Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“It’s ‘I Saw a Stranger’ by Tommy Fleming.”

Leaving the Guinness to settle, he came round and said,

“Gimme a hug.”

I did.

Not easily or with much flexibility. Us Irish guys don’t do hugs. Not without a lingering mortification. He looked good. His trademark black 501s were spotless. A granddad shirt, cowboy boots and a black suede waistcoat. A ponytail tied tight. Like me, Jeff was knocking on fifty. He didn’t look like an aging rocker. An ease in his movements gave class to whatever he wore. I said,

“You look great.”

In Ireland this is usually the preamble to “Lend us some money.”

I meant it.

He stepped back, scrutinised me. I was wearing my one Oxfam suit. It had died. I’d let my hair grow and hadn’t trimmed my beard. He said,

“You look fucked.”

“Thanks.”

He went to cream the pint. I sat at what used to be my spot. In the corner, hard chair, harder table. Hadn’t changed. I had. I said to the sentry,

“Can I get you a pint?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. I wasn’t sure he’d heard. Then he spun on the stool, asked,

“Will I have to buy you one back?”

“No.”

“OK then.”

I rummaged in my holdall, took out some essentials. Left a package on the table, slipped the rest in my pocket, said,

“Jeff, I’m just going for a pee.”

“Whatever.”

I locked a stall, kneeled over the toilet, pulled down the lid, took out the Silverwrap. I laid five lines, rolled an English tenner and snorted fast. The burn was instant. Rocked me against the door, could feel the freeze lash my brain, muttered,

“Christ.”

After ten minutes, I was electric; straightened up, went to the wash basin. A mirror above had the logo, SWEET AFTON.

My nose was bleeding. I said,

“Sweet Jesus.”

Cleansed it with a tissue. Doused my face in cold water. A grey tint showed beneath my beard. My cheeks were sunken. I hitched my pants, tightened the belt a notch. Two stone had gone. In my hurling days, I was built. Spuds and sport pack on that bulk.

Back in the bar, Cathy was sitting at my table. Transformed. I’d known a twenty-two-year-old punk with track marks on her arms. She jumped up, said,

“You’re back.”

Alongside the Irish greeting, she’d acquired a soft lilt. I preferred her Kim Carnes intonation.

More hugging.

She gave me the look, said,

“Coke.”

“Hey.”

“You can’t fool an old doper.”

“Why would I try?”

“Because it’s what addicts do…hide.”

I sat, took a hefty swig of my drink. God, it was good. Cathy leant over, wiped the foam of my upper lip, said,

“We have your room ready.”

“What?”

“Your first night, you have to be with friends.”

“I was going back to Bailey’s.”

“Go tomorrow.”

“Well, OK.”

She’d filled out. Her face was well-fed, shining even. I said,

“You look radiant.”

She went shy; I’d swear she blushed, though I think that’s a lost art. She said,

“I’m pregnant.”

After I did the congratulations bit, I said,

“I bought ye something.”

Her face lit, she asked,

“Show me.”

I gave her the first package. Like a child, she tore it open. A gold Claddagh ring bounced on the table. I said,

“I got ye both one.”

“Oh, Jack.”

I’d got them off a guy in a pub.

Cathy tried the ring. It fit. She called,

“Hon, come see what Jack bought?”

He approached the table cautiously. Cathy showed him the gold ring, said,

“Go on, try it.”

Didn’t fit so hot. He pulled a chain from beneath his shirt. I spotted a miraculous medal. He opened the clasp, slid the ring along the links, said,

“Daniel Day-Lewis wears one, figures it makes him Irish.”

The medal sat on the table, like an aspiration, leastways the coke thought so. Jeff said,

“Jack, you take it.”

“It probably belonged to your mother.”

“She’d appreciate a worthy cause.”

“Put like that, how can I refuse?”

I put it in my wallet. There was a photograph, showed a young woman smiling at something off camera. Her hair in ringlets, framing a face of neat prettiness. Jeff caught a glimpse, said,

“Oh, yeah?”

“Came with the wallet.”

The night turned into a party. I rang Mrs Bailey at my old hotel and she arrived with Janet, the maid/chamberperson/pot walloper. A true creature of grace. A few guards showed and joined in. By nine, the place was hopping. I’d switched to Bush and the going was easy. Jeff danced with Mrs Bailey, I had a waltz with Janet. The guards did some jigs.

Post party. The pub looked like a bomb had hit it. I’d passed out on my hard chair. Bad idea. My back was in bits. The hangover hit low, fast and lethal, walloping every fibre of my being. I muttered,

“Sweet mother of Jesus.”

The sentry had crashed on the bar, the inevitable half pint of black at his head. Jeff appeared, greeted,

“Nice morning for it, lads.”

Sadistic bastard. He turned on the TV. Surfing the channels, he settled on Sky News, heard,

“Paula Yates has been found dead.”

Hit me like thunder. I loved that lost chick. Once heard her say,

“The first time Fifi fell off the bed as a baby, I raced to the doctor. I was beside myself. He said the only thing wrong with this baby is she is wearing too much jewellery.”

How could you not love her?

A time I heard Mary Coughlan say,

“It’s one thing to sing the blues; feeling them nearly killed me.”

Amen.

Jeff shook his head, stared at me, said,

“What a waste.”

But I knew. His expression was beloved of mothers, length and breadth of the country. It cautioned,

“Let that be a lesson to you.”

Jeff had way too much style to say that. The sentry stirred, reached for his glass, drained the dregs, then went back to sleep. In my old pub, Grogan’s, two men were in constant attendance. Each end of the bar, dressed identically

Cloth caps

Donkey jackets

Terylene pants.

Twin drinks. Always and for ever, the half drained pint of Guinness, creamy head intact. No mean achievement. I’d never known them acknowledge each other. I knew them as the sentries only. What they were guarding is anybody’s guess. The old values perhaps. One had fallen to a coronary. The second had shifted his tent when Grogan’s changed hands.

I felt old. Circling fifty, every bad year was etched on my face. The hangover threw in another hard five. Jeff asked,

“Coffee?”

“Does the pope have beads?”

“That’s a yes?”

I headed upstairs. They’d given me the attic room. It was clean, Spartan. Thomas Merton could have swung a cat in it. Sunlight streamed in through the roof window. It gave me an illusion of hope. Got my toilet gear and went in search of a bathroom. It was unoccupied. Spotlessly maintained, with a crescendo of fluffy towels. I said,

“O…K.”

Tore off my ruined suit and got into the shower. As best I could, I avoided seeing my torso. Numerous beatings had left a sorry legacy. Turned the tap to scalding and let the bastard roar. Eased out with my skin tingling. Wrapped in one of those towels, I checked their cabinet.

Doesn’t everybody?

Lots of female stuff. Sprayed on a Mum deodorant. The fumes nearly choked me. Shook loose some family aspirin and dry swallowed them. There was a bottle of aftershave in a striking metal flask. Named Harley. I thought,

“C’mon, Jeff.”

Massaged it into my beard, said,

“Things go better with coke.”

Set up some lines on the sink, took a deep breath and snorted. A few moments, nothing doing. Thought maybe the hangover was riding shotgun. Then angels sang. The rush was related to nausea. Could feel my eyes open wide. Man, I wasn’t hurting no more. Skipped back to my room, muttering,