Ken Bruen - The Killing of the Tinkers

“It shows; you’re a man of weight all right.”

I’d been reading Derek Raymond again, and noted,

THE CRUST ON ITS UPPERS

It seems to me that no matter whether you marry, settle down or live with a bird or not, certain ones simply have your number on them, like bombs in the war; and even if you don’t happen to like them all that much there’s nothing you can do about it – unless you’re prepared to spend a lifetime arguing fate out of existence, which you could probably do if you tried but I’m not the type.

Over the next few days, I laid low. The most amazing thing had happened. I’d cut back on the booze. The ferocious craving for coke had subsided. Now just a dim ache I could tolerate. Was afraid if I went out, the whole nervous charade would collapse. Read some Merton in a futile search for spiritual nourishment. And got none.

In truth, he now irritated the shit out of me. This usually prefaced a bender of ferocious intent. When Laura rang, I said,

“Hon, I’ve got flu.”

“I’ll come mind you.”

“No, no, just let me Lim-Sip through it.”

“I want to see you, Jack.”

“Not sick you don’t.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jeez, how many ways do I have to say this, you don’t want to see me sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. Three days tops, I’ll be fine.”

She annoyed me, too. I’d have been hard put to name anything or anyone that didn’t. Second day of interment, the doorbell went. Opened it to one of the clan. I’d seen him with Sweeper. I snapped,

“What?”

“Sweeper asked me to check you were OK.”

“You checked, goodbye.”

Tried to close the door. He put out his hand, said,

“I’m Mikey, could I come in for a minute?”

“A minute, that’s it; the clock is ticking.”

He came in, glanced round. I asked,

“What were you looking for?”

“Nothing. You’ve kept the place nice.”

He had a studied way of speaking, as if he tasted each word. He asked,

“Any chance of a glass of water?”

I gave him that and he drank deep, said,

“I’ve a desperate thirst. Must be the rashers I had for breakfast.”

“Mikey, why do I get the feeling you have an agenda?”

“I used to live here.”

“Sweeper said it was a family.”

“No, just me.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Sweeper moved me for you.”

I lit a red, blew smoke in his direction, said,

“Ah, you’re pissed off.”

He squeezed the glass, said,

“I wouldn’t mind if you’d earned it.”

“I found the most likely suspect.”

“And he’s…where?”

I’d had enough, said,

“I’ve had enough. Was there anything else?”

“No. Could I borrow some books?”

“You read?”

“You think tinkers don’t read?”

“Gimme a break. I’m in no mood for persecution gigs.”

He didn’t move, said,

“So, the books?”

I moved to the front door, said,

“Join the library.”

He stood at the step, said,

“You’re not letting me have books?”

“Buy your own.”

And I slammed the door in his face.

The bell rang again and I pulled it open, ready for fight. It was my neighbour. I said,

“Oh.”

He looked rough at the best of times. Now he appeared to have been turned inside out and trampled. He held a bottle, said,

“Poitín.”

“Um…thanks…I think.”

“I bought a scratch card, won.”

“Much?”

“I’ve been on the batter for a week.”

“That much, eh?”

“I was in a human pub last night.”

“A what?”

“You open the door and everybody’s singing…‘I’m only human’.”

I held up the bottle. The liquid was as clear as glass. I said,

“The real McCoy.”

He shuddered, said,

“I can vouch for that. The still is in Roscommon.”

“I thought the guards were cracking down.”

“A guard sold it to me.”

“A guarantee in itself.”

“None better.”

Another day of hibernation. On the radio for some reason they’re playing an interview with Muhammad Ali. I’m only half listening till,

“The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.”

I’m turning that sucker over.

Jesus.

Figuring it’s time to return to crime, bookwise anyway. I get stuck into Lawerence Block; have to speed-read him as Matt Scudder, his hero, speaks at length about recovery from alcoholism. Thin ice at its thinnest. Worse, at one stage, he describes the difference between an alcoholic and a junkie. With the cloud of speed, coke over me and a bottle of poitín in the cupboard, I’m between that rock and a hard place. Am I ever? Phew-oh. He writes:

“Show a stone junkie the Garden of Eden and he’ll say he wants it dark and cold and miserable. And he wants to be the only one there.”

I stood up, got a cig, I was not enjoying this passage. Put on Johnny Duhan’s Flame . The perfect album for my fragmented state. By the third track, I’m easing down, said,

“OK.”

And went back to Block.

“The difference between the drunk and the junkie is the drunk will steal your wallet. So will the junkie, but then he’ll help you look for it.”

I put the book aside, said,

“Enough, time to go out.”

And out I went, more’s the Irish pity.

Passing the GBC I thought of my last meeting there with Keegan. On that whim, I went in, got a double cappuccino and an almond croissant. Asked the assistant,

“Don’t put sprinkle on.”

She was amazed, said,

“How can you drink it without that?”

“With great relish, OK?”

Took a window seat, let the world cruise by. Cut a wedge of the croissant and began to chew. Good? It was heaven. Helped distance the coke craving. A woman approached, said,

“You’re Jack Taylor.”

Mid bite, I managed,

“Yes.”

“Might I have a minute?”

“OK.”

She was late fifties but well-preserved. Wearing the sort of suit popularised by Maggie Thatcher. Which told me one thing: “Pay attention.” She sat, fixed me with a steady gaze, asked,

“Do you know me?”

“No, no, I don’t.”

“Mrs Nealon, Laura’s mother.”

I put out my hand and she gave it a scornful glance, said,

“We’re in the same age bracket, wouldn’t you say?”

The froth on my coffee was disappearing. I tried for the light touch, said,

“Give or take ten years.”

Bad idea. She launched,

“I hardly think Laura’s in your range, do you?”

“Mrs Nealon, it isn’t a serious thing.”

Her eyes flashed.

“How dare you? My daughter is besotted.”

“I think you’re overstating it.”

She stood up, her voice loud.

“Leave her alone, you dirty lecher.”

And stormed out.

All eyes in the place on me, high with recrimination. I looked at the pastry, curling in on itself, thought,

“Too sweet really.”

The cappuccino had wasted away entirely.

As I slunk out of there, I remembered a line of Borges that Kiki was fond of quoting:

“Waking up, if only morning meant oblivion.”

Tried to tell myself the old Galwegian line:

“The GBC is for country people. Them and commercial travellers.”

Would it fly? Would it fuck.

Rang Laura, who exclaimed,

“You’re better.”