Ken Bruen: The Guards

“Have you any idea of the hundreds of staff we put through our doors? I’d be amazed if they all lived for ever.”

“Did you know the girl?”

I don’t think I knew what sardonic really meant till I heard him laugh, he said,

“I very much doubt it.”

“Would you check, as a favour to the girl’s mother?”

He hopped off the desk, hit the intercom, said,

“Miss Lee, rustle up the file on a Sarah Henderson.”

He sat down, the portrait of relaxation. I said,

“That’s impressive.”

“An intercom?”

“No, how you didn’t even have to think for a second to get the girl’s name.”

“It’s why I’m sitting here in a suit worth three grand and you’re... shall we say... in last year’s remainder.”

The secretary arrived with a thin folder. Ford reached for glasses, pince-nez, naturally. Made a series of

M... m...’s

Hm... m...

Ahh’s...

Then closed the file, said,

“The girl was a shirker.”

“A what?”

“Work shy. We had to let her go.”

“That’s it?”

“Indeed. She was, alas, what we call a reject. No future whatsoever.”

I stood up, said,

“You’re right about that. She certainly has no future.”

...so smug believed — that desolation

had the limits full explored.

Sutton was staying in the Skeff. Like every place else in Galway, it had recently been renovated. Any space is immediately seized for “luxury apartments”.

I found Sutton at the bar, nursing a pint of Guinness. Inspired, I said,

“Hey.”

He didn’t answer, took in my vaguely healing injuries, nodded. I took a stool beside him, signalled to the barman for two pints, said,

“Remember Cora?”

Head shake and

“I’m not from here, remember.”

The pints came and I reached to pay, but Sutton said,

“Put it on the slate.”

“You’ve a slate?”

“Comes with being an artist... a burnt-out artist in fact.” I thought it was best to take it head-on, said, “My hiding, your blaze, I didn’t believe they were connected. Or connected to anything else.”

“And now?”

“I think it’s all deliberate. I’m... sorry...”

“Me too.”

Silence then till he said,

“Run it all by me.”

I did.

Took longer than I thought, and the slate grew. When I’d finished, he said,

“Bastards.”

“Worse then that.”

“Can you prove anything?”

“Nothing.”

I told him about Green Guard, the security firm, said,

“They employ the guards.”

“They do. And you’re thinking... what?”

“See if my assailants are there.”

“Then?”

“Payback.”

“I like that. Include me in.”

“I’d like to meet Mr Planter too. He or Ford killed that girl. I want to know how and why.”

“Planter’s a rich fuck.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Probably got notions.”

“Sure to.”

He took a large swig. It left a white foam moustache. He asked,

“Think he likes paintings?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Lemme work on that.”

“Great.”

“Want to grab some grub or just get wrecked?”

“Wrecked sounds better.”

“Barman!”

... fears daily revealing...

Real

The lines on hour

Scarred.

Next day, I was dying. Not your run-of-the-mill hangover but the big enchilada. The one that roars — SHOOT ME!

I surfaced near noon. Events up till four the previous afternoon were retrieveable. Napalm after that. I do know Sutton and I ended up in O’Neachtain’s.

Glimpses peeked through:

Line dancing with Norwegians.

Arm wrestling the bouncer.

Double Jack Daniels.

My clothes were crumpled near the window. The remains of late night takeaway peering from under a chair. Trod on chips and what appeared to be an off-green wing of chicken.

Christ!

Did some serious throwing up. Morning prayer. Old establishment ritual, on my knees before the toilet bowl.

Twyfords!

They built bowls to endure.

Finally, purged, my system settled into a rhythm of spasmodic retching. The kind that tries to vacuum your guts up through the thorax. Thorax. Good word that. Gives a feeling of medical detachment.

I wanted the hair of the dog. Jeez, I wanted the whole dog. But it would lead to more lost days. I had vengeance to wreak, villains to catch. With trembling hands I tried to roll a joint. Sutton had given me some “waccy-baccy”, said,

“From the Blue Atlas Mountains, this is serious shit. Treat with respect.”

Couldn’t roll the spiff. Went to the cupboard, found a stale cherry muffin. Scraped the guts out. Heated the hash in tinfoil then poured liberally into the cake. Popped the mess in the micro-wave and blitzkreiged.

Boy, it looked a sorry sight. After it cooled, I tried a bite. Hey, not bad. Between tentative sips of water, I got it down.

Then sat back, see where it went.

Orbit.

Hash cookies are renowned for space travel. I can confirm it.

A deep mellowness enfolded me. My mind was tiptoeing through tulips. I said aloud... or did I?... “I love my life.”

That’s the best indicator of my condition. Time later, I got the munchies and began to eye the green chicken. Luckily, a frozen pizza had somehow survived my recent campaigns, and I got stuck into that. Halfway through, I fell asleep. Out for six hours. If I dreamt, it was of “Hotel California”.

When I came to, my hangover had abated. Not gone but definitely not howling. After a shower and oh so careful shave, I headed for my video shelf. It’s sparse but has my very essentials:

Paris, Texas

Once Upon a Time in the West

Sunset Boulevard

Double Indemnity

Cutter’s Way

Dog Soldiers

In 1976, Newton Thornberg wrote Cutter and Bone. Three ruined survivors of the sixties share a house. Cutter, a crazed crippled Vietnam vet. Bone, a draft dodging dropout. Mo, a mother and agoraphobic alcoholic. They investigate the murder of a young prostitute. They piss off the wrong people, and Mo and her baby are killed.

Cutter and Bone track a capitalist they hold responsible. Cutter, according to Bone,

has a savagery of despair. It precluded his responding to any idea or situation with anything except laughter. His mind was a house of mirrors, distortion reflecting distortion.

Cutter operates on two things:

Despair

Cynicism

Robert Stone wrote Dog Soldiers in 1973. Karl Reisz adapted it for the screen in 1978.

Again, it’s three fucked people.

Marge, hooked on pharmaceuticals. Her husband, John Converse, a war correspondent, and Hicks, who brings drugs into the States. John Converse sells out his friend to the DA and realises fear was extremely important to him. Morally speaking, it was the basis of his life. I am afraid, therefore I am.

Hicks, pursued by villains and agents, dies in an old hippie cave. Written on the wall is

I watched these movies back to back and felt, as I had felt all my life... fuckit.

“One door I passed revealed a man

fully dressed in an antique zoot suit

and a white ten gallon hat.

As I passed by we regarded each other

as two wary lizards might stare as

they slithered across some barren stone.”

Eleven in the morning, I’m sitting on a bench at Eyre Square. The debris of Sunday night is mildly stirring. Four o’clock, in the hours before dawn, that’s when it’s the war zone. The clubs and fast food joints disgorge the hordes.