‘They throw earth over your head and it is finished for ever’
Pascal, Pensées, 210
That night will remain as one of the strangest of my strange life. I made strong coffee, real bright idea if you want to sleep, and man, I wanted to sleep for ever. But the music, the mania of violence and remorse had gotten a hold, so I played every sad song I had, and I had a whole bunch. The caffeine fuelled my madness and I swear, I think the whole emotional storm, the barrage of pure feeling caused me to hallucinate.
I saw my father outside the window, holding Serena May in his arms.
Imagine how I’d have been if I’d drunk, if that was the reaction on just coffee, albeit gallons of it. Come five in the morning, my stomach roared enough and I threw up, then, knackered, fell on the bed and slept like a demented animal.
I came to in the morning, sick as a tinker in the belly of the beast. My clothes stank to high heaven and I’d that emotional hangover that recovering alcoholics discuss. One thing they got right, it’s a bastard. Already I missed Cody. That kid – Jesus, I nearly said my kid – had got to me, and I could at least attempt to put that right. But then and there, what I needed was a shower, no coffee and a lot of prayer.
I had entered a realm of pure madness. The place where you actually believe you are sane. There was a pounding on the door, not a polite knocking but a definite heavy banging. Man, I was ready to rumble unless it was the Guards. Pulled the door open.
When I first came to the building, one of the residents had stopped me, warned,
‘This is a quiet residence.’
I’d been enraged. Here he was again. About thirty, wearing a buttoned green cardigan, a shirt and tie, heavy dark pants and slippers, metal glasses that gave him a Nazi look. I said,
‘What?’
He took a step back. My appearance was not encouraging. The rumpled blazer, dirty pants, and no doubt eyes of lunacy. He put his hand to his tie for reassurance, said,
‘The level of noise from your apartment last night is not acceptable.’
I grabbed his tie, hauled him to me, snarled,
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Flecks of spittle landed on his cardigan. He was horrified, glanced at the phlegm on his shoulder, stammered,
‘I’m Tony Smith. I head up the Residents’ Committee.’
Pricks like him had shadowed my whole life. Always they’d a committee or organization to hide behind. My breath was clouding his glasses. I hissed,
‘Get off my fucking back. Since the day I moved in, you’ve been reading me the riot act. Now here’s a riot. I ever see you again, I’ll break every fucking bone in your body . . . and if you think of calling the Guards . . .’
I paused, not so much for effect – though it helped – but mainly to catch my breath, then,
‘I used to be a Guard and we watch out for our own.’
I released his tie and he staggered back. I said,
‘You ever pound on my door again, you better be carrying more than an attitude. Now piss off.’
Slammed the door in his miserable face, my chest heaving from adrenalin and palpitations. In the kitchen, I got a glass of water, drained half. I was way out on an avalanche of madness.
Why?
Because I’d gone certifiably insane. Because Michael Clare bothered me, bothered me a lot. If I’d been calmer, I’d have, as they say, sucked it up – swallowed the bile and moved on. Not now.
The phone rang. I picked up, went,
‘Yeah?’
‘Jack, it’s Ridge.’
‘So?’
That was the spirit, take the war to her too. She was momentarily lost for a reply, then,
‘Are you all right?’
‘Never better. This might be the bloody best I’ve ever been.’
Outrage in her voice as she came back.
‘You’re drinking. Oh Holy Mother of God, I can’t believe it.’
‘Hey, God has nothing to do with it, this is purely a deal with the Devil, and whether you believe it or not, I haven’t been drinking. I was going to, came within a glass of it, but no, I didn’t drink . . . Hurrah for me, eh?’
She gave a deep sigh then, almost resigned, said,
‘We’ll have to get you some help.’
That inflamed me – not that it took a whole lot to fire me up. I echoed,
‘We! Who’s we? You’re the same as me, Ridge – we don’t have anybody. But you can do something.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Mind your own business.’
And for once, I got to slam the phone down.
An alkie in full defiant flight is a wonder to behold. Like a victim of a car wreck who straight away runs out into traffic. The rage is usually short lived, and I’d been burning adrenalin and aggression for over an hour, full-tilt boogie. I suddenly collapsed and climbed into bed, torn blazer and all.
The next few days were nightmare in neon, highlit by dread, punctuated by pain. A blur of waking and sleeping, massive sweats, ice-cold shivers and the odd hallucination, but no booze. Weak as a kitten, I managed to wash, dress, gulp food down without even tasting it. Tacked the menu of bare survival on the back of the door: eat, drink gallons of water, wash, stay enraged.
More than anything else, it demonstrates a life of pure futility.
I’d like to say it worked, that I’d found a method to not drink and function.
Living alone is a huge factor on the road to madness – who can disapprove? As long as I kept away from mirrors, I could move in a world of delusion. No easy task to shave with your eyes averted from your reflection.
So I packed that in.
I needed milk and went across the road to a small shop that was barely hanging in there, the developers squeezing tight on all sides. The guy behind the counter was wearing a turban. More and more, the Irish were sinking into the background. We didn’t speak but eyed each other with a wary suspicion. I was going to ask,
‘Are the people treating you well?’
But I didn’t want to know. We were treating our own like shite so why would we stretch for a non-national? In the hospitals, patients were lying for days on trolleys, and this at a time when we’d been declared the fourth-richest nation in the world. An elderly man came into the shop, bought one of the tabloids and nodded at me. I grunted, no encouragement given.
As I left the shop, he caught up with me, said,
‘You’re the Taylor fella?’
I was primed for aggravation, asked,
‘So?’
If he detected my hostility, he wasn’t fazed by it, said,
‘I saw you recently with that young man. Is he your son?’
Jesus.
And I said,
‘Yes, yes he is.’
He gave a huge smile, said,
‘Well, he’s the spitting image of you.’
And was gone.
The weirdest thing of all – I felt delighted.
Go figure.
But back to the apartment and the continuing dementia.
Knew I looked like shit. Now I could look like shit with a beard.
At infrequent times, I’d let loose a cackle of demented laughter, and that scared the bejaysus out of me. When you frighten yourself, you’ve hit a planet of new darkness.
I took to muttering ‘Michael Clare’, like a cursed mantra. It cranked me when the booze compulsion seemed overwhelming. Somewhere in my sick mind – and fevered it was – I equated his exposure with atonement for the death of the child. In jangled sleep, more than once Cathy and Jeff came to me, intoning, ‘Baby-killer.’
The destruction of Michael Clare wouldn’t bring the little girl back or restore Jeff, but one area of darkness might, and I stress might, contain less shadows.
I began to research my quarry in the library, found old newspapers and, after hours of poring over them, found him featured many times. He was a patron of the Arts and seen often at charity functions. Most importantly, I discovered he had a sister, Cathleen, known as Kate. She was single, living in Salthill, apart from that I couldn’t find a whole lot more about her. So I figured, cold call, why the hell not? Bought some clothes from Age Concern and I was ready to roll. A light-blue suit, white T-shirt and soft-soled shoes. My limp was acting up something ferocious. It had to be related to the anger, what wasn’t? Had an energy drink, some shite that promised to restore your spiritual and physical balance, and decided to walk out there. The sea air would do me some good and get some wind on my face. I took the Grattan Road route and a few people said hello, but I pretended not to hear them. I remembered the bouncer guy saying he walked the prom and never spoke to a single soul. I understood better now. Half expected to meet him, but it didn’t happen.
Kate lived in a new apartment block beside the Blackrock Tower. The building looked flash, expensive, a list of names beside the intercom. There she was: K. Clare. It was too dangerous now to use a woman’s Christian name on such a list. Sign of the disintegrating times. I rang the bell and after a moment heard a woman’s voice.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d like to talk to you about your brother Michael. If you give Tom Reed a call, he’ll vouch for me. My name is Jack Taylor.’
Silence, and I thought, nope, not going to work. Then,
‘Are you the man who saved the swans?’
Jesus, that was a time ago. My picture had been in the paper and I got an award for my valour. It was most embarrassing and hugely unwarranted. I said,
‘Am, yeah.’
The intercom buzzed and the door opened. Her apartment was on the second floor and she was waiting at the door, a smile in place. Tall, she was in the late-forties zone that in some light passes for mid-thirties, mainly due to grooming, care and cash.
The very first thing I noticed was her hands, unnaturally large for a woman and rough, like she’d been washing dishes all her life, which I seriously doubted. She caught my look, said,
‘I’m ashamed of them, but as I work with horses they have their use. You need to have very strong hands to hold a horse that does not want to be held.’
Later, I read all sorts of meaning into that. Then, I let it slide.
Black hair to her shoulders, a navy dress that hugged her frame in the best way and a face that was just an inch away from ordinary. She extended her hand, said,
‘I’m glad to meet the saviour of the swans.’
I took her hand, felt the strength and decided to let her believe I was heroic. She waved me inside, and the first thing I saw were framed photos of the swans in the Claddagh Basin, shot from every angle. One in particular was highly effective, at dusk, the swans taking on an almost mystical quality. I said,
‘Wow.’
She laughed, agreed,
‘Beautiful creatures.’
The apartment was simply but elegantly furnished, taste and money giving a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere. She indicated an armchair and I sat. She was nervous and I realized how long it had been since I’d found any woman even vaguely appealing. I had totally shut down that part of my life, never expecting to even miss those feelings. On a small table near me was a tiny silver swan, exquisitely made, every feature outlined. It seemed almost real. She said,
‘One of a pair.’
‘I had it made by a craftsman in Quay Street. Actually, I had a pair done. Did you know swans mate for life, are inseparable?’
The obvious question of why this one was alone was on my lips, but she got there before me, said,
‘I gave the other to . . . Well, I gave it away. A mistake, I now realize, but at the time it seemed . . . appropriate.’
She asked,
‘Can I get you a drink?’
Making it easy for me. So I said,
‘Perhaps a glass of water.’
She said she might have a little touch of whiskey and sparkling water, that normally she didn’t much care for alcohol. I had to stifle the scream that went, Shut the fuck up! Drink it, don’t drink it, but for Chrissakes stop talking about it. I gave a polite smile – the one that says, ‘Oh, we all have our little vices.’
She held up a bottle of Black Bushmills and I nearly caved. Christ, the cream of booze, goes down like a dream. She said,
‘Michael would kill me for even suggesting I put water in. He says women don’t know how to treat fine whiskey.’
The words Michael and kill in the same sentence pulled me back to why I was there, and I felt a wave of depression hover. She handed me a heavy Waterford tumbler with my water. I raised my glass and said,
‘Slainte.’
Got a small smile in return, then she asked,
‘About Michael?’
I considered various evasive tactics, but she didn’t seem the type to shoot a line to so I said,
‘He’s been mentioned in connection with the murder of Father Joyce.’
If she was shocked, she hid it well. Her expression didn’t change. She placed her glass on a small table, asked,
‘And your interest, Mr Taylor? You’re not here in any official capacity, I think.’
Her voice was like Michael’s, a touch of English accent but a more cultured sound. I said,
‘My role is to eliminate Tom Reed and Michael from the inquiry.’
Her eyes held mine and she said,
‘Are you employed by someone?’
Now I had to lie, went,
‘The Church is anxious to get former altar boys cleared so as not to sully their already tarnished image in the eyes of the public’
I thought it sounded pretty plausible. Her eyes stayed on mine, which I was finding disconcerting. She asked,
‘Have you met with Michael?’
I said I had and that he had been most cooperative. She stood up, sighed, said,
‘I doubt that very much, Mr Taylor.’
Caught me off balance, and before I could respond she added,
‘Michael is . . . troubled. I think it’s the oldest story in the book – fathers and sons. He wanted so much to impress my father, but alas, he never did, and the tragedy is, he’s still trying. He believes if he drags this city into massive prosperity, my father will finally approve. My father has been dead for twenty years.’
I raised my glass to buy time, took a decent wallop and felt the sheer smoothness rush down my throat, said,
‘Do you have contact with him?’
She ran her hand through her hair, looked out the window, which had a fine view of the bay, said,
‘We lost Michael when he was ten years old, when . . . that . . . priest destroyed him. To our shame, we never believed him. My mother actually beat him ferociously for telling the truth – we’re as guilty as that . . . cleric . . . for what he’s become. Michael and I were joined at the hip almost as children, went everywhere together, did everything together, but our big treat was to feed the swans. We’d spend hours there, fascinated by those wondrous creatures.’
Then she sat, said,
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because you saved the swans or maybe I just needed to say it. Those silver swans, I had them made for Michael’s twenty-first, a last desperate effort to connect with him. He returned them to me, said he hated those bloody things.’
A thought struck and I said,
‘But he has his office overlooking the Claddagh Basin. If he hates them, surely that’s the last place he’d set up?’
She sighed, then,
‘He bought out his partner who was originally established there. It made good commercial sense to remain. Anyway, Michael doesn’t see them. Since he was ten years old, he sees different things to you and I.’
‘What do you think he sees?’
She considered.
‘I think he sees our father, the stern look. My father hated priests, he strongly objected to Michael being an altar boy, but it was my mother’s wish. Irish women and priests . . .’
She let that trail off and I could have said,
‘Fucking tell me about it. My own mother and that scumbag Malachy.’
Instead I visualized Michael.
I recalled the time I visited him, and him standing at the window as I left, his eyes like panes of glass, looking inwards.
Her glass was empty and I asked if she’d like me to get her another. She said,
‘No, it’s no solution.’
I could have told her a few stories from that war zone to reinforce her comment. I decided to tell her the truth, said,
‘Michael told me he killed Father Joyce.’
Her eyes were back on mine and full of such sorrow that I wanted to hold her, but of course I just sat there and she said,
‘You want me to confirm if it could be true, am I right, Mr Taylor? That’s why you’re here.’
I wanted to scream that yes, that’s what brought me, but fuck Michael, fuck them all. I wanted to give up the fight, they were too powerful. Her voice almost a whisper, so I had to lean forward to hear her, she said,
‘Let me tell you a story, Mr Taylor. Three boys, molested by a priest, become adults, and together they get the strength to accuse this man, this religious icon, of abusing them. Then Michael becomes this high-powered businessman, a vital figure in the community, and golfs with the leaders of society. He has to change his image, at least outwardly.’
She stopped, looked up for a moment as if she was hearing something, perhaps the voice of a ten-year-old boy, then added,
‘But no matter how much you seem to change, I don’t imagine you can ever quite escape the past.’
Nothing further. I asked,
‘You think Michael
She cut me off, said,
‘Our family were great hunters. Do you shoot, Mr Taylor?’
Of all the questions I was expecting, that one was not on the list. What do you say to it? That when you’re raised in poverty, the only shooting you get to do is the penny arcade. I was going to suggest she maybe could give Cathy some lessons, help her get that aim up, show her how to shoot high, but instead went with,
‘No, it’s not one of my accomplishments.’
Let a little bitterness leak over the words and she caught it. Her eyes did a little dance, then she said,
‘I shoot, Mr Taylor, and at competition level. If anyone were to hurt my Michael, I wouldn’t hesitate to hunt them down, like the vermin I’d consider them.’
I nearly laughed. Was she threatening me? Then she let out a small sigh, said,
‘I think you should go, Mr Taylor. I’m tired.’
A small fire was glowing in the grate. It lent an air of cosiness to the room that was definitely bogus. I clocked neat piles of cut logs beside the fire, and a small axe. I was going to ask if she cut the wood herself. She moved to the flames, added a log, and while she was doing so, I don’t know why, I swiped the swan. Call it an act of defiance, a moment of sheer impetuousness, or maybe just theft.
At the door, I tried to find words to defer the departure, but nothing came. I was going to go bold, ask,
‘Michael ever borrow your little axe?’
But I was in the corridor and she closed the door.
Very quietly.