“Must be some powerful eye drops.”
“What?”
“Your eyes…they’re glowing.”
Cathy appeared, said,
“Phew, I am like, never, ever going to drink Spritzers again.”
Jeff told her about Paula Yates. She said,
“Poor bitch.”
A little later, leaning close to me, she asked,
“What’s that scent? You smell like my Jeff.”
Her effortless embrace of his name tore at my heart.
I moved to my chair, let out a deep breath. I was well on the way to recovery. The door opened and a heavyset man entered. He had a full black beard, an expression of quiet energy. He approached, asked,
“Might I have a word?”
“Sure.”
“A quiet word.”
I looked round the pub, not a haven of privacy. I got my smile in gear, said,
“Let’s step outside.”
A tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, the only indication he appreciated the joke. One glance at his hands, you knew he’d travelled the route. The fresh air hit me like a hurley. I staggered, felt a steadying hand. He said,
“Fresh air can be a whore.”
I pulled out my smokes, shook one free, cranked the lighter. Nothing doing. I said,
“Fuck.”
He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, knotted tie. He reached inside his jacket, produced a Zippo, handed it over. It was solid silver. I fired up, offered it back. He said,
“Hang on to it; I quit.”
“It’s solid silver.”
“Let’s call it a loan.”
“OK.”
I sat on the window ledge, asked,
“What’s on your mind?”
“You know me?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t forget faces.”
“I’m Sweeper.”
I checked his face. He wasn’t kidding.
“No offence, pal, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“The tinkers?”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“I’m a man of little humour, Mr Taylor.”
“Call me Jack. So…what do you want?”
“Help.”
“I don’t know how I could do that.”
“You helped Ann Henderson.”
Her name caught me blindside, like a screech across my soul. Must have shown in my face. He said,
“I regret causing you sorrow, Mr Taylor.”
“Jack, it’s Jack.”
I flicked the cigarette, watched it arch high, then fall. I said,
“Look, Sweep…Jesus…what a name. I don’t do that any more.”
“She said you’d help.”
“She was wrong.”
I began to move. He put out his hands, said,
“They’re killing our people.”
It’s a show-stopper. No question. It stopped me. Turned to face him. He said,
“You’ve been away. I know that. In the past six months, four travellers have been killed.”
He paused, contempt in his eyes, continued,
“The guards, they’ve done nothing. I went to the superintendent, a man named Clancy. Do you know of him?”
I nodded and he said,
“For them, it’s only tinkers…and everybody knows, they’re always killing each other.”
“What do you think I can do?”
“You can find out.”
“Find out what?”
“Who’s killing them and why.”
Children of the Dead End
Patrick McGill
I ended up staying in Nestor’s for a few more days. Mainly because I couldn’t get it together to move. It was round noon, I was levelling out. Shouted Jeff for a pint. He asked,
“Bit early for it?”
“Jeez, I’m up since eight.”
He glanced at my eyes, said,
“You’re up all right.”
I was sliding on a downer, snapped,
“Forget it.”
Jeff doesn’t do retaliation, began to pour a pint, said,
“What’s your hurry?”
I eased, said,
“Time I checked into Bailey’s.”
“Take a few more days. Cathy is glad of the company.”
I watched him cream the pint before I ventured,
“And you, Jeff, what’s your take?”
“I’m your friend, I don’t have a take.”
Is there a reply to this? I don’t know it. The door opened and Sweeper came in. A blue suit and a bluer shirt, wool tie. Except for a gold earring, he could have passed for a guard. The temptation to pun was ferocious.
Like,
“Look what the car swept in.”
Instead I said,
“Join me.”
“A mineral, please.”
Jeff checked.
“Club Orange?”
“Yes, please.”
We studied each other for a moment, then Sweeper took a swallow of the drink. Crunched the ice, revealing strong white teeth. I said,
“What’s on your mind?”
“You are in need of digs?”
“No…no, I’m not. I’m up to my eyes in accommodation.”
He gave the brief smile, said,
“You have the sharp tongue.”
“I like to cut to the chase.”
He produced a set of keys, placed them on the table, said,
“You’ll know Hidden Valley.”
“Of course…John Arden lives there.”
“Who?”
“Booker Prize nominee, highly respected dramatist…”
He put up his hand,
“I’m not a bookish man, Mr Taylor.”
“Never too late.”
“I didn’t say I’m unlearnt…I said something else entirely.”
Saw the flash in his eyes. Cautioned myself not to fuck with him.
Fucked with him anyway, said,
“Hit a nerve, did I?”
He ignored that, said,
“Some of my people bought a house there. They…didn’t settle. I’d like to offer you the house. It’s small but adequate.”
“And you’ll give me this if I help.”
“Yes.”
“What if I don’t find anything?”
“The house is yours for six months.”
My instincts said,
“No.”
I said,
“You’ve got a deal.”
Picked up the keys, said,
“Tell me what happened.”
He produced a scrap of paper, laid it down. I looked at it.
Jan. 3rd…Christy Flynn (Óg)
Feb. 19th…Cionn Flaherty
April 2nd…Seaneen Brown
June 9th…Blackie Ryan
I asked,
“All dead?”
“Aye, found in the Fair Green, near the Simon House.”
“How?”
“How what?”
“Did they die?”
“Their heads crushed with a hammer.”
He got up abruptly, went to the bar, asked Jeff,
“A small Jameson and a pint for my friend.”
I looked at the list. A weariness came whispering at my souclass="underline"
“You are so tired.”
A line I’d once heard came to mind:
“He drank, not because of the darkness in him but the darkness in others.”
Sweeper returned, asked,
“Payment?”
“What?”
“How much cash do you want?”
“Aren’t you giving me a bloody house?”
“You’ll need money, everybody does.”
Argue that.
He’d given me a fat envelope, stuffed with notes. I said,
“Wish it had been brown.”
He was lost, said,
“I’m lost.”
“A brown envelope, we could have been TDs.”
The quip was not to his taste. He sipped at the Jameson like a man who’s been badly burnt. Whiskey had scorched me more times than I want to recall. A look between us and he said,
“I have to ration it.”
“Hey, I’m the last guy who needs an explanation.”
“I know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ann Henderson told me of your affliction.”
Rage burned. I asked,
“Affliction…she said that?”
He waved his left hand, vague in his dismissal.
“My people suffer similarly.”
I let it go…fuck it.
Time to pack. I said,
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready.”
Upstairs, I packed my holdall, nicked the bottle of Harley. Jeff smelled fine. I, however, needed all the assistance available. Put on my London leather. Creaked a bit, but I could call that character. Down to the bar, put out my hand to Jeff, said,
“It’s been fun.”
“Where are you going?”
The sentry raised his head, shouted,
“He’s going with the tinker.”
Jeff clipped him, said,
“Hey.”
Sweeper nodded, went outside. I said,