Took a breath, opened the envelope, my mind going,
“And the winner is...”
It began:
Jack,
What can I tell you? I ran out of energy. When I ran out of faith, it was all over bar the shouting. No doubt you’ll hear the shouting at my funeral. That Magdalen business was just the final straw. Clancy and his crowd are keen to keep it in the past. As if evil can be ever put in the bin. That Bill Cassell doesn’t want to find the woman for any good reason. Watch him and your step. My wife gets the house and money. But us guards, we keep some in reserve. Go to AIB, Lynch’s Castle, Savings Account number 19426421, and you’ll get the land of your life. I’d have stayed longer if the hangovers were less tolerable. I don’t even mean the ones from booze. You’re the closest I ever had to a friend, and I’m not even sure I liked you. So, I’ve been dead longer than I thought. If I believed in God any more, I’d say, God bless you.
I wish I could have been the guard you could have been.
Slan.
I folded the letter carefully, put it in my wallet. Beside the photo of the girl with the brown ringlets, a relic of Padre Pio was riding back up. The Irish word for sadness is bronach. But it means so much more than that. It’s akin to desolation, and my heart was shot through with it.
In the lobby, Mrs Bailey asked,
“Breakfast?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you all right? You look shook.”
“I’ve to go to a funeral.”
“Somebody close?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll say a prayer for him.”
“Thank you.”
After the funeral mass, I elected to walk behind the hearse. A custom that’s fading, I need it like confession. Still, despite rampant commercialism, passers-by stopped, took off caps, blessed themselves. That touches me in a way that religion never has. Walking, too, was a sprinkle of guards. Not in uniform but present. As always, they gave me the cautious nod, Brid Nic an lomaire among them. I am of... but not among them.
I was one of the men who helped hold the ropes that lower the casket into the hole. God, it was heavy. We lost it a bit towards the end, and the coffin hit the dirt with a sound like “AH”.
Like the gentlest sigh escaping
Fr Malachy intoned,
“Man, who has but a short time to live, is full of misery.”
I hate that piece. As if things weren’t bad enough. After, he made a beeline for me, but I wasn’t in the mood for the ejit, said,
“Piss off.”
I saw the gravediggers smile.
For that alone, it was worth it.
In the Celtic tradition, there was the beautiful notion of “anam cam”; anam is the Irish word for soul and cara is the word for friend. In the anam cara, friendship, you are joined in an ancient way with the friend of your soul. So wrote John O’Donohue in his book, Eternal Echoes.
For too long I’d been neglecting Jeff and Cathy. Told myself,
“ ‘Cause, they have a new baby, give them space.”
I half believed this shit sometimes. The old saying,
“If you have to know any act, let it be your own.”
Whoops.
Wore a sweatshirt that read:
667
(NEIGHBOUR OF THE BEAST)
And the faded 501s.
Then remembered the AIB. Got out the account number, checked it and memorised it. Mrs Bailey was reading the Irish Independent, said,
“Do you know who’s dead?”
It doesn’t get more Irish.
I said,
“I already know who’s dead, believe me.”
She gave me a head on look, said,
“That’s a very relaxed outfit.”
“I’m a relaxed kind of guy.”
She gave a polite smile, with,
“Not a description I’d have applied myself.”
Went to the bank first. A non-national was perched on a mat outside, asked,
“Euro please.”
“Gimme a minute, all right?”
“One minute, I am counting.”
The temptation to crack his skull rose with the rejoinder,
“Count on that.”
Make local headlines with
And they would.
Into the bank and presented my account number to a cashier. She had the moneyed face, hard, hard, hard.
A nametag proclaimed “Siobhan”.
She tapped in the numbers, said,
“This account has been opened for Jack Taylor.”
I gave her the refugee smile, said,
“I am he.”
No brownie points. She frosted,
“I’ll need to see some ID.”
I’d been expecting this, plonked the following down: passport, driver’s licence, library card.
She examined them like a tax inspector, snapped,
“This licence has expired.”
“A metaphor for my life.”
She looked up, obviously not happy with my appearance. I said,
“Siobhan, lighten up, this isn’t a tribunal.”
“There is a considerable sum here.”
“No shit?”
Came involuntarily, but who could fault me? She stood up, said,
“I’ll have to consult a manager.”
“Gee, that’s surprising.”
Eventually a suit approaches, says,
“Mr Taylor, welcome to the AIB.”
I’m wondering how much is a considerable sum?
And asked exactly that.
He looks round, says,
“You can have a printout of the balance.”
“Well, let’s have it.”
When I get it, I didn’t look, shoved it in my pocket, said,
“Tell Siobhan I love her.”
Came out to find the guards arresting the refugee. I, like the horseman, passed by.
“Be selfish, stupid and have good health.
But if stupidity is lacking, then all is lost.”
Into Baravan’s, shouted a pint and took a seat in the snug.
Snug it is.
The pint came, I took a belt, pulled out the statement, shouted,
“Brandy, large.”
And punched the air. It wasn’t retirement money, but for some time to come, I wouldn’t be counting the shillings. Not with any caution anyway. When the brandy came, the guy asked,
“Celebrating?”
“I am. What will you have?”
“A decade of the rosary.”
You can never impress them in that bar. I wanted to sit there all day, but my conscience whined,
“Yo, what about Jeff and Cathy?”
So I went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place, his half before him. Jeff was washing glasses. The sentry said,
“Didn’t you used to drink here?”
Jeff smiled.
I climbed on a stool, said,
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”
“Good to see you, Jack.”
“How’s Cathy?”
“Good.”
“And the baby?”
Blame the brandy, I couldn’t remember the baby’s name. Mortified, I fumbled for my cigs, cranked up as Jeff said,
“She’s thriving.”
And the conversation died. Didn’t splutter to a slow stop or meander some cliched route and collapse. I said, after a horrendous amount of time,
“A pint, Jeff.”
“Coming up.”
Got that and moved to what used to be my office. Hard chair and table, with my back to the door, thinking,