and even the most trivial conversational opener provokes him into orgies of
sincere nodding. I ascribe this to group therapy.”
Nigel Williams, Fortysomething
The new day, mildly tranquillized, I crept into Nestor’s. Jeff was on the phone, waved his hand. Was this... dismissal?... a barring order?... what? The sentry swirled his half empty glass, said,
“Second case of foot and mouth in the North.”
“Right.”
I didn’t want to lean on it so added nothing. Jeff finished the call, said,
“Jack, what can I get you?”
Very worrying.
When you’ve fucked up big time and the fucker is being nice, search for a weapon. I said,
“Coffee’s good.”
“One coffee coming up.”
It did.
He said,
“Grab a seat, I’ll bring it over.”
Ominous.
I sat, took out a virgin pack of reds, cranked up. Smoking as if I’d never stopped. Jeff came over, put the coffee down. As usual, he was wearing black jeans, boots and black waistcoat over long-sleeved granddad shirt. He asked,
“You hear about the young student?”
“Which one?”
“Who got capped on Eyre Square?”
“What about him?”
“The funeral’s today.”
“Oh.”
“The reason I mention it is, we’ll catch the overflow, and I know you don’t do crowds too good.”
“You got that right.”
As I said, my head was up my ass. If I’d gone to the funeral, I’d have had all the answers.
I stood.
The speakers had kicked in and I’d vaguely registered a woman singing the blues. Not singing them as much as living them. I asked,
“Who’s that?”
“Eva Cassidy,The Fields of Gold album.”
“Ace, she ever comes to the Roisin, I’m there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“Cancer took her out. She was thirty-eight.”
“Bummer.”
I finished the coffee and headed off.
The sun was out and spring was knocking on heaven’s door. A drinking school near the toilets, in chorus, shouted,
“Fucker.”
Me?
Near the statue of Padraic O Conaire, three teenage girls were sitting at the fountain. As usual, some wag had thrown colour into the water, and a technical kaleidoscope rose above their heads. They were singing,
“You make me whole again.”
A number one for Atomic Kitten, at the top of the British charts.
The song finished and I joined the crowd in applause. A young girl tugged at my sleeve, hope bright in her eyes, asked,
“Are you Louis Walsh?”
“Me? No... sorry.”
She looked devastated. I asked,
“Why’d you think I was?”
“You look old.”
I could have simply rung Bill, said,
“I found her. She’s at this address.”
Did I? Did I fuck?
If I had, perhaps the whole show would have been wrapped there and then.
Or... unravelled.
But I had a burn for Bill. It was a long time since any emotion had fuelled me. I fed the hatred with playback of the gun barrel against my forehead. My hands would clench till the nails gouged into the palms. My teeth hurt from clenching them.
Man, it felt good.
Love or hate, go the distance with either, and whatever else, you are fucking electric. Crank it up a notch and sparks light your brain. Course I know, the brighter the glow, the more spectacular the crash. Nothing lights the sky like those shooting stars. Sat in my room, polished the Heckler & Koch. It is true: a weapon is the great equaliser. Is it ever?
In my head was Psalm 137. Boney M had a massive hit with part of it, back when the guards were my reason for being. In the psalm, the poet begs that he may be made happy by murdering the children of his enemies. Its music cries out with bloody restitution.
Course, if you’re still familiar with Boney M, you are too far gone for any serious treatment.
It was ridiculously easy to find Bill’s hired help, the guy who’d brought me to him and laughed at my degradation. I sat outside Sweeney’s and simply clocked the times he came in and out. He was fixed in a routine. All I had to do now was decide when I’d take him. Nev would be another day’s work. For him, I’d require time.
To celebrate the ease of this, I headed for a new pub, new to me at any rate, McSwiggan’s in Wood Quay. Even sounds like a decent place.
A tree grows in Brooklyn.
And also in McSwiggan’s.
Kidding I ain’t. Smack in the back bar, a lovely solid tree. Only in Ireland. Don’t cut the timber but do build the pub. I liked it already. Huge place. I settled near the tree.
Who wouldn’t?
Had two sips dug in my Guinness when a woman approached. I thought,
“What a pub.”
Then I clocked the neat tiny pearl earrings. Ban garda.
You don’t have to be a policewoman to wear them, but ban gardai have a certain style in their usage, that says,
“So OK, I’m a guard, but hey, I’m feminine, too.”
Her age was in that blurred over thirty area that makeup can disguise. A pretty face, very dark hair and steel in her jaw line. She said,
“Jack Taylor.”
Not a question, a statement. I said,
“Can I cop a plea?”
“May I sit down?”
“If you behave.”
Glimmer of a smile. She said,
“I’ve heard about your mouth.”
She spoke English like they do when they’ve been reared in the Gaeltacht. It is their second language. Never sits fully fluently. I said,
“Connemara?”
“Furbo.”
“And you heard about my mouth... from... let’s see... Superintendent Clancy?”
Frown, then shake of the head.
“No... others... but not him.”
Her clothes were good but not great. Navy sweater with white collar, dark blue jeans and freshly white trainers. None of it designer gear, more Penney’s than Gucci. They’d been given a lot of usage but were well maintained. Like her life, I surmised. She’d never rise above C-list status. She asked,
“How did you know I was a ban garda?”
“I used to be a guard.”
Now she gave a dazzling smile, transformed her face. A mix of devilment and delight, the very best kind, said,
“Oh, I know that.”
She was drinking something orange in a glass, with lots of ice. I’d bet heavy it was Britvic and nothing added. Here was your sensible girl. Drinking would be at weekends and never lethal. I asked,
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
My turn to smile, without devilment or even warmth, the one they teach you in Templemore. I asked,
“What about?”
She glanced over her shoulder, then I thought,
“What? Coke, pills, drink?”
“The Magdalen.”
Caught me by surprise. I said,
“Oh.”
“You’re out of your depth. I can help.”
I took a long swig of my pint, felt it massage my stomach. I asked,
“And why would you want to do that?”
A moment, shadows flitted across her face, then,
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
I drained my glass, asked,
“Get you something?”
“No, thank you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bríd... Bríd Nic an Iomaire.”
Had to digest that, reach into old memory for translation, said,
“Ridge... am I right?”
She gave a disgusted look, said,
“We don’t use the English form.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”