A Kind of Drowning, page 4
“A ten euro accumulator. The last race is 5:30,” said the girl behind the glass.
“Feeling lucky today,” replied Crowe handing his bet over. “Busy?” he asked.
“Dead,” she replied as she handed him his slip.
“A coffee machine would help,” said Crowe.
“Good luck with that,” she said. Behind the glass her hair was as collapsed as her demeanour. She had the kind of features that could be anywhere between eighteen and forty, “That would involve the boss spending money. Moans about the recession,” she continued.
Crowe suspected she was leafing through a magazine beneath the counter. It suited him; he had a sheaf of blank betting slips out of sight in his other hand.
“Would lend the place a little je ne sais quoi. Speaking of coffee, the new café in town, The Boogie Woogie? Who is the manager?” he asked.
“Melanie Fox,” replied the girl.
Crowe wrote her name out on the back of the slip.
“Is she a hands-on-kind of boss?” he asked.
“Mel IS the Boogie-Woogie,” replied the girl without looking up.
“What does she look like?”
“You’ll know her the moment you see her.”
“Thanks, one other question?” asked Crowe.
She looked up and around the room, he turned to see the same empty shop with the flatscreens alternating between odds, racing cards and horse races. The tacky looking carpet had stains, discarded takeaway cups, and used crumpled slips strewn across it.
Hardly Cheltenham, now is it? Townsend would’ve said.
“Other than me, I don’t suppose you’ve had any new faces coming in recently? Perhaps over the last few weeks?” asked Crowe.
“Not much passing trade in this town. Just the locals,” replied the girl.
Crowe could at last make out her name on her badge pinned to her waistcoat.
“Thanks, Karen,” said Crowe.
Karen blew a chewing gum bubble. It burst loudly. She seemed to have stopped turning pages. Her expression had turned into a light bulb moment.
“We do get the odd new customer - a student type has come in recently. Haven’t seen him before. Rides a mountain bike, brings it into the shop. Same type as my husband’s.”
“Does this student place his own bets or hand over a list?” asked Crowe.
“List. Mid to short odds, later race meetings, smaller cards. Sometimes he’s in every day, sometimes once a week. Collects winnings close of business.”
“Win often?”
Crowe found himself jotting down the details. He circled ‘smaller cards’, astute betting. An operator like Teflon D would need runners and couriers. A student type: he’s a runner, thought Crowe. Punting by proxy. Maybe Quigley could shed more light.
“More often than not,” she replied.
She seemed comfortable looking at him, her chewing and popping had gone up a gear.
“Do you text him when it’s time to collect?” asked Crowe.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Have you the number?”
“Are you the Guards?” she asked.
“No,” he answered.
“Then no. Sorry,” replied Karen. She started turning pages again, punctuated by gum pops. Worth a shot, he thought.
Crowe folded the slip with Mel Fox’s name on it. Two foxes in one day, definitely a sign.
“Thanks, Karen, what time do you close?”
“Seven-thirty,”
Crowe walked out the door and ambled toward the Boogie-Woogie Café, looking out for expensive looking bicycles along the way.
The sun was dipping low across the sea, throwing pink and red hues across the clouds, and catching the crowns of the swell as it lapped against the harbour wall. At the corner, a woman was pulling the shutters down on the Boogie-Woogie Cafe. Dressed in a black leather biker’s jacket with her unruly grey hair trussed in a bright yellow band, she was a compact looking woman. No question, it was Mel Fox.
Crowe lumbered toward her along the pavement. She stopped the shutter midway and watched him.
“Ms. Fox, I’m here about the kitchen porter position. Is it still open?” he gasped as he slowed down.
Mel Fox looked him over with one glance.
“Everyone calls me Mel,” she said.
She looked like a charming combination of huckster, street-trader, and saint, packaged in black with white framed sunglasses sitting amid the wild curls like a tiara.
“Hello, Mel, my name is John Crowe.”
Crowe leaned against the edge of the shutter frame. Maybe he was dazzling her with his wheezing, he wasn’t sure.
“I know who you are, and the answer is no. I don’t need that kind of baggage on my premises.”
“Can I get a coffee at least?” he asked.
“Sorry, I’m closed.” Said Mel.
Crowe thought long and hard. He straightened up and tugged his clothes together, he ran a hand across the top of his head, patting his wayward hair into place.
“Mel. I’ll do the job for free and I can guarantee I’ll show up every day. I only plan to stay in this town a week or two, I see it as a win-win.”
“Can you come back tomorrow? I’d like to chat then. Good night,” said Mel.
With a flick of her wrist, the shutter slid home and she snapped the lock shut.
“Derry Gallagher can vouch for me,” said Crowe as she turned away.
“That’s no guarantee of anything. Seven thirty tomorrow morning. See you then,” said Mel over her shoulder.
Crowe watched her drive off in a battered looking green Hyundai. The breeze picked up as the twilight settled in. Crowe continued along the harbour wall, past the stacks of brightly coloured trays, lobster pots and seat boxes. Overhead, the sodium lights lit up the trawlers and the yachts bumping against the lines of tyres fixed to the wall. Crowe came to the edge of the jetty. The full force of the wind buffeted his fleece and his face felt the cold needles of sea spray. The temperature had dropped a few degrees forcing his hands into the pockets of his fleece. Inishcarrig glowed in the low sun, casting a long shadow across the sea. Ten feet below his worn-out runners, the depths of the dark sea churned.
It would be so easy. Just stepping off. Let gravity do the rest. Jump and forget, let Alison and Cathal go on without him. End the online trolls, the hashtags, and the memes. Tweets going up like an incendiary kite with toxic threads on its tail. Give the closest to him some peace from the noise. #MadGardaScum Crowe couldn’t swim, and he wouldn’t resist, he’d keep his hands in his pockets…
His fingers clasped onto the phone. He pulled it out, maybe send a text. ‘I’m sorry’, or maybe phone, leave a voice message. He began to thumb a message to Alison and Cathal. A sudden tremor in his hand made him lose his grip and he watched in horror as the phone slipped from his grasp and dropped. He caught it. His hand and the elements fought for the phone. He watched in slow motion as it slid through his fingers.
Fuck me.
The phone glanced off the concrete edge and landed on one of the heavy tyres that protected the ships hulls. It began to yield to gravity, tilting slowly along the tyre. Crowe flattened himself onto the ground and reached out. Fearing his fingertips would tip it over into the depths, he made a lunge for it.
He retrieved it.
The screen had a faint mesh of new cracks and the message seemed to have been sent.
“Ohshitohfuckohjesuschrist…” he breathed.
Crowe looked around the world with a mix of shame and hopelessness for the last time. The brightly coloured trawlers boats were moored and unoccupied. Past them, the Boogie-Woogie was all shuttered up and dark. The roadway and jetty were deserted. The bleak twilight that enveloped Roscarrig wended its way to his knees. He turned back, facing towards the edge.
He wasn’t sure if his foot had slid forward off the edge, but the sudden high plume of water to his right snapped him alert.
Had someone else jumped, or fallen, caught off guard by the wind?
Crowe hopped back a few paces. A shoulder high wall separated the stone jetty from a slipway for the RNLI lifeboat station. Standing on tip toes he peered over it. The playful bark of a dog drifted over the waves. The animal came out of the sea like a squat panzer tank; some breed of Staffordshire, a mean looking beast in a sturdy harness. Its owner, a shaven headed personification of the staffy was laughing. The dog’s tail was wagging as its owner picked it up by the harness and tossed it back into the sea. It barrelled out of the water and shook itself on him. The man’s laughter as he picked up the meaty dog and hugged it mixed with the excited licks and loud barks. The two leaned into the wind and trotted up the slipway, past the lifeboat station. Both had slavering grins. They didn’t notice Crowe.
Another sound whipped around his ears. Squinting against the breeze, Crowe could hear a chainsaw buzz. For a brief moment, he thought it was scrambler bikes. A movement across the sea drew him to two small dots revving across the water toward the island. They disappeared over a wave.
Then they reappeared over the next crest. Two jet skis. In tight loops they came closer towards the harbour.
Crowe ran a sleeve across his eyes wiping away the tears and spray and remembered the bookies would be closed soon. He dashed down the jetty, loping in the same direction as the man and his barking sturdy pet.
The man had stopped, looking back at the jet skis. He made a gesture with his arm, Crowe barely noticed, maybe a familiar wave to them. With a twist of acceleration, the two jet skis revved off in the direction of the island.
The Staffordshire panted in damp contentment; its unwavering gaze fixed on Crowe.
Dogs eat foxes, he thought. Cannibals. He was in a town full of fucking cannibals.
Cannibals riding mountain bikes.
Suddenly spooked, Crowe picked up the pace and began to sprint toward the safety of the town and its boiling pots of bones.
If he had been paying closer attention, he might have noticed the man was holding a walkie talkie.
6
TIK, TIK, TIK went the clippers until it felt like the phantom nail was trim. Some nerve endings never die, he thought as he woke from a troubled dream. The sheets were cloying to him in his night sweat. Crowe wondered what time the laundromat opened.
“..It is the opinion of the Garda Commissioner that this is the desirable course on review of the disciplinary hearing, and also after careful review of your service record to date and previous..”
It was 4:30am. The official letter so carefully folded for weeks was now just ash. Its remains tipped into the pedal bin with most of last night’s uneaten meal. The choice was simple; plug out of this crisis and survive or plug back in to THE BIG MACHINE and die. Crowe’s listless sleep had been broken by the screeching of gulls. They had woken him from a dream of running through Roscarrig being pursued by cannibals with missing thumbs on bikes shouting and whooping his name. Sitting by the window, he’d hoped for the fox but the shrieking colony of gulls below was making an unholy racket. They made short work of the neatly tied and stacked black bags. His suicide text was stuck in drafts on his phone. Like a grenade with the pin pulled out, it could go at any time. He couldn’t delete it. Or to be brutally honest, he didn’t know how to.
After burning the letter, in a state of agitation he had stretched out on the floor, placed a pillow under his head and tapped play on the mediation app that Patricia recommended.
‘Breathe in. Hold. Exhale; Breathe in. Hold. Exhale,’ whispered the woman’s voice. Chimes tinkled enticingly around her.
The gulls were now battling and scurrying across the roof beside the skylight. Crowe got up and closed it.
He tried again.
‘…Breathe in. Hold. Exhale.’
The rumbling sound of an aircraft on this week’s flight path, resounded around the garret. Crowe clenched his eyes and tried to breath and hold and exhale as the aircraft accelerated out over the sea. Trying to get to his peaceful place, he imagined himself sitting in a mounted AKAK gun shooting the bastard down.
The phone cut out without warning. He needed to charge it.
Fuck this, he thought.
He put on the kettle and lit a B&H from the hob. He’d need to buy a lighter at some point today.
Crowe shaved, carefully avoiding eye contact with the mirror and then with furtive glances at his reflection, made some attempt at combing his hair. Once it looked less of a mad man’s arse, Crowe rummaged through the holdall and found a clean T-shirt. He felt a little fresher, then debated with himself on the twist of coke, snug in its little nook. He decided he didn’t need that kind of perk up and scrambled together an instant coffee instead.
It was high tide as he walked along the coastline, the waves lapped over the barriers and bollards, the wash bubbled in the storm drains. Across the well-tended sports field, he sidestepped a flock of oyster catchers who eyed him and peeped inquisitively. The jetty was a hive of activity with the first of the catches landing. White vans nudged along to the point where he’d tried to jump.
The shutter was up in the Boogie-Woogie. He knocked on the door.
“On time, always a good start,” said Mel.
She jabbed a thumb toward a table and two chairs.
The piece of paper on the table was printed out in comic sans font. If he ever came to power, Crowe would banish it for all time under pain of death. He remembered Alison emailed everything in comic sans. Considering their marriage, it was apt.
Duties / Requirements – Keep all work surfaces and floors clean & sanitised. Sweep and mop floors. ‘Can do’ attitude in sweeping / mopping up messes to avoid hindering operations…
He looked up at Mel. She was leafing through the VIP Magazine.
“Can do attitude?” he queried.
“Do you want the job or not?” she replied.
… Arrange equipment and ingredient deliveries, take out rubbish and assist in food prep.
He signed on the dotted line. He slid the sheet over, happy his hand hadn’t spasmed. With her glasses sitting on her aquiline nose, her gaze was as steady and unblinking as a falcons.
“You’ll get a split of the tips at the end of each week,” she said.
“No need,” replied Crowe, “I have some money put away,”
She closed the magazine. On the cover was Casey Clarke - influencer, social media blogger and OMG darling of the Red Tops. She posed with her new book ‘Cooking with Casey Clarke’.
“If I could have your attention, John?”
He looked up at Mel,
“You’ll be on your feet for the whole shift. If I catch you with your feet up, you are out on your ear. There are kids working here, some with parents the same age as the man you put in intensive care,” she continued, “If I see or hear of any attitude or aggression from you, you are out on your ear. I have a good crew here; I don’t need any problems.”
Crowe nodded. He wasn’t sure if he needed to salute, or just hug her.
“If everything goes according to plan, and you are still gracing us with your presence in two weeks’ time, I’ll look at putting you on the payroll,”
She rose and Crowe followed.
They passed the counter. Crowe noticed a pump sanitiser beside the cash register. Under the register, neatly stored were more of them,
“Expecting an apocalypse?” he asked.
“There’s a certain demographic who frequent the Boogie-Woogie. You’ve been following the news?”
“I avoid the papers,” replied Crowe.
“A type of H1N1 / SARS flu on its way, the retirement set love to see dispensers, you can never be too careful.”
“It’s spring? Isn’t that a sort of winter phenomenon?” said Crowe.
“Never too careful, John, I have plans for this café, don’t want the clientele keeling over.” she changed the subject. “Do you play golf?” she asked over her shoulder,
“No,” replied Crowe.
“Everyone should have a hobby,”
“So, I’m told,” replied Crowe, “I take it you do?”
“Ladies captain at Roscarrig Golf Club, though I hate that term,” she said, “It should be just captain. Its golf, GAA or nothing in this town. But that may all work in our favour. There’s talk of the island, Inishcarrig, becoming a golf and leisure resort. Derry’s involved. Do you know how much revenue the Ryder Cup generates?”
“No,”
“A cool one-hundred million revenue stream. Guaranteed.”
“I’ve seen Derry’s shirt cuffs, silver golf clubs and ball, stylish. He might need to update his wardrobe then.”
“He’s the club ‘mens’ captain. He loves to boast he has a handicap of 2.8, but then so does Trump. That said, Derry speaks very highly of you. Too much if you ask me,”
Mel gave two pumps of the sanitiser at the end of the counter. Crowe gave a quick press. They turned right at the counter and into the prep area and grill. Compacted between two ovens and a sink stood the steel prep table. It was a very narrow space that led to a sharp L turn leading to the alleyway and bins.
“Deliveries come through the back. You will book in and log everything, store it and maintain it,” she said, “You’ll take full responsibility on this. If anything goes missing or damaged,”
“I’m out on my ear,” said Crowe.
The shelves on either side were neatly stocked with various containers labelled in comic sans. Crowe noticed the CCTV over the door. There was another one on the other side of the door.
“What about foxes, urban ones?” asked Crowe.
“No foxes around here as far as I know,” replied Mel.
“You’d be surprised,” said Crowe.
“Hunting season ended last month. Farandore has an annual fox hunt; the second largest pack in Ireland is there,” said Mel, “We got the spill over and had trays of sandwiches and coffee waiting. The mud was a nightmare to mop up,”
“I dodged a bullet so,” replied Crowe.
“She was here, you know?” said Mel waving the magazine in her hand.
Crowe turned his head quizzically. Mel grinned,
