Ken Bruen - The Dramatist

Lemsip and Greek yoghurt. That was my daily fare, the Lemsip for a flu I thought I had. Intermittent sniffles were more likely a throwback to the amount of coke I’d done, but I wasn’t admitting that. The yoghurt because I’d read it was good for you — at least I think I had — all those live cultures destroying bacteria. Add a spoon of honey and it’s not half bad. Truth was my stomach was a mess and the bios eased it a bit.

For six months I’d been clean and sober. Though if sobriety is related to sanity, I didn’t qualify. Not a drop of alcohol had crossed my lips in that time. I hadn’t quit coke from any desire to clean up. My dealer got busted and I wasn’t able to find another source. I felt so bad without the booze, I figured to kick the coke, too. You’re on a roll, go for it. The deadly trilogy, booze, coke and nicotine: the years I’d wasted with them. I was still smoking though. I mean, gimme a break, wasn’t I doing pretty damn good? Give or take another block of time, who knew, I’d maybe stop the cigs, too. But the weirdest thing, the down-in-the-crazy-pool most amazing thing... I’d begun going to mass.

Phew-oh.

Figure that. One Sunday, gasping for a drink, sick of my own company, I’d walked into the cathedral. Sonny Malloy was singing and, wow, that was a blast. So I went again. It had got to the stage where the priest now nodded, said,

“See you next week.”

I liked to sit at the back, watch the sun come creeping through the stained glass windows. As the light spread across the ceiling, I felt something close to peace. The church was always crowded, and the priests were on a time share. So few vocations that they worked on a rota among the parishes. Drink, of course, seemed to attend every level of my life. As I watched the kaleidoscope of colour, I’d remembered one of the craftsmen who’d worked on those windows. A Dublin guy named Ray, he’d died from cirrhosis of the liver. His last days, I’d gone to visit him and he said,

“Jack, I’d rather be dead than teetotal.”

Got his wish.

Stewart, my drug dealer, had lived by the canal. In appearance he resembled a banker more than a drug dealer. Course, his credo was money. We had an odd relationship: he’d explain the latest product, its effect, its side effects and even the dangers. I seemed to amuse him. How many ex-policemen in their fifties did he supply? I was, in a way, a sort of coup for him. I found him always fascinating. He could only have been in his late twenties and was always impeccably dressed. The personification of the new Irish youth, displaying all the traits of this bright new age: smart, confident, literate, hip, mercenary. They bought into none of the shit we had been reared to. The 1916 Rising meant as much to them as the GAA; in other words, nothing.

I’d been introduced to him by Cathy Bellingham, an ex-punk, ex-junkie from London who’d washed up in Galway. She hooked up with my friend Jeff, a bar owner, and they now had a baby, a Down’s syndrome child. When I’d been hurting, and hurting bad, I’d leaned on our friendship to get the name of a dealer. I’d scored from him many times after. Then he got busted and was doing six years in Mountjoy.

I was living in Bailey’s Hotel, run by a woman in her eighties. I’d recently been given a new room, almost a self-contained apartment. The feature I liked most was the skylight, for the glimpse of the sky. Man, I felt the endless longing that entails. If I could ever figure out what it was I’d longed for, I might be happy. Didn’t seem to be about to happen any time soon. A large wardrobe contained my charity shop clothes. Till recently, I’d owned a leather coat, bought in Camden Lock. It got nicked at mass. If I see a priest wearing it, I will truly throw my hat in. Lined against the wall were my books — a hotchpotch of crime, poetry, philosophy and miscellaneous. They gave me comfort. Some days, they even acted like reassurance.

I was rationing my cigarettes, five a day, and if there’s a more subtle torture, I don’t know it. As a further step towards shaky rehabilitation, I’d even changed brands. Was now buying Silk Cut, the shittiest level of tar. The ultimate con by the tobacco companies; these Ultra cigs had recently been revealed to be more dangerous than the regular lung busters. I knew this, but my chest seemed to appreciate the gesture. Jeff, my friend, had bought me a month’s supply of patches. They sat in a drawer, a mix of recrimination and aspiration. Much like the now depleted clergy.

When Stewart was sentenced, I’d figured that was goodbye. He wasn’t the type to do well in prison; they’d eat him alive. The day he was sent down, I was in Nestor’s, a tepid coffee before me. I told Jeff about him, laid out the jagged brief history of my dealings with the guy. Jeff, polishing a glass, listened till I was done, asked,

“You’re clean now?”

“Off the dope, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I am.”

He put the glass beside a line of gleaming others, said,

“Then fuck him.”

I thought that was a little harsh, said,

“That’s a little harsh.”

Jeff looked me full in the face, took his time, said,

“He was pedalling dope; that’s the scum of the earth.”

“I kind of liked him.”

“That’s you all over, Jack, always the odd man out.”

Is there a defence to this? I didn’t have it. Down the bar sat the perennial sentry. A mainstay of Irish pubs, leastways the old ones, they prop up the counter, a pint glass before them. Always half full — or half empty, depending on your perspective. They rarely talk, save in pronouncements like “We’ll never get a summer” or “We won’t find it till Christmas.”

The World Cup, shambles that it was, had recently finished. Conspiracy theories, dodgy linesmen, atrocious referees had provided a feast of horrendous sport. The sentry said,

“Them Cameroons was robbed.”

I stared at him and he added,

“I had a bet on Italy, got 7/1... five goals disallowed. It was a thundering disgrace.”

Thing is, he was right. But he became highly suspicious if you ever agreed with him, so I gave a noncommital smile. This seemed to satisfy as he resumed staring into his pint. I don’t know what he hoped to find, maybe the lottery numbers or an answer for Eamon Dunphy. I asked Jeff,

“What do I owe you for the coffee?”

“Nada, buddy.”

“How’s Serena May?”

“She’s trying to walk, can’t be long now.”

“Watch out then, eh?”

Outside Nestor’s, I turned up the collar of my garda allweather coat. A light drizzle was coming down, nothing major. A bunch of South Koreans passed, still dazed from the World Cup. I knew who they were as they’d jackets with “Seoul Rules” on the back. A double entendre if ever there was one; ask the Italians.

A former neighbour from my Hidden Valley days was sitting on a bench near the Great Southern Hotel. He hailed me and I walked over. He launched,

“You know I’m no singer. Well, I was in McSwiggan’s the other night, I had more than my quota. A Norwegian woman started chatting to me. I knew she was from there, one of them cold countries, she’d a frosty face. All of a sudden I began to sing ‘For the Good Times’.”

He paused, shaking his head at the wonder of it. I knew Willie Nelson had recently played in Kilkenny, telling a delighted crowd he needed the money to pay the light bill. Now my friend continued,

“She thought the song was gifted, so I told her I wrote it. Jesus, she believed me, and I got to bang her down near the Boat Club. That sort of thing has never happened to me in all my years. I’m thinking I should have taken up singing years ago. What do you make of that?”