The Ghosts of Galway, page 12
There wasn’t.
More’s the Galway pity.
Past my humiliation, my deep shame at the hands of Clancy, I was walking along the beach, dogless and lost. The beach near the army barracks is usually deserted, why I chose it. The sea was a wild thing and I debated the merits of death by water.
Clean,
Said the utter mad part of my mind.
I simply stood by the water, my mind in turmoil, when I heard,
“Jack?”
Tentative.
A woman walking toward me, carefully, as if I might be dangerous. I was but not to her.
Not then.
Do you half hope the love of your life will be old and battered like your own bitter soul?
That the years have mangled and chewed the very thing you cherished?
Yes, in the realm of rage, you half desire their ruin.
She wasn’t ruined.
Not a bit.
Au contraire, as they say in literary novels.
She looked gorgeous.
Anne Henderson, once the very beat of my beating heart.
We stared at each other for a moment. The would we,
Wouldn’t we,
Hug?
It hung there like a shy reprimand. Then she held out her hand, asked,
“Jack, how are you?”
Men and women just are not built for handshakes. I took her hand, it felt like torn hope.
I said,
“Not too bad.”
Jesus. Lame or what?
I mean, what if I spit it out,
Like,
They cut the heart out of my beloved pup.
The Guards reduced me to a level of shame I didn’t even know I still possess.
Oh,
And a young lady I am intrigued by tried to murder me.
And
And
And
How’s that sound?
She lied, said,
“You look …”
Pause.
“Well.”
The moment when Clancy humiliated me burned anew in my mind.
To paraphrase Macbeth,
Who knew I had so much shame in me!
She examined with that close scrutiny that Irish women excel in. Said,
“I forgive you, Jack.”
Fuck me.
I wanted to scream
“Oh, really? How magnanimous of you, how have I survived all these hard years without that vital act?”
I said,
“Thank you.”
Then I did that thing that people do when they are completely out of the next thought. I said,
“Nippy for the time of year.”
Oh, sweet God, like a stranded Brit.
And,
She laughed.
Asked,
“I wonder if I might enlist your help?”
Christ, sure, there wasn’t anything on the planet I wouldn’t do for her. More’s the Irished dumb ass. I said,
“Depends.”
Thought,
Seriously, I said that?
Her face changed, the briefest flash of annoyance, then,
“I will pay you. I didn’t expect you to work for nothing.”
Before I could stop myself I blurted,
“One time I would have done it for free.”
Fuck.
She shook her head as if she knew such nonsense was inevitable. I asked,
“What do you need done?”
I’d swear a slight blush rose to her face but probably the wind. In Galway, we blame the wind for most things we’d prefer to not name. She said,
“It is difficult to put into words.”
I said with more than a little edge,
“Think of me as a priest.”
She gave a sudden abrupt laugh, startling us both, and said,
“Good God! That is the very last thing I could think of you.”
Given the toxic air that priests inhabited these days, that might even have been a compliment. She asked,
“Might we meet next Monday?”
I said,
“Sure.”
Set the time for six in the evening at the Meyrick Hotel.
That time, it sneers loudly,
“This is not a date.”
Eight o’clock is a date and anytime in the day is just banal. But,
Six?
Six sucks.
Not
A
(Galwayed)
Hope
Of
A
Chance.
I needed to find the remaining Fenian.
After the other Fenian had been killed he’d gone to ground. But before I could even begin the search, he found me.
I’d been to the pub and, in truth, had way more than I intended. Least I think I had the intention but, as they say, it got away from me. I had bought a drink for a very attractive woman in Garavans, amazed when she smiled at me and, fueled by drink, I had sat next to her. She was in either late forties or a very battered thirties.
I was expounding on the lack of recognition for the writer Patrick Hamilton and she said,
“I don’t read.”
Now, I don’t, God forgive me, remember her name but, alas, I do remember my reply:
“You don’t read? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
And she was gone.
I staggered home, wondering if I would fry up a big batch of sausages, then thought,
“And put two down for the pup.”
To instantly realize there was no pup, no more. I had that drunken moment of utter self-pity, leaning against a wall. Managed to get it together to find my way home, opened the door, and felt a gun barrel into the back of my skull.
A voice.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
My whole life I had done just that. I managed,
“Shoot me now.”
Heard an intake of breath and,
“What?”
“Save me a biblical hangover.”
Heard a slight chuckle.
I asked,
“Let me sit down.”
And moved to the armchair.
My hangover had vanished. Guns might be the new hangover cure. The man facing me was mid-height, dark curly hair, a boxer’s bruised face, and eyes so brown they verged on black.
I asked,
“You here about my TV license? I heard they were getting more proactive.”
The gun was lowered to rest against his right leg. He tapped it gently against that, said,
“You’re a cool one.”
I stared at him. He had an ease in his bearing acquired from long experience of conflict.
He said,
“I’m Joe Tyrone.”
Took me a moment, then I spat,
“The other Fenian fuck.”
He said,
“Just Joe would be fine.”
He had a trace of an English accent and I sneered,
“You’re not even Irish.”
The gun came up and he took a deep breath, said,
“You need to mind your mouth. And many of the greatest Irish patriots …”
Paused, then,
He intoned,
“Roger Casement
Wolfe Tone
Were
Of English birth but their very souls were Fenian.”
I said,
“I don’t think they were into gutting dogs.”
He sighed, said,
“I have a deal to offer.”
I gave him the look that said,
“Dream on sucker.”
He pushed on.
“We declare a truce and I give you Clancy.”
Clancy!
I said,
“Clancy?”
He allowed a small smile, said,
“He is in line to be the new police commissioner, the big prize for a cop, but he needs to be …”
Paused.
“Squeaky clean.”
“Is he?”
Tyrone said,
“Clancy likes to portray family values, and his strong moral code will be much praised.”
He took a large envelope out of his jacket, mused,
“What if it were shown such is not the case?”
I said,
“He’d be fucked.”
“Indeed.”
I stared at him, let a silence build. He was one of those who could ride a silence, so I said,
“I’m thinking you want to trade.”
He made a hammer of his hand, said,
“Bingo.”
My shredded hangover fought with my desire to beat the living daylights out of him but I drew a deep breath, waited. He said,
“Here’s what I’m thinking. I give you these …”
Indicating the envelope.
“And we call it quits.”
I said,
“You must believe I had very little regard for my pup.”
He was about to respond then rearranged that, said,
“Wasn’t me did the deed. In fact I vetoed the idea.”
I gave him the look that says,
“Like, seriously?”
Even in my head, it echoed of the U.S. He asked,
“Have we a deal?”
I considered my choices and went for the brazen lie, said,
“Sure, we have a deal.”
The gun was slowly eased into his jacket. He moved toward the door, said,
“I won’t be seeing you, then.”
I nodded.
I waited a beat until he was well gone. I circled the envelope with my fingers, wondering what revelations awaited.
There were four black-and-white prints, A4 size so there was no mistaking the players.
I felt I’d been gut punched, let out a wail of
“Oh, God, no.”
Never made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
Violently.
I sank down on the carpet, muttering,
“Sweet Jesus.”
A pity plea or a prayer?
Does it even matter?
If the past
Is
Another country
Why
Am
I
Held
At the border?
To come cap in hand!
In Ireland, that translates as
Begging,
With a suitable amount of groveling and humiliation.
As a nation, we know it all too well.
I said the words aloud as I prepared to meet Anne Henderson.
At the mediocre time of six o’clock.
The time that says,
“You don’t really count.”
In many ways, it was always six o’clock in my life.
’Tis sad but true.
I wore a crisp white shirt with a tie I nicked off a Rotary bollix. My newish 501s, and the scuffed Doc Martens. You never knew when you might need to kick someone in the face.
My Garda jacket, and if I had any cologne I’d have splashed that liberally but, lacking it, I would just have to rely on my old-school charm.
Emphasis on old.
I headed to the Meryck Hotel to meet the former love of my life and is there a sadder sentence than that? There was no rain but the air was heavy, oppressive. The doorman at the hotel, greeted,
“Well, well, the bold Jack Taylor!”
I said,
“At least you didn’t say you heard I was dead.”
Which was more than a frequent greeting. He looked slightly abashed, said,
“I did hear that but I didn’t like to say for fear it isn’t true.”
If that statement makes sense to you, you officially have an Irish mentality.
I took a seat at the rear of the hotel and waited. She arrived suitably late, dressed, if not to impress, then at least to warrant notice. Light navy raincoat over white sweater and blue jeans, flat-soled shoes.
I didn’t merit heels.
She went to bestow one of those air kisses on me and I snapped,
“Seriously?”
She sat with a very small sigh. Like,
“If I had a euro for every cranky man.”
She said,
“You look well, Jack.”
I didn’t return the compliment, asked,
“Are you familiar with the expression cap in hand?”
Stopped her.
Then her face got that peevish expression that screams,
“The fuck is it now?”
She said,
“Jack, I never understood half of what you were muttering about.”
Muttering!
Nice.
I said,
“Thanks for feeling you could share that but, back to the topic, it means to beg.”
She threw her hands up, said,
“Whatever.”
I gave her my second best smile, the one that is driven by malice.
I said,
“You never thought much of my work as an investigator.”
She didn’t leap in, protesting, in fact she said nothing.
The old silent assention.
Never no mind.
I continued in a very quiet, almost soothing tone,
“But what if I know what you want to tell me and …”
Big dramatic pause.
“Might even have the actual help you wish to get?”
She was stunned but disbelieving.
Said,
“I think that would be highly unlikely.”
The waitress came, adding to the nice air of tension, building mightily.
I ordered a Jameson, and Anne, almost desperately, a vodka and slimline tonic.
She went to ask me something and, very annoyingly, I made the shush gesture, let the drinks arrive.
They did.
And she gulped down the vodka without the tonic, slimline or otherwise. I said, sipping at my Jay,
“The rehab centers say more and more women are showing up. They call it the wine factor or indeed perhaps the whine factor.”
She was not amused, snapped,
“Get to it.”
I said,
“You were sleeping with Superintendent Clancy, photos were taken, and said photos now jeopardize his chance to become the police commissioner.”
She was stunned.
I asked,
“Did I miss anything? He sure has a fat arse.”
She did that new gig, crying without tears. You see it on reality TV. She whispered something I couldn’t decipher but I guess it wasn’t So sorry, Jack.
I asked,
“Is that you saying amazing job?”
She sniffled some more, then,
“What do I have to do?”
I could have been nasty, said,
“A blow job for openers.”
I did say,
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
She grasped at this tiny straw, said,
“Oh, Jack, thank you.”
I let that false gratitude hover a wee while, then,
“But Clancy, he has to do something.”
Suspicious,
And more than a little angry, she asked,
“What had you in mind?”
I said,
“To come to me, cap in hand.”
I prompted,
“You do recall at the beginning of our tête-à-tête I explained that expression?”
She gave a deep sigh, eerily reminiscent of my late mother and, God knows, that bitch could sigh for Ireland. She said,
“What does that actually mean in this case?”
I gave her a warm smile, no real warmth but lots of patience. I said,
“He puts on his dress uniform, comes to my door, knocks …”
I paused and, very annoyingly, made the gesture of knocking. Continued.
“Then he whips off his ceremonial hat and, bingo, done deal.”
She stood up, adjusted her coat, gave me a tight cold smile, asked,
“Anything else?”
I acted like I gave it some serious consideration, said,
“Tell him to grovel a little.”
“It’s not that the Irish
Are cynical.
It’s simply that they have a wonderful
Lack of respect
For everything and everybody.”
(Brendan Behan)
Clancy waited two days before he showed up. Early evening, a short knock at my door.
Solid, authoritative.
I let him simmer then opened the door. He wasn’t in uniform. I gave him a look of perplexity, asked,
“Help you?”
He gave a grunt of barely suppressed rage, said,
“Not a time for your usual bullshit.”
And brushed past me.
I weighed my options:
Scream obscenities,
Throw him out,
Shoot him?
Much as I liked the third one, I closed the door, said,
“How have you been?”
Let a beat pass, then,
“Tom?”
He was checking out the room, seeing nothing to impress him. He said, gritted teeth,
“I, um, appreciate you doing this, Jack.”
I shut the door, walked carefully to the chair, sat opposite him, the coffee table between us, and thirty years of bile. I said, with great warmth,
“Glad to be of help.”
And I sat still.
He glanced around, definitely on edge, tried,
“If ever there is anything you need, some special assistance with?”
I let that hum, then asked,
“Like if I hadn’t paid my TV license?”
He gave a tight smile, said,
“Always the smart mouth but, really, if you get in a bind?”
Bind!
I said,
“Bind? Hell of a word.”
Enough fencing.
I reached behind me, produced a large brown envelope, laid it flat on the table. He stared at it, tried,
“Thing between me and Anne, it was simply a fuck and run.”
I bit my lip, managed not to smash his face, said,
“There you go and … off you go.”
He stood, contemplated a hand shake, settled for
“Thanks again.”
And was gone.
Clancy was in his office, the envelope before him. He had shut his door, barked at his secretary,
“No calls.”
He let out a sigh of relief, couldn’t believe it had been so easy. He picked up a gold letter opener, presented to him by the Rotary Club, sliced the top of the package.
Went,
“Huh?”
As he pulled out large blank sheets of paper.
In the middle was a page with black capital letters.
