Ken Bruen - The Guards

“Yeah, I’ll see you.”

I’d just opened the front door when Linda appeared. She said,

“Ah, Jack.”

I didn’t answer, brushed past her. Heard her exclaim,

“Well, I never!”

The Seer is 91

Like I gave a rat’s ass. First off, I had a shower, scrubbed my skin till it hurt. Could feel Ford’s spittle on my face, like a burn. The phone rang. I growled,

“What?”

“Jack, it’s Ann.”

“Yeah... what?”

“Are you all right?”

“Christsake. I wish people would stop asking that.”

I slammed the phone down. Put on an XL sweatshirt with the logo:

A pair of ultra-faded 501s. One more wash and they were history. Usually, I put this gear on, I chill.

Wasn’t happening.

Got out a bottle of brandy. I’m a philistine, I hate cognac. The hangovers are total slaughter. Cracked the seal. Into the kitchen and washed the glass. The Roches £4.99 was still visible on the base. Rinsed it twice to erase the tequila scent. Back to the sitting room. The steak I’d eaten at Ford’s place sat in my gut like a lump of lead.

I tried to recall all my resolution about the brandy. Especially how J.M. O’Neill said it takes away the very air it gave you.

Aloud I said,

“Yeah, yeah... yada yada,” and sank the first one.

OK.

Not so bad. In fact, if it erred, it was on the smooth side.

Poured another.

In AA they warn about self-pity. “Poor me, poor me, pour me another.” Well, I was already drinking.

Right!

Certainly, pity was the very last thing I was feeling.

Pity the poor fuck who walloped his head offa the coffee table. Or was that — had his head walloped against it? I tried to shut out that image.

What loss was he? A pervert who preyed on young girls.

This wouldn’t fly, I couldn’t fan a single flame of justification.

The phone went. Picked it up, tried,

“Yeah?”

“Jack, it’s Sutton.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How you doing there?”

“I’m OK.”

“Drinking, huh?”

“What?”

“I can hear it in your speech.”

“What are you? My mother?”

“Hey, drop the tone. I just want to say you’re not alone, buddy. I’ll swing by, we can order up a storm of pizza, catch a vid.”

“Like a date.”

“Jesus, Jack. Whatever you’re drinking, it’s not agreeing with you.”

“Neither are you.”

And I hung up.

Now I was up, pacing, talking.

“Who needs you, the fuck I do. And people stop calling me.” I tore the phone line out.

Turned the radio on, hit Lyric by mistake. Were playing “Fur Elise”. I thought, I love that and first thing tomorrow, I’m going out to buy it. Time later, after chasing the dial and hitting four other stations, I was also going to buy:

Elvis

The Eagles

James Last

and

The Furey Bros.

Then thought, “Why wait?”

Glanced at the cognac. Oh-my-God! Nearly empty. Did I spill some? Yeah, must have, that would explain it. Took some organisation to get ready as I bumped into furniture, but finally I was set, shouted,

“Sayonara, suckers.”

The empty room didn’t answer.

“Doctor, I’m in trouble.”

“ Oh,

goodness, gracious me”

Came to with restraints on my wrists. The mother of a hangover. I was strapped down on what appeared to be a trolley. My head was pounding. Tremors were running up my legs. I had no recollection of anything after “Sayonara, suckers.”

A nurse appeared, said,

“Ah, Mr Taylor, I’ll get the doctor.”

She did.

A man in his fifties, a vague smile, leaned over me, said,

“Mr Taylor, I’m Dr Lee. Do you remember how you got here?”

Tried to shake my head but the pain was too fierce. He nodded, said,

“You’re in Ballinasloe... the mental hospital. My guess is you were operating in a blackout. You collapsed outside Hayden’s Hotel.”

Terror was assaulting every fibre. Sweat cascaded down my body. The doctor said,

“We had to reset your fingers as it appears you punched somebody. Not a good idea with fingers recently broken.”

I managed to get some saliva going, asked,

“What about my nose?”

He laughed out loud, said,

“No, we had to admit defeat on that front. But I’m glad you’ve kept your sense of humour. You’re going to need it.”

The nurse gave me a shot and I was gone again. If there were dreams, thank Christ they’re beyond recall. When next I surfaced, I felt a little less awful. The restraints were gone, so something was changing if not improving. Dr Lee again.

“Do you remember our talk?”

“I do.”

“That was forty-eight hours ago.”

I tried to look suitably awed, but in a mental hospital, what’s awe? He continued.

“You’re making a rapid recovery. The body is an amazing thing. Despite ferocious punishment, it battles to re-group. But for what, Mr Taylor?”

I was finally able to speak without gasping for saliva. I said,

I don’t understand the question.”

“Oh, I think you do, Mr Taylor. Why should we fix you up so you can go right out and do the exact same thing again?”

I had no idea.

“I’ve no idea.”

“You’ve been down this road before.”

“I have. Could you call me Jack?”

“Jack! Well, Jack, I could try and frighten you with horror stories. Every time you blackout, it’s a rehearsal for a wet brain.

Your liver is in bad shape, and I don’t know how much more your kidneys can endure. Any questions?”

I wanted to know why on earth I’d come to Ballinasloe, but didn’t think he could answer that. I said,

“Thanks... for... well... not reading me the riot act.”

“I thought I just did.”

After my initial days of drying out, I was given my clothes. They’d been cleaned and pressed. My delight at having them was huge. Stood in the middle of the room, did a little jig. Shaky... and brief, but definitely a few steps of Irish near-abandon.

It’s a sad fact that a fully grown man should be so grateful just to be dressed.

I was released into general population. Asked the nurse,

“Couldn’t I stay in my room?”

Big laugh and,

“What do you think this is... a hotel? Get out and circulate.”

I didn’t know what to expect. A mental hospital... wouldn’t psychos be roaming freely. In every sense of the word, I anticipated bedlam. Drooling patients, straitjackets, derangement on foot.

What I got was quiet. Not silence but a muted burr. As if the volume had been turned way down. The wonders of medication. Keep them doped, you keep them docile.

Lunch was being served in the refectory. A bright open room, not unlike our canteen at training in Templemore.

I took a tray and joined the queue. The line was orderly and... quiet. A voice behind me said,

“First time?”

Turned to face a man in his late sixties. He didn’t look... mad! Well dressed with a porter face. The nose a scarlet mess of burst vessels. His build had once been impressive but had collapsed badly. I said,

“Does it show?”

“You’re jumping out of your skin.”

“Oh.”

He put out his hand, hands like Larry Cunningham. Big craw thumpers. We shook. His grip was surprisingly gentle. He said,

“I’m Bill Arden.”

“Jack Taylor.”

“Hello, Jack Taylor.”

I’d reached the hot food section. The server, a fat country woman, asked,

“What can I get you, love?”

The “love” walloped my heart. I wanted to hug her. Bill said,

“The bacon and cabbage is lovely.”