Ken Bruen: The Guards

The fights and yahoo-ism begin.

Top of the square is a statue of Pádraig Ó Conaire. They beheaded him. Christmas two years ago, a yob torched the crib.

Down near the public toilet, a young lad was murdered.

A city on the predatory move.

Progress my arse!

I’d a battered copy of Richard Farina’s Been Down So Long It Seems Like Up To Me in my jacket. It’s the green faded one. Pockets to burn, like Robert Ginty in The Exterminator. Richard Farina was Joan Baez’s brother-in-law. Would probably have written fine books but the dope took him out. I’m running a list in my head:

Jarrell

Pavaese

Plath

Jarrell, from a Caribbean cruiser threw himself

and

Gustav Flaubert (1849)

As my body continues on its

journey

my thoughts keep turning back

and bury themselves in days past.

Out loud, I mutter, in Irish, “Och, ochon.”

A new age traveller approaches, sits on the end of my bench. I’m drinking a cappuccino from a styrofoam.

No chocolate sprinkle. I hate that shit.

The traveller is mid-twenties, bangled in every conceivable area. She says,

“Caffeine will kill you, man.”

I don’t figure this requires a reply. She says,

“Did you hear me, man?”

“Yeah, so what?”

She scoots a little closer, asks,

“What’s with the negative waves?”

A cloud of patchouli envelopes me. I decide to cut through the hippy pose, say,

“Fuck off.”

“Oh man, you’re transmitting some serious hostility.”

My coffee’s gone cold and I put it down. She asks,

“Did you have red carpets in your home as a child?”

“What?”

“Feng Shui says it makes a child aggressive.”

“We had lino. Brown, puke-tinged shade. It came with the house.”

“Oh.”

I stand up and she cries,

“Where were you when John died?”

“In bed.”

“The Walrus will never die.”

“Perish the thought.”

And I’m outa there. I look back and she’s got the cappuccino on her head, sucking it down.

I’m bursting for a pee and risk the public convenience. A minor drinking school has temporary possession. The place is infamous since a paedophile ring preyed there. The lead wino shouts,

“Want a drink?”

Do I ever, but answer,

“No, but thanks a lot.”

My interview with Green Guard is at 12.30 so I still have some time to kill. Catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my hair is wild. As I exit, I say,

“Take care.”

The school chorus,

“God bless yah, sur.”

Off Quay Street, I notice one of the old barber shops. Check my watch, reckon... go for it.

There’s no customers. A man in his late twenties puts The Sun aside, says,

“How you doing?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

I clocked the English accent straight off, asked,

“Didn’t this used to be Healy’s?”

“You wot?”

He didn’t call me “guv” but it hung there, available at a comb’s notice. I said,

“I forget the numbers, but I think I want a No. 3.”

“You sure?”

“Well, Beckham was a No. 1, so I definitely want up from that.”

He motioned to the chair and I sat down. Avoided, to the best of my ability, my own reflection. I asked,

“London?”

“Highbury.”

I longed to say, “Highbury and shite talk“, opted for

“Grand bit of weather.”

The music was loud and the guy said,

“Joy Division... 1979’s ‘Unknown Pleasures’.”

I kind of liked it. The twisted mix of grace and savagery spoke to my withered sensibility. I said,

“All right.”

“Oh yeah, mate, they’re the biz. You know, it’s twenty years since Ian Curtis drank a bottle of Scotch, watched a Werner Herzog film on TV, turned on a Stooges’ album...”

He stopped. The punchline was coming and it wasn’t going to be good. I could do my role, asked,

“What happened then?”

“He went into the kitchen and hung himself from the clothes rack.”

“Christ.”

The guy stopped cutting my hair, hung his head. A moment of silence. I asked,

“Why?”

“Dunno. He was caught between a failing marriage and his lover. His health was fucked, and he couldn’t get a grip on the band’s huge success... gel?”

“What do you think?”

“I was you, I’d go for it.”

“Bring it on.”

He did.

When I was leaving, I gave him a decent tip. He said,

“Hey, thanks a lot.”

“No, thank you.”

I had phoned the security firm early in the morning. Using a false name, I said I wanted a job. Was asked,

“Any experience?”

“I was in the services.”

“Great.”

I wanted to see if any of their staff recognised me. From there, I was going to have to make it up as I went along. Worst scenario, I might even get a job.

En route, I went into Zhivago Records. The manager, Declan, was one of a rare to rarer species, a Galwegian. He said,

“How’s it going?”

“Okay.”

“Jeez, what happened to your hair.”

“It’s a No. 3.”

“It’s a bloody disgrace. What’s stuck in it?”

“That’s gel.”

“Saw you coming more like.”

“I want to buy a record, so could we cut the chit-chat?”

“Testy! What were you looking for?”

“Joy Division.”

He laughed out loud.

“You...?”

“Christ, do you want to sell me a record or not?”

“The compilation album... that’s the one.”

“OK.”

He knocked a few quid off, so I figured he’d earned the cracks. Outside, I took a deep breath, said,

“Showtime.”

“Linda put her hand on his arm. ‘You know,

you don’t have to do this.’

He turned to her, a little surprised. We want

to find out what happens next, don’t we?’

‘I forgot/ Linda said, ‘you’re using me. I’m

an idea for a movie.’

Chili said, ‘We’re using each other.’”

The security office was on Lower Abbeygate Street. I went in and a receptionist asked me to wait, saying,

“Mr Reynolds will see you in a moment.”

I’d barely sat when she called me. The minute I walked in, the man behind the desk did a double take. I glanced at his hands. The knuckles were bruised and cut. We stood staring at each other. I said,

“Surprise!”

He stood up, a big man, all of it muscle, said,

“We don’t have any vacancies.”

“Too bad. I think I could do ‘rent-a-thug’.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I held up my bandaged fingers, said,

“Like your work.”

He made to move from the desk, and I said,

“I’ll see myself out.”

The receptionist gave me a shy smile, said,

“Get the job?”

“Got the job done all right.”

Outside, I took a deep breath. So, I’d proved a link, but what did that give me? Rang Sutton and told him; he said,

“Well, we’re on our way.”

“But to where?”

“Hell, I’d say.”

“At least it will be familiar.”

Back home that evening, I was slow working through a six pack. The doorbell went. Answered to Linda, the bank clerk upstairs tenant. She went,

“Good heavens, what happened to you?”

“Just a scratch.”

“Drunk, I suppose.”

“Did you want something?”

“I’m having a party tonight, just a few friends.”

“You’re inviting me?”

“Well yes, but there are some ground rules.”

“I’ll be there.”

And I shut the door. Had just opened a fresh beer when the doorbell went again. Figuring “There goes the party,” I pulled the door open. It was Ann Henderson. I said,