Ken Bruen - The Guards

He stooped to snatch a fag end, lit it from a battered box of kitchen matches. I looked furtively round, hoping the song was through. He ate deep from the cigarette and in a cloud of nicotine bellowed,

But man may not linger

for nowhere

finds he repose.

He paused and I jumped in.

“Will you stop if I give you more money?”

He laughed, showing two yellowed teeth; the rest, obviously, were casualties of combat.

“Indeed I will.”

I gave him another pound. He examined it, said,

“I take Euros, too.”

I was crossing into Claddagh with the Spanish Arch to my left. Padraig continued to match stride, said,

“You are not a man who gives away a lot... a lot, that is, in the information department. What you do say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.”

Before I could reply to this, briefly or clearly, he was assailed with a series of gut wrenching coughs. Up came phlegm and various unidentifiable substances. I gave him a handkerchief. He used it to dry his streaming eyes.

“I am indebted to you, young Taylor. It has been many the mile since I was offered a fellow pilgrim’s hanky.”

I said,

“Your accent is hard to pin down.”

“Like a steady income, it has an elusive quality... not to mention effusive.”

There was no reply to this, I didn’t even try. He said,

“At one dark era of my existence I was, I believe, from the countryside of Louth. Are you at all familiar with that barren territory?”

“No.”

My concentration was focused on not talking like him. It was highly contagious. He rooted deep in his coat, a heavy tweed number. Out came a brown bottle.

“A touch of biddy perhaps?”

He wiped the neck with the clean end of my hanky. I shook my head. He wasn’t the least offended, said,

“The only advice I remember is it’s better be lucky than good.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

“Lucky?”

He laughed deep.

“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”

A bunch of winos emerged from the football wall. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy, said,

“My people await me. Perchance we’ll talk again.”

“I’d like that.”

Not wild enthusiasm but a certain tone of approval.

Finally, I made Salthill and hit out along the prom. I thought again about the sentries in Grogan’s. Any given day, come noon, they took off their caps, blessed themselves for the angelus. Even bowed their heads as they quietly whispered the prayer.

Save for those odd pockets of remembrance, the angelus, like the tenements and pawn shop of Quay Street, had been blown away by the new prosperity. Who’s to measure the loss? I couldn’t even recall the prayer.

When you come off the booze, you acquire a racing mind. A hundred thoughts assail you at once.

Three lads in their barely twenties passed me. They were holding cans of Tenants Super. I could have mugged them. The smell of the lager called loud.

I’d come across some books by Keith Ablow. A practising psychiatrist with a specialty in forensics, he wrote,

You need a drink. That’s how it starts. You need. And the need was real, always is. Because I did need something. I needed the courage to face what I had to do next. And I didn’t have it. The booze makes you forget that you’re a coward, for a while. Until a while runs out. Whatever you needed to face has grown claws and become a monster you don’t ever want to meet. Then the monster starts pissing out booze faster than you can pour it in.

Walk that.

Remember the primary laws of physics: every force begets an equal and opposite

force. If you perform an act of grace, you buck the system. It’s like throwing down

the gauntlet to Satan. All kinds of hell can come looking for you.

Next day, invigorated from my walk, I decided to get my hand checked.

I had a doctor, but over the years of drink, I’d lost contact. Once, I’d gone to score some heavy duty tranquillisers and he ran me.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive. Took the chance and went to the Crescent.

A pit stop connecting the seaside and the city. It’s the Harley Street of the town. His nameplate was still there. Went in and a young receptionist asked,

“Can I help you?”

“I used to be a patient, but I dunno if I’m still on the books.”

“Let’s see, shall we.”

I was.

She glanced through the file, said,

“Ah, you’re with the gardai.”

Jeez, how long since I’d been? She looked at my beard and I said,

“Undercover.”

She didn’t believe that for a second, said,

“I’ll check if the doctor’s free.”

He was.

He’d gotten old, but then, who hadn’t? He said,

“My word, you’ve been in the wars.”

“I have.”

Gave me a full examination, said,

“Fingers can come out of plaster in a few weeks. The nose you’re stuck with. What about the alcohol?”

“I’m off it.”

“Time for you. They measure alcohol in units now. How many per day? I’m old school, I suppose; I measure how many people it puts in units.

I didn’t know if this was humour so let it slide. Dismissing me, he said,

“God bless.”

I didn’t go to Grogan’s, thought,

“Today I can live without Sean’s tongue.”

Met Linda outside my flat and she reminded me.

“You have two weeks to find a new place.”

I thought of a range of answers but decided on confusion, said,

“God bless.”

I was watching Sky Sports that evening when the phone rang. It was Ann. I breezed,

“Hi, honey.”

“Jack, there’s been an accident, a bad one.”

“What? Who?”

“It’s Sean... he’s dead.”

“Oh God!”

“Jack... Jack, I’m at the hospital. They have Sean here.”

“Wait there, I’ll come.”

I put the phone down. Then drew back my left hand, punched the wall. The force against my mending fingers made me scream. Four, five times, I systematically pounded the wall then slumped from the pain. A howl of anguish terrified me till I realised I was making the sound.

Ann was waiting at the hospital entrance. She made to hug me but I waved her away. She saw my hand, asked,

“What happened?”

“I fell and no, I wasn’t drinking.”

“I didn’t mean...”

I took her hand in my right one, said,

“I know you didn’t. Where is he? What happened?”

“It was a hit and run. They say he died instantaneously.”

“How do they know?”

On the third floor a doctor and two gardai. The doctor asked,

“Are you family?”

“I dunno.”

The gardai exchanged a look. I asked,

“Can I see him?”

The doctor looked at Ann, said,

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Do I know you?”

He shook his head and I continued,

“That’s what I thought, so how the hell would you know?”

One of the gardai said,

“Hey.”

The doctor said,

“Come with me.”

He led me down the corridor, stopped in a doorway, said,

“Prepare yourself. We haven’t had a chance to really clean him up.”

I didn’t answer.

Curtains had been pulled round a bed. The doctor gave me one final glance then pulled the curtain, said,

“I’ll leave you alone.”

Sean was lying on his back, heavy bruising covered his forehead. Gashes ran along his face. His trousers were torn and a bony knee protruded. He was wearing a navy sweater I’d given him for Christmas. It was soiled.

I leant over him and to my horror, my tears fell on his forehead. I tried to brush them off. Then I kissed his brow and said,