Ken Bruen - The Guards

“You know it?”

He put back his head, recited,

“I fled him down the nights and down the days...”

I nodded and he said,

“He died roaring.”

“What?”

“It’s how alkies go, they die roaring.”

“Jesus.”

Whenever misgivings arose, I shut them down. Drilled into my mind — “He’s my friend. Anyway, who’s perfect?”

The library in Ballinasloe was closed. For renovations. My days were spent in OT. A basket of tiny springs on the table. My job, to fit them into biros.

Rest of the time, I gulped Librium, tried to avoid Bill and longed for the sleepers come night.

The last Ballinasloe dream was so vivid, I’m not sure it didn’t happen. Sutton saying,

“You’re the reader... the crime expert in fact.”

“Yeah.”

“Read Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside?”

“Missed that.”

“You missed the best one.”

But there’s God. And not only in Tom Jones’ song. The day of my release, I was given my clothes, fresh washed and ironed. Plus a bulging wallet. No drinker ever ends up with money. It’s against the laws of nature. When I’d left my flat, I couldn’t have had more than thirty odd quid. I stared at the wallet. The nurse, misreading it, said,

“It’s all there, Mr Taylor, we don’t steal from our patients. Four hundred and fifty pounds. Count it if you like.”

She stormed off. I went to say goodbye to Dr Lee. I said,

“Could I make a contribution?”

“Don’t drink.”

“I meant...”

“So did I.”

He put out his hand, said,

“There’s AA.”

“There is.”

“And Antabuse.”

“Right.”

He didn’t shake his head, but the implication was there. Then, he asked,

“Jack... have you family... friends?”

“Good question.”

“Well, you better go find out.”

Outside, the sun was shining. A coach paused and every one on the crowded thing stared at me. Backlit by the most infamous asylum in Ireland, with my body in bits, I sure as hell wasn’t staff.

I gave them the finger.

Most applauded.

Naturally, but a spit from the hospital was a pub. For one dizzy moment, I was poised. Oh, never did the siren song cry so awful bright. I couldn’t... I couldn’t. I looked back and felt Dr Lee nodded, as if he could see, and I walked on.

At the train station, I’d only half an hour till the train. Sat in the buffet, ordered nothing. There was a newspaper on the chair. More tribunals. I felt I’d gotten my own brown envelope. Checked the date and my stomach did a flip over. I’d been gone for twelve days. One for each of the apostles. Doing some calculating, I’d been three days missing in action and... earning money.

The train came and I got a window seat. I hadn’t shaved in hospital and a half decent beard was coming in. I looked like Kris Kristofferson’s dad. The mangled nose gave a total “don’t fuck” look. Leaving the hospital, I’d taken a hard stare in the mirror. Solved what was puzzling me. My eyes. They were clear and nearly alive. Not bright but in the neighbourhood. After years of sickness lodged therein, it was some revelation.

Outside Athenry, the refreshments trolley came. A young lad of eighteen or so asked,

“Tea, coffee, minerals?”

“A tea, please.”

I could feel him inspecting my injuries, I said,

“Came off my bike.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, doing ninety.”

“A Harley?”

“Is there another?”

He loved that, then,

“Do you want a drink?”

“What?”

“Look, see we’ve all these miniatures, but like, who’s gonna pay these prices?”

“No... thank you.”

“I’ll give you two for one. How would that be?”

“I can’t... I mean... I’m on tablets... for the pain.”

“Ah... tablets.”

He seemed to know all about them, then,

“I gotta go. You take care.”

Alighting from the train, I met a taxi driver I’d known all my life. He said,

“Travelling light!”

“The luggage arrives with the car.”

“Wise move.”

If you can do this sort of stuff with a straight face, you’re elected. Taxi drivers, of course, have to take an exam in it.

I looked out across Eyre Square and pubs beaconed from every corner. Backpackers thronged to and fro in search of Nirvana, a cheap hostel. A drinking school was in full song across from the Great Southern. As there was no one else to say it, I said,

“Welcome home.”

Walking into Grogan’s, I felt a mix of dread and adrenalin. Sean, behind the counter, didn’t recognise me. I said,

“Sean.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s Grizzly Adams.”

He came out from behind the counter, said,

“My God, where have you been? The whole country’s looking for you. Sit down, sit down, I’ll get your usual.”

“Sean, no booze... just coffee.”

“Are you serious?”

“Alas.”

“Good man.”

You know you’re bad when a publican’s glad you’re not drinking. I sat down, feeling light-headed. Sean came back with the coffee, saying,

“I’ve given you a Club Milk to take the bare look off it.”

I tasted the coffee, said,

“Jeez, tastes good.”

He clapped his hands like an excited child, said,

“That’s real coffee. Usually I give you any oul dregs, but now...”

“It’s great, terrific bite.”

He laid his hand on my arm, said,

“Tell all.”

Nothing stops talk like this request. The mind instantly downs tools. But he continued,

“Ann, that woman? She’s been in every day, phones all the time... and Sutton, he has me damned. Why didn’t you phone?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Oh, I see.”

But he didn’t. He stood up, said,

“All in good time. I’m delighted you’re all right.”

After a bit, I decided to try and find Sutton. Which wasn’t difficult. He was propping the bar in the Skeff. He didn’t bat an eyelid, asked,

“What kept you?”

“I got sidetracked.”

“I like the beard, makes you look even meaner. A pint or a short?”

“A Coke.”

“A Coke it is. Barman!”

Sutton got a fresh pint and carried it and the Coke to a window table. We sat and he clinked the pint against the Coke, said,

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“So, was it Ballinasloe?”

“Yeah.”

“Dr Lee still there.”

“He sure is.”

“Decent man.”

“I liked him.”

Sutton held his pint up to the light, examining it closely, said,

“Did two field trips myself. First time out, I drank right off.”

“In that first pub?”

He laughed but without humour, said,

“Yeah, the barstaff there have some attitude, I tell you. Veterans of constant incoming. One of the few places I’ve been where the bullshit doesn’t fly. The hospital send out a mop-up squad come closing. You’re there, you’re nabbed.”

He drained half the pint, continued,

“Second time to bat, I got two days. Was leaping outa my skin. Boy, did I hit the bar with thunder.”

“And now?”

“What you see is part of what you got. I drink with the brakes on.”

“Does it work?”

“Fuck, no.”

I went to order him a fresh pint, kept my eyes down. The barman asked,

“Another Coke?”

“I’d rather slash my wrist.”

The barman got a big kick outa this. Back with Sutton, I told him about my loaded wallet. He said,

“You star-trekked about twelve days ago... right? I vaguely remember some dope dealer got taken down.”

“What?”

“Yeah, some punk kid. At the Salmon Weir Bridge, he got the shite hammered out of him, his earnings lifted. The guards were delighted.”