‘My soul was mortgaged so long ago.’
KB
Not sure what exactly to do, I headed for the park where the girl had been found.
The Lord and I don’t do a whole lot of biz these days. As Patrick Hamilton wrote, ‘Those whom God has deserted are given a bedsit and electric fire in Earl’s Court.’
Nun’s Island was a long spit from Earl’s Court, but the deal was much the same.
Solitary.
I’d tried, even went to Mass for a bit, but it didn’t pan out. The collection dish had been passed round and it had an edict on it:
‘No coins! Notes only.’
I’d been tempted to write a note to put in there.
And I’d been on my knees in the Claddagh church, begging God to spare the life of my beloved surrogate son.
He didn’t.
So I figured I’d muddle through and not bother God a whole lot. He seemed to have important issues, like tsunamis, starvation, etc. to be attending to.
Do I sound bitter?
Like the Americans so nicely put it,
‘Fucking A.’
And as if God had indeed heard these ruminations, who should come shambling along but my own clerical nemesis, Father Malachy.
My mother was a bad bitch.
And pious with it.
Gave my dad a dog’s life.
That I was, in her words, ‘a public disgrace’ just added to her martyrdom.
On my dad’s death, she leaped into widowhood with glee. The black clothes, the Masses said for him, the whole sanctimonious shite we’d been tolerating for generations.
Some of these widows get dogs or, better yet, a tame priest.
She got the priest. Father Malachy, a chain-smoking nasty bastard who delighted in every fuck-up I had.
And fuck, there were plenty of those.
But you know, the worm turns. He got himself in some serious trouble a while back and came to me for help.
I helped.
Was he grateful?
Was he bollocks.
Seemed to resent me more than ever, proving the old adage, they will never forgive those who help them.
He looked much the same. Nicotine emanating from every pore, his black suit ringed with dandruff, his eyes as unforgiving as any guard in Guantanamo Bay. He stopped, exclaimed,
‘I thought we’d seen the back of you.’
I asked,
‘You missed me?’
He snorted.
I thought that was some novelistic flourish that literary writers used when they were aiming for the Booker.
But no, that’s the sound he made. He said,
‘Weren’t you all set for America?’
I gave him my best smile.
‘I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you…Father.’
Let sarcasm scald the last word.
He lit an unfiltered cig from the butt of the previous one, inhaled deeply, coughed like his lungs were about to come up, said,
‘You broke your sainted mother’s heart and you haven’t an ounce of repentance in you.’
We’d reached the park, close to the fire station and bordered on the other side by Flaherty’s funeral parlour.
All the eventualities covered, you might say.
The Guards had cordoned off the park and that foreboding white tent for a murder scene was in place, with masked and white-suited personnel milling around.
For a moment, Malachy seemed almost human, said,
‘The poor girleen, they asked me to administer the Last Rites but tis way too late for that.’
I asked him if he knew who the girl was.
He was still looking at that white tent as if he’d give anything not to have to go in there. Still distracted, he said,
‘All I know is the poor creature’s first name. She was a student, and working in some fast-food place to pay for her books.’
My heart sank. I was afraid to ask.
He added,
‘I wish I had a naggin of Paddy. They say her heart was removed.’
I thought for a moment I was going to pass out.
He flicked the cig away, said,
‘I better go and do what I can.’
I caught his arm, and if it bothered him he didn’t react. I asked,
‘Her first name, what was it?’
Without even looking at me, he said,
‘Emma.’
And he was moving away.
I grabbed at him, near shouted,
‘Who’d do such a thing?’
He didn’t even stop, just added,
‘Tis the work of the Devil.’
I was rooting in my Garda coat, praying – no, pleading – that I’d brought some pills.
And found the Xanax.
Swallowed one, tried to get my mind in gear.
I began to move away, my emotions in turmoil, a voice in my head screaming, Oh Jesus no, not that lovely bright girl, the one I’ve spoken to, had a burger from, please, not her.
Heard my name called and turned to see an older Guard approaching. Naturally, I figured I was in for a bollocking.
Superintendent Clancy, once my partner, now the top dog in the Force, loathed and despised me. My last case, I’d helped save his young son and I don’t think he could forgive himself for being indebted to the person he most detested. His dearest wish was that I drink meself to death, go to America, or both, but get the sweet Jaysus out of his town.
I had tried.
To leave.
The drinking was still under consideration.
Up close, I recognized Sergeant Cullen.
Old school.
I mean by that he lamented the days when you could take a hurley to the thugs who polluted and terrorized the city.
When I had dispensed a certain justice in back alleys, he’d actually bought me a drink.
Course, he had to keep his friendship with me a secret and rarely acknowledged me.
We understood each other.
We had once pulled border duty in the days when peace agreements were far in the future, and, under fire in Armagh, we’d been cowering in a ditch, the rain lashing down, and he’d asked me,
‘Who the Jaysus is shooting at us?’
A good question in those days.
We’d been armed with batons. Just what you need against Armalites, Kalashnikovs, grenade launchers.
I remember his face even now, a riot of confusion, and he’d added,
‘Is it the UVF, our own crowd, or who the fuck is trying to kill us on our own land?’
I said,
‘Whoever it is, just thank Christ they can’t shoot for shite.’
And he started laughing, hysteria, sure, but he pulled out a flask, said,
‘Uisce beatha.’
Holy water.
Poteen.
I’d taken a long swig – and that stuff kicks like a nun whose polished floor has been walked on – managed to say,
‘Don’t worry, this stuff will kill us long before any of the bastards manages to get lucky.’
They kept shooting.
Us? We kept drinking.
To each his own, I guess.
We’d been friends since.
He looked old now, long lines creasing his face, furrows on his forehead you could plant potatoes in.
I’d heard his daughter had been killed by a drunk driver and the accused had walked free, due to emotional problems. I could see that lingering pain in his eyes even now.
I said,
‘Sergeant, how are you?’
He glanced back at the scene in the park, said,
‘Tis a holy awful business.’
‘I hear it’s a young student.’
He nodded, still vigilant, lest he be seen talking to me.
That truly saddened me.
Then he composed himself, said,
‘Jack, you shouldn’t be here. If Clancy knew, well…’
I knew.
Then he said,
‘I’ve two years to go to retirement, and to tell you the truth, Jack, I’m just filling in the time. This new violence, the awful savagery, I don’t understand it.’
Who did?
I don’t know if it’s a particular Irish trait or what, but we can only dwell in the darkness for so long without trying to pull something warm out of the inferno. I said,
‘Liam Sammon is doing a mighty job with the team.’
And he smiled.
Football, hurling, our last barricades against the tide that is about to engulf us. But it only lasted a brief moment.
He gave me a serious look, asked,
‘Jack, you’re not involved in any of this? I mean, I heard you gave up all that PI stuff. This is way out of your league.’
Then, almost to himself,
‘Way out of ours, too.’
I gave him the old punch on the shoulder we used to use after a fine goal against the likes of Dublin, lied,
‘Are yah codding me? I’m getting ready to go to America.’
He stared at my coat, and with a tiny smile said,
‘They’ll be wanting that back.’
I said with fake levity,
‘Good luck with that.’
He adjusted his cap, turned to head back to the carnage, said,
‘A cara, bhi curamach.’ (My friend, be careful.)
I replied,
‘Agus leat fein.’ (You too.)
And more’s the Irish pity, neither of us heeded that benign blessing.
A year after that encounter, he was found hanging in his garage, one year short of his retirement.
But a lot of other malevolence was coming down the Galway pike before then.
Somewhere I’d read:
Good which is unused is prone to turn to evil.
I’d gone back to my apartment; the snow had started falling heavily again.
We don’t do snow here. It’s so rare, we’re almost enchanted at the novelty.
Till it starts fucking up transport, heating, our daily lives.
Then we react.
Badly.
And as is our way, we blame somebody.
I turned on the news, almost my penance at this stage.
Banks failing.
The Euro fucked.
And I nearly laughed. In the midst of all this they went local, showing how a new hotel was to be built on the site of the Connacht laundry.
And how wonderful. It would have saunas, hot tubs, tanning booths.
Oh Mother. Mo croi.
I went to see how much was left of the Jameson.
I had a real bad feeling it wasn’t going to be enough.