“The heart wants what it wants
Or else it does not care.”
Yeah.
Mrs Bailey gave a gasp of delight, said,
“My oh my, if I were fifty years younger, I’d give you a run for your money.”
I was mortified, so kept it light, went,
“Ary, you’re too much woman for me.”
When she laughed, it came from her soul. You saw the woman who had weathered eighty years, who had witnessed her country dragged screaming into a prosperity that damn near destroyed all she believed in. She gave the stock reply of a satisfied Irish woman:
“Go on outta that.”
Smothered in warmth, these words launched manys the Irish male upon an unsuspecting world. I swear there was bounce in my step as I walked along the arse end of the square. Both my legs working strong and healthy.
“The one consistent interest, passion and obsession of her life was books-even on the night of the fire. While people had often disappointed her, books never did. She was seldom without a stack of ten or more unread library books; a hedge against the reality she could not face.”
Ann Rule, Bitter Harvest
I reached the Fair Green, moved to where the Dublin coaches park. No sign of Ann. Two buses were lined near the wall, a space between them. I walked along that, turned to see a man blocking my path. He was big, dressed in a tracksuit, a hurley held lightly in his left hand. He smiled, not with humour or warmth but with a definite air of malevolence. I said,
“Tim Coffey.”
He nodded, answered,
“My wife won’t be coming. Shame, seeing as you are all fancied up, even got a frigging tie. Going to take her somewhere special, were you? Then ride her after? Was that your plan?”
Spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth. I tried to remember what I knew of him. He’d been a sergeant just before I lost my job. Even then, he had a reputation for ferocity. Used his fists for the most trivial offence. The guards were changing; constant media scrutiny, public awareness, all had forced them to tidy up their act. But men like him, who employed brutal methods, were secretly admired and always protected. Plus, he’d been a hurler of some promise, had turned out for provincial teams. There, too, his temper had short-circuited his sporting future.
I let my hands, palms upwards, stand out from my sides, to signal
“Hey, I’m cool, I don’t want aggravation.”
He swung the hurley, catching my right knee with a sickening smack. The pain was immediate, white heat searing to my brain, proclaiming,
“This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”
It did.
I fell against the coach, sliding to the ground. Wish I could say I behaved in the macho mode and simply gritted my teeth. No, I howled like a banshee. He swung the hurley again, shattering the bridge of my nose. Then, as the blood cascaded down my white shirt, he flung the hurley aside, bent down, said,
“I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”
And began to beat the shit out of me. I could smell his breath. He’d been wolfing curry recently and chasing it with Guinness and Jameson. Vomit mixed with my blood and I passed out. What I remember is that his nails were filthy, deep dirt entrenched, and I thought,
“Disgusting bastard.”
I opened my eyes and flinched, expecting pain. There was none. But I felt confined as if I was in a tight shroud. When I got my bearings I realised I was in hospital, sun streaming through the windows. My hearing hadn’t kicked in and I stared, in a soundless state. The ward was on full go, maybe fifteen other beds, with nurses, visitors and patients mouthing words I couldn’t hear. I began to sit up and, like a switch being turned, I could hear.
Too much.
Coming in stereo, like a wave of terror. I tried to cover my ears.
A nurse appeared, said,
“You’re back.”
She fluffed my pillows because nurses have a moral obligation to do this twenty times daily, said,
“Now, you don’t worry, I’ll get the doctor.”
Worry about what for Chrissakes? She returned with a babe from Baywatch. No kidding, this doctor had the regulation white coat, but everything else was supermodel territory. Plus, she looked all of sixteen.
I couldn’t help it, went,
“You’re a doctor?”
Gorgeous smile. She’d had this reaction before, especially from beat-up old men. She answered,
“I’m Dr Lawlor. How are you feeling?”
“Confused…and thirsty.”
She picked up my chart, said,
“You sustained a very severe beating. The guards will want to interview you. Your nose was broken…”
She paused, gave me an intense look, continued,
“But this is not the first time. Your nose has been broken before. Were you a rugby player?”
“Hardly.”
She wasn’t happy with my tone, but her happiness was way down on my list of priorities. When I said nothing further, she said,
“You have some broken ribs and you may experience difficulty breathing. Your right knee was severely damaged. We have inserted a pin. It’s very possible you may have a slight limp. However, physio will ease this.”
I wanted a cigarette…and a drink. But mostly I wanted out, asked,
“When can I leave?”
She smiled, asked,
“Pressing business?”
“Yeah.”
She scanned the chart again, said,
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be ready in a week.”
It was five days. The first time I got out of bed, I nearly fell over. A shard of pain from my knee rocked through my system. I gobbled painkillers, told the nurses that sleep was difficult and got sleepers.
They worked.
Jeff came to visit, bearing grapes. I said,
“I hate grapes.”
He looked the same as ever, like a half-assed hippy. Long grey hair pulled in a ponytail, black 501s, waistcoat and well-worn boots. He should have seemed ridiculous but he carried it off. His movements had a stoned languor and he never touched dope. He settled in the chair and I asked,
“How’s the baby?”
“The baby is nearly three and still not walking. You have to go that extra mile with Down’s syndrome, you know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t.
Initially, he had been near destroyed with his daughter’s handicap. Now though, he had a handle on it. He asked, indicating my condition,
“This related to a case?”
I considered laying it out for him, he was my friend, but went,
“No, it was personal.”
He digested that and I began to ease out of bed. He rose to help and I said,
“No, I’ve got to do this myself.”
A brief smile and he replied,
“Like everything else…you’re the last of the independents, like Walter Mathau in Charly Varrick.”
Walking was a bastard. They’d given me a frame but I refused to use it. Started to hobble out of the ward, Jeff walking point. I saw the nurses stare at him; he wasn’t unlike a Hell’s Angel, cleaned up for court. He did own a Harley, the soft-tail custom. Halfway down the corridor, there’s an alcove with signs warning:
NO SMOKING.
Three patients trailing IVs were huddled there, smoking like troopers. You could barely see them through the blue haze.
Jeff said,
“Tell me we’re not sitting here.”
I sat.
Jeff sighed, asked,
“Can’t we go someplace private?”
The patient beside me had yellow skin, thin as mist, and when he inhaled, his cheekbones disappeared. I asked,
“Spare one, pal?”
He nodded, rummaged in his dressing gown, took out a crushed pack of Players, the old box with the sailor on the front. I didn’t think they made them any more. I took one, smoothed out the creases, tapped it on my wrist to shake the loose tobacco and put it in my mouth. The man produced a brass Zippo, lit me up. I stared at the lighter, said,