His hands were folded on his chest, a rosary beads interwoven through the fingers. Like handcuffs. I wanted to touch his hand, but the coldness would freak me. I’d lose it entirely, muttered,
“Goodbye, buddy.”
Lame... and don’t I know that.
Shook hands with a gaggle of relatives. I said,
“So sorry.”
They intoned,
“Thank you for your trouble.”
Murder.
A brief blessing and a decade of the rosary before the priest dismissed us. Outside, the men produced packs of
Carroll’s
Major
and
Silk Cut Ultra’s.
Leaning against the wall, in civvies, was Superintendent Clancy, his finger up, beckoning me. He’d dropped a few pounds; he sure needed to. I clocked two burly minders a few yards away. Serious protection.
I strolled over, said,
“Super.”
“Jack, good to see you.”
The bonhomie was worrying. A time we’d been friends. Oh... so very long ago. I said,
“Been to Weight Watchers, eh?”
“Stress, laddie... that and golf.”
“Good of you to show for Brendan.”
I half meant it.
Clancy looked round, as if fearful he’d be overhead, said,
“He could have been a great one, real nose for investigation, but he got religion.”
He made it sound like a disease, paused, then,
“Like you, Jack, except the bottle got your arse.”
I could have let it slide but for Brendan. Some effort was necessary. I said,
“Gee, either of us might have climbed the ladder and got... what?... golf... and fat?”
He signalled to his minder, brushed lint off his lapel, said,
“Guy got shot last night.”
“Yeah?”
“A runner for your old mate, that piece of work, Bill Cassell.”
“You’ll no doubt be conducting a thorough investigation.”
He looked me right in the eye, said,
“I won’t lift a bloody finger.”
He smirked, turned to the minder, snapped,
“What are you standing there for? Get the bloody car.”
My turn to smile, said,
“Authority you wear like a loose garment.”
Stomped off.
I noticed Brid Nic an lomaire among the mourners; she must have been on duty and arrived late. She looked devastated. I figured it was her first guard death. Even if he was an ex-guard, you are never really out of the loop.
I thought I’d go over to her, but she had moved away.
“appreciate what I might read was nearly... oh so very nearly left unread,
Fr Malachy, as always the presiding priest, was lighting one Major from the butt of another. I said,
“Nice service.”
“Ah, there’s little you can say about a suicide, little that’s any good anyway.”
Through a cloud of smoke, he glared, said,
“They’re well rid of him.”
“Wow, you bleed with compassion.”
Then his expression changed, a sly glint to his eyes. There’s few more chilling than a sly priest. It’s all that theological backup as weight. He said,
“When I heard an ex-guard topped himself, I thought it was you. Would have laid odds on it.”
“And break my poor mother’s heart?”
He waved me away, but I wasn’t done, asked,
“You still getting ‘contributions’ from her then?”
He went pale, had to physically rein in, said,
“You’d like a good puck, wouldn’t you?”
“That is a ‘P’, isn’t it. Unless it’s a whole other deal.”
Before he went coronary, a woman approached, said,
“Jack Taylor?”
I turned... Mrs Flood, in the black mourning gear, like a withered jackdaw. I said,
“So sorry for your loss.”
“He’s no loss. Here.”
Shoved an envelope at me. Brendan’s note. I didn’t know what to say. She said,
“Oh don’t worry, I didn’t open it.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Yes, you did. You might not wear the uniform but you’re still a guard. God blast ye.”
She hadn’t spit on me, but I wiped my face as if she had, muttered,
“Enough.”
Walked towards Forster Street. Walked fast.
The Magdalen
The laundry was doing great business, to such an extent that locals began dropping in their clothes. No compassion from them. The girls had chalk complexions, and as they rarely left the building, they resembled the starched sheets they were cleaning. The lack of sunlight and the stifling conditions added to the look of utter hopelessness the girls shared. Known as penitents, they were expected to say the rosary as they worked. Visiting clergy reminded them of their fall from grace and how far they’d have to climb if redemption was ever to be achieved.
Lucifer entered the laundry each time with an almost dizzying sense of power. Her eyes had become accustomed to the harsh emanations from the soap, bleach, steam and constant boiling water. The smell of perspiration and the stench of un-washed bodies only served to stoke her simmering rage. She hated these girls for reasons even she couldn’t understand.
Next day, before the funeral, I rang Bill Cassell. He barked,
“What do you want, Taylor?”
“Gee, Bill, what happened to Jack?”
“Don’t fuck with me today, fellah.”
“I found the woman.”
Intake of breath, then,
“Where?”
“Newcastle.”
“Tell me about it.”
I did.
He was silent as he digested the data. I said,
“So, we’re quits... right?”
“What?”
“You said I could wipe the slate if I found her.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re clear.”
I could have left it, but I wanted to needle the fuck, said,
“You don’t sound so good, Bill.”
“Casey got shot.”
Push a tad further, asked,
“Who’s Casey?”
Low mean chuckle and,
“Surprised you’ve forgotten him. Big guy in a white track-suit, held you during our last little chat. Course you never got to see Nev, and if you’re lucky, you never will.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, some cowardly shite kneecapped him.”
“That’s gotta hurt.”
“Like you care.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Well, I can safely rule you out.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. One, you’re usually too pissed to aim your dick, and two, you haven’t the balls.”
Click.
Hard to say if I’d scored on that exchange. I was wearing the dark suit again, conscious that today Brendan Flood would be six foot under. His letter was beside my bed. I hadn’t yet been able to open it. Dropped two ‘hides and made some coffee. Turned the radio on. Bob Dylan was sixty.
Finally got the Oscar for his song in Wonder Boys.
They played it, “Things Have Changed”.
Had they ever.
As the English say, and changed “irrevocably”.
Good word, makes you feel educated. Best to use it sparingly.
I would.
Checked my watch, realised the ’ludes had kicked as I’d forgotten to drink the coffee.
Lit a cigarette.