Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

As I turned from the docks and walked towards Merchant’s Road, the mantra began.

Hannibal Lector’s words to Clarice Starling in the dungeon for the criminally insane:

You are an ambitious, hustling little ruhe. Your eyes shine like cheap shoes but you have some taste, a little taste.

Over and over, those words played, and I was back at the hotel before I realised. A homeless person approached, and I mechanically handed over some money. He wasn’t pleased, asked,

“That’s all you got?”

I turned to him, touched his shoulder, said,

“I’ve some taste, a little taste.”

He took off like that bat out of Meatloaf’s hell.

In my room, I’d lain on the bed, fully clothed, and shut my eyes. Not sleep or even a close approximation but a trancelike state that pulled me down to an area of nonconsciousness. Teetering on catatonia, I remained thus till darkness fell.

When I came to, the fear had fallen away. I acknowledged a hard granite-like lump lodged beside my heart and said,

“The show must go on.”

I was sitting on the bed, trying to read, couldn’t concentrate, so put it aside.

I headed for Nestor’s. The sentry was in position, gave me a look and said,

“Watch out.”

He did an unheard of thing. He actually moved stools, away from me. I could only guess at how hostile was the vibe I was transmitting. Jeff said,

“How’s it going, Jack?”

His expression said,

“I’m not sure I want the answer.”

I gave a slow smile, said,

“Couldn’t be better. Can I get something?”

“Sure... coffee OK?”

“No... it’s not.... I’d like a large Jameson.”

He looked round as if help was available. It wasn’t. He asked,

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Did I miss something, Jeff? I could have sworn I asked for a drink, not your opinion.”

He wiped at his mouth, then,

“Jack, I can’t.”

I stared into his eyes, took my time, said,

“You’re refusing to serve me?”

“C’mon, Jack, I’m your friend. You don’t want to do this.”

“How on earth would you know what I want to do? If I re-call, when you went on the piss, I didn’t get righteous on you.”

I turned to leave, and he called,

“Jack, wait up, Cathy has some news for you.”

I shouted over my shoulder.

“I have news for Cathy: I don’t give a fuck.”

Outside, I gulped air, trying to calm my adrenaline, muttered,

“Great, you’ve just hurt your best friends. How smart was that?”

The off-licence was jammed with under-age drinkers. Cider, vodka and Red Bull were definitely the drug of choice. The guy behind the counter was in his bad thirties. Whatever bitter pill he’d had to swallow, it was still choking him. Without looking at me, he grunted,

“What?”

“A bit of civility for openers.”

His head came up, and he asked,

“What?”

“Bottle of Jameson.”

I was going to add,

“Quickly.”

But let it slide.

As he wrapped, he said,

“You think I should ask for ID?”

I knew he meant the line of teenagers, but before I could reply, he said,

“If I refuse, I get my windows smashed.”

I gave him the money and said,

“The guards can shut you down.”

“Like they give a toss.”

I was walking along the bottom of Eyre Square. Under a street lamp, a woman in a shawl asked,

“Some change, mister?”

She was one of those Mediterranean gypsies who stalked the fast food joints. Her mouth was a riot of gold teeth. The light threw a malevolent shape to her silhouette. I thought,

“What the hell?”

And reached in my pocket. Didn’t have a single coin. Had left my change on the counter. I said,

“Sorry, I’m out.”

“Give me something.”

“I told you, I’m tapped.”

She eyed the brown bag, pointed, and I said,

“Dream on.”

I moved past her and she hissed. I turned back. She was literally standing on my shadow. Throwing her head back, she drew saliva from the core of her being, spat on that dark shape, said,

“You will always break bread alone.”

I wanted to break her neck, but she moved fast away. I am no more superstitious than your average Irish guilt-ridden citizen. Using my shoe, I tried to erase the stain her spittle had left on the pavement. Nearly dropped the bottle, muttered,

“Now that would be cursed.”

Luc Sante in Low Life wrote:

The night is the corridor of history, not the history of famous people or great events, but that of the marginal, the ignored, the suppressed, the unacknowledged; the history of vice, of fear, of confusion, of error, of want, the history of intoxication, of vain-glory, of delusion, of dissipation, of delirium. It strips off the city’s veneer of progress and modernity and civilization and reveals the wilderness.

I said “Amen” to that.

Outside the hotel, I noticed a very impressive car. An elderly man was staring at it. He said,

“That’s an S-type Jaguar.”

“Is it yours?”

“No such luck.”

His eyes were shining as they took in the sleek black body. He said,

“The thing is, with all the power and luxury of a 3-litre V65-type at your disposal, even your business miles are positively a pleasure.”

He sounded like a commercial. I said,

“You sound like a commercial.”

He gave a shy smile, said,

“That baby doesn’t need a commercial.”

I made to move by and he said,

“Do you know how much that costs?”

“A lot, I should imagine.”

I could almost see the cash register in his eyes. He said,

“You’d need half a decent Lotto.”

I let out a low whistle, said,

“That’s got to be a lot.”

He gave me a look of bordering contempt, said,

“No, that is a lot of car!”

I went into the hotel, moving quickly to avoid reception. Not quite fast enough, as Mrs Bailey called,

“Mr Taylor.”

“Yeah.”

“You have a visitor.”

“Oh.”

I went into the lobby. Kirsten was sitting in a chair by the open fire. Dressed in black jeans, black sweater and long dark coat, she looked like trouble. Seeing me, she said,

“Surprise.”

The heat reflected on her cheeks gave her a high colour, as if she was excited. Maybe she was. She saw the bottle in my hand, said,

“Party for one?”

“Yeah.”

She stood up, and I hadn’t realised how tall she was. A smile as she said,

“Not a good idea to drink alone.”

“How would you know?”

“Oh, I know.”

The smart thing would have been to say,

“Hop it.”

When did I ever get to do the smart thing? I said,

“My room’s not much.”

Again the smile with,

“What makes you think I was expecting much?”

The elevators at Bailey’s have a life of their own. The only thing reliable about them is their unreliability. I pushed the button, said,

“This could take a while.”

“Stop bragging.”

Mrs Bailey smiled at us from the desk. I nodded and Kirsten said,

“She likes me.”

I turned to look at her, said,

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Oh, I am sure. I worked at it.”

“Is that what you do, you get people to like you?”

“Only some people.”

I couldn’t resist, asked,

“What about me?”

“That doesn’t need any work. You like me already.”