The Magdalen Martyrs (14 page)

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, Uke the horseman, passed by.

“Be selfish, stupid and have good health.
But if stupidity is lacking, then all is lost.”

Flaubert’s dictum for getting through life unscathed

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,

“Finish the pint and flee.”

Jeff came over, mug of coffee in his hand, asked,

“Join you?”

“Sure.”

He did.

Then asked,

“Where are you on Bob Dylan?”

“In the dark mostly.”

Head shake, wrong answer.

He launches.

“Look back for a moment to
Don’t Look Back,
the documentary film of his ‘65 visit to Britain, when he was young and beautiful. Here he is, just turning twenty-four, with the world of celebrity and glamour kissing his feet. He is the most perfectly hip creature on earth.”

Jeff pauses, caught in the sheer wonder of this image. Shakes his head, continues,

“Imagine how you would cope with this. Even 10 per cent of it would turn your head. But Dylan does cope, telling the man from
Time
magazine, ‘You’re going to die. You’re going to be dead. It could be twenty years; it could be tomorrow, anytime. So am I. I mean we’re just going to be gone. The world’s going to go on without us, you do your job in the face of that, and how seriously you take yourself, you decide.’

“This is the Dylan stance. Thirty-six years on, he’s still all alone in the end-zone, determinedly unimpressed by the hullabaloo he has engendered and endured throughout.”

Jeff took a swipe of his coffee, beads of sweat on his brow. Mr Cool, Mr Mellow, Mr Laid back had got passion. Before I could say that, he said,

“That’s not my rap; it’s from a piece by Michael Gray, a Dylan chronicler from way back.”

“And what? You learnt it by heart?”

He caught my tone, defended,

“What if I did?”

“Come on, Jeff, you were a musician, nigh on Dylan’s era. You’ve survived, too.”

The bar radio kicked in, and the Kinks’ “Lola” began. We both smiled. Perhaps it was the last comment on us.

Like asking,

“Riddle me this?”

I said,

“Did you read Ray Davies’ book?”

“What, you don’t think I’ve enough grief”

I’d finished the pint and was debating another when he said,

“Do you know what it’s like to have a Down’s syndrome child?”

I’d no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

“Would you like to know?”

Before I could answer, he reached in his jeans, took out a folded paper, said,

“That will tell you.”

“Did you write it?”

“No, I live it.”

Then he was up, said,

“I’ve a beer delivery. They’ll throw the barrels all over the yard unless I’m there.”

I opened the paper, read

Welcome to Holland

By Emily Pearl.

It was a long piece about planning a trip to Italy. Goes into lengthy detail about the excitement of the trip. This is the one you’ve planned all your life. You’ve even learnt the language and have all the sights outlined that you’ve always wanted to see. But when the plane lands, you’re in Holland; and bewildered, you ask how this can happen? All your arrangements are geared for Italy. After the initial shock has worn off, you begin to slowly see the wonders of Holland, different though they are from everything you had anticipated. You have to learn the new language and change all the expectations to adapt to this new landscape. Gradually, you begin to enjoy the benefits of Holland, though it takes a huge shift of perspective. In time, you actually come to love Holland, the last thing you’d have believed.

I sat there, my heart in ribbons. I no longer wanted that
drink. One way or another, I felt, I too had been mourning Italy all my life.

I did the only thing I could. I went out and bought a bunch of tulips for Cathy.

“The thirst for knowledge is like a piece of ass you know
you shouldn’t chase; in the end, you chase it just the same/’

George P. Pelecanos,
Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go

Friday evening, a young man came out of his FAS course. He
was doing well. He had a few bob in his pocket and was meeting the lads in Cuba.

The club, not the country.

A buzz was in the air, with all the false promise of the weekend. He stood for a minute at the back of the cathedral. Course, being the sparkling new generation, it never occurred to him to bless himself. Why would he? That ritual was rare to rarer. Who needs God at seventeen?

On a whim, he crossed over to the embankment, down the steps to where the ducks are. He stood at the edge, feeling good. Never heard the man. People use that path from the old mill up to the bridge regularly. It’s a snatch of tranquillity from the hectic Newcastle Road.

The man stopped, put two bullets in the young lad’s head, turned and went back towards the mill. If the splash of the body was loud, it didn’t cause him to look back. He flicked the empty wrapper from the gum into the river.

Witnesses, yet again, would provide a maelstrom of conflicting
information. I heard about it in Nestor’s. Jeff said,

“God almighty, what’s with the world?”

The sentry said,

“I blame the tribunals.”

Before I could comment, the door opened and Terry Boyle came storming in. The blond hair awry, his tall frame rigid with anger, he was wearing a very good suit. Towered over me, shouted,

“What the hell am I paying you for?”

I was at my regular table, a book before me. I used my index finger to indicate the other hard chair. He said,

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

For a moment, I could see the veins throb at his temples. Weighing the odds. Jeff had tensed, and Terry glanced round, sized him up, then snapped,

“Barkeep, a vodka tonic and make it soon.”

He sat.

I noticed lesions on the tips of his fingers. Tried to recall anything I’d learned in my Templemore days. He had said he was in software, so I said,

“Those from typing.”

The sneer turned his mouth ugly, and he near spat his reply,

“Jesus, you old guys. Nobody types any more; it’s called keying.”

I leant near, said,

“Come here.”

Startled look and,

“What?”

“Come on, move closer.”

He didn’t, so I said,

“You shout at me again, and I mean ever, I’ll put your balls out through your throat . . . key that.”

He straightened his back, said,

“I practise Kai-tai-wan.”

Least I think that’s what he said. Before I could respond, Jeff plonked his drink on the table, said,

“Sonny, you burst into my pub like a lunatic again, you’ll need that Kai whatever.”

And was gone.

Terry let out his breath, whined,

“What’s with you old guys? You’re so goddamn touchy.”

The lapse into American didn’t endear, but I let it slide, got my smokes out, and fired up. He said,

“Haven’t you heard of the patches?”

“Terry, take a moment, have your drink, and we’ll start over. How would that be?”

He did.

I said,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

“I haven’t received a single progress report. How are you spending my money? Kirsten is spending money like a drunken sailor. My father’s money.”

Truth to tell, I’d all but forgotten the whole deal, said,

“I’m working on a definite line of inquiry.”

Stopped myself from adding

“An arrest is imminent.”

He eyed me with huge disbelief, said,

“You’re on to something?”

“Am I ever?”

He took a sip of the vodka, grimaced, said,

“And you can drink . . . what. . . like every day?”

“It’s my duty.”

He let that go, rubbed his hands, said,

“OK, this is very promising. You think the bitch will go down?”

I nodded solemnly.

He reached in his jacket, his very expensive jacket, took out his chequebook, said,

“A further two weeks’ retainer sufficient to nail the cunt?”

I nearly gasped. The word hits me like a gossip in heat. Felt my fists clench but went for economic damage, said,

“To wrap it clean, let’s say a month.”

He wrote the cheque. I noticed the pen, a beautiful piece of work. I was schooled the old way Hammered knuckles over wooden desks to perfect our penmanship. We got stinging fingers but legible handwriting. About as useful as a reference from Fianna Fail. He caught the stare, said,

“It’s a Mont Blanc, the Agatha Christie limited edition. Want to hold it?”

“I don’t know? I might not want to give it back.”

He offered. Felt the weight immediately, examined it slow. True artistry, made me long for things I didn’t need. He took it back, said,

“Out of your league, Pops.”

“Terence, you’re really going to have to mind your language.”

His expression now was rampant with the New Ireland, smug, greedy, knowing. He said,

“I have a set of these, cost more than you’d earn in your whole miserable life.”

I decided he was too stupid for a slap in the mouth. I could wait. Jeff moved out from the bar, began to sweep the floor. I had never seen him do that. Terry didn’t notice; the hired help was of no consequence. He said,

“Are you free tonight?”

“You’re what? Asking me for a date?”

He gave a small titter. I wish I could call it a laugh, even settle for its relation, the giggle . . . but no . . . it was rough. He said,

“Geraldo and I are holding a soiree in my pad.”

“Pad! And who’s Geraldo?”

He gave the first real smile I’d seen, said,

“My significant other. It’s our anniversary.”

I lit another cig, drew deep. He continued,

“We’ve been an item for twelve months.”

“And this, it’s for gays only I suppose.”

“Ah, Jack . . . you don’t mind if I call you that? . . . we have friends in every walk of life.”

“And you want me to come . . . why? Bit of rough trade?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jack. You have a certain primitive allure. My address is on the card I gave you. It’ll be a fun thing.”

Then he was up, saying,

“Eight-thirty onwards, dress seventies.”

“I thought I already did.”

At the door, he collided with the sweeping Jeff. Neither apologised. He moved to Jeff’s right and was gone. A few minutes later, Jeff started back for the counter, dropped something on my table. The Mont Blanc.