Ken Bruen: The Dramatist

“Jack... Jack Taylor.”

Was she glad to see me? No, the look in her eyes was misery unabated. I indicated a chair, asked,

“Can I join you?”

Not a difficult question, but it seemed to throw her, as if she was prepared to bolt. I sat, asked,

“What’s wrong?”

A waitress was approaching and Ann burst into tears. The waitress glared at me and I tried to indicate,

“Hey, I just joined the party, don’t lay this on me.”

I waved her off, and she had the face of someone who’s considering calling the guards. I wanted to reach out, touch Ann, but felt it would freak her further so I waited. Her shoulders convulsed as silent sobs racked her. Finally, they subsided and she reached for tissues, began to dab at her eyes, said,

“I’m sorry.”

Why wasn’t I one of those guys who’d have produced a brilliant white hankie and helped her dry her tears? I asked,

“For what? You’re feeling bad; it’s not a crime.”

Slight smile then,

“I must look a fright.”

To me?... never. But kept that to myself. I’d a hundred questions, went with,

“How about some coffee, maybe a slice of Danish?... Hey, I know, they do a wicked cheesecake.”

She looked at me then. The time, briefly, we’d been lovers, her afterglow was hot chocolate and cheesecake. Me? Just relief to lie beside her, the very beat of my heart. She said,

“Coffee would be good. Will you excuse me while I repair my face?”

Women can do that. Be destroyed with grief, go to the ladies’ room and return like a movie star. Guys? Well, they don’t do grief well, unless you count a six pack and Sky Sports a consolation. I signalled to the waitress. Grudgingly, she approached and I asked,

“Two coffees?”

She had the face of someone who’s going to knife you, growled,

“Cream?”

“Good thinking. Let’s shoot the works.”

She stomped off. I figured she hadn’t read the lines of “Desiderata” recently. I planned on checking what the Sacred Heart calendar had to make of this. Better be good or it was bin time. The coffee came and, recent expert as I was, I could tell it was instant. The smell is the give-away. No wonder the glossy mags have articles on caffeine snobs.

Ann returned, her face remade. Her eyes, though... they hadn’t yet found a cover for agony, at least not emotionally. Giving a timid smile, she sat and uttered the line which kills conversation dead:

“So, Jack, tell me all your news.”

Maybe it’s age or I’ve become cantankerous, but I’m almost all done with chit-chat, the small talk of vacancy. I bluntly went,

“Cut the shit.”

Knocked her back but I wasn’t done.

“I haven’t seen you for ages and you trot out all that polite crap. You have obviously been knocked around and what?... We’re going to chat about the weather? Give me a bloody break.”

Jeez, I hoped the waitress wasn’t in earshot. Ann looked ready to bolt, then reached for her cup, took a sip, a tiny tremor in her hand. She took a deep breath, then,

“You know I got married?”

I nodded, misery enveloping my heart. My eyes clocked her finger, a shiny gold ring. She twisted at it absently. Of all the routes your mind travels, especially when it’s threatened, I remembered a mad notion my psycho friend Sutton had once laid on me. We’d been to a pub in North Kerry, one of those old establishments where, come three in the morning, the owner plonks the keys on the counter, goes,

“Lock up when you’re finished, lads.”

Yeah, that kind of rare place, a treasure beyond estimation. I was still in the guards and pulling student duty. This involved hassling college kids, busting pot parties, dragging them out of rivers — a duty that grinds you down. My two-day leave, Sutton and I had gone on a serious drinking jaunt. Serious in that we drank solid, no pit stops. Even through the hangovers and clear on through to the other side. Committed partying. Sutton went behind the bar, began to build two more frothy black pints, left them to mature and grabbed a jar of eggs in liquid from the bottom shelf, said,

“Pickled, by God... like us I suppose. Want one?”

I didn’t so he ate two, and as he munched he went,

“Jack, did I ever tell you about men who play with their wedding band?”

I’d have remembered, said,

“No.”

He tilted his head back, dropped a full egg in his mouth, chewed like a horse, then,

“Guy fiddles with his ring, he’s oversexed.”

I’d dismissed it with a shrug, but down the years, I see a man toy with the wedding band, I go... “Uh oh.”

Back to Ann, her question if I knew she got married: did I ever? Said,

“I heard.”

She fixed her eyes on a place above my eyes, began,

“Tim, my husband, he’s not a bad man, but he gets... frustrated.”

Thought to myself, “That’s what they’re calling it now.” Kept my voice neutral, asked,

“By what?”

She waved her hand, a gesture of vagueness.

“It’s not like when you were in the force, Jack. Being a guard today is almost impossible. After Abbeylara, after that schoolteacher killed his daughter, the public have turned against the police. It makes him so angry... he... he lashes out. He doesn’t mean it.”

Here is the greatest excuse in the Irish psyche. No matter what shit goes down, what evil is perpetrated, the song remains the same: “They didn’t mean it.”

Course they did, and usually with malice aforethought. If you ever reach a level of forgiveness, your prayer can only be:

“Father forgive them though they bloody did know what they did.”

I reached for a cig, and now I had a slight tremor.

She said,

“Ah, Jack, them lads will kill you.”

Had to bite down, not answer:

“Much like husbands.”

Buying time, I took a belt of the caffeine, and yeah, freeze dried. Asked,

“And so he beats you?”

The shame in her face, that awful look of victims, the added horror of crimes when the victim feels they deserved it.

Jesus.

She said,

“There’s been awful pressure, accusations of bribery. Tim, he loves being a guard. If he wasn’t... he’d...”

The Tim Coffey I remembered would build a nest in your ear and charge you rent. The type of asshole who was “big in the GAA”, the truth being he was just big. Like natural bullies, he’d survive anywhere. I said,

“He’d what? End up like me?”

Her face showed she hadn’t meant that. She hadn’t, as the Americans say, “connected the dots” or “done the math”. I realised with a jolt she probably didn’t think about me at all.

She said,

“I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean anything. Anyway, I started to nag; it’s what women do when they’re frightened. I tried to stop but it was like the devil was in me. Tim has a temper, and he lost it.”

The current buzz expression, excuse abuse. Losing it has replaced vicious fucker in every sense. A guy shoots his family, says, “I lost it.”

I was losing it myself, asked,

“Just the once?”

Barbed wire in every nuance.

“Sorry?”

“He walloped you one time, that it?”

“Yes.”

She was lying and I could understand that, maybe even sympathise a little. A thought struck her and, alarmed, she went,

“You won’t do anything, Jack?”

“Do? What could I possibly do? He’s a guard.”

Then the worst moment: she grabbed my hand and I felt the electricity. Christ, you build a wall round your feelings, a veritable fortress to insulate your nerve endings, and one lousy touch, the whole defence crumbles. Fuck and fuck again. She was pleading,

“Jack, I need you to promise, give me your word.”

I stood up, felt almost dizzy and definitely nauseous. I reached for some money, scattered it on the table, said,