Ken Bruen: The Guards

They were done.

The other said,

“Won’t be playing with himself for a bit.”

A voice close to my ear.

“Keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

I wanted to cry, “Call the guards.”

As they headed off, I tried to say, “Buy your own chips,” but my mouth was full of blood.

those moments before the dose

Four days I was in and out of fever at University College Hospital, Galway; locals still call it “The Regional”. If you were there, you were fucked. Now if you’re there, you’re lucky.

A woman from the old neighbourhood said,

“One time we’d stomachs but no food. Now we have food and no stomachs.”

Or

“Loveen, there’s no drying out. When we had great drying, we’d no clothes.”

Argue that.

I came to and an Egyptian doctor was checking my file. I asked,

“Cairo?”

He gave a dry smile, said,

“You return to us, Mr Taylor.”

“Not voluntarily.”

I could hear the hospital radio. Gabrielle with “Rise”.

I’d have hummed “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” with her backing band but my mouth was swollen. When she returned to music, I read her ex-boyfriend’s stepfather’s head was found in a tip in Brixton.

I’d have shared this with the doctor but he’d gone. A nurse entered and began immediately fluffing my pillows. They do this if there’s the vaguest hint of you getting comfortable.

My left hand was heavily bandaged. I asked,

“How many broken?”

“Three fingers.”

“My nose?”

She nodded, then said,

“You’ve a visitor; feel up to it?”

“Sure.”

I’d expected Sutton or Sean. It was Ann Henderson. She gasped on seeing me. I said,

“You should see the other guy.”

She didn’t smile. Moved up close and said,

“Is this my fault?”

“What?”

“Is it because of Sarah?”

“No... no... course not.”

She put a paper bag on the locker, said,

“I brought you grapes.”

“Any chance of Scotch?”

“That’s the last thing you need.”

Sean appeared in the doorway, went,

“By the holy.”

Ann Henderson leant over, kissed my cheek, whispered,

“Don’t drink.”

And was gone.

Sean fragiled towards me, saying,

“You must have pissed someone off big time.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Did anyone call the guards?”

“They were the guards.”

“You’re coddin’.”

“I saw their shoes, at closer range than I wanted. They were the boys all right.”

“Jesus!”

He sat down, looking worse than I felt. Then put a Dunnes’ bag on the bed, said,

“Things I thought you’d need.”

“Any drink?”

I felt like the mad priest in “Father Ted”. I rummaged through the bag.

6 oranges

Lucozade

Box of Milk Tray

Deodorant

Pyjamas

Rosary beads

I held up the beads, asked,

“How bad did you hear I was?”

He reached into his jacket, produced a half of Jameson. I said,

“God bless you.”

I drank it from the bottle, felt it move my shattered nose. Bounced against my heart and pounded along my sore ribs. I gasped,

“Mighty.”

Sean nodded off. I shouted,

“Shop.”

And he jumped. Seemed lost and worse, old. He said,

“The heat, Christ... why do they have these places like ovens?”

Maybe the painkillers helped, but I felt absolutely pissed, asked,

“Where’s Sutton?”

Sean looked away and I said,

“What?... come on.”

He lowered his head, mumbled. I said,

“Speak up... I hate when you do that.”

“There was a fire.”

“Oh God!”

“He’s okay, but the cottage is gone. All his paintings too.”

“When?”

“The same. Same night you got hammered.”

I shook my head. Bad idea as the whiskey sloshed behind my eyes. I said,

“What the hell’s going on?”

The doctor reappeared, said,

“Mr Taylor, it’s important you rest.”

Sean stood up, laid his hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll be back tonight.”

“I won’t be here.”

I swung my legs out of bed. The doctor, alarmed, said,

“Mr Taylor, I must insist you get back into bed.”

“I’m leaving... ADA... isn’t it?”

“ADA?”

“Against the doctor’s advice. Jeez, don’t you watch ER?”

I had a moment’s dizziness, but the booze rode shotgun. My blood sang out for creamy pints of Guinness. A whole shitpile of them. Sean had the trouble of the world on his face, said,

“Jack, be reasonable.”

“Reasonable! I was never that.”

I consented to a cab, and as I was wheelchaired to the exit, a nurse said,

“Yah big eejit.”

The nun was reading Patricia Cornwell. She saw me glance at the cover, said,

“I prefer Kathy Reichs.”

There’s no answer to this. No polite answer anyway. I asked,

“Am I too early?”

She reluctantly put her book aside, said,

“There’s half an hour yet. You could walk round the grounds.”

I did.

The Poor Clare Convent is smack in the centre of the city. Every Sunday, at 5.30, there’s a Latin mass. It’s like a throwback to fifty years before.

Downright medieval.

The ritual, the smell of incense, the Latin intonations are a comfort beyond articulation.

I dunno why I go. Ask me for belief and I reach for the racing page. In an unguarded moment, I told Cathy B. She’d been plaguing me ever since. I said,

“Why? You’re some kind of English heathen.”

“I’m a Buddhist.”

“Jeez, see what I mean? Why on earth would you want to go?

“It’s so Brideshead.”

“What?”

“In England, High Catholicism is for the special few. Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, all converted.”

She wore me down. I watched now as she turned into the convent. I’d warned,

“Dress appropriately. None of that Goth trip.”

Now she was wearing a full-length dress. Fine for a dress dance at the Bank of Ireland, but mass! Then I saw the Doc Martens. I said,

“Docs!”

“I polished them.”

“But they’re blue.”

“Nuns do blue.”

“How would you know?”

“I saw Agnes of God”

Then she saw my nose, my fingers in the cast, raised her eyebrows. I told her. She said,

“Wow, like cool.”

“What?”

“Think they’ll come after me?”

“There isn’t a ‘they’... it’s coincidence.”

“Yeah... sure.”

The bell rang. Cathy asked,

“How will I know what to do?”

“Do what I do.”

“That’s bound to get us slung out.”

Inside, the tiny church was warm and welcoming. Cathy grabbed a hymn sheet, squeaked,

“There’s singing.”

“Not for you.”

But it was.

The congregation joined in the song performance. Cathy loudest of all. A nun came up after to congratulate her, asked,

“Would you like to sing some Sunday?”

I hopped in.

“She’s not one of us.”

Cathy and the nun gave me a look of withering contempt. I slunk outside.

Fr Malachy had arrived. No sooner off his bicycle than he lit a cigarette. I said,

“You’re late.”

He smiled, answered,

“But for what?”

Malachy was like Sean Connery, minus

The tan

The golf.

You couldn’t call him a friend. Priests have other loyalties. I knew him since I was a child. He took in my injuries, said,

“You’re still drinking.”

“This was unrelated.”

He took out his cigarettes. Major. The green and white packet. As strong as a mule kick and twice as lethal. I said,