Ken Bruen: The Guards

Conclusion: out of my zone. She spoke to Sean, and he pointed at me. I looked up as she approached. She asked,

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

“May I have a few words?”

“Sure, sit down.”

Up close, she was prettier than I’d seen. The lines around her eyes were deep. Her age I’d put at late thirties. I asked,

“Can I get you a drink?”

“The man is getting me coffee.”

While we waited, she examined me. Not in a discreet fashion, openly without subterfuge. Sean came with the coffee... and behold, a plate of biscuits. I eyed him and he said,

“Mind yer business.”

After he’d gone, she said,

“He’s so fragile.”

Without thinking, I said the worst thing,

“Him? He’ll bury the both of us.”

She flinched as if to duck. I stormed on,

“What do you want?”

Composing herself, she said,

“I need your help.”

“How?”

“I was told you help people.”

“If I can.”

“My daughter... Sarah... she... she committed suicide in January. She was only sixteen.”

I made appropriate noises of sympathy. She continued,

“I don’t believe she’d... kill herself... she...just wouldn’t.”

I tried not to sigh. She gave a brief bitter smile, said,

“It’s what a parent would say... isn’t it? But, something happened after.”

“After?”

“Yes, a man rang, said, ‘She was drowned.’

” That threw me. I fumbled to get in gear, asked,

“What?”

“That’s what he said. Nothing else, just those three words.”

I realised I didn’t even know her name.

“Ann... Ann Henderson.”

How far behind was I lagging? Time to crank up. I bolted my laced coffee. Did something, said,

“Mrs Henderson... I...”

“It’s not Mrs — I’m not married. Sarah’s father lit out on us a long time ago. We only had each other... that’s why she’d never... leave me... alone.”

“Annie, when a tragedy like this happens, weirdos and cranks come out of the woodwork. It’s a beacon to them. They ghoul-in on pain.”

She bit her lower lip, then raised her head, said,

“He knew. ”

Rummaging in her bag, she produced a fat envelope, said,

“I hope there’s enough there. It’s the savings for our trip to America. Sarah had it all planned.”

Next she laid a photograph beside the cash. I pretended to look. She said,

“Will you try?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

I know there were a lot of things I should, could, have said. But I said nothing. She asked,

“Why are you a drunk?”

Caught me blindside. I said,

“What makes you think I have a choice?”

“Ah, that’s nonsense.”

I was halfway angry, not all out but circling, asked,

“How come you want... a drunk ... to help you?”

She stood up, gave me a hard look, said,

“They say you’re good because you’ve nothing else in your life.”

And she was gone.

“... responds quickly to the task at hand.”

I live by the canal. But a scarf away from the university. At night I like to sit, listen to the students roar.

And they do.

It’s a small house, the old two-up, two-down. The landlord has converted it to two flats. I have the ground floor. A bank clerk named Linda is above. A country girl, she has adopted all the worst aspects of urban life. A sort of knowing cunning.

She’s a looker, in her early twenties. Once, when she forgot her key, I picked the lock. Emboldened, I asked,

“Fancy an evening out?”

“Oh, I never break my golden rule.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t date drunkards.”

Time later, her car had a flat and I changed the tyre. She said,

“Listen, that other time — I was outa line.”

Outa Uriel

Everyone is quasi-American in the worst way.

I stood up, grease covering my hands, waited. She continued,

“I shouldn’t have said, you know... the awful thing.”

“Hey, forget it.”

Forgiveness is a heady fix. It makes you stupid. I said,

“So, you want to go out, grab a bite?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“What?”

“You’re too old.”

That evening, under darkness, I crept out, punctured her tyre again.

I read. I read a lot. Between bouts of booze, I get through some print. Mostly crime. Recently, I’d finished Derek Raymond’s autobiography The Hidden Files.

Class act.

He’s the man.

That the drink had finally taken him out was a further bond. Over my bathroom mirror I’d placed his:

Existence is sometimes what a

forward artillery observer sees

of enemy lines through field glasses.

A distant and troubling view

brought suddenly into focus with a wealth of obscene detail.

It’s the obscene detail I want to obliterate with every drink. But it’s imprinted on my very soul, fetid and rank. No shaking it loose.

God knows I’ve tried; since the death of my father, I’ve fixated on death most days. I carry it, like a song, half-remembered.

A philosopher, Rochefoucauld, wrote that death is like the sun. No one can stare at it directly. I ploughed through books on death.

Sherwin Nuland — How We Die

Bert Keizer — Dancing with Mister D

Thomas Lynch — The Undertaking.

I dunno if I sought

Answers

Comfort

Understanding.

I didn’t get them.

A hole had opened in my gut that felt for ever raw. After the funeral, the priest said,

“The pain will pass.”

I wanted to roar — “Fuck that, I don’t want it to pass. I want to hug it to me lest I forget”.

My father was a lovely man. As a child, I remember he’d suddenly clear all the furniture in the kitchen. The chairs, tables, piled against the wall. Then he’d take my mother’s hand, and up and down the kitchen they’d dance. Laughter gurgling in her throat, she’d shout,

“Yah eejit.”

No matter what was happening, he’d say,

“As long as you can dance, you’re ahead.”

He did for as long as he was able.

I never dance .

“Dead children do not give

us memories,

they give us dreams.”

I visited the grave of the dead girl. She was buried in Rahoon Cemetery. Where Nora Barnacle’s dead lover lies.

I can’t explain why I wanted to touch base there. My father’s grave rests on the small hill. I was too ragged to say hello. Felt as if I was sneaking past. There are those days I feel his loss too sharply to say hello.

Sarah Henderson’s plot was down near the east wall. It’s one of the few spots to catch the sun. A makeshift, temporary cross read:

Nothing else. I said,

“Sarah, I’ll do what I can.”

Outside the gates I found a phone box, called Cathy B. She answered on the ninth ring with

“What?”

“Whoa, Cathy... nice phone manner.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you?”

“I’m at the cemetery.”

“Better than in .”

“Can you do some work?”

“Oh yeah, like I need the bread, so totally.”

I gave her the background, the details, said,

“Talk to her school friends, boyfriend...”

“Don’t tell me my job.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be. I’ll call in a few days.”

Click.

About a year ago, I was heading home late along the canal. It’s a happening place after midnight. Drinking school, dopers, eco-warriors, ducks, and the no-frills crazies. I fit right in.