‘Diversion. Being unable to cure death, wretchedness and ignorance, men have decided, in order to be happy, not to think about such things.’
Pascal, Pensées, 168
I’d my mobile phone and yes, Cody, it was switched on. Only two people had the number, Cody and Ridge.
So how busy was it going to be? Truth is, I kind of liked it. Small, silver, compact, seemed like a bullet casing. I was still wearing the patches but old compulsions go down reluctantly. I’d tap my pocket for the phone, think it was a pack of cigs. Cody suggested,
‘Get a ring tone.’
Sounded like a visit to a hooker. I asked,
‘Get what?’
‘Your own personalized ring sound. I’ve Franz Ferdinand but you could get, like, Beyonce or Black Eyed Peas.’
I didn’t imagine Johnny Duhan was available, said,
‘I’ll settle for the sound of it ringing.’
For the life of me, I couldn’t grasp the concept. There were companies who’d sell you a tune? Between that and supplying bouncers, where was the country going? Jesus.
I visualized being in church, no one’s bothered to switch off the phones and a whole orchestra of pop tunes clashes in unison. Who knows, maybe they could replace the choir.
Cody determined to drag me up to speed, asked,
‘You’ve web access, right?’
‘Take a wild fucking guess.’
After I left Tom Reed, I walked down to the canal, watched the ducks. And soon, of course, the darkness. Closed my eyes, imagined Jeff’s body drifting by. Every night of the week, the Guards pulled someone from the water, mostly too late. The range covered the city’s population. Into the water went
Students
Drunks
The demented
The lonely
Young girls
The sick
The healthy.
So sang the song of the canals: give me your poor and rejected.
No clergy.
Yet.
My phone rang, putting the heart crossways in me. I answered, heard Cody, asked,
‘What?’
‘Just checking in, hoss.’
Hoss.
I asked,
‘Any developments?’
‘No Sir, but I’m on top of it, got my eyes peeled.’
He sounded like he was enjoying himself, and in amazement I asked,
‘Man, it’s a blast.’
Every time I thought I’d a handle on him, got him part way sussed, he reached new levels of cliche. I said,
‘Don’t call me with hourly reports, got it?’
‘Radio silence unless there’s a code red?’
‘Exactly.’
Was about to click off when he asked,
‘What do you think about Mary?’
‘Who?’
‘The landlady’s daughter. A fox, right?’
I clicked off.
He deserved her.
Truth to tell, I was jealous.
Saturday morning, I rang Cody. Took ages before he answered, then,
‘Yeah . . .’
Sleep written all over it. I decided to crack the whip. I mean you’re the boss, it’s your moral duty. I snapped,
‘You’re sleeping?’
Before he could answer, I heard laughter, a girl’s, and he said,
‘Am, call you back . . .’
He didn’t.
I was out, walking through the morning market. It was a bright day, the area thronged with people, few of them Irish, let alone Galwegians. A couple from Denmark were selling sausages roasting on an open grill – the aroma blanketed the crowd. I might have been tempted but a line of people were waiting. Instead, I looked at some stained-glass reproductions of the Claddagh.
And the seller said,
‘Give you a good price, Guv.’
Guv!
Jesus, Camden Lock in the west of Ireland. I was intrigued, asked,
‘You a Londoner?’
‘A Geordie.’
‘Oh right.’
And for the life of me, I couldn’t think of another word, another word that didn’t involve shepherd’s pie or some such supposedly Geordie cliche. He said,
‘I’ve been here five years.’
Got me vocal again, and with huge originality I asked,
‘Like it?’
He gave me a look of confusion, asked,
‘What’s not to like? The pubs, the crack.’
I felt I should say something but my phone went and he said,
‘Saved by the bell.’
I answered, ready to light a fire under Cody, heard,
‘Jack?’
‘Ridge . . .’
She was crying, or as close to that as she’d ever come, said,
‘My car, it’s contaminated.’
Instead of asking what the hell that meant, I asked,
‘Where are you?’
‘The cathedral car park.’
‘Stay there, I’m five minutes away.’
As I fought my way out of the market, I noticed a guy selling T-shirts that read,
Every dog has its day.
Don’t plan on it being
anytime soon.
Amen to that.
As I hurried along Market Street, I noticed a headline on a newspaper:
Arnold had become Governor of California. The bottom part of the page related how the English team were threatening to strike, and if they refused to travel to Turkey, they were out of Euro 2004. Ireland had their crunch match due against Switzerland in a few days. I digested all that, thought, ‘I’m returning to life,’ bizarre as it was. I crossed the Salmon Weir Bridge just as an angler was landing a fine fish. It pained me to see such a beautiful specimen have its head smashed against a rock. The sound like an omen.
Ridge was sitting on the low wall circling the car park. Mass was letting out and I saw people dip their fingers in the Holy Water font, bless themselves, ‘In anim an Athair . . . In the Name of the Father.’
The English translation just didn’t work, not for me, not in my heart where it mattered.
Ridge was smoking a cigarette.
I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d been toting a sawn-off or snorting coke. I thought, is she going to pick up my addictions, one by one? She was wearing a white sweatshirt, faded jeans and scuffed Reeboks. Her face was haggard. I asked,
‘You OK?’
How lame was that?
And got the prerequisite lash.
‘How the hell do you think I am?’
She pointed a finger, said,
‘It’s there.’
She didn’t look at the car, added,
‘The doors are open, the . . . item . . . is in the back seat.’
I approached cautiously, my nerves shot to ribbons. There was a note pinned to the steering wheel.
You hore of Babylon
Yer time is near.
A clue. He couldn’t spell.
The church bells began to ring. Jeez, talk about timing.
Ask not . . .
I didn’t.
What was beating in my mind, uncalled and certainly unwanted, was Warren Zevon, ‘Knocking On Heaven’s Door’.
Especially the bit asking to take the badge offa me.
Oh yeah.
In the back seat was a pair of knickers. I got my pen, used it to move them and could see the still-damp semen. The mind locks on a detail, some minute item to block the evidence. The knickers had tiny hearts embroidered on the front and that ripped through my guts like fucking acid. There was a Supermac’s bag littering the floor. I got it and deposited the knickers in it, put the bag in my pocket. My phone rang. I answered with a terse,
‘Yeah?’
‘Jack, it’s Cody. I’ve got great news.’
Could we get so lucky? I said,
‘Tell.’
He sounded breathless, said,
‘Mary and I are an item.’
I actually held the phone away from me, as if it was pulling a fast one, then I gritted,
‘You’re fucking having me on?’
He read me wrong, thought I was pleased, gushed,
‘Isn’t it unbelievable? She’s such a catch.’
Ridge was staring at the pocket where I’d pushed the crumpled bag, then, as if in defiance, lit another cig, blew the smoke at me. I said to Cody,
‘I’ll tell you what’s unbelievable. While you’re romancing your . . .’
Words failed me momentarily. Then I focused, white heat in my brain, said,
‘Fox. While you’re at that, the stalker has defiled our lady’s car.’
I could hear his intake of breath, then,
‘Defiled . . . what . . . I . . . ?’
‘You’re fucking fired is what you are.’
Ridge gave what in other circumstances might have passed for a smile, asked,
‘You fired somebody – did I miss a chapter? When did you begin hiring people, never mind firing?’
I waved that away, asked,
‘How long was your car there?’
She stubbed the cigarette on the wall, short stabbing movements that reflected her state of mind, said,
‘I went to Mass.’
Paused.
Expecting what? Derision, surprise? I said nothing, had been a Mass attendee for a time there myself. She continued,
‘And when I came out, I found . . . the message . . . and in case you didn’t detect it, he broke the side window.’
Yeah, I missed that.
She stared at my pocket, asked,
‘You’re keeping the evidence for like . . . what, a DNA test?’
I wanted to slap her, slap somebody, said,
‘I need you to do something.’
She waited, tapping her fingers on the wall. I wanted to say,
‘Like first, have some fucking manners.’
Went with,
‘Think hard about anyone you’ve arrested over the past few years. I’m thinking especially of anyone who threatened you, who would come back at you.’
She stood up, said,
‘Like that’s going to help. What, do you think every thug I arrested treated me decently? God, you were a Guard – they all threaten you, or is it so long ago you can’t remember?’
She began to walk away and I asked,
‘What about your car?’
Without breaking stride, she said,
‘Fuck my car.’
An elderly churchgoer, passing, looked at me, said,
‘Young ladies today, the language of them.’
I said,
‘Trust me, that’s no lady.’