Ken Bruen - Cross

Odd times, people pounded at my door and I mumbled, 'Fuck off, I gave at the office.'

In such delusions, you always get to hear the phantom orchestra, like Malcolm Lowry described. Mine had one tune, over and over… 'Run', by Snow Patrol. I prayed that if I died – and it seemed highly likely – I wanted someone to play that at my funeral.

What a fucking song.

What a fucking life.

But if there was no one left to attend my passing, who was there to mourn me? Self-pity, of course, is the outrider of the DTs – and I was drenched in it. The country, too, was feeling pretty bad. We had rejoiced in our first Olympic gold medal for over thirty years, and sure, we made a huge deal of it. Who wouldn't? And then – you couldn't make this up – the horse failed the dope test. The frigging horse!

In a country where madness was respected and lunacy was a given, this was a step beyond.

When I finally got the strength to go out, shaky and paranoid, I met a woman who said, 'You know today is the blessing of the dogs?'

I stared at her and gasped, 'What?'

She seemed to think I should know and patiently explained, 'In the Poor Clare Convent, there's a special ceremony to bless the dogs.'

There are a hundred replies to this, all involving sarcasm and very weak puns, but all I said was 'Oh.'

I wondered if the dogs of Newcastle might be safer now. Somehow I doubted it.

I went to Garavan's, and before the barman could pour my usual I said, 'Black coffee and sparkling water. Galway Irish water, if you got it.'

My father would have turned in his grave to know the day had come when we paid for water on an island surrounded by the bloody stuff and lashed by rain most days of the year.

If the barman had any comment on my long absence, he kept it to himself.

It was the day of my appointment with the ear guy, and I'd dressed for bad news.

How do you do that?

Dress down, dress black.

I wore me funeral suit, bought from the charity shop. It had a sheen from overuse.

The Crescent in Galway is our answer to Harley Street. Translate as cash – lots of. Old listed houses, covered in ivy and decay, with nameplates on the front. No titles like Doctor, it was all Mister, denoting a consultant and mainly denoting it was going to be expensive. As they said in town, 'That's the Mister you'll well fucking earn.'

These old crumbling houses are the last barrier in a town with modern construction run riot. The developers circled these properties, waiting for an opportunity – a death in the family, bankruptcy – any window to move, offer shitpiles of cash and get the place in their portfolio. Then they'll rip the guts out of it or raze it to the ground, and, presto, a new set of luxurious apartments, uglier with each successive purchase.

I liked these buildings as they stood: draughty halls, high ceilings, mildew in the corners, rising damp creeping along the walls, highly suspect floors, and the plumbing – don't even think about that. If you wanted to replace that, you'd need to win the Lotto. And cold – they were always freezing. It's a bizarre fact that the wealthy, the Anglo-Irish, all have houses that would freeze your nuts off. Accounts for why they are always dressed in Barbours and thick woollen scarves, and of course why they're always out fox-hunting.

The Mister I had my appointment with was Mr Keating. He was dressed in a tweed suit – no white coats for these boyos – and he treated me with mild disdain, bordering on sarcasm. He did a whole range of tests, and I swear, like the doctor who'd examined Cody, he did that tut-tutting sound I thought was confined to the novels of P. G. Wodehouse.

Finally he was done. He put his hand on his chin and asked, 'Have you ever received a blow to the head?'

For a mad moment I thought he was threatening me, but then realized he was inquiring.

Me… a blow to the head. Count the ways, O Lord.

I said, 'I used to play hurling.'

He gave what might have been a smile but could have been wind. 'And no doubt, you being a macho type, you didn't wear a helmet?'

Fuck, we could barely afford to pay for the hurleys. Helmets? Yeah, sure.

He said, 'I may send you for an MRI, but I'm pretty sure my initial findings are correct.' He paused and I wondered if I would have to guess. Then he continued, 'Your left ear, due to an injury, or perhaps simply age, is showing signs of degeneration – very rapid degeneration – and within a short time you will be completely deaf in that organ.'

Degeneration.

What a fucking awful word.

He began to scribble on a pad.

'Here is the name of a very fine hearing-aid man. He'll fit you with one.'

I was trying to play catch-up. 'I have to wear a hearing aid?'

Now he smiled.

'Enormous advances have been made in this field. You'd barely notice the newest models.'

Easy for him to say.

And that was it.

He said, 'My secretary will provide billing.'

Naturally. That I heard without any trouble.

I was at the door when he added, 'If you feel compelled to continue hurling, do use a helmet.'

I couldn't resist, said, 'Bit late, wouldn't you say?'

I met with Eoin Heaton. He was if anything even more bedraggled than before, and the booze was leaking out of his very skin. A stale, desperate smell.

He opened with, 'I've been on this dog thing, like, day and night.'

Sure.

I stared at him. It was like looking in a mirror, all the days I'd racked up in a similar condition. We were in a coffee shop in a side street near the Abbey church. The owner of the place was a Russian who had bought it from a Basque. You have to wonder, where did all the Irish go? We may have got rich but we sure were outnumbered. The latest figures showed that by 2010 Ireland would have one million non-nationals.

Heaton had a black coffee and I opted for a latte, which is frothy milk disguised as caffeine.

Heaton tried to bring the cup to his lips, but his hands shook too much. He said, 'I should have had a straightener.'

Meaning a cure, the hair of the dog and all the other euphemisms that disguise the lethal jolt of alcoholism in full riot.

He reached in his pocket, asked, 'Would you mind, Jack?' and slipped a small bottle of Paddy across to me.

The small bottle, holding my own death warrant, looked so innocent. I unscrewed the top, glanced over at the owner, who was preoccupied, and then poured the booze into his cup. Paddy is one of the strongest whiskeys and the scent was overpowering. I held the cup to his lips and he managed to get half of it down, then did the dead man's dance of choke, gulp, gargle, grimace. He finally managed to utter, 'I think… think it might stay down.'

It did, barely.

Then the sea change, within minutes.

Like a demonic miracle, all darkness, it did not come from any place of light. His eyes stopped watering, a rosy colour spread across his face and his hands ceased their jig. He changed physically, his posture became erect and a note of defiance hit his mouth. But I knew – Jesus, did I ever – how short-lived it would be.

I heard him ask – no, demand – 'You deaf or something?'

Right.

I asked, 'What?'

He sighed. 'I've spoken to you twice and you didn't answer.'

If I turned my right ear towards him I could hear better, so I did and said, 'Run it by me one more time.'

With exaggerated slowness he said, 'The case you assigned me? Two more dogs were taken in Newcastle.'

Sarcasm dripped from his lips.

He wanted to fuck with me, he'd picked the right time.

I snapped, 'So what are you doing about it? Christ, you used to be a Guard, you can't find a dog-stealer?'

He reeled from the lash. Paddy has only so much power.

He stammered, 'It… it… takes time to get my shit together.'