Checked myself in the mirror. Asked,
“Would you buy a car from this man?”
No.
I had a mobile phone number for Sutton and rang that. Got the answering service and left a message. Walking into town I tried to feel like a citizen. Couldn’t quite pull it off. At the abbey, I went in and lit a candle to St Anthony, the finder of lost things. It crossed my mind to ask him to find myself, but it seemed too theatrical. People were going to confession, and how I wished I could seek such a cleansing.
Outside, a Franciscan bid me good morning. He was the picture of robust good health. My age, without a line in his face. I asked,
“Do you like your work?”
“God’s work.”
Served me right for asking. I continued on to Edward Square. Walked through Dunnes and saw six shirts I couldn’t afford. On through to Planter’s. It was big. Covered the whole of what used to be a parking lot. At reception I asked if I could see Mr Ford. The girl asked,
“Have you an appointment?”
“No.”
“I see.”
But she didn’t. She rang his office and he agreed to meet me. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. His office was modest and he was on the phone. Hand waved me to a chair. He was small, bald, with an Armani suit. An air of controlled energy from him. Finishing the call, he turned to me. I said,
“Thank you for seeing me. I’m Jack Taylor.”
He gave a brief smile. Small yellow teeth. Flash suit and bad teeth. The smile had no connection to warmth. He said,
“You say that name as if it means something. It means zero to me.”
I could smile too. Show him what Ultra-Brite might achieve, said,
“I’m investigating the death of Sarah Henderson.”
“Are you a policeman?”
“No.”
“Have you any official standing?”
“Zero.”
Nice to hop the word back. He said,
“So, I have no obligation whatsoever to talk to you?”
“Save common decency.”
He walked round the desk, adjusted the razor crease in his trousers, sat on the edge of the desk. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor. His shoes were Bally. I know so well what I can’t afford. Argyll socks with a snazzy pattern. He said,
“There’s no good reason not to sling your sorry ass on out of here.”
I realised the guy loved to talk, no sound so sweet as his own voice. I said,
“Would you be surprised to hear three girls, now dead, all worked here?”
He slapped his knee, said,
“Have you any idea of the hundreds of staff we put through our doors? I’d be amazed if they all lived for ever.”
“Did you know the girl?”
I don’t think I knew what sardonic really meant till I heard him laugh, he said,
“I very much doubt it.”
“Would you check, as a favour to the girl’s mother?”
He hopped off the desk, hit the intercom, said,
“Miss Lee, rustle up the file on a Sarah Henderson.”
He sat down, the portrait of relaxation. I said,
“That’s impressive.”
“An intercom?”
“No, how you didn’t even have to think for a second to get the girl’s name.”
“It’s why I’m sitting here in a suit worth three grand and you’re... shall we say... in last year’s remainder.”
The secretary arrived with a thin folder. Ford reached for glasses, pince-nez, naturally. Made a series of
M... m...’s
Hm... m...
Ahh’s...
Then closed the file, said,
“The girl was a shirker.”
“A what?”
“Work shy. We had to let her go.”
“That’s it?”
“Indeed. She was, alas, what we call a reject. No future whatsoever.”
I stood up, said,
“You’re right about that. She certainly has no future.”
...so smug believed — that desolation
had the limits full explored.
Sutton was staying in the Skeff. Like every place else in Galway, it had recently been renovated. Any space is immediately seized for “luxury apartments”.
I found Sutton at the bar, nursing a pint of Guinness. Inspired, I said,
“Hey.”
He didn’t answer, took in my vaguely healing injuries, nodded. I took a stool beside him, signalled to the barman for two pints, said,
“Remember Cora?”
Head shake and
“I’m not from here, remember.”
The pints came and I reached to pay, but Sutton said,
“Put it on the slate.”
“You’ve a slate?”
“Comes with being an artist... a burnt-out artist in fact.” I thought it was best to take it head-on, said, “My hiding, your blaze, I didn’t believe they were connected. Or connected to anything else.”
“And now?”
“I think it’s all deliberate. I’m... sorry...”
“Me too.”
Silence then till he said,
“Run it all by me.”
I did.
Took longer than I thought, and the slate grew. When I’d finished, he said,
“Bastards.”
“Worse then that.”
“Can you prove anything?”
“Nothing.”
I told him about Green Guard, the security firm, said,
“They employ the guards.”
“They do. And you’re thinking... what?”
“See if my assailants are there.”
“Then?”
“Payback.”
“I like that. Include me in.”
“I’d like to meet Mr Planter too. He or Ford killed that girl. I want to know how and why.”
“Planter’s a rich fuck.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Probably got notions.”
“Sure to.”
He took a large swig. It left a white foam moustache. He asked,
“Think he likes paintings?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Lemme work on that.”
“Great.”
“Want to grab some grub or just get wrecked?”
“Wrecked sounds better.”
“Barman!”
... fears daily revealing...
Real
The lines on hour
Scarred.
Next day, I was dying. Not your run-of-the-mill hangover but the big enchilada. The one that roars — SHOOT ME!
I surfaced near noon. Events up till four the previous afternoon were retrieveable. Napalm after that. I do know Sutton and I ended up in O’Neachtain’s.
Glimpses peeked through:
Line dancing with Norwegians.
Arm wrestling the bouncer.
Double Jack Daniels.
My clothes were crumpled near the window. The remains of late night takeaway peering from under a chair. Trod on chips and what appeared to be an off-green wing of chicken.
Christ!
Did some serious throwing up. Morning prayer. Old establishment ritual, on my knees before the toilet bowl.
Twyfords!
They built bowls to endure.
Finally, purged, my system settled into a rhythm of spasmodic retching. The kind that tries to vacuum your guts up through the thorax. Thorax. Good word that. Gives a feeling of medical detachment.
I wanted the hair of the dog. Jeez, I wanted the whole dog. But it would lead to more lost days. I had vengeance to wreak, villains to catch. With trembling hands I tried to roll a joint. Sutton had given me some “waccy-baccy”, said,
“From the Blue Atlas Mountains, this is serious shit. Treat with respect.”
Couldn’t roll the spiff. Went to the cupboard, found a stale cherry muffin. Scraped the guts out. Heated the hash in tinfoil then poured liberally into the cake. Popped the mess in the micro-wave and blitzkreiged.