Ken Bruen - Cross

Yada yada.

I wanted to shout, 'Do frigging better.'

He asked, 'Do you talk to him?'

'What?'

'We don't know for certain, but it's been shown that talking to a comatose victim helps the visitor, if nothing else, and who can say? Maybe he can hear you.'

What a load of bollocks.

I asked, 'What do you suggest – the football results, how Man U are faring, that Giggs is playing out of his skin? You think that might snap Cody out of the coma?'

God, I was so angry, a rage that threatened to engulf me.

The doctor caught it, said, 'You'll know best.' And strode off.

I know it was unfair, but, as they say, he was there and an easy target. Part of me wanted to call him back, apologize, but, nope, didn't do it.

When I got outside, I breathed a sigh of relief and muttered my old familiar mantra: 'This calls for a drink.'

I looked up at the darkening sky – summer was definitely done – and muttered to the God I no longer trusted, 'Couldn't I just have one day on the piss, and not have a hangover?'

I already knew the answer, but sometimes you pose the question just to keep your own self well and truly vexed.

I was reading – trying to read – Bukowski, South of No North . My mind was going in a hundred directions, none of them good. Willed myself to concentrate, but couldn't do it. My mind filled with dread about Ridge and breast cancer, and Cody in the coma, was I going to settle down and read?

Yeah, like that was going to fly.

Put the book aside. This was not the best territory for me to be travelling. Checked my watch – thirty minutes to pub time. Somehow, I was holding it vaguely together, boozewise, though the urge to lash out was edging closer. The radio was on, playing tracks from Elvis Costello's new album The Delivery Man , which had a crazed duet with Lucinda Williams and a riot of guitars blowing rough alongside, then 'Heart Shaped Bruise' with my long-time favourite, Emmylou Harris. All you need to know is in the title, kicked the tattered remnants of any longing I still clung to. I stood, turned it off. My hearing was definitely on the blink. I could only do so much anguish before I went searching for a rope.

Looked out the window: a minor storm building, as America was being battered by the third hurricane in three weeks. This one, aptly called Ivan, was heading for New Orleans and I was heading for the pub. Storms of my own. Pulled on my all-weather Garda coat, item 8234. They still wrote me letters attempting to get it back.

Dream on, fuckers.

A slight perspiration on my brow as I walked down by Eyre Square. And for the sheer joy of it, I walked to Eglington Street. It's about fifteen minutes from my flat. I cut across the back of Eyre Square and came to it from the west end. The Lions Tower, known as the Bastion, used to be here and then became the site of the Garda barracks.

You can turn into Francis Street from there, and they have the best greengrocer's in the city. You can buy seaweed there, known as Crannog, supposed to cure all ails. I'd once tried it for a hangover and was as sick as forty dogs, but I can't really blame the seaweed. Americans were intrigued by this 'commodity' and were never quite sure if we were serious. Me neither. I think it belongs on the beach, washed up and abandoned.

The Sisters of Mercy had a school here and my mother and Nora Barnacle attended, though not, of course, at the same time. To hear my mother tell it, Nora was a 'brazen hussy'.

My bitter Mom's one and only review of Irish literature. She believed, as did many of her generation, that Joyce was 'a writer of pure filth'.

I moved quickly along that street, memories of my mother not being my favourite ones, and into Cross Street. I like that one, it has the office of the Connacht Tribune , and you want local news, that's the paper you need. There's a nice vibe here, and just along, parallel to Shop Street, is the situation for the Saturday market. But gee, guess what, they were talking about demolishing it and getting rid of the market. Galwegians would die before they let the fucks get away with this.

I hope.

I hit St Nicholas' Church, where they say Columbus prayed before setting off to find America.

Must have been some powerful plea.

And here I was in Shop Street, three minutes from the pub.

A guy stopped, said, 'Jack?'

I stared at him. Nope, didn't know him, but what had that to do with anything? Since the shooting, it seemed everybody knew me.

He was dressed from head to toe like an advert for American sport. A sweatshirt for the LA Dodgers, track pants with a stripe down the leg and a logo that read SUPERBOWL, plus the requisite Nike trainers. Perched precariously on his head was a baseball cap that read KNICKS KICK ASS. I have to say I was dazzled by the sheer amount of Americana. He wasn't young, so no excuse there, he was in his mid sixties, or else very badly blasted from drink or drugs or both.

He said, 'I was a friend of your mother's.'

Which meant he was no friend of mine. He registered my response and added, 'I mean your late lamented mother.'

He blessed himself, said, 'May the Lord give her peace. He certainly didn't give her much while she walked the earth.'

I was going to say that she didn't provide a whole lot of that commodity herself, but what was the point? He'd reckon I was bitter, which was true.

I asked, 'You stopped me for?'

He gave a well-rehearsed laugh – someone must have told him it was one of his best features. They lied.

I looked at my watch and he took the hint, said, 'Here I am delaying you. The thing is, I'm collecting for the under-fourteen football team, we want to get them some new gear.'

I stared at his outfit and asked, 'Will it bear any relation to what you're wearing?'

He was horrified. 'They play Gaelic. I mean, we have to support our national game.'

Before he could launch into some longwinded lecture on the history of hurling, I said, 'Tell you what, I'll put a cheque in the post, how would that be?'

Not good.

I was waving goodbye before he could formulate a reply.

Just before I got to Garavan's, someone else hailed me and I went Fuck off . There is only so much shite you can take in one morning and I was way past my quota. I got inside quickly. The barman nodded, no words, which was fine and I went into the snug. You are finally part of the furniture when not only do you not order anything but head for your own seat and wait for the drinks to arrive.

As they did.

The pint looked like all the prayers I'd ever hoped to have answered. The Jameson, riding point, was its own glory.

I muttered, 'Doesn't get any better than this.'

How sad is that?

As the barman put the drinks down, I wondered if I should ask him his name. But then we'd probably get friendly and something terrible would happen to him. So I simply grunted and he asked, 'Did you see the pilot of Deadwood on Sky last night?'

I'd been in bed by nine, having taken another sleeper to ease the pain that had erupted in my heart. I shook my head.

'It was mighty, real dirty, wild, the language was ferocious. I counted fuck thirty times.'

Is there an answer to this? An answer that falls on any level of sanity? I didn't have it.

He added, 'You'd love it.'

Now is that flattering or asking for a slap in the mouth? I let it slide, resolving to catch the next episode.

I was about to leave when a guy walked in, looked round, approached me, asked, 'Can I get you a whiskey?'

I've seen many men, women too, wrecked by booze, their faces a testament to all that hell has to offer, but this guy, he was like those photos of Bukowski in his last days. Not good. Beneath the ruin, I'd hazard he was only thirty or so, but the red eyes had seen things that a century of hurt might accomplish.