Ken Bruen - The Guards

We’d reached the top of the square. A drinking school near the toilets called to Padraig. I said,

“Before you go, can I ask you something?”

“Verily. I cannot promise an answer of truth, but I’ll try for conviction.”

“Do you believe in karma?”

He put a finger to his lips, didn’t answer for ages, then,

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction... yes, I believe.”

“Then I’m fucked.”

‘The challenge to each human is creation.

Will you create with reverence, or with

neglect?”

I’d gotten home with only a six pack. At the off-licence, I’d wanted to lash in the Scotch but if I had any chance, that wasn’t it. Padraig’s potion had held and I got to bed without further damage.

Slept till dawn. Coming to, I wasn’t in the first circle of hell. Was able to forego the cure and get some coffee down. Sure, I was shaky as bejaysus but nothing new in that. Put the sixer in the fridge and hoped I could ration down. Showered till my skin stung and even trimmed the full arrived beard. Checked the mirror and went,

“Phew”

The reflection showed a tattered face.

Phoned Ann. Answered on first ring.

“Yes.”

“Ann, it’s Jack.”

“Yes?” Ice.

“Ann, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Don’t bother.”

“What?”

“I’m not able for this any more. I’ll send you a cheque for your services, I won’t be requiring them further.”

“Ann... please.”

“Your friend is in Rahoon Cemetery. Not far from Sarah. If you’re ever sober enough to get there. Personally, I doubt even that.”

“Could I just...”

“I don’t want to hear it. Please don’t call me again.”

The phone went down. I struggled into my suit and headed out. At the cathedral, I heard my name being called. A man came running over, said,

“I got it.”

“What?”

“The Post Office. I gave you as a reference.”

“I thought you didn’t want the job.”

“I don’t, but it’s nice to be wanted.”

“Well, I’m glad. When do you start?”

“Start what?”

“The job.”

He looked at me as if I was nuts, said,

“I’m not going to take it.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I have a horse for you.”

By this stage, I half expected he’d trot a stallion out from the church. He said,

“The 3.30 at Ayr. Rocket Man. Take a price and go heavy.”

“How heavy?”

“Feckin’ medieval.”

“OK... thanks.”

“Thank you. I always wanted to be a postman.”

Stopped in Javas for a coffee. The waitress had no English but a dazzling smile. That’s a fair trade. I said,

“Double espresso.”

Pointed it out on the menu.

Moment of financial truth. Took out my wallet and gave the first sigh of relief. It wasn’t weightless. Had a peek. Notes... notes were visible. Slow to slower count, one in fact to count cadence. Two hundred. Before I could rejoice, a shadow fell across me.

A large man, familiar if not instantly recognisable. He asked,

“Might I have a word?”

I put my left hand on the table, said,

“Come to break them again.”

It was the guy from the security firm, the guard who’d given me my original beating. He pulled out a chair, said,

“I want to explain.”

The waitress brought the coffee, looked at him, but he waved her away. I said,

“This I’ve got to hear.”

He began.

“You know I’m a guard. The security is a good nixer, lots of the lads do it. When Mr Ford told me you were causing trouble, I helped out. I didn’t realise what he was. He’s dead, did you know?”

“I heard.”

“Yeah, well, turns out he was a pervert. Hand on my heart, I’d never stomach that. After... after we’d done you... I found out you used to be on the force. If I’d known... I swear, I’d never have done it.”

“What is it you want, forgiveness?”

He lowered his head.

“I’ve been reborn in the Spirit.”

“How nice.”

“No, it’s true. I’ve resigned from the force and the security. I’m going to do God’s work now.”

I sipped the espresso. Bitter as unheard prayer. He said, “I hear you’re still on that case, the young girl’s suicide.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to help. To make amends.”

He produced a piece of paper, said,

“This is my phone number. I still have contacts, and if you need anything...”

“I’ll have God on my side, is that it?”

He stood up, said,

“I don’t expect you to understand, but He loves us.”

“That’s a comfort.”

He put out his hand, said,

“No hard feelings.”

I ignored his hand, said,

“Cop on.”

After he’d gone, I looked at the piece of paper. It had his name

And a phone number.

I was going to sling it but changed my mind.

Went to the florist’s. It was the same girl who’d sold me the roses. She said,

“I remember you.”

“Right.”

“Did they work?”

“What?”

“The roses, for your lady?”

“Good question.”

“Ah... that’s a pity. You’re going to try again?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“I need a wreath.”

A look of horror, then,

“Did she die?”

“No... no, somebody else, a friend.”

“I am sorry.”

A small priest walked by. He said,

“How ya.”

He had the jolliest face I’d seen in a long time. The girl asked,

“Do you know who that is?”

“He’s a small priest.”

“He’s the bishop.”

“You’re coddin’!”

“And the lovliest man you’d ever meet.”

I was astonished. As a child, I’d known bishops who ruled like feudal lords. That you’d see an exhalted cleric bounce down the street, in relative anonymity, was a revelation.

The girl said if I wrote down the name and details, she’d see to it the wreath was delivered, adding,

“I don’t think you want to carry it round town.”

I toyed with the notion of bringing the wreath into the bookies but let it go. The girl gave me a measured look, said,

“I’d say you were a fine thing when you were young.”

“It’s a good year for the roses.”

Harte’s was located off Quay Street. They’d had a bookies shop through three generations. Then the big English firms bought out the local outfits. Harte took the money, then opened right next door. The town was delighted. Not often you got to stick it to the Brits financially.

I’d known Tom Harte a long time. When I entered, he was leaning over form sheets, enveloped in cigarette smoke, said,

“Jack Taylor, by the hokey. Is this a raid?”

“I’m not a guard any more.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I want to get a bet on.”

He extended his arms, encompassing the premises, said,

“You’ve taken the right turn.”

I gave him the name and asked for a price. He checked the teletext, said,

“Thirty-five to one.”

I wrote out a docket and laid all my cash beneath. He read it, lowered his voice, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“As the grave.”

Two other punters studying the dogs sensed the change in atmosphere, strained to hear. Tom said,

“Jack, I’m a bookie but you’re one of our own. There’s a hot thing in this race; he’ll hack home in a common canter.”

“All the same.”

“I’m trying to do you a favour here.”

“Will you take the bet?”

He gave a shrug they perfect in bookie school. I said,

“Right, I’ll be seeing you.”