Ken Bruen - The Guards

“Sure you will. Hold that thought.”

I checked the docket again and headed out. One of the punters followed, called,

“Jack.”

I stopped outside Kenny’s, let him catch up. He had the pallor of turf accountant’s confinement. The smell of nicotine was massive. The eyes had the mix of fawning and slyness that takes years to achieve. He’d peaked. Gave me the half smile of the damned, asked,

“Got something?”

“Well, I dunno is it any good.”

“Come on, Jack, I need a break.”

“Rocket Man.”

He looked stunned. As if his winning ticket had been disqualified. He said,

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Arrah, feck you. What did I expect from a guard?”

Near the Protestant school, just a Catholic away from Victoria Square, is Bailey’s Hotel. Now, this is old Galway. New hotels are built on every available space, but Bailey’s seems to have escaped the gallop to prosperity. It hasn’t been

sold

revamped

rezoned.

In fact, it’s rarely noticed.

You don’t hear of “commercial travellers” nowadays. But if you’d a mad passion to find one, they’d be at Bailey’s. Country people go “for the dinner”. The exterior is pure weathered granite and the small sign reads “ OTEL”. The H is back in the fifties, lost in the mist of Morris Minor aspirations.

On a whim, I went inside. A reception desk is tucked in the corner. An elderly woman was leafing through Ireland’s Own. I asked,

“Mrs Bailey?”

She looked up and I’d have put her age at eighty. But her eyes were alert. She said,

“Aye.”

“I’m Jack Taylor, you knew my father.”

It took her a minute and then,

“He worked on the line.”

“He did.”

“I liked him.”

“Me, too.”

“Why have you a beard?”

“Notions.”

“Foolish notions. Can I help you, young Taylor?”

“I need accommodation... long term.”

She waved a hand at the décor, said,

“We’re not fancy.”

“Me either.”

“Mm... mm... there’s a bright room on the third floor that’s been vacant.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Janet, she cleans every other day, but she sometimes forgets.”

“That’s fine. Let me pay you.”

This was purely a gesture. All my cash was with the bookie. She asked,

“Have you a credit card?”

“No.”

“That’s good ‘cause we don’t take them. Pay me the last Friday of the month.”

“Thank you. When could I move in?”

“I’ll get Janet to air the room and put a kettle in. Anytime after that.”

“I really appreciate it, Mrs Bailey.”

“Call me Nora. It’s just a room, but I hope you’ll feel at home.”

I already did.

FROM: The Four Agreements

by

Don Miguel Ruiz

NUMBER 2: “Don’t take anything personally.

Nothing others do is because of you.

It simply reflects their own life

expressions and the training they

received when they were children.”

“... dream on.”

That night, I packed. Didn’t take long. Punctuated by the six pack. Telling myself,

“Ease on slow with these, maybe I can chill.”

Like all lies and the best illusions, it helped me function short time. I lined four black bin bags along the wall, said,

“My wordly possessions I thee endow.”

With those

broken fingers

a broken nose

and a beard

I wasn’t an advertisement for the Celtic tiger.

The phone went. Picked it up, hoping it was Ann, said,

“Hello.”

“Jack, it’s Cathy B.”

“Oh.”

“That’s warmth?”

“Sorry, I’m packing.”

“A magnum?”

“Gee, that’s funny. I’m moving out tomorrow.”

“Are you moving in with yer old lady?”

Sign of my age. Thought she meant my mother.

“What?”

“She likes you, Jack. At the gig, she couldn’t take her eyes off you.”

“Ann! Jesus, no... I’m moving into a hotel.”

“Weird city, dude. What hotel?”

“Bailey’s.”

“Never heard of it.”

I was glad, meant it was still a Galway thing.

“My friend Sean died.”

“The old geezer, who had the pub?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I think I liked him. Hey, I can get a van, help you move.”

“Naw, a cab will handle it.”

“OK. Are you free next Friday?”

“Unless they catch me.”

“I’m getting married.”

“You’re kidding... to who?”

“Everett, he’s a performance artist.”

“I’ll pretend that makes sense to me. Wow... congratulations... I think... how long have you been dating?”

“Dating! Get with the millennium, Jack. I’ve been with him... like... zonks.”

I had to allow for her being English and that they’d lost the grip on language, asked,

“How long?”

“It’s nearly three weeks.”

“Phew, how can you stand the pace?”

“Will you give me away? I mean... you’re the only old guy I know.”

“Thanks... sure, I’d be delighted.”

Horse time.

Put the TV on, brought up the teletext. Was I nervous? Wiped a light perspiration from my brow. OK... that’s the beer. Here we go... results... scrolled to them. First off, couldn’t see it... shit... maybe he didn’t run. Come on... come on...

Oh my God.

Won!

Finished at 12’s and I’d got 35’s. Did a little jig, then punched the air, roared,

Kissed the screen, said,

“Yah little beauty.”

Did some fast heart-pounding sums. Seven big ones. Got the docket out, ensured there was no mistake. Nope, it was clear as day. A knock at the door.

I pulled it open. Linda. I said,

“Yeah.”

“Jack, I hate to be pushy but I wonder if you’d made any arrangements?”

“I have.”

“Oh, that’s great. Is it nice?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t want us to part on bad terms.”

“Of course. Just ‘cause you’re evicting me, it shouldn’t affect our friendship.”

“I feel bad.”

I laughed out loud, said,

“That’s a tragedy. God forbid you should feel that.”

And I shut the door.

All in all, my last evening was one for the books.

“In matters of grave importance

style

not sincerity

is

the vital thing.

Violence requires a cold and deadly style.”

Next morning, I was having coffee, checking everything was ready to go. The news was on. I was only half listening till the local news and

A young girl’s body was taken from the water at Nimmo’s Pier this morning Gardai at the scene tried unsuccessfully to revive the girl. This brings to ten, the number of teenage suicides this year from the same spot.

I said,

“He’s done it again.”

The phone went. It was Ann, no preamble, launched,

“You heard the news.”

“Yes.”

“You could have prevented it.”

And she hung up.

If I had a bottle, I’d have climbed in. Called a cab. I carried my stuff outside and waited by the canal. When I closed the door of the flat, I didn’t look back.

The cab driver was a Dub and full of it. I said,

“Bailey’s Hotel.”

“Where’s that?”

I gave him directions and he said,

“How did I miss it?”

I didn’t answer. He spent the journey explaining where the GAA were going wrong. I gave appropriate grunts. At the hotel, he gave it the once over, said,

“Jeez, it doesn’t look much.”