The Magdalen Martyrs (13 page)

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,
the litter of a mangled mind.”

K.B.

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, Uke 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 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.

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.

Brendan Flood

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 Uke “
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

EX-GARDA ATTACKS REFUGEE
.

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?