keegan.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s what I do, clean up shite.”
“I feel odd calling you Keegan all the time. What’s your first name?”
“You feel odd! Gee, that’s a pity, get over it.”
“All islanders, no matter what their ethnicity, live with a certain kind of longing.
It’s a type of travel that is kept in check by fear of the unknown world.
White people just make an aesthetic out of it. Living on an island is its own excuse to stay home and dream.”
John Straley, The Angels Will Not Care
At Roches, they were selling badges. I’d almost passed when the name struck me; pushed a note in the box, took two badges. Put one in my lapel and the other in my pocket. When I got to Nestor’s, Jeff was watching Sky News, said,
“Another recount, but I think Bush will get it. That or jail.”
The sentry asked,
“Is McGovern still alive?”
No one answered, so he added,
“I liked Carter because of the peanuts.”
Jeff said,
“The girl is fine. She’s upstairs with Cathy and the baby.”
He caught the glint of gold in my lapel, asked,
“What’s with the badge? Not the Pioneers, is it?”
I moved close, let him have a good look. It was two hands, the fingers barely touching. He asked,
“What’s it in aid of?”
I took a deep breath, aware that this could go horribly wrong, said,
“The Down’s Syndrome Association. Represents ordinary society reaching out to…”
I stopped, had put it across in the worst way. He said,
“I like it.”
I took the second from my pocket, said,
“Here.”
He held it in his hand, said,
“You took a risk.”
“You know me, Jeff, Mr Sail-Close-to-the-Wind.”
He pinned it on his shirt, said,
“ ’Preciate it.”
Upstairs everybody was hugging the baby. Cathy was watching with a wondrous expression. I asked,
“Everybody’s doing OK?”
Cathy smiled, said,
“Never better.”
Spent the afternoon there. I managed some slow pints, nothing major. I’d have crawled into a bottle of whiskey, but they’d have murdered me. So, took it easy. Cathy made stew that tasted terrific. Laura asked,
“How did you learn this, you’re English?”
“Well, I put everything in, heavy with the meat and potatoes, then I almost overcooked it, and Jeff said…add poitín.”
She pronounced it like a woman from Connemara. In my life of turmoil, it is so rare for me to be part of a domestic scene. Not that I didn’t want it. I did, but I wasn’t prepared for the small acts of devotion that lead up to it. My nature is essentially selfish, and to participate in family life you have to make room for others. Too, I’d mastered the art of sabotage. To paraphrase Oscar, each alcoholic destroys the image he craves. I wanted to be able to get drunk when I wanted and read till dawn if I wanted and wasn’t able to make the jump to forgo such things for the sake of company. And yet, how I yearned to be different. To sit in the warmth of family and just be easy. But that day, I was lucky. I knew how much I appreciated the moment. Thank God, I didn’t have to wait for the verdict of hindsight. The storms, ever present on my chart, seemed less threatening. As we were leaving, Cathy, unwittingly, verbalised the death knell, said,
“We should do this more often.”
I knew, sure as shooting, we never would. The awareness blunted but didn’t erase the glow. Laura linked my arm as we walked to Hidden Valley. She asked,
“Did you like the CD?”
Jesus, I’d completely forgotten her pushing the packet into my hand. I’d stuffed it in my jacket and never given it another thought. I said,
“I didn’t want to open it till we were together.”
“Oh, you’re so romantic, Jack.”
Yeah, right. I warned,
“The house is in a state.”
“Was it…him?”
“No, it was yahoos.”
The house was spotless Not a sign of the chaos. Even the bookshelf was stocked, even if it seemed to be all of McBain’s eighty publications. I said,
“Wow!”
“Jack, the house looks great.”
“Sure does.”
I couldn’t believe Keegan had restocked the bookcase. That impressed the hell out of me. I’d check the titles later. Joy is so random, you have to ration it carefully. I said,
“Let’s have a drink.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Let’s do both.”
We did.
It was good. No doubt, I was improving. I’d never be a hot gasp lover, but I was definitely focusing. What I lacked in expertise, I was compensating with energy. Lying in bed, I opened the Zhivago bag, looked at the CD, went,