I had recently got my customary letter from
A Chara,
It has come to our notice that you have failed to return an item of equipment.
We draw your attention to Article 59347A of Uniform and Equipment on page 25 of the manual. Said Item No. 8234, a garda all-weather coat, remains the property of the Department.
We anticipate the speedy return of said item.
Mise le meas,
I did what I always did.
Crumpled it and lobbed it fast across the room. I’d been receiving variations of the same letter for years. No matter where I lived, by the canal, in Bailey’s Hotel, London or Hidden Valley, these missives eventually found me.
I’d been a guard, and if not the finest years of my life, they were certainly the ones that made the most sense. I’d trained at Templemore and had the makings of a fine career. It seems odd now but I truly cared then. The first time I walked down the street in my uniform with the buttons gleaming, my cap at a firm angle, the baton to hand, I thought I could make a difference. The first wake-up call came about a month into my duty. I was on night patrol, an older sergeant walking point. We got a call to a domestic and arrived to find a drunken husband locked outside his house. The sergeant said,
“If we have to arrest him, stand to his rear.”
I thought he doubted my courage, and sure enough, after we tried to talk to the man, he became abusive and we cautioned him. He told us to go fuck ourselves, and the sergeant said to arrest him, winking at me. Full of youth and bravado, I went face to face with the guy, and he vomited all over me. I can still hear the sergeant laughing. The next few years were good till I grew overfond of the jar and it became a cause of concern to my superiors, and I was eventually slung out. I kept the all-weather coat, and it was a reminder of the one chance of meaning I could have given my life.
That garment was my sole link to my career. If not validation, at least it was proof.
My previous case had provided accommodation, a house in Hidden Valley. To coin a London phrase, I’d been living it large. It ended in disaster. I’d moved back to Bailey’s Hotel.
Mrs Bailey, you felt she’d known the signatories of 1916. She had that fresh flawless skin almost patented by nuns. Her eyes were a blend of wisdom and mischief Can there be a better combination? Once, she’d told me,
“There’ll always be a room for you here.”
Now that may not count as wealth, but it’s a richness of rare elevation. A retired judge had taken my old room. He was old Galway, too, so that’s all the reference he needed. I was given the attic. I liked it. The skylight gave a false sense of light. All the essentials:
Shower
Kettle
Phone
TV.
Didn’t take me long to unpack. Yet again, I was down to the basics:
Age Concern suit
Leather jacket
Item 8234
Three jeans
Bally boots
Sneakers.
And, of course, my books.
Music too. All of
Johnny Duhan
the Cowboy Junkies
John Stewart
Van Morrison.
“I built a house and found — why was I surprised? — Thoreau was right.
If a man builds a barn, the barn becomes a prison.”
A Monday morning, late January, I had an alcoholic fit. Doesn’t get more serious than that. Put me smack back in hospital. A doctor looming over me said,
“Mr Taylor, have you any idea what happened to you?”
“No.”
“The next attack could kill you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He looked down at my chart, shook his head, said,
“Care isn’t what’s needed. You cannot drink.”
The episode terrorised me. When I got out of the hospital, I didn’t drink. But I’d been down that road a thousand times. Sooner or later, the edge of the fear dropped off or I got to “Who gives a fuck?” and drank.
I sank into deep and deeper depression. Getting out of bed became increasingly difficult. During the night, massive anxiety would pull me from sleep, on the hour, every hour. Drained, I’d crawl from bed and have to force myself to the shower. Food held no interest, but I tried. Asked myself, “Why bother?” Shaved my beard and was horrified at how sunken my face was. But hell, I’d great teeth.
In my last case, two brothers had come after me. If they lived in America, they’d have been trailer trash. Here, they were “bachelors”. Implying, it was their choice. Among their agenda of hatred were tinkers. I’d been working for the travellers. Coming home from a funeral, I’d been pissed and eating chips, the Irish Nirvana or, as purists might say, “Tir na nOg”.
The brothers had hit me in the mouth with an iron bar. Weeks of dentistry resulted in a smile that glowed.
I’d once heard depression described as being under murky, fetid water and not being able to break the surface.
That fit.
Each day was drearier than the one before. The high point was going to bed so I’d be able to just cease. If comfort could be squeezed from anything, it was the thought of suicide. It is deep shit when that’s the only light. Months before, I’d been drinking in a dive off Merchant’s Road. What drew me was the menace, palpable in the very air. A Russian sailor, dry-docked for eight months, sold me a .32-calibre Heckler & Koch. It’s a nasty piece of work; I was amazed to get it, and so cheap.
Most nights, I’d hold it in my hand and think,
“One movement up, then squeeze the trigger.”
I cannot say why I didn’t. Tried to return to books. There had always been reading. No matter what went down, I could always read. Wasn’t working any more. All my old reliable ones,
Thomas Merton
Nelson Algren
Walter Macken
Francis Thompson.
Nope.
Weren’t doing it.
Returned to a writer who’d give me the blackness. Derek Raymond, the founder of English noir. Also known as Robin Cook. He had a lifelong affinity with the criminal, the damaged. Educated at that “hotbed of buggery”, Eton, it was, he said, “an excellent preparation for vice of any kind”. Prompted by an almost terminal boredom, he absconded, first to Paris and the legendary Beat Hotel, then New York’s Lower East Side. The first of his five marriages went down the toilet after sixty-five days.
My own marriage had run almost parallel. I didn’t plan on four more.
He said,
I knew things were going wrong when I got home, put the shop-ping down in the kitchen and the table gave a terrible cough.
No wonder I loved him.
He wrote a spate of books that drew a cult following. Translated as good reviews, no money. It didn’t worry him unduly. He said,
I’ve watched people like Kingsley Amis, struggling to get on the up escalator, while I had the down escalator all to myself.
Here’s when I like him best.
Nearing fifty, he began the Factory novels. Unremittingly black thrillers, the protagonist haunted by personal tragedy and obsessed with the deaths no one else bothers with, they show London in despair. Scoured by “vile psychic weather”.