Ken Bruen - The Dramatist

“Tea, coffee, cheese sandwich, chocolate, soft drinks?”

His accent was thick, near impenetrable. I was able to deduce the list of goodies from a list attached to the side of the trolley. I pointed to the tea, and as he poured and placed it before me, the movement of the train caused half of it to spill. He put a thick finger to his chest, said,

“Ukraine.”

I could have thumped my chest, gone,

“Irish.”

But felt a level of alcohol was necessary for that. I gave him ten euro and he grabbed it, moved on. For less than a quarter plastic cup of coloured water, he was on a winner. I took an experimental taste and it was as bad as I’ve ever had — a blend of bitterness that hints at tea and coffee and brought to a fine art by Iarnród Éireann.

I heard the carriage door slide open behind me, then a woman’s voice:

“Jack? Jack Taylor?”

Turned to see a woman in her late twenties, dressed in what used to be called a twin set. Now they’d call it bad taste. The sort of outfit you saw on British television drama, usually involving a bridge game and a body in the library. Her face could have reached prettiness if she’d made the slightest effort. Tiny pearl earrings gave me the clue I needed. I said,

“Ridge... give me a moment, Bridie... no... Bríd?”

She gave a gasp of annoyance.

“We don’t use the English form. I told you that like... so many times... it’s Nic an Iomaire.”

The ban garda. We hadn’t so much collaborated as collided on a previous case. I’d eventually helped her gain credit on a major crime, though my help was highly suspect and definitely tainted. Our connection was fraught from the beginning. Her uncle, Brendan Flood, and I had had a mixed history, beginning as adversaries and ending as uneasy friends. His research and information had been vital to most of my work; then he became a born-again and his zeal had danced along my nerves. Then came his breakdown, through drink, loss of family and the abandonment of all belief. I’d spent a booze-lit session with him where we’d drank boilermakers and mainlined nicotine. I failed to pick up on the level of his despair. A few days later, he’d taken a solid kitchen chair, a rope, and hanged himself.

To add to my guilt, he’d bequeathed me a chunk of money and the ban garda. Her, I tried to lose at every turn. Here she was again. She sat awkwardly into the opposite seat and I offered,

“Get you something?”

I indicated my plastic cup, added,

“I can recommend the tea and it isn’t cheap.”

I never actually believed people turned up their noses but she achieved it — looked like she’d a lot of practice — said,

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Jeez, what a surprise. If memory serves, our times in the pub, you had orange juice and, wow, that memorable time, you kicked against the traces, had a wine spritzer.”

“But, of course, Mr Taylor, you drank enough for all of us.”

Here was the old feeling, the urge to slap her in the mouth, settled for,

“I’m off the booze.”

“Oh... and how long will that last... this time?”

I sat back, reached for my cigs, and she near spat,

“I’d really prefer if you didn’t do that.”

I lit up, said,

“Like that would ever be a consideration.”

She waved her hand in front of her face, the universal flag of serious irritation by non-smokers. I asked,

“You going to Dublin?”

“Yes, court observation. The super has decreed all ranks must attend the Four Courts, see how justice is dispensed.”

I could see the bureaucrats coming up with this brainwave, said,

“Let me save you the trip: it’s dispensed badly. With the shortage of uniforms on the street, it’s vital the guards get observation experience. So did you get promotion?”

A cloud passed her face, touched the corners of her eyes. She said,

“Oh yeah, right, like they’re going to upgrade someone of my orientation.”

I was confused, said,

“Because you’re a woman?”

She was out of patience, went,

“What, you don’t know?”

What the hell was she on about? I truly had lost the thread, asked,

“Know what?”

“That I’m gay.”

God knows, for a so-called investigator, I am blind in all the obvious areas. There have been times, albeit rare, when I’ve made impressive deductive leaps. For the rest, it seemed like life sailed on by with me in the constant dark. There are probably a million permutations on the correct reply to the admission “I’m gay”. Apart from noises of solidarity, empathy, support, there are even replies that include not only encouragement but humour. I came up with,

“Oh.”

She stared at me and I grasped the meaning of “a loaded silence”. That’s what we had for the next five minutes. Then she stood, said,

“I must return to my seat. Margaret will be wondering where I am.”

Was Margaret the significant other? I hadn’t the balls to ask. She looked at the rack above me, no luggage, said,

“You’re up for the day.”

I wanted rid of her, said,

“I’m going to jail.”

“It’s where you belong.”

And was gone.

At Heuston I lingered on the platform, hoping for a glimpse of her — well, of Margaret really — but they’d given me the slip. I hopped on a bus and it went straight to O’Connell Street.

What a dump.

Jesus, whatever we were doing in Galway, it had to be better than this. The once impressive street was cheap, dirty and depressing.

As I headed for the Royal Dublin, a middle-aged man stopped, whispered,

“Do you know where the Ann Summers sex shop is?”

“What?... Are you kidding? How the fuck would I know?”

Thought, steady, you’ll have to get a grip.

The hotel had an impressive foyer and the receptionist was friendly, asked,

“Has Sir a reservation?”

I did.

And,

“Does Sir require smoking or non-smoking?”

Take a wild bloody guess.

My visit was slotted for 3 p.m. so I caught a cab, said,

“Mountjoy, please.”

The driver eyed me but didn’t comment. Silent taxi drivers don’t exist and after a few minutes came,

“Is that a Galway accent?”

“Yes.”

I said it in a tone to discourage further inquiry. It didn’t work.

“Long trip to the Joy for you, eh?”

He took my answering grunt as interest, said,

“You’ll have seen the match on Sunday?”

I hadn’t but that makes no difference. I didn’t even know which one he meant and certainly wasn’t about to ask. In Ireland, there is always a match and, more to the point, there is always one to discuss. I tuned him out. Finally, the cab stopped and he said,

“There she is, second home to the cream of the country.”

I got out and he asked,

“Want me to wait?”

“No, could be a while.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He burned rubber as he took off. No doubt the sound was bitter music to the carjackers behind the walls. I stared at the prison for a moment and lit a cig. My daily quota would be shot to hell. Looking, I felt a dread along my spine. The very appearance was intimidating, and no way would you mistake it for anything other than what it was: a place of deprivation, of punishment. I shook myself and headed in. Not an easy building to gain access to; the number of checks and double-checks took ages. My time as a guard wasn’t cutting me any slack. Eventually, I took my position with the other visitors, predominantly women and young children. They seemed to know each other well and engaged in a mocking banter. It was almost like bingo night. Sign of the new Ireland was the two black women. They sat apart and seemed drained of all emotion, a weariness hanging above them.