Ken Bruen - The Guards

Opened my eyes. Expecting restraints or a prison cell or both. Felt beyond ill. I was in a bed, a fresh, clean one. Tried to sit up and my heart reeled in terror. A black figure was sitting at the end of the bed. I must have shrieked; the figure spoke.

“Relax, Jack, you’re safe.”

Managed to focus, asked,

“Fr Malachy?”

“ ’Tis.”

“What? How?”

“You’re at your mother’s.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

My head was opening but I had to know.

“Are you living here?”

“Don’t be an eejit. Your mother called me.”

“Shit!”

“Watch that tongue, laddie. I won’t abide cursing.”

“So, sue me.”

I noticed I was wearing pyjamas, old comfortable ones, washed a hundred times, then said,

“Oh God, I think these are my father’s.”

“May he rest in peace. Though I fear he’d turn in his grave at your antics.”

I managed to sit on the side of the bed, asked,

“Any chance of tea?”

He shook his head sadly. I asked,

“What? Tea’s beyond your brief?”

“You were a holy show you know. Swearing at your mother. By the time I got here, you’d passed out.”

I tried to assemble my shattered mind. Could dredge up that it was Friday night when I’d drunk. Took a deep breath asked,

“What day is this?”

He gave me a look of almost pity, asked,

“You really don’t know?”

“Sure, I’d ask for the sheer hell of it.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

I sank my head in my hands. I was going to need a cure and soon. Malachy said,

“Sean was buried yesterday.”

“Was I there?”

“No.”

I so badly needed to throw up and maintain it for a week. Malachy added,

“Sean’s son, named I think William, came home from England. He’ll be taking over the pub. Seems a sensible lad.”

Malachy stood up, looked at his watch, said,

“I have a mass. I trust you’ll do the right thing by your mother.”

“You’re not smoking, have you quit?”

“God hasn’t seen fit to relieve me of that particular burden yet, but I wouldn’t dream of smoking in your mother’s house.”

“Blame God, eh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Why not? I blame him all the time.”

“And look at the cut of you. It’s no wonder.”

Then he was gone. My clothes were

Washed

Ironed

Folded

at the end of the bed.

I struggled into them. Took a while as bouts of nausea engulfed me. Taking a deep breath, I headed downstairs. She was in the kitchen, doing kitchen things. I said,

“Hi.”

She turned to face me. My mother has good strong features but they’re arranged wrong. They add up to severity. If we get the face we deserve by the time we’re forty, then she got the jackpot. Deep lines on her forehead and at the sides of her nose. Her hair was gray and pulled right back in an impossible knot. But the eyes told all, a direct unyielding dark brown. Whatever else they said, “no prisoners” was the overriding message. She said,

“So, you’re up.”

“Yes... I’m... sorry... for... you know, the disturbance.”

She sighed. It was what she did best. She could have sighed for Ireland, said,

“Oh, I’m well used to it.”

I had to sit down. She asked,

“You’ll be expecting something?”

“What?”

“Breakfast.”

“Oh, I’d love some tea.”

As she filled a kettle, I glanced round. To her left, I saw a bottle of Buckfast. It would do. I said,

“The doorbell’s ringing.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it rang twice.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“You probably couldn’t hear it over the kettle.”

She went. I was up and over to the bottle, got a huge belt of it. Christ, it was rough, thought, “People buy this shit by choice?”

The moment of truth, would it stay down or up. Hit my stomach like battery acid. Went back to my chair and waited. Began to settle, could feel that glow in my guts. My mother was back, suspicion writ large, said,

“There wasn’t anyone.”

“Oh.”

She looked like a warden who knows there’s been an escape but who doesn’t know who’s gone. I stood, said,

“Think I’ll skip the tea.”

“But the kettle’s boiled.”

“I’ll have to go.”

“Are you still working... as...”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish. I said,

“I am.”

“And you’re looking at some girl’s suicide?”

“How do you know?... oh, Fr Malachy.”

“Arrah, the whole town knows. Though God knows how you find the time between drinking.”

I got to the door, said,

“Thanks again.”

She put her hands on her hips, looked set to charge, said,

“Well it would be a quare thing if you couldn’t come to your own home.”

“This was never home.”

Walking down College Road, I thought I probably should have said something kinder. Years ago I’d read where a man asks,

How come, no matter how long since I’ve seen the family or how

much distance I put between us, they can always push my buttons?

The answer:

Because they installed them.

At the Fair Green, I was hit by a dizzy spasm and had to lean against a wall. Two women passing gave me a wide berth, one said,

“Elephants, and it’s not eleven yet.”

Sweat cascaded down my face. A hand touched my shoulder. I felt so bad I hoped I was being mugged. A voice,

“You’re in some distress, my friend.”

That distinctive tone. It was Padraig, the head wino. He took my arm, said,

“There’s a bench here, far from the madding crowd.”

Led me down. I thought, if my mother’s watching, as she always was, she’d hardly be surprised. Got to the seat and Padraig said,

“Here, attempt a sip of this potion.”

I looked at a brown bottle and he said,

“Can it be any worse than what you’ve already imbibed?”

“Good point.”

I drank. If anything it was tasteless. I’d expected meths. He said,

“You expected meths.”

I nodded.

“This is an emergency concoction I learned from the British army.”

“You were in the army?”

“I don’t know. Somedays, I would swear I still am.”

Already, I was improving, said,

“It’s doing the job.”

“ Certainement. The British understand the concept of relief. They don’t, alas, always know where it applies.”

This was way beyond me so I said nothing. He asked,

“To paraphrase our American allies, you tied one on?.”

“Whoooo... did I ever.”

“Was there an occasion?”

“My friend died.”

“Ah, my condolences.”

“I missed his funeral and, no doubt, pissed off what few friends I had.”

A garda came, stood and barked,

“Ye’ll have to move along, this is a public area.”

Padraig was up before I could answer, said,

“Yes, officer, we’re on our way.”

As we moved, I said to Padraig,

“Jumped up gobshite.”

Padraig gave a small smile, said,

“There’s a pugnacious streak in you.”

“I know those guys. I used to be one.”

“A gobshite?”

I laughed despite myself.

“Well, probably. But I used to be a garda.”

He was surprised, stopped, took my measure, said,

“Now that I wouldn’t have surmised.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“One senses a certain longing though. Perhaps you might reapply.”

“I don’t think so. These days, they like candidates to have a degree.”

“But a degree of what.”