Ken Bruen: The Guards

Till now, they and their ancestors have

been in revolt against me. The sons

are defiant and obstinate...

That was enough.

I focused on a phone in the corner and had to suppress a wild ache to call Ann. Bit hard on the ice and waited for the impulse to leak away. A mantra unreeled in my head, like this:

I have money, lots of money. As long as I have that, I’m in the game.

Never-no-mind I can’t figure the game. Cash says I’m in.

Over and over till the ice melted in the glass.

When I arrived at the hospital that evening, I had a bottle of Jack Daniels for Padraig. His bed was empty. I grabbed a passing nurse, asked,

“Is he gone?”

“I’m afraid so. At 4.30, very peacefully.”

“What?”

“He didn’t suffer.”

“You mean he’s dead!”

“I’m afraid so... are you a relative?”

I tried to get my mind in gear, asked,

“What happens to him now?”

She explained that if no one “claimed” him, the Western Health Board would do the burial. I said,

“A pauper’s grave?”

“Well, we don’t term it that any more. There are spaces reserved in the cemetery.”

“I’ll claim him.”

In a daze, I went through the rigmarole of forms and certificates. Even rang an undertaker’s who said they’d handle everything. I asked,

“Do you take cash?”

“We do.”

Padraig’s funeral, the burial, I can only vaguely recall. I was there at every stage but pumped to the eyeballs. Course, there were no mourners. I got this gig all to myself.

Here’s the thing. He’s buried close to Sean. I couldn’t have planned it better. I think Sutton might have showed during some of the proceedings, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

Ann certainly didn’t.

When it was done, I had to apologise to Mrs Bailey for missing our nightcap. She gave me the strangest look, said,

“But we had our nightcap.”

Total blank. Trying to cover, I said,

“I meant I wasn’t much help.”

“But you were a tremendous help.”

“I was?”

“Certainly. After your impassioned plea, how could I possibly sell.”

Some mysteries are best left alone. Padraig had that right. Finally, I got round to looking at the papers he’d given me.

This is what he’d written:

An Irish Wino Foresees His Death

(with apologies to W.B.)

Blame it on an intuition

I hadn’t acted

and certainly

would nigh on certainty

believe

a life upon the streets

at least for long

Yd not survive.

The sabotage

of hope

for far too long

I’d lived

one drink above despair

a public house

a hearse before

I watched a wino

place his hand

above his heart.

I’d known

a cap

if he had owned

would slow and

very slow

remove

shake so

the shakes... disregarding

... a Silence in Respect.

The cortège pass... press on... to press

his hand... the day across

this moment new

passed nigh beyond

the oldest expectation

a hand towards

reconciliation... not renewed.

The coffin doesn’t pass

the rich hotels

their hands

towards the meth remains

aren’t shaped.

Things broke very quickly after that. I can’t say Padraig’s death was a turning point, but it appears so. A night in Nestor’s, the barman took me aside, said,

“No lectures right, but I used to drink like you do. Which is fine, but I think you have unfinished business.”

“What are you on about?”

“You have the face of a man who needs to be elsewhere. So, here.”

He handed me a packet. I was at my most belligerent, growled,

“What the hell is this?”

“Beta blockers. Chill you right down. Like cocaine without the damage.”

“What makes you think I...”

But he shu... ss... ed me, said,

“Try these... chill... and when you’ve finished whatever the hell’s haunting you, come back... settle into a sedate life of the newspapers, a few pints and a decent pub.”

Then he was gone. I said,

“You need help, you do.”

Put the packet in my pocket all the same.

Wouldn’t you know, next morning, I’d the mother of a hangover. Took one of the tablets in desperation. A little while, I was becalmed.

Looking out the window, or rather, looking calmly out, I said,

“This doesn’t mean I’ll stop drinking.”

But it did.

Cathy B.’s wedding should have been a massive piss-up. It was, but not for me. The Registrar is in Mervue, opposite Merlin Park Hospital. I said to Cathy,

“Wouldn’t you have liked a church?”

“Negative waves, Jack.”

Her intended, Everett, the performance artist, wasn’t as bad as I feared. Bad enough but tolerable. Early twenties with the shaved skull. He was wearing what I think they call a kaftan... or curtains. To be fair, it appeared to be fresh ironed. For the occasion, I guess. Cathy looked gorgeous. In a simple red dress and killer heels. She asked,

“Wotcha fink?”

“Lady in Red.”

Mega smile. When she introduced me to Everett, he said,

“Ah... the old guy.”

I tried to act as if I cared, asked him,

“How’s... the... performing?”

“I’m resting.”

“Right.”

That was our talk over. God knows, I’ve met bigger assholes. He was simply the youngest. Cathy whispered,

“He’s very modest. He’s got a big gig soon with Macnas.”

“OK.”

I handed her the envelope. She shrieked,

“How Godfather II.”

The ceremony was

brief

precise

cold.

You need a church.

Reception after in The Roisín. Barrels of drink rolled out. It was packed with arts people. The ones who can tell at fifty yards you’re non-art. Pretty good band though. Playing blue-grass through punk-country to salsa. Got that crowd hopping. A young woman in black denim asked me,

“Wanna dance?”

“Maybe later.”

She gave me an ice appraisal, said,

“I don’t think you got a later.”

I blamed the beard. A few times I hovered near the bar, near shouted,

“Double Jameson and a pint.”

But passed. Cathy asked,

“You don’t wanna drink?”

“Oh I do... but...”

“Gotcha. You’re nicer without it.”

When I was leaving she gave me a huge hug, said,

“You’re cool.”

Everett gave me a slow nod, said,

“Hang tough, dude.”

Words, no doubt, to live by.

Saw the headline as I walked up Dominick Street:

I bought the paper, sat on the bridge to read. The gist of the article was as follows:

A former garda, Brendan Flood, has come forward to allege that Mr. Planter, a prominent businessman, is linked to the deaths of a number of teenage girls. Their deaths had been classified as suicide, but in light of Mr. Flood’s revelations, their cases are being reopened.

Superintendent Clancy, in a brief statement, said Mr Planter had disappeared from his home and his whereabouts are unknown.

Mr Flood said he’d decided to come forward because of his recent embracing of Christian beliefs.