Ken Bruen - The Guards

“I’ll miss you, Joan.”

Crossing the square, I swear I saw Padraig near the fountain. Asked myself,

“Is this sobriety all it’s cracked up to be?”

Went to Nestor’s. The sentry was there and spoke.

“I read about you in the papers.”

“Ah, that was ages ago.”

The barman smiled. I since learned his name was Jeff. Despite my daily visits, I’d found out nothing else. I’d estimated he was in my age range. The similar aura of bewilderment and battering surrounded him. I thought that explained the easiness I felt in his company.

I took my hard chair and he brought me coffee, asked,

“Mind if I join you?”

I was amazed. Our relationship seemed to have been solidified on friendly avoidance. I said,

“Sure.”

“How are the betas going?”

“I’m not drinking.”

He nodded, seemed to weigh up some possibilities, then,

“Do you want me to tell you the truth or will I just play you along?”

“What?”

“That’s a Tom Waits’ quote.”

“No stranger to a bevy himself.”

He ran his hands through his hair, said,

“I don’t do friends very good. Not that I’m hurting. My wife left me ‘cause she said I was too self-sufficient.”

I had no idea where this was going. But I’m Irish, I know how this works. The verbal tit-for-tat. You get a personal detail, you fire one back. Piece by piece. A friendship evolves — or not.

A tapestry of talk.

I opened with,

“I don’t have a lot of luck with friends. Two of my best are recently buried. I don’t know what they got from me except a couple of cheap wreaths on their graves. That and a pair of thermal socks.”

He nodded, said,

“Lemme get the coffee pot.”

He did.

Recaffeinated, he said,

“I know a bit about you. Not that I asked. But I’m a barman, I hear stuff. I know you helped break that suicide business. How you used to be a guard. Word is, you’re a hard case.”

I gave a rueful laugh and he continued.

“Me... I used to be in a band. Ever heard of ‘Metal’?”

“Heavy Metal?”

“That too, but ‘Metal’ was the band. We were big in Germany, late seventies. Anyway, that’s how I bought the pub.”

“Do you still play?”

“God, no. I didn’t play then either. I wrote the lyrics. And need I tell you, lyrics are not vital for head banging. I have two passions, poetry and bikes.”

“I think that’s logical in a convoluted fashion.”

“Not any bikes. Just the Harley. Mine is a softail custom.”

I nodded as if this meant a lot. It meant zilch. He continued

“Thing is, they’re a bastard to get parts for. And like any thoroughbred, they break down a lot.”

Any more nodding, I’d have a habit.

He was on his feet now. Truth to tell, I envied his enthusiasm. To have such passion. He said,

“Now poetry. It doesn’t break down. Upstairs I have the giants... know who?”

What the hell, I could play safe, said,

“Yeats

Wordsworth.”

He was shaking his head, said,

“Rilke

Lowell

Baudelaire

MacNeice.”

Now he looked right at me, said,

“There is a point to all this, and God knows, I’ll finally make it.”

Handed me a batch of papers, said,

“There are poets among us. These are by people here in Galway. The Fred Johnston one... well, I thought it would help with the deaths you’ve experienced.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t read them now. Grab a quiet moment, see how they read.”

Then he was off doing bar stuff. The sentry said,

“I read about you in the paper.”

I could only hope this wasn’t going to become a mantra with him.

‘He could say it wasn’t fair but he’d already said it a million times in his life. In

spite of its truth, the idea counted far less than it should.”

We hit on a week of glorious weather. Sun from morning till late evening. The city went mad. Work was abandoned and crowds were out getting them rays. Any fear of skin cancer was completely ignored.

Ice cream vendors on every corner. Lager louts in loud array. Worse, men in shorts! With socks and sandals. One of the true horrible sights of the new era.

I don’t do sun.

I’m delighted with the lack of rain and anything over is over-indulgence. I don’t trust it. Makes you yearn. For things that cannot last.

I was sitting in the shade at Eyre Square. Watching girls, already red, going for blisters. Heard my name... saw Fr Malachy. In civvies, chinos and a white t-shirt. I asked,

“Day off?”

“Isn’t this heat fierce?”

Course, fierce is the double-edged. Either fierce good or fierce bad. You don’t ever ask. You’re supposed to know.

I didn’t ask. He said,

“You’re a hard fellah to find.”

“Depends who’s looking.”

“I was on the beach yesterday. Cripes, it was packed. Had a lovely swim. Do you know who I saw?”

“Malachy, I can safely say I haven’t a notion.”

“Your friend... Sutton.”

“Yeah?”

“Surly fellah.”

“He doesn’t like priests.”

“Well, he’s a Northerner! I stopped to say hello, asked him if he had a dip?”

I laughed in spite of myself. Malachy continued,

“He told me he can’t swim, can you credit that?”

A woman passed, said,

“God bless you, Father.”

He said,

“I’ll have to go, I’m due on the links in an hour.”

“Gee, the Lord is pretty demanding.”

He gave me the ecclesiastical look, said,

“You never had a bit of reverence, Jack.”

“Oh, I do. I just don’t revere the things you do.”

Then he was gone. Probably a trick of the light, but the shade seemed to have receded.

On the road leading to Rahoon Cemetery is a new hotel. Jeez, talk about strategic planning. I was tempted to check it out but kept going.

The heat was ferocious. Story of my life, the hordes head for the beach, I’m going to the graveyard. Sunshine bounced off the headstones like calculated revenge. I knelt at Sean’s and said,

“I’m not drinking... OK?”

Then I went to Padraig, said,

“I didn’t bring flowers. I did bring a poem. Which says, even if I’m a cheap bastard, I’m a cheap artistic bastard. And God knows, you loved words. Here it is,

Perspiration was pouring from me. I began to walk down the path between the graves. Saw Ann Henderson coming down the opposite side. We’d meet at the gate. I considered backstepping, but she spotted me and waved.

When I drew level she was smiling. My heart began to beat with insane hope. I let myself feel how much I’d missed her. She said,

“Jack!”

I, originally enough, said,

“Ann.”

Dragged my mind to gear, asked,

“Want to get a mineral?”

“I’d love to.”

We walked down to the hotel, her saying,

“Isn’t the heat fierce?”

And how relieved she was at Sarah not being labelled a suicide.