“Good afternoon, sir. Are you with the funeral party?”
“I am.”
“The bar is free until two thirty. What can I get you?”
“A pint and a Jameson chaser.”
“Would sir like to take a seat? I’ll bring it over.”
I nibbled at the peanuts. Of all things, I was thinking of two authors. Tommy Kennedy had introduced me to them. Walter Macken, as fine then as now, and Paul Smith. Time was, on my shelf were Esther’s Altar, The Stubborn Season and my sad favourite, Summer Sang in Me. Not too long ago, I’d found his The Countrywoman in a Lambeth library. Published in 1961, for me, it beats hands down either StrumpetCity or Angela’s Ashes. Through Paul Smith, I discovered Edna St Vincent Millay, a mega bonus. The barman bought the drinks, said,
“Good health.”
“Whatever.”
The pint was as near perfect as I’d experienced. Got to agree with Flann O’Brien, “A pint of plain is your only man.” Washed over the cocaine like a rosary. As a young guard, I went to see Eamonn Morrissey in The Brother and I was supposed to see Jack McGowran in Waiting for Godot. Got pissed instead. What a mistake. Took a hit of the Jameson and was as close to heaven as it gets. The travellers began to trickle in. Sweeper came over, said,
“Don’t be alone.”
“Is that like an imperative? Tell me, what did you do with the hand?”
“Buried it.”
I took a hefty swig of the drink. Burned like a bastard, which was good. The place was hopping now. I said,
“Great crowd.”
“We honour our own. No one else will.”
“Sweeper, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to know what to call ye.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Travellers, tinkers, gypos…what? I’m very uncomfortable with tinkers.”
“It’s what they call us.”
“I didn’t ask you that, did I? What do I term you?”
“The clans.”
“Hey, that’s good.”
A faraway look came into his eyes. He said,
“After the Great Hunger, if the clans fell out, they’d set fire to each other’s abodes, so we got fired.”
A number of voices called him and he snapped back to the present, said,
“I must away.”
“Away to the clans.”
He gave the small smile. I had another drink and realised I felt at ease among them. I could have drunk me a river but I had to keep some semblance of focus. Told myself,
“The case is straightforward. All I have to do is find out who and why.”
Finishing the whiskey, I thought,
“Fuck the who. I’ll settle for why.”
I stood in the Fair Green. Look north, there was the Simon Community. I was but a few drinks from a bunk there. If they’d have me. Behind me was the lure of the clans. Oh boy did it beckon, entreat, calling,
“Come back, get wasted, we’ll mind you.”
I’m sure they would, mind me, that is. Of course, I headed east, past at least four pubs where if not welcome, I would at least be tolerated. You can’t say fairer than that. Always, once I get a certain ration of drink down, I get the munchies. Only for chips in newspaper, doused in vinegar, smelling to high heaven, heaven in measured doses.
Echoes of a childhood I wish I’d had. As a child the greatest comfort was the prospect of chips on a Friday night. School was out for the weekend, there was a match on Sunday, and you had a sixpence to go to the chipper. When the time finally arrived, it almost never disappointed. You galloped up to the chip shop, joined the queue and absorbed that magical aroma of deep fat and vinegar. You nearly swooned from expectation; then your turn came and you ordered,
“A single to go with salt and vinegar.”
They came wrapped in newspaper and were too hot to eat, so you buried your nose in the smell. Of all your promises, you most pledged to live on chips when you were an adult. Among the many reasons I hate fast food joints is they deprive children of the mystery of the chipper. There is still a place in Boher-more that sells “singles”, and that’s where I bought them now. I held the hot package in my hands as I moved along St Bridget’s Terrace. Then crossed at the new luxury apartments and hit the crest of the hill. Right above Hidden Valley, you can see the Corrib and the sheer stretch of it. At night, the lights of the college sprinkle across the water and arouse such yearning, but for what?
I still don’t know.
At the house, I followed the honoured tradition of fumbling for my keys. I heard,
“Excuse me?”
Turned to take an iron bar smack in my mouth. Felt my teeth go, heard a voice say,
“Get him in the alley.”
It runs alongside the house. I was dragged and then took a ferocious kick in the balls. Up came the chips and booze, heard,
“Aw, for fuck’s sake, he’s puked all over me.”
“Break his nose.”
He did, with the bar. That was about it. I lay slumped against the wall. A voice beside my ear,
“Like to hang with the tinkers, do you?”
Then an intake of breath and he kicked me on the side of the head. I blacked out. When I came to, I don’t know was it minutes or hours. An elderly couple passed and she said,
“The cut of him, it’s scandalous.”
If I could, I’d have shouted,
“What do you expect? I’m a tinker.”
Eventually, I got inside, went to the sink and spat. Teeth and blood tumbled out. I got to the front room and a bottle of Irish, drank from the neck. The raw alcohol lacerated my torn gums, but it got past them. My suit was destroyed, the blue shirt in shreds. Despite what the movies show, it takes some strength to rip a shirt. I found my crumpled cigs and fired up. Held the heavy Zippo like a talisman. More whiskey, better. After much searching, I found Sweeper’s number, then an age to focus till finally,
“Hello?”
“It’s Jack, help me.”
I passed out. When I next opened my eyes, I was lost. In bed, in pyjamas, first thought,
“Oh fuck, not hospital.”
If hospitals gave air miles, I could have travelled extensively. Heart lurch, a figure near the door. Focused, my head howled. It was Sweeper, asleep in a chair. Keeping the night watch. I couldn’t feel a hangover. Why couldn’t I? Worrying. Sweeper held the 9mm in his lap. I better not make any sudden moves. Gave a small cough. He stirred, and I asked,
“Where’s my hangover?”
He shook himself, seemed surprised to find the gun, laid it on the floor, said,
“You’re full of painkillers.”
My mouth was numb but not hurting. Numb I could hack. Asked,
“Who put me to bed?”
Half smile then.
“We found you on the floor. You were in bad shape, my friend. Got a doctor and he worked on you. That was two days ago.”
“Jesus.”
“The clan have guarded you in shifts. You will, of course, need a dentist.”
“I need tea.”
He got up, and I nodded at the gun. He said,
“If you’d been carrying this, you wouldn’t be toothless.”
“I was carrying chips. If I’d had that, they’d have made me eat it.”
“They surprised you?”
“They bloody amazed me.”
He went to do tea things, and I got cautiously out of bed. Woozy but functional, I moved slowly towards the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I’ve never been an oil painting, but without teeth, I was the total descent into ugliness. Told myself,
“Gives character to your face.”
Sure. That and a 9mm, maybe people wouldn’t fuck with me. When I finally got downstairs, I had on an NUI sweatshirt, faded 501s. My balls were black and blue and swollen. Managed to drink some tepid tea, skipped the toast. Sweeper passed over some red and grey capsules, said,