Ken Bruen: The Guards

A non-national offered to sell me his coat, but otherwise it was uneventful. As I got to the end of the canal, I saw a girl on her knees before a man. For one illucid moment, I thought he was getting a blow job. Until I saw his hand go up, come crashing down on her head. I came behind, used my elbow to hit him on the neck.

He fell against the railing. The girl’s face was cut, and bruising already showed on her cheek. I helped her up. She said,

“He’s going to kill me.”

I elbowed him again and he went,

“Urg... gh.”

I said,

“I don’t think so.”

I asked her,

“Can you walk?”

“I’ll try.”

I grabbed the guy by his shirt.

Up

One

Two

And over.

Let his own weight launch him into the canal.

As I was opening the door to my flat, we could hear roars from the water. She said,

“I don’t think he can swim.”

“Who cares?”

“Not me.”

I made tower-block hot whiskeys.

Tons of sugar

Cloves

Gallon of Jameson.

Put the glass in her two hands, said,

“Get that in yah.”

She did.

I put Lone Star on the speakers, kicking off with ‘Amazed’. She said,

“Is that Country and Western?”

“Sure is.”

“It’s shite.”

“Drink up, you won’t care.”

I took a full look at her. Spiked hair, pierced eyebrow, trowel-thick black make-up. Somewhere in there was a pretty girl. Her age could be sixteen or thirty-six. Her accent was London, blunted a little by Irish inflexion. The effect was as if she was for ever about to launch into what the English believe is a brogue.

That she never did is to her ever-lasting credit.

No wonder I liked her.

A marathon of heavy silver bracelets lined her left arm. Didn’t quite hide the old tracks. I said,

“You were on the gear.”

“What are you, the Old Bill?”

“Used to be.”

“You what?”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Bleedin’ hell.”

That’s how I met Catherine Bellingham. She’d washed up in Gahvay in the wake of a rock group who played the Black Box. They split, she stayed.

“I sing,” she said.

Without preamble, she launched into “Troy”. Unaccompanied, it must be the most difficult choice. I had never been an avid Sinead O’Connor fan but, hearing this, I reconsidered.

Cathy made it a dirge of bleak beauty. I was astonished, held my drink up to the light.

“This is powerful shit.”

Immediately, she followed with “A Woman’s Heart”.

Yeah, Mary Black would also require reassessment.

It was like I’d never heard those songs. After, I said,

“Christ, you’re good.”

“I am, amn’t I?”

I poured more drink, said,

“Here’s to beauty.”

She didn’t touch hers, said,

“I never do the next song, but I’m drunk so...”

It was “No Woman, No Cry”.

I’m an alky, I was born to these sentiments. Listening to her, I wished I had the strongest Colombian available. Conversely, it made me feel I had a shot. But at what I didn’t know. Cathy stopped, said,

“That’s it, show’s over.”

I said, without considering,

“No people sing with such pure voices as those who live in deepest hell.”

She nodded, said,

“Kafka.”

“Who?”

“He said that.”

“You know him?”

“I’ve known hell.”

In Ireland they say, “If you want help, so to the guards — if you don’t want help, go to the guards.”

I went.

Since my dismissal, every few months, I’d receive the following letter:

A Chara,

In compliance with the terms of your termination, it is required you surrender all property belonging to the Government.

See Article 59341A of Uniform and Equipment. It has come to our attention you have failed to return Item 8234 — A regulation gar da all-weather coat.

We trust in your speedy return of said item.

Mise le meas,

I crumpled the most recent and lobbed it across the room. I missed. The rain was bucketing down outside as I bundled into Item 8234.

Fit like harmony.

The only link I had to my former career.

Would I return it? Would I fuck.

My former colleague, Clancy from Roscommon, had risen through the ranks. I stood outside the garda barracks and wondered at my welcome.

Taking a deep breath, I headed in. A garda, aged about twelve, asked,

“Yes, sir?”

Jesus, how old had I got. I said,

“Would it be possible to see Garda Clancy? I’m not sure of his rank.”

The youngster’s eyes popped. He said,

“Superintendent Clancy?”

“Must be.”

Then suspicion.

“Have you an appointment?”

“Tell him Jack Taylor is here.”

He considered, then,

“I’ll check. Wait here.”

I did.

Read the notice board. Made the gardai appear a friendly, laid-back outfit. I knew better. The youngster returned, said,

“The superintendent will see you in Interview Room B. I’ll buzz you through.”

He did.

The room was painted bright yellow. A lone table, two chairs. I sat in the suspect’s one. Wondered whether to remove my coat, but they might seize it. Left it on.

The door opened, Clancy entered. A whole different animal from the man of my memory. He’d become, as they say, stout. Like fat, as in very. As no doubt fits a super. His face was ruddy, jowled, sagging. He said,

“By the holy”

I stood up, said,

“Superintendent.”

Pleased him. He said,

“Sit, man.”

I did.

We took time out, to survey, assess. Neither of us hot on what we got. He asked,

“What can I do for you, boyo?”

“Just a little information.”

“Oh.”

I told him about the girl, her mother’s request. He said,

“I heard you’d become some sort of half-arsed private dick.”

I’d no reply, so nodded. He said,

“I’d have expected more of you, Jack.”

“Than what?”

“Leeching off a poor woman’s grief.”

That hurt ‘cause of how close to the truth it was. He shook himself, said,

“I remember the case. It was suicide.”

I mentioned the phone call, and he gave a disgusted sigh, said,

“You probably made that call yerself.”

I gave my last try, asked,

“Could I see the file?”

“Don’t be a complete eejit... and sober up.”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

He stood, opened the door, and I grappled for some brilliant exit line. None came. As I waited to be buzzed out, he said,

“Don’t become a nuisance, Jack.”

“I’m already that.”

I headed for Grogan’s. Consoled myself they hadn’t got my coat. Sean was behind the counter, asked,

“Who ate your cake?”

“Fuck off.”

I stormed to my usual seat, plonked down. After a bit, Sean arrived with a pint and a chaser, said,

“I presume you’re still drinking.”

“I’ve been working... OK?”

“On the case?”

“What else?”

“God help that poor woman.”

Later, the drink in full sway, I said to Sean,

“Sorry if I was a bit touchy.”

“A bit?”

“Pressure, it’s pressure I don’t do well.”

He blessed himself, said,

“Oh, thank God! Is that all it is

“When did a private detective

solve a crime? Never!”

Some people live their lives as if they were in a movie. Sutton lives his as if he were in a bad movie.

It’s said the difference between one friend and none is infinity. I’ll buy that. Or that no man who has a friend can be considered a failure. I have to buy that.