Halve the distance between A and B
Halve it again
Then again
Until infinity.
You will never reach B.
13
I stood for a moment outside Lorna Dunphy’s home, took a deep breath. Then knocked and waited. Door opened and a man appeared, maybe in his battered forties. Something had beaten the hell out of him and, when he was on his knees, life had kicked him in the balls. He was wearing old cord Levi’s, a faded sweatshirt with the logo for the Saw Doctors, though it was a long time since this man heard any music. Does anyone remember desert boots? This man did and was wearing them. He had a tangle of dark curly hair, long from not caring and not fashion. He asked,
“Is this about Lorna?”
A soft voice, laden with foreboding, he knew most calls were about Lorna.
I nodded, said,
“I’m truly sorry to bother you.”
For once I truly meant it.
He waved me in, not even asking who I was. Led into a sitting room that was so tidy it seemed unlived in. A single framed photo of a woman, with her head back, laughing. He motioned me to a chair, asked,
“Would you like a drink?”
Not tea or coffee?
I know the inflection so well, my whole life constructed around it.
I said,
“That would be good.”
Even fucking vital.
He got a bottle of Redbreast; they even make that anymore? Two heavy Galway crystal tumblers, poured nigh lethal measures, handed me one. The glass felt almost reassuring. I didn’t think a toast was in order. He sat opposite, his glass placed carefully on a small table beside him.
I said,
“I’m Jack Taylor.”
Then, oh fuck, he got up, held out his hand, said,
“Tom.”
I took a mega hit of the drink and it walloped my stomach, both bitter and comforting. I said,
“Your daughter, um...”
He sighed, with a resignation that no one should have, asked,
“What she do now?”
I wanted a cig, took out the pack, offered one.
He took it, leaned over, picked up one of those family-size boxes of matches, and lit it, the sound like a pistol shot. I lit my own quietly. We fumed for a bit then I said,
“It’s just she is telling people she has a brother and he is missing.”
He groaned.
I tried,
“I’m sure it’s just a phase.”
Lame, huh?
He pointed at the framed photo, said,
“Her mother, Ann.”
Nothing more.
But his face was ruin, sadness and despair battling for supremacy.
Then he asked,
“You know Barna Woods?”
I knew of it.
I just nodded.
He said,
“There’s a tree there that they supposedly favor.”
I didn’t have to ask
Who they were.
Suicides.
He continued, a story he had to recount over and over and never understand.
“Used a rope I had for a camping trip we had planned.”
Stopped, asked,
“You like camping?”
WTF?
I tried,
“Not really.”
He sighed, said,
“Me neither, but Ann...”
Gulped.
“Ann said it would be fun to do as a family.”
Aw, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I said,
“I’m very sorry.”
He stood up, said,
“Please excuse me. I have to do some serious drinking.”
At the door, he asked,
“What will become of Lorna?”
I lied fast.
“She will be fine.”
We both smiled at that piss weak lie.
God knows, whatever else would happen to the girl, fine wouldn’t be part of it.
I thought about mothers.
Freud said that if a child was deeply encouraged, loved, praised, the adult would always be chock-a-block with confidence and self-belief.
Okay, Freud probably didn’t actually say chock-a-block. I mean, who the fuck does apart from debutantes, but you get the drift.
My mother was the bitch from many versions of hell. Her gig was to sneer, ridicule, and belittle.
Signs on.
I mean,
Look at me!
Was there a tree in Barna that lured suicides? Kind of a chilling thought and why the fuck didn’t someone chop that fucker down? On a completely different horror note, the elections were announced. The government was finally going to hear how the people felt about the water levies and all the other issues like housing and health they had so blithely dismissed addressing. Of course, we had the sneering jackal face of the leader threatening he would be back and, get this, in his own constituency of Mayo, he called people who dared to question
“Whimpers.”
And worse? In Irish terms anyway,
“Whiners!”
I walked to Shop Street and a busker/mime was massacring “Delilah.”
Yeah, the awful song by Tom Jones, the guy was wailing,
“Why,
Why,
Why?”
I implored,
“Jeez, give it a bloody rest.”
He did stop, then,
“You can’t handle real talent.”
I had no answer for that so I put twenty euros in his box. He looked at it, said,
“You call that fair wage?”
You can’t really take back the money but by Christ I was tempted. I got a newspaper. It was all election fever. Polls predicted annihilation for the Labour party. Their leader Joan Burton was detested on a national level not seen since Henry’s hand ball knocked us out of the World Cup. Families who had been Labour folk for generations were simply disgusted. Rarely had a politician so misjudged the mood of the people.
Trump continued his blitzkrieg of hate and bullying. And he continued to lead.
Sean O’Casey wrote
“The world is in a state o’ chassis.”
Was that ever the truth.
On a wall I saw,
“The ghosts are coming.”
I didn’t think it was a rock group.
On hookers: It’s not the work,
It’s the stairs.
14
There is a line from Carousel, the gist of which is, As
As
Long
As
One
Person
Remembers
You
It
Isn’t
Over.
Now you might wonder about the state of mind of someone who knows the lyrics to that musical but Jeremy Cooper, the proclaimed ghost of Galway, had a mind clutter fucked with trivia.
Dressed now in a black Hugo Boss leather jacket, black combat jacket, Doc Martens, he was about one hour away from a murder occurring. He reminded his own self of an Irish version of Mosley but, hey, he muttered,
“Who even knew of Mosley anymore?”
Or,
Utilizing his Trinity education, Mosley’s connection to the Mitford sisters? He’d said that to Woody, his second in command, and Woody asked,
“They like, um, the Spice Girls?”
Help was indeed hard to get, but to ask for intelligent help?
Yeah, right.
He considered the doctor’s verdict, perhaps only months to live.
Fuck.
Still, the painkillers were mega and enveloped him a warm fuzzy cloud. The doctor intoning,
“Use them sparingly as they are very potent.”