Ken Bruen: The Guards

Sutton is my friend. As a young garda, I’d pulled border duty. It’s a tedious assignment of rain and more rain. You longed for a shoot-out. What you got was cold sausage and chips in a Nissan hut.

Recreation was the pub.

I drank in the imaginatively titled The Border Inn. My first call there, the barman said,

“You’re the heat.”

I laughed out loud, close to frostbite as I was. He said,

“I’m Sutton.”

He looked like Alex Ferguson. Not a young version but the shouting showman of treble glory days.

“Why are you a guard?” he asked,

“To annoy my father.”

“Ah, hate the old man, do you?”

“No, I love him.”

“You’re just confused, is it?”

“It was a test, see if he’d try to stop me.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Well, you can pack it in then.”

I kinda like it now.”

Over the months of my border duty, I drank in Sutton’s solidly. One time, we went to a dance in South Armagh, I’d asked Sutton,

“What will I need?”

“An Armalite.”

En route to the dance, I was wearing Item 8234 and Sutton asked,

“Tell me you’ll take the coat off for the dance?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, another thing. Don’t talk.”

“What?”

“This is bandit country; your soft vowels could land and us in it.”

“How am I supposed to dance — slip them a note?”

“Jesus, Taylor, it’s a dance. We’re going to drink.”

“I could show them my truncheon.”

The night was a disaster. A dance hall packed with couples. Not an unattached woman anywhere. I said to Sutton,

“They’re all paired off.”

“Sure this is the North, you can’t be too careful.”

“Couldn’t we just have gone to a pub?”

“And miss the ambiance?”

The band were sub-showband era. Nine guys in blue blazers, white pants, and more bugles than the army.

Any army.

Their repertoire went from the Hucklebuck through Euro-vision favourites to crescendo with the Beach Boys.

You don’t know hell till you stand in a damp dance hall in South Armagh as the crowd sing along to “Surfing Safari”.

On the way back, Sutton was navigating a treacherous road when I spotted headlights in the mirror. I said,

“Uh-uh.”

The car made various attempts to overtake, but Sutton was having none of it. We finally shook them off near the border. I asked,

“Which side do you think that was?”

“The bad side.”

“Which is...”

“The one that follows you at four in the morning.”

What remains isn’t always

the worst

that’s left behind.

Sutton moved to Galway. I asked,

“Are you following me?”

“You betcha.”

He decided to be an artist. I said,

“Piss artist more like.”

But he had talent. I dunno was I delighted or jealous. Both probably, feeding off each other in the Irish fashion. His canvases began to sell, and he decided to act artistic. Bought a cottage in Clifden. Truth be told, I thought he’d become a complete asshole.

Told him so.

He laughed, said,

“It’s only a pose; like happiness, it won’t last.”

Nor did it.

He was back to his old self in a few months. Galway rain will drown out near most pretensions.

Sutton at his worst was better than most people at their best. After my meeting with Clancy I rang Sutton, said,

“Help.”

“What’s happening, dude?”

“The guards!”

“That crowd. What are they doing?”

“They won’t help me.”

“Get on yer knees and thank God.”

I arranged to meet him at Grogan’s. When I arrived, he was deep in conversation with Sean. I said,

“Guys!”

Sean straightened up. No mean feat. His vertebrae howled in anguish at the effort. I said,

“You need Radox.”

“I need a blooming miracle.”

Then they both looked expectantly towards me. I said,

“What?”

In unison, they said,

“Notice anything new?”

I looked round. Same old pub, the line of sad solid drinkers at the counter, chained to their pints by dreams no longer relevant. I shrugged. Which is not an easy thing to pull off for a man of forty-five years. Sean said,

“Yah blind hoor, look where the hurleys used to be.”

A Sutton painting. I moved closer. It appeared to be a blonde girl standing on a deserted street. Equally, it could have been Galway Bay. One of the drinkers said,

“I preferred the hurleys.”

Sean said,

“Gifted, isn’t it?”

He bustled off to make our coffee

Laced

And

Unlaced.

“I had an exhibition at Kenny’s. That one was priced at five hundred guineas.”

“Guineas!”

“Yeah, you can’t beat the touch of class. Like it?”

“Is it Galway Bay?”

“It’s The Blonde on the Street Corner”

“Oh...”

“Crime novel written in 1954 by David Goodis.”

I put up my hand, said,

“Let’s have the workshop later.”

He grinned, said,

“You’re a thick bollix.”

I told him about my new case. He said,

“The rate of Irish teenage suicide has soared.”

“I know, I know, but something about the call the mother got...”

“Another sicko.”

“You’re probably right.”

Later, we walked down Shop Street. A Romanian woman was playing a tin whistle outside Eason’s. Well, she was blowing into it intermittently. I went over, gave her a few bob. Sutton exclaimed,

“Christ, you’re only encouraging her.”

“I paid her to stop.”

She didn’t.

An eco-warrior was outside Anthony Ryan’s, juggling flaming torches. He dropped one but seemed unfazed. A garda was ambling towards us. Sutton nodded to him and the garda saluted us, “Men.”

Sutton gave me a curious look, asked,

“Do you miss it?”

I knew what he meant but asked,

“Miss what?”

“The guards.”

I didn’t know, said,

“I dunno.”

We went into Kenny’s in time to clock a bad shoplifter put a Patrick Kavanagh down his pants. Des, the owner, glided past, said,

“Put it back.”

He did.

We passed through the ground floor, out to the gallery. Two of Sutton’s canvases were on show, sold stickers prominent. Tom Kenny said,

“You’re making waves.”

Which is as high as praise rises. I said to Sutton,

“You can pack in the day job.”

“What day job?”

Hard to say which of us liked that answer best.

The next few days were spent investigating. Tracking down any witnesses to the “suicide”. There were none. Talked to the girl’s teacher, school friends, and learnt precious little. Unless Cathy B. found startling evidence, the case was over.

Friday night, I resolved to have a quiet time. Two pints and a chips carry-home. Alas, the pints got away from me and I hit the top shelf. Black Bush, too many to recall. I did get the chips. Piece of cod thrown in to make it appear substantial.

Is there anything more comforting than doused-in-vinegar chips. The smell is like the childhood you never had. As I approached my flat, I was in artificial contentment. Turning to my door, the first blow caught me on the neck. Then a kick to the cobblers. For mad reasons, I hung on to the chips. Two men, two big men. They gave me a highly professional hiding. A mix of kicks and punches that came with a rhythm of precision. Without malice but with absolute dedication. I felt my nose break. Would swear it made the “crunch” sound. One of them said,

“Get his hand, spread the fingers.”

I fought that.

Then my fingers were splayed on the road. It felt cold and wet. Twice the shoe came down. I roared for all I was worth.