Sutton gave me a curious look, asked,
“Do you miss it?”
I knew what he meant but asked,
“Miss what?”
“The guards.”
I didn’t know, said,
“I dunno.”
We went into Kenny’s in time to clock a bad shoplifter put a Patrick Kavanagh down his pants. Des, the owner, glided past, said,
“Put it back.”
He did.
We passed through the ground floor, out to the gallery. Two of Sutton’s canvases were on show, sold stickers prominent. Tom Kenny said,
“You’re making waves.”
Which is as high as praise rises. I said to Sutton,
“You can pack in the day job.”
“What day job?”
Hard to say which of us liked that answer best.
The next few days were spent investigating. Tracking down any witnesses to the “suicide”. There were none. Talked to the girl’s teacher, school friends, and learnt precious little. Unless Cathy B. found startling evidence, the case was over.
Friday night, I resolved to have a quiet time. Two pints and a chips carry-home. Alas, the pints got away from me and I hit the top shelf. Black Bush, too many to recall. I did get the chips. Piece of cod thrown in to make it appear substantial.
Is there anything more comforting than doused-in-vinegar chips. The smell is like the childhood you never had. As I approached my flat, I was in artificial contentment. Turning to my door, the first blow caught me on the neck. Then a kick to the cobblers. For mad reasons, I hung on to the chips. Two men, two big men. They gave me a highly professional hiding. A mix of kicks and punches that came with a rhythm of precision. Without malice but with absolute dedication. I felt my nose break. Would swear it made the “crunch” sound. One of them said,
“Get his hand, spread the fingers.”
I fought that.
Then my fingers were splayed on the road. It felt cold and wet. Twice the shoe came down. I roared for all I was worth.
They were done.
The other said,
“Won’t be playing with himself for a bit.”
A voice close to my ear.
“Keep your nose out of other people’s business.”
I wanted to cry, “Call the guards.”
As they headed off, I tried to say, “Buy your own chips,” but my mouth was full of blood.
those moments before the dose
Four days I was in and out of fever at University College Hospital, Galway; locals still call it “The Regional”. If you were there, you were fucked. Now if you’re there, you’re lucky.
A woman from the old neighbourhood said,
“One time we’d stomachs but no food. Now we have food and no stomachs.”
Or
“Loveen, there’s no drying out. When we had great drying, we’d no clothes.”
Argue that.
I came to and an Egyptian doctor was checking my file. I asked,
“Cairo?”
He gave a dry smile, said,
“You return to us, Mr Taylor.”
“Not voluntarily.”
I could hear the hospital radio. Gabrielle with “Rise”.
I’d have hummed “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” with her backing band but my mouth was swollen. When she returned to music, I read her ex-boyfriend’s stepfather’s head was found in a tip in Brixton.
I’d have shared this with the doctor but he’d gone. A nurse entered and began immediately fluffing my pillows. They do this if there’s the vaguest hint of you getting comfortable.
My left hand was heavily bandaged. I asked,
“How many broken?”
“Three fingers.”
“My nose?”
She nodded, then said,
“You’ve a visitor; feel up to it?”
“Sure.”
I’d expected Sutton or Sean. It was Ann Henderson. She gasped on seeing me. I said,
“You should see the other guy.”
She didn’t smile. Moved up close and said,
“Is this my fault?”
“What?”
“Is it because of Sarah?”
“No... no... course not.”
She put a paper bag on the locker, said,
“I brought you grapes.”
“Any chance of Scotch?”
“That’s the last thing you need.”
Sean appeared in the doorway, went,
“By the holy.”
Ann Henderson leant over, kissed my cheek, whispered,
“Don’t drink.”
And was gone.
Sean fragiled towards me, saying,
“You must have pissed someone off big time.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Did anyone call the guards?”
“They were the guards.”
“You’re coddin’.”
“I saw their shoes, at closer range than I wanted. They were the boys all right.”
“Jesus!”
He sat down, looking worse than I felt. Then put a Dunnes’ bag on the bed, said,
“Things I thought you’d need.”
“Any drink?”
I felt like the mad priest in “Father Ted”. I rummaged through the bag.
6 oranges
Lucozade
Box of Milk Tray
Deodorant
Pyjamas
Rosary beads
I held up the beads, asked,
“How bad did you hear I was?”
He reached into his jacket, produced a half of Jameson. I said,
“God bless you.”
I drank it from the bottle, felt it move my shattered nose. Bounced against my heart and pounded along my sore ribs. I gasped,
“Mighty.”
Sean nodded off. I shouted,
“Shop.”
And he jumped. Seemed lost and worse, old. He said,
“The heat, Christ... why do they have these places like ovens?”
Maybe the painkillers helped, but I felt absolutely pissed, asked,
“Where’s Sutton?”
Sean looked away and I said,
“What?... come on.”
He lowered his head, mumbled. I said,
“Speak up... I hate when you do that.”
“There was a fire.”
“Oh God!”
“He’s okay, but the cottage is gone. All his paintings too.”
“When?”
“The same. Same night you got hammered.”
I shook my head. Bad idea as the whiskey sloshed behind my eyes. I said,
“What the hell’s going on?”
The doctor reappeared, said,
“Mr Taylor, it’s important you rest.”
Sean stood up, laid his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll be back tonight.”
“I won’t be here.”
I swung my legs out of bed. The doctor, alarmed, said,
“Mr Taylor, I must insist you get back into bed.”
“I’m leaving... ADA... isn’t it?”
“ADA?”
“Against the doctor’s advice. Jeez, don’t you watch ER?”
I had a moment’s dizziness, but the booze rode shotgun. My blood sang out for creamy pints of Guinness. A whole shitpile of them. Sean had the trouble of the world on his face, said,
“Jack, be reasonable.”
“Reasonable! I was never that.”
I consented to a cab, and as I was wheelchaired to the exit, a nurse said,
“Yah big eejit.”
Great shiners
The nun was reading Patricia Cornwell. She saw me glance at the cover, said,
“I prefer Kathy Reichs.”
There’s no answer to this. No polite answer anyway. I asked,
“Am I too early?”
She reluctantly put her book aside, said,
“There’s half an hour yet. You could walk round the grounds.”
I did.
The Poor Clare Convent is smack in the centre of the city. Every Sunday, at 5.30, there’s a Latin mass. It’s like a throwback to fifty years before.
Downright medieval.
The ritual, the smell of incense, the Latin intonations are a comfort beyond articulation.