While I’ve been filling you in on these sniblets of crucial information, the plot has been bubbling away nicely in the background. Hayden has bought the cheapest plane ticket available, cancelled a gig in Morden, gone to the airport, touched down in Dublin. He’s also, after much dithering, packed three pairs of underpants, including the ones he’s got on. An unnecessary detail? Not so. As with cigars, so with underpants.
But I digress. Hayden. Airport. There to meet him in the arrivals hall was his oldest and best friend, Bram. They played together as children. Went to school together. Primary school, secondary school. Then the inevitable parting of the ways. Bram to Bus Eireann, Hayden to university and the heady joys of exile. But still the friendship endured; possibly more nostalgic attachment than actual friendship by now, but even so. Your best friend is your best friend and Bram, in this case, was his.
Hardly a word passed between the two men as they made their way to the car. Bram strolled on ahead with Hayden’s shoulder bag while Hayden examined the back of his head. It had aged considerably since he’d been over last. Hayden put it at – what? Five years’ absence? Six? He couldn’t put a precise date on it. The past was an alcohol-fuelled blur, but since his last visit Bram had developed a bald spot, and what had been a profusion of black curls in his youth now grew wispy and grey. Hayden, having the narcissistic streak of all comedians, was wondering about the back of his own head. Was he developing a bald spot too? He knew he was turning grey, but he didn’t like the thought of wispy. It was a small step from wispy to frail to…
Bram clicked the car lock from a distance with a flourish. He was old enough to remember keys you stuck into things, and the novelty hadn’t entirely worn off.
‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘I really should get back more often,’ said Hayden. ‘I mean, it’s been what? Years.’
Bram looked at him quizzically. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Certainly seems that way.’ He started the ignition and moved off. ‘So, how’s the career?’
Hayden settled back in his seat. ‘I’m writing a novel, actually,’ he said.
‘Brilliant,’ said Bram. ‘When’s it out?’
‘Early days yet,’ said Hayden.
Bram nodded. ‘Enough said.’
Silence. Bram concentrated on the traffic. Hayden struggled with his ego and lost. ‘It’s a crime thriller,’ he said.
Bram glanced over with a new respect. ‘Good man yourself,’ he said. ‘Big fan of the old crime genre. Big fan. Tried one myself a while back. To be honest, it was probably a mistake making him a lady cop. And setting it in Malmö. Never been to Norway. Who’s your main man?’
‘I’m still working on that,’ said Hayden.
Bram nodded and pointed towards the back of the car. ‘See that box on the back seat?’ he said. ‘Tons of hard-boiled paperbacks for Oxfam. Hold on to them if you like. Might come in handy, you know? Research.’ He whacked the steering wheel, animated. ‘Grab hold of one there.’ Hayden resigned himself to a Bram monologue, reached back and took one off the top of the pile. ‘Go on,’ said Bram. ‘Hit me.’
‘An American Toddler,’ read Hayden.
Bram gave it the thumbs up. ‘Good one. Child psycho. Little Charlton. Blows his ma away with her own gun. Can’t be held culpable at age three. No charge. We’re talking Land of the Free here, right? So, he starts popping other people’s mammies. Contract stuff. Screw you to the judge; he’s got the gun lobby behind him. I won’t spoil the ending for you. I think that cowboy actor fella’s directing the screen version. Next?’
‘Tell you what,’ said Hayden. ‘I’ll have a look later. Don’t want to clutter the head.’
‘Fair point,’ said Bram. ‘Maybe that’s why I never got anywhere myself. Read all the books, read all the how-to manuals, never got past the opening line. I knew who dunnit, but I didn’t know why he dunnit. Or, come to think of it, what he dunn. Make sense?’
‘Not really, no,’ said Hayden. ‘And Malmö is in Sweden.’
Bram mulled this over as if it made a difference. He seemed to be going the wrong way for the cemetery, but Hayden didn’t like to intervene. Besides, they were heading towards Clontarf, and Hayden was feeling nostalgic.
‘Okay,’ said Bram. ‘First rule of crime fiction: Know Thy Perp. Perp is Scandinavian for culprit. Anyway, if you know who perped the crime you work backwards, planting clues as you go, till you reach the beginning. That way, when the reader reaches the end, it’s all totally logical. You’re left thinking, should’ve seen that one coming, couldn’t have been anyone else.’
Interestingly enough, thought Hayden, that does make sense. Maybe Bram was an idiot savant after all. ‘I’ll make a mental note,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
Bram looked pleased with himself. He seemed to have grown in stature in his own head. ‘Second rule,’ he said. ‘Your hero, the guy who’s looking for the guy who dunnit, right? He has a flaw.’
‘What?’ said Hayden. ‘Like he’s a woman?’
‘That’s not a flaw,’ said Bram. ‘Is it?’
‘Joke, Bram,’ said Hayden. ‘Go on.’
Bram was on a roll. ‘He’s got a thicko sidekick. The talk-to guy. That way he keeps the readers up to speed through someone who’s even thicker than they are.’
‘Good point,’ said Hayden. ‘Bit like life, eh?’ Bram looked over at him, puzzled. Hayden, thinking pile-up, changed tack. ‘This is good stuff, Bram. Big help.’
Relaxing, Bram turned his attention back to the road. ‘At your service,’ he said. ‘Can’t help you with the opening line, though.’
‘Leave that to me, Bram. I’ll run it past you when I get there. Why are we stopping here?’
They’d taken a detour via Coolock and Vernon Avenue, past Mac’s sweetie shop, Madden’s Supermarket, Menton’s, Sullivan’s, The Nook. Left at the sea front. Stop.
‘The Nautical Buoy, Haydo. It’s been refurbished. I thought you might fancy a quick pint before the do.’
‘It’s not a do, Bram. It’s a funeral. We don’t have time. And I don’t drink.’
‘Ah. Right. Because of – you know?’
‘No, Bram. I don’t know.’
‘You know. The incident that dare not speak its name.’
‘What incident? You mean Scrabster?’
Bram nodded. A conspiratorial nod. ‘If you say so. Scrabster it is.’ A pregnant pause. ‘Half? Glass of wine?’
‘Great to be back,’ said Hayden. ‘Sobriety and the Irish: discuss.’
As he said it, a distinguished-looking drunk in a fedora lurched out of the Nautical Buoy and spilled into a taxi.
‘Funny,’ said Bram, ‘I could almost swear that’s your man.’
Hayden thought he recognised him from somewhere but he had other calls on his time. ‘If we don’t get a move on,’ he said, ‘we’ll be late.’
‘I’m a bus driver,’ said Bram. ‘It’s my job to be late.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Hayden. ‘Mind if I use that?’
‘Really?’ said Bram.
‘No, not really,’ said Hayden. He patted Bram affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Drive on.’
Bram drove on in silence. Bus driver silence. Thinking bus driver thoughts. Hayden embraced the imaginary glass partition and watched Dublin fly past. Its roads. Its houses. Its people. They arrived at Glasnevin Cemetery late. Bus driver late. Bram drove slowly through the gates and parked the car.
‘I went to the laying in, by the way,’ he said. ‘Took a shot of Eddie for you on the mobile. Very peaceful. I suppose he would be though. You know. What with him being dead.’