Ken Bruen - The Dramatist

“Snooping on me, Jack?”

I stood, turned to face Jeff. In his right hand, he held a heavy wrench. A moment passed between us that I don’t ever want to analyse.

I indicated the bike, asked,

“Bit of an accident?”

He dropped the wrench, the sound ugly against the stone floor. He moved towards me but the aggression had evaporated, said,

“It wasn’t an accident, but you know that already.”

I wished I still smoked; it was definitely a nicotine moment. I said,

“You could have killed him, Jeff.”

He nodded, his left hand reaching out to the bike, almost caressing it, said,

“I thought I had.”

I’d hoped for a denial and maybe I’d have gone along. I asked,

“How did you find him?”

He gave me a surprised look, then,

“I run a pub, everybody talks. A few extra shots of Scotch, on the house, you learn all you need.”

Then he leaned against the bike, weariness on his face, asked,

“You going to turn me in?”

I was going to say, that’s what your wife does, but turned to leave, said,

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

He waited a moment then,

“He deserved it.”

I had no reply.

Four weeks went by in a blur of pain, guilt, remorse, confusion. I couldn’t get past the way my mother had died. Alone, abandoned and afraid. I didn’t drink or dope or nicotine. The three lethal addictions preyed constantly, but I don’t know why I didn’t succumb. I once heard if you want to change your life, your attitude, you begin by altering your behaviour. Do the opposite to what you used to do and change will come down the pike. So instead of embracing my usual destruction, I stayed busy. Re-interviewing the students, friends, acquaintances of the dead girls. Even did coffee with Ronan Wall, to see what might shake loose.

Nothing did.

I read Synge, read him twice. The near breakthrough I had before my mother’s death remained elusive, tantalisingly out of reach. Ronan Wall continued to tease and carefully provoke. He knew I wanted him for the frame but it wasn’t happening. I took Margaret out regularly but it was eroding. I thought I was covering well, acting almost normal, till she eventually asked,

“Where are you, Jack?”

We’d been to see the Brazilian City of God , of which I recall nothing. After, we’d gone to Brennan’s Yard, got a late supper. Thick brown crusted sandwiches, pot of tea. I ate without taste. To her question, I said,

“I was thinking about Baghdad, the intense horrific pictures I’ve seen on CNN.”

I wasn’t.

She shook her head, said,

“No, you weren’t.”

It was far too late and too blatant a lie to give the answer women most hope for... “I was thinking of you, dear.” Truth to tell, I was nowhere, in the place of white noise, grey visions. She said, taking my hand,

“You’re in a dead place.”

I knew the truth of that. The day before, I’d watched Ireland beat Georgia and only briefly engaged when a knife was thrown, hitting Kilbane on the ear. Sunday, I sat through the Six Nations, Ireland vs England, in a veritable trance. Played in Lansdowne Road, it was a huge national event, and I felt removed.

I took my hand away from Margaret’s, muttered,

“I’ll snap out if it.”

No escape. She whispered sadly,

“I sure hope so, Jack.”

Then, pushing the sandwiches away, she asked,

“Are you talking to anyone?”

“To Cathy... and Jeff.”

Vaguely true.

I was still babysitting for them. Jeff was cool, kept our conversation to the minimum. Cathy, more animated, was happy at how I’d bonded with her child.

And bonded I had.

I continued to read to her, and her face lit up as I produced a fresh book. I don’t know how much she understood, but her eyes danced with knowledge. Three years of age with a button nose, brown eyes, mischievous mouth, I could have stared at her for hours. She intrigued me. Here was a child, with Down’s syndrome, deemed by the world as damaged, less than handicapped. Yet, she had a vitality that energised even my cynical spirit. During those frozen weeks after my mother’s death, the times with Serena May were the only brightness I experienced. She had a smile to die for, as innocent in life as I was guilty. That would be our undoing. Per custom, we used the room above the pub and a large window looked out over Forster Street. By craning our necks, Serena in my arms, we could see Eyre Square. I’d tell her of Pádraic Ó Conaire’s statue at the top and the metal cannons flanking him. I skipped over the winos huddled at the fountain. Then I’d put her down and she’d zoom around the room with joy. It could only be a short time till she walked. Cathy took it very hard that other children walked at a year or even ten months. Here was her daughter, over three and still scrambling on all fours. The sentry had once remarked,

“That child, she’s an old soul.”

I was so surprised that I went,

“What?”

“She’s been here before.”

And returned to contemplating his half full glass of porter. I wanted to ask if he believed in reincarnation but he was all done. Cathy seemed to appreciate the amount of time I gave to Serena, said,

“Jack, this is such a help.”

“No big thing.”

It wasn’t.

I went to visit Ted Buckley. He was encased in plaster, pulleys holding an arm and leg suspended. His eyes were open and they hardened as I approached. I said

“How you doing there, Ted?”

He tried to act like I was a stranger, but immobile in a bed, how many ways can you fake it?

“I know you?”

“Jack Taylor.”

The nicotine teeth locked down, and I didn’t think agitation was going to do his condition much good.

“That supposed to mean something?”

I pulled up a chair, straddled it. If Superintendent Clancy could do it, then hell, why not?

“Ah, does this mean I can’t join you, not be a vigilante?”

He tried to shift his head as if seeking help, then said,

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I let that hang for a bit, then,

“You killed a guard.”

Spittle lit the corners of his lips. The frustration of being immobile was eating him hard. He said,

“Prove it.”

I stood up, said,

“Heard you had a fire.”

He managed to move the leg in traction but it was a feeble gesture. He said,

“You were in my home?”

I shrugged, turned to go, added,

“Not me, pal. I’d say vigilantes.”

My limp seemed to have worsened, but I blamed the hospital vibe. A doctor in his fifties approached, asked,

“You were visiting Mr Buckley?”

“I was.”

He had a chart — don’t they always? — peered at it and made medical noises, then,

“It’s very sad, but I don’t think Mr Buckley will walk again.”

I nodded, my face grave. He asked,

“Will you be visiting regularly?”

“Absolutely, to be sure your prognosis is right.”

His head came up, a challenge in his eyes, said,

“I can tell you, Mr...? I didn’t get your name.”

“I didn’t give it.”

“Ah, well, I can assure you it’s very unlikely the patient will ever be mobile again.”

I stared at him, made some medical noises of my own, then,