David Jackson - Pariah

‘You don’t say. And here’s me thinking I forgot to take off my Bin Laden mask tonight.’

Terry lowers his voice, which Doyle thinks comes a bit late if the aim is to keep this away from the other customers. ‘Cal, please. Do me a favor, okay? You coming in here, people are gonna start leaving in droves. It ain’t good for business, you know? Be sensible about this, Cal. Think about what you’re doing to the place.’

Doyle stares at Terry for a good ten seconds, not believing what he’s hearing. He tears his gaze away, and aims it at the people behind him. Most of them are looking his way. Not talking, hardly drinking. Just looking and waiting to hear his response.

Doyle turns back to Terry. He sighs.

‘All I wanted was a quiet drink. A Guinness. You know how long I been coming here, Terry? Ever since I joined the Eighth. A whole year now. I thought I made a few good friends in that time — some of them are in here tonight, in fact. But I understand why people are worried. In their shoes, I think I would be too. They don’t want to be afraid of getting killed just because they smiled at me, or said hello. So, really, I do understand, and I think you’re right. I should spare a thought for them and for the health of your business.’

For the first time since Doyle walked in, Terry smiles, and a load seems to drop from his shoulders.

‘Thanks, Cal. I knew you’d understand. I appreciate it.’

‘Yeah,’ Doyle says, and gets up from his stool.

Before he has even thought about the consequences, Doyle has whipped out his Glock from its holster. He presses its muzzle into Terry’s forehead. Behind him he hears gasps of astonishment. He knows that a number of the cops here are already reaching for their own weapons, but he doesn’t turn around.

‘There you go, Terry. I’m making it easy for you.’ He raises his voice so everyone can hear. ‘See, everyone? I’m not his friend. I’m making him talk to me. I’m making him pour me a drink. Does that work for you, Terry? You don’t have to be afraid, because you ain’t my friend. All you have to do is pour me a drink every time my glass is empty. That goes for everybody else too. I ain’t looking for friends here tonight. You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t even have to come anywhere near me. Just leave me be, and let me drink. That’s all I’m asking. So how about it?’

There has probably never been a bar as busy as this that is now as quiet as this. Doyle keeps his eyes locked on Terry, whose only movements are involuntary through his sheer terror. Doyle knows at his very core that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be doing this. But he’s beyond caring. He keeps the gun in place and waits for an answer. Or for someone to shoot him in the back, which seems a distinct possibility right now.

‘Give him a drink.’

A figure emerges from a door behind the bar. Paddy Gilligan himself. A broad, powerful-looking man. A big goofy smile on his face.

‘Do I pay you to be standing there looking like an idiot when there’re customers to be served? The man has a thirst on him. Give him a drink. And the rest of you: don’t you have better things to do than stand there gawking at the sight of a man ordering a Guinness? Jesus, they must be sad lives you’re living.’

He says all this without anger or reproach. He just keeps that wide disarming grin affixed to his face. Friendly but firm: an approach that he’s used to manage many a situation that’s threatened to get out of control in his bar.

He’d have made a good cop, Doyle thinks.

He lowers the gun. Allows the suitably ashamed Terry to tend to the Guinness. While Paddy looks on, master of all he surveys, the customers return to their drinks and resume their conversations. The entertainment’s over, folks.

Paddy strolls over to Doyle.

‘Hear you’re in a spot of trouble,’ he says.

‘More than a spot. Closer to a deluge.’

Paddy smiles and nods. ‘As long as it’s through no doing of yours, you got no problem getting served in this bar. Ever.’

Doyle stares into Paddy’s eyes — as blue as his own are green — and thinks about this gesture. It’s much more than a small kindness; it’s an act of bravery from a man who has heard the stories and knows it could get him killed.

‘You’re a good man, Paddy.’

‘I’m an Irishman. Like yourself. If there’s a fight to be fought, we don’t run away.’ He gestures to the settling pint of Guinness. ‘A drop of the black stuff there will help you remember where you came from and what it all means.’

Doyle picks up the glass and raises it to Paddy.

‘Sláinte,’ he says.

Paddy smiles again, turns to Terry. ‘Whatever he wants, on the house.’ He looks again at Doyle, gives him a mischievous wink, and is gone.

Doyle closes his eyes, takes a long draft of the heavy liquid, feels its silky smoothness flowing down his throat, and tries once again to take himself far away from this madness.

It was too good to be true.

He has kept his place on the bar stool all night. Kept his peace, kept his dignity, kept himself to himself. The alcohol has done its work, coursing through his blood system, slipping into his capillaries and seeping into his cells, carrying him into that other-world where personal troubles are put into their proper perspective when viewed against the greater machinations of the universe. In short, getting him totally shit-faced.

With his physical isolation now accompanied by a self-induced mental isolation, the voice doesn’t carry to him at first. He’s aware only of a sound that seems to be steadily rising in volume while all other noises are diminishing. It’s a while before his brain recognizes the voice being broadcast in all directions, and registers that the words it carries are being aimed specifically at him.

‘To me, it’s like owning a dog,’ Schneider is saying somewhere behind Doyle. ‘You got a dog that’s dangerous, you have to do something about it. Say it’s vicious, like maybe it’s biting people, or attacking other dogs, or chasing the mailman. Do you think it’s right to let a dog like that run around our streets? Or say it’s not even the dog’s fault. Say it’s not even mean. It’s just sick. It’s carrying a disease of some kind. Any other animal it gets close to is likely to get sick too, maybe even die. You think it’s okay to let that dog out? Don’t you think it should be impounded? Maybe even put down?’

Doyle hears some noises of agreement, and a few laughs, presumably from Schneider’s drinking buddies. He does his best to tune it out, and he gives Schneider no signal that he’s heard any of his tirade. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

‘Ain’t no different with humans,’ Schneider continues, even louder now. ‘We got a guy who’s running around killing people, we lock him up, right? As cops it’s our job, our duty. But what if he says it’s not his fault? His story is that wherever he goes, the people he mixes with drop dead. Sounds pretty flaky, right? Personally, I’d have a hard time believing a story like that. But, hey, it’s nearly Christmas, right? Let’s show the guy a little charity. Give him a little latitude. Hard-nosed cynical cops that we are, let’s suspend our disbelief just for once.

‘So the guy’s just a walking disaster area. King Midas with a twist: everything he touches turning to dead. What do we do with him? Let him walk? Give him the opportunity to drop a few more innocent citizens in their paths? Fuck no!’

The support for Schneider is more vocal now. He even gets one or two cheers. Give him his due, Doyle thinks, he knows how to play to the audience. Any minute now I’m gonna be the subject of a lynching.