Ken Bruen - The Guards

“You’re still smoking.”

“Me and Bette Davis.”

“She’s dead.”

“My point exactly.”

He watched two nuns and said,

“Great shiners.”

“What.”

“Polishing. No one can touch them for it.”

I looked round then asked,

“Where’s the Church on suicide these days?”

“Leaving us, are yah?”

“I’m serious. Is it still the ‘can’t be buried in hallowed ground’ stance?”

“Ah, you’re very out of touch, Jack.”

“That’s an answer?”

“No, that’s a sad fact.”

Cathy B. and I were literally “eating out”. At the Spanish Arch, with Chinese takeaway, watching the water. She said, “I have my report.”

“Let’s finish the grub first.”

“Sure.”

I threw some chow mein to the swans. They didn’t appear to like it much. A wino approached, asked,

“Gis a fiver.”

“I’ll give you a quid.”

“Long as it’s not a Euro.”

He eyed the food and I offered him mine. With great reluctance he took it, asked,

“Is it foreign?”

“Chinese.”

“I’ll be hungry again in an hour.”

“But you have the quid.”

“And my health.”

He ambled off to annoy some Germans. They took his photo. Cathy said,

“Before my report, can I tell you a story?”

“I can do stories.”

She launched.

“My dad was a second-rate accountant. You know the old joke... ‘How can you tell an extrovert accountant? He looks at your shoes.’ Anyway, he worked without promotion till he was fifty. My mother nagged him ferociously. What I remember most is he had ten suits. All identical and the object of my mother’s wrath. She was, to quote the Irish, ‘a holy terror’.

“He always treated me with kindness and generosity. When I was nine, he lost his job due to drink. My mother ordered him out. He took his ten suits and went to live under Waterloo Station. In the tunnels there, he’d put on a fresh suit, and when it was dirty, he threw it away. At his last one, he stepped under the 9.05 from Southampton.

“The express.”

“I hated him ‘cause my mother did. Then, when I understood who she was, I began to comprehend him. I once read that Hemingway’s mother sent him the gun which his father used to kill himself. My mother would never have gone in for studied viciousness. After her death, I had to clear out her things. I found a train timetable for arrivals at Waterloo. Perhaps she thought he’d finally come up to speed.”

She was crying, the tears rolling down her face and hitting the curried noodles with a soft plink, like rain off a sheet of glass. I opened our lone bottle of wine, handed it over. She waved it away, said,

“I’m okay Are you still techno ignorant?”

“I am.”

“I’ll keep it simple. I fed a number of items into the computer, teenage suicides over the past six months, and got two hits. Ever hear of Planter’s?”

“Who make peanut butter?”

“No, it’s a massive DIY shop at the rear of Edward Square.”

“Where the new Dunnes is?”

“Yes.”

“Jeez, Edward Square! I mean... come on. In the middle of Galway, how Irish is that?”

She gave me a look, then continued.

“Of three suicides, three of the girls worked part-time there.”

“So?”

“So it’s strange. The owner, Bartholomew Planter, is a transplanted Scot. Rich as the lottery.”

“It’s a reach, Cathy.”

“There’s more.”

“Go on.”

“Guess who protect the premises.”

“I dunno.”

“Green Guard.”

“And?”

“They employ moonlighting guards.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right.”

She took the wine, drank, asked,

“What now, hot shot?”

“Maybe I’ll go see Mr Planter.”

“Mr Ford.”

“Ford?”

“He runs the place.”

“Well, I’ll go see him then.”

She watched the water for a time, then,

“Wanna fuck?”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Jeez, you’re all of what... nineteen?”

“Are you going to pay me for my work?”

“Am... soon.”

“So, at least let me get laid.”

I stood up, said,

“Anything else?”

“Of course.”

“Well.”

“Mr Planter likes to play golf.”

“I don’t think that falls under suspicious behaviour.”

“It does if you know who he plays with.”

“Who?”

“A Superintendent Clancy, that’s who.” I walked away.

I was going to say that I put on my best suit but I only have one. Bought in Oxfam two years ago. It’s dark blue with narrow lapels. Makes me look like a wide boy. Remember the Phil Collins video where there’s three of him. That’s the suit. I can only pray it doesn’t make me look like Phil Collins. If I say it was less than a tenner, you get the idea.

Course, that was before Oxfam got notions. I had a white shirt that unfortunately I washed with a navy t-shirt. I act like this is an accessorised outfit. A tie, loosened to give the “Mister, I don’t give a fuck” effect. Solid brown brogues. The shoe maketh the man. Spit shined till you could see your reflection.

Checked myself in the mirror. Asked,

“Would you buy a car from this man?”

No.

I had a mobile phone number for Sutton and rang that. Got the answering service and left a message. Walking into town I tried to feel like a citizen. Couldn’t quite pull it off. At the abbey, I went in and lit a candle to St Anthony, the finder of lost things. It crossed my mind to ask him to find myself, but it seemed too theatrical. People were going to confession, and how I wished I could seek such a cleansing.

Outside, a Franciscan bid me good morning. He was the picture of robust good health. My age, without a line in his face. I asked,

“Do you like your work?”

“God’s work.”

Served me right for asking. I continued on to Edward Square. Walked through Dunnes and saw six shirts I couldn’t afford. On through to Planter’s. It was big. Covered the whole of what used to be a parking lot. At reception I asked if I could see Mr Ford. The girl asked,

“Have you an appointment?”

“No.”

“I see.”

But she didn’t. She rang his office and he agreed to meet me. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. His office was modest and he was on the phone. Hand waved me to a chair. He was small, bald, with an Armani suit. An air of controlled energy from him. Finishing the call, he turned to me. I said,

“Thank you for seeing me. I’m Jack Taylor.”

He gave a brief smile. Small yellow teeth. Flash suit and bad teeth. The smile had no connection to warmth. He said,

“You say that name as if it means something. It means zero to me.”

I could smile too. Show him what Ultra-Brite might achieve, said,

“I’m investigating the death of Sarah Henderson.”

“Are you a policeman?”

“No.”

“Have you any official standing?”

“Zero.”

Nice to hop the word back. He said,

“So, I have no obligation whatsoever to talk to you?”

“Save common decency.”

He walked round the desk, adjusted the razor crease in his trousers, sat on the edge of the desk. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor. His shoes were Bally. I know so well what I can’t afford. Argyll socks with a snazzy pattern. He said,

“There’s no good reason not to sling your sorry ass on out of here.”

I realised the guy loved to talk, no sound so sweet as his own voice. I said,

“Would you be surprised to hear three girls, now dead, all worked here?”

He slapped his knee, said,