I’d never heard him swear. This was the man who attended prayer meetings where they spoke in tongues. A man who chastised me if I as much as muttered “damn”. He lashed in more booze, belched, said,
“I’m fucked.”
I waited. He lit another Major, said,
“My wife left me.”
“Oh.”
I was going to say, “Hey, mine left me, too,” but felt he wasn’t looking for identification, so I waited. He said,
“She went to England and then came back. She’s in the house but doesn’t talk one word to me.”
I tried to find some platitude, found none. He continued,
“After I left the guards, I was lost. You know that deal, Jack... yeah.”
I nodded.
“Like you, Jack, I could have become a drunk, but I was saved. God spoke to me. The void within was filled.”
Then he stopped, drank some more. So I asked,
“You were happy?”
“Happy! I was bloody ecstatic. Like being high all the time.”
More drink, then,
“But lately, all the things I see, the awfulness of life, the lousy, sordid daily grind of most people’s lives, my belief began to ebb. I was found and now I’m lost. How can you believe in a God who lets those girls die?”
I took a cig and, yeah, the second one wasn’t half bad. I said,
“Maybe it’s just a phase... you know, your faith will return.”
He shook his head violently, near spat,
“Naw, I’m done with all that. The prayer group I attended, bunch of hypocrites.”
Anger rolled off him in waves. He said,
“Then the Magdalen, I began to investigate for you. What was done to those poor women, treated like slaves and in the name of religion. My advice to you is, let it go. It will taint you, too.”
I took out Cathy’s envelope, opened it and written there was,
Rita Monroe
17 Newcastle Road.
No phone number, no relatives traced.
Before I could share this, a man in a morning suit appeared, said,
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to take your custom elsewhere.”
Brendan looked up. Drunk and belligerent, he asked,
“Who the fuck are you? And where did you get the bloody suit?”
“Please, I must ask you to lower your voice. Guests are not accustomed to such early morning... boisterousness.”
Brendan stood up, shouted,
“Once were... guards.”
I grabbed his arm, said,
“Come on, I know a place.”
He took a swing at the manager, who ducked, and I managed to drag Brendan out to the street. The fresh air hit him like revelations and he staggered, said,
“Maybe some coffee.”
“Good idea.”
I took him back to Bailey’s. Got him into an armchair. Mrs Bailey came over, asked,
“What happened to him?”
“Bad news.”
“I see.”
But she didn’t. What she saw was a ravaged drunk. I said,
“If I could get some coffee... Then probably a cab.”
She gave us another look, then turned away. Brendan asked,
“Are we in Dublin?”
“What?”
“I’m kidding. I’m not that far gone.”
“You tried to deck the manager at the Southern.”
“That wasn’t drink; that was necessity.”
He did seem improved. There was no sign of the coffee. I asked,
“Are you going to be OK?”
“What do you think, Jack?”
A horrible thought occurred to me and I asked,
“Brendan, you wouldn’t, you know... do something stupid?”
He turned to stare at me, said,
“You mean, top myself?”
I nodded and he said,
“Dante’s second level of hell is reserved for suicides.”
“Is that an answer?”
He touched my shoulder, said,
“Jack.”
“I might need your word on this.”
He didn’t answer, and Mrs Bailey came, said,
“I called a taxi.”
Brendan stood, said,
“I suppose that means our session is over.”
“I’ll come with you if you want, keep you company.”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
And he was gone.
Mrs Bailey, standing behind me, said,
“I didn’t forget the coffee, but all it gives you is a wide-awake drunk.”
I had no answer for her. No civil one anyway. Went up to my room and collapsed on the bed, was out in seconds.
I had a dream where I went to Zhivago Records. Declan, of course, was in attendance and sold me the complete back catalogue of REM. Nightmare indeed. Behind the counter was a girl whose hair had been shorn, and she asked me where could she buy some bleach. As the dream wavered, I swear I could hear, clear as day, Stipe singing “Losing My Religion”.
“The difference between an alcoholic and a heavy drinker is an alcoholic believes his flaws are sincere but his virtues are fake. A heavy drinker keeps his virtues for himself and cripples others with his flaws.”
The next few days were hell personified. Hangover supreme. Spent them mostly on, under, across the bed. All the while, the booze calling,
“Come, let us fix you.”
Yeah.
At one stage, I came to with the sheets in a noose round my neck. Did not want to ever analyse that. On the bureau was a small photo. Was I hallucinating? Blinked twice but it remained. Approached slowly. It was of a man in a cheap tweed suit, suffering writ large on his face. At the bottom, I read,
“Matt Talbot.”
Crept back to bed after turning the photo face down. Next time I surfaced, it was gone. I would never ask Janet about it. Could only hope she was the culprit... ELSE?
Third, fourth day, weak as a kitten, I showered, put on fresh clothes. I felt more fragile than a whisper. My mind locked on whiskey, I headed for a cafe on Prospect Hill. Ordered scrambled eggs, toast and tea. The table swam before my eyes and sweat cruised my body. If I could get some nourishment...
Months before, on my previous case, I’d been deep into coke. Ran out and panicked. Cathy, in her punk days, knew all the drug players. I’d leaned heavily on our friendship and gotten the name of a dealer. It bruised our relationship, but coke recognises no loyalties.
I’d gone to meet “Stewart” and scored. He was far from the stereotype. Lived in a neat house near the college, and if he resembled anyone, it was a banker. What kept him successful, un-nicked and unknown was a low profile.
I pushed the breakfast away, couldn’t eat. The waitress asked,
“Was there something wrong?”
Was there ever, but not with the food. I even put the tea aside, said,
“No... I’m not feeling well.”
She gave me a motherly smile, said,
“ ’Twill be that stomach bug, the whole town’s got it.”
I walked to the canal, alternating hot and cold, praying Stewart was home. Knocked on the door, waited a minute, then he opened, said,
“Yes?”
“Stewart, I dunno if you remember me?”
The sharp eyes opened, then,
“Cathy’s friend... don’t tell me... it’s John Taylor.”
“Jack.”
You have to ask, do you want drug dealers to remember your name? He said,
“Come in.”
The house was spotless, like a showplace. Stewart was wearing pressed chinos, a white shirt, loosely knotted tie. He offered me a seat, asked,
“Tea, coffee, pharmaceuticals?”
“You wouldn’t have a cigarette?”
That old craving suddenly surfaced. He gave a measured laugh, said,