by Ken Bruen
“Get you anything?”
“Yes, a gram of coke.”
He gave a polite laugh, so I had to ask,
“You’re not with the Bank of Ireland by any chance?”
“Hardly. I know you though.”
“Yes?”
“Jack Taylor, ex-cop…you were in the papers last year.”
“Stew, where are we on the coke?”
He excused himself, then returned with a brown envelope. The country was awash in them. He said,
“There’s one and a half.”
“Great, what’s the damage?”
It was steep. As he let me out, he said,
“Call any time.”
London by-law:
“No gypsy, hawker, beggar, rogue or vagabond shall enter the burial ground.”
The funeral was massive and probably the biggest I’ve seen. God knows I’ve seen a few. Sometimes, I feel like an old cemetery, laden with coffins. There is nothing like the funeral of a tinker. It almost beggars belief. If there be truth in nothing in your life becomes you like the leaving of it, then they score heavily on all fronts. Descriptions like show-stopper, showpiece, showboat don’t come close. The first thing to know is expense doesn’t matter. Secondly, you will almost never experience such an outpouring of grief. Arab women used to have the lock on public demonstrations of sorrow. Not even close to the women of travelling stock. It’s not that they rend their garments: they lacerate their very souls. Dylan Thomas, when he wrote of rage against the dying of the light, would have witnessed his words personified.
I was relieved it was the Bohermore Cemetery because none of my crowd is buried there. We’re planted in Rahoon with Nora Barnacle’s dead lover. One of those days, I’d have to go visit.
Walking behind the hearse is a custom almost obsolete. Not that day. Sweeper came over, said,
“I got you a lift.”
“I’ll walk.”
He was very pleased. At the graveside, various travellers shook my hand, clapped my shoulder. Word was out that I was OK. Neither settled community nor tinker, I was outlaw enough to be accepted. They said,
“God bless you, sir, thank you for your trouble. May Mary His Mother mind all belong to you.”
Like that. Warmth articulated. I was coked enough and feeling no pain. Began to wander among the tombstones and there it was.
Tommy Kennedy
Librarian
1938-1989
Jesus, perilously close to the age I was now. I don’t believe in omens, but coke does. I gave an involuntary shudder. Never heard Sweeper come up behind. He said,
“Jack.”
I jumped two feet. He nodded at the headstone, said,
“He was a friend to my people.”
“To me, too.”
“The best go first.”
“More’s the Irish pity.”
He gave me a look of near total compassion. That’s not a guy thing. We don’t show that stuff. I didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to what he thought of me. He said,
“There’s a bit of a do at the hotel.”
“Thanks, I’ll be there.”
“I know you will, Jack.”
And he was gone. I put my trembling hand on Tommy’s stone. Few men had ever shown as much kindness or taught me as much. I’d gone off to Templemore for guard training and forgotten all about him. To my eternal shame, he was dead for two years before I heard. God might forgive me, it’s the business He’s in. I won’t. The presiding priest was my old nemesis, Fr Malachy. He was a friend of my mother’s and loathed me. He smoked Major cigarettes, which had a brief fame when Robbie Coltrane smoked them in Cracker. True coffin nails, stronger than poitín and twice as lethal. He’d aged badly, but what smoker hasn’t? Malachy approached me, said,
“You’re back.”
“True.”
“I’d kill for a cig.”
“You quit?”
“Good heavens, no, I left them in the vestry. The altar boys will steal them.”
I offered the soft red pack. He gave me the look.
“And when did you start?”
“Forgive me, Father, you want one or not?”
He did, tore the filter off. I lit him up and he ate lungfuls, said,
“Shite.”
“Nice language for a priest.”
“I hate those things.”
“So stop.”
“Not cigarettes…funerals, especially this crowd.”
“All God’s children surely.”
He slung the cig, said,
“Tinkers are nobody’s children.”
He was gone before I could respond.
Needless to say, I was first at the hotel. As a better man than me put it,
“Fair fuck to them for letting the tinkers in.”
Recently the tinkers had hit back after years of discrimination, successfully suing pubs that denied access. The publicans had to regroup. As someone who’s been barred from most establishments, my heart does not bleed. I stepped up to the counter. The barman looked like Robbie Williams. I could only hope his manner was different. He said,
“Good afternoon, sir. Are you with the funeral party?”
“I am.”
“The bar is free until two thirty. What can I get you?”
“A pint and a Jameson chaser.”
“Would sir like to take a seat? I’ll bring it over.”
I nibbled at the peanuts. Of all things, I was thinking of two authors. Tommy Kennedy had introduced me to them. Walter Macken, as fine then as now, and Paul Smith. Time was, on my shelf were Esther’s Altar, The Stubborn Season and my sad favourite, Summer Sang in Me. Not too long ago, I’d found his The Countrywoman in a Lambeth library. Published in 1961, for me, it beats hands down either Strumpet City or Angela’s Ashes. Through Paul Smith, I discovered Edna St Vincent Millay, a mega bonus. The barman bought the drinks, said,
“Good health.”
“Whatever.”
The pint was as near perfect as I’d experienced. Got to agree with Flann O’Brien, “A pint of plain is your only man.” Washed over the cocaine like a rosary. As a young guard, I went to see Eamonn Morrissey in The Brother and I was supposed to see Jack McGowran in Waiting for Godot. Got pissed instead. What a mistake. Took a hit of the Jameson and was as close to heaven as it gets. The travellers began to trickle in. Sweeper came over, said,
“Don’t be alone.”
“Is that like an imperative? Tell me, what did you do with the hand?”
“Buried it.”
I took a hefty swig of the drink. Burned like a bastard, which was good. The place was hopping now. I said,
“Great crowd.”
“We honour our own. No one else will.”
“Sweeper, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to know what to call ye.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Travellers, tinkers, gypos…what? I’m very uncomfortable with tinkers.”
“It’s what they call us.”
“I didn’t ask you that, did I? What do I term you?”
“The clans.”
“Hey, that’s good.”
A faraway look came into his eyes. He said,
“After the Great Hunger, if the clans fell out, they’d set fire to each other’s abodes, so we got fired.”
A number of voices called him and he snapped back to the present, said,
“I must away.”
“Away to the clans.”
He gave the small smile. I had another drink and realised I felt at ease among them. I could have drunk me a river but I had to keep some semblance of focus. Told myself,
“The case is straightforward. All I have to do is find out who and why.”
Finishing the whiskey, I thought,
“Fuck the who. I’ll settle for why.”
I stood in the Fair Green. Look north, there was the Simon Community. I was but a few drinks from a bunk there. If they’d have me. Behind me was the lure of the clans. Oh
boy did it beckon, entreat, calling,
“Come back, get wasted, we’ll mind you.”
I’m sure they would, mind me, that is. Of course, I headed east, past at least four pubs where if not welcome, I would at least be tolerated. You can’t say fairer than that. Always, once I get a certain ration of drink down, I get the munchies. Only for chips in newspaper, doused in vinegar, smelling to high heaven, heaven in measured doses.
Echoes of a childhood I wish I’d had. As a child the greatest comfort was the prospect of chips on a Friday night. School was out for the weekend, there was a match on Sunday, and you had a sixpence to go to the chipper. When the time finally arrived, it almost never disappointed. You galloped up to the chip shop, joined the queue and absorbed that magical aroma of deep fat and vinegar. You nearly swooned from expectation; then your turn came and you ordered,
“A single to go with salt and vinegar.”
They came wrapped in newspaper and were too hot to eat, so you buried your nose in the smell. Of all your promises, you most pledged to live on chips when you were an adult. Among the many reasons I hate fast food joints is they deprive children of the mystery of the chipper. There is still a place in Boher-more that sells “singles”, and that’s where I bought them now. I held the hot package in my hands as I moved along St Bridget’s Terrace. Then crossed at the new luxury apartments and hit the crest of the hill. Right above Hidden Valley, you can see the Corrib and the sheer stretch of it. At night, the lights of the college sprinkle across the water and arouse such yearning, but for what?
I still don’t know.
At the house, I followed the honoured tradition of fumbling for my keys. I heard,
“Excuse me?”
Turned to take an iron bar smack in my mouth. Felt my teeth go, heard a voice say,
“Get him in the alley.”
It runs alongside the house. I was dragged and then took a ferocious kick in the balls. Up came the chips and booze, heard,
“Aw, for fuck’s sake, he’s puked all over me.”
“Break his nose.”
He did, with the bar. That was about it. I lay slumped against the wall. A voice beside my ear,
“Like to hang with the tinkers, do you?”
Then an intake of breath and he kicked me on the side of the head. I blacked out. When I came to, I don’t know was it minutes or hours. An elderly couple passed and she said,
“The cut of him, it’s scandalous.”
If I could, I’d have shouted,
“What do you expect? I’m a tinker.”
Eventually, I got inside, went to the sink and spat. Teeth and blood tumbled out. I got to the front room and a bottle of Irish, drank from the neck. The raw alcohol lacerated my torn gums, but it got past them. My suit was destroyed, the blue shirt in shreds. Despite what the movies show, it takes some strength to rip a shirt. I found my crumpled cigs and fired up. Held the heavy Zippo like a talisman. More whiskey, better. After much searching, I found Sweeper’s number, then an age to focus till finally,
“Hello?”
“It’s Jack, help me.”
I passed out. When I next opened my eyes, I was lost. In bed, in pyjamas, first thought,
“Oh fuck, not hospital.”
If hospitals gave air miles, I could have travelled extensively. Heart lurch, a figure near the door. Focused, my head howled. It was Sweeper, asleep in a chair. Keeping the night watch. I couldn’t feel a hangover. Why couldn’t I? Worrying. Sweeper held the 9mm in his lap. I better not make any sudden moves. Gave a small cough. He stirred, and I asked,
“Where’s my hangover?”
He shook himself, seemed surprised to find the gun, laid it on the floor, said,
“You’re full of painkillers.”
My mouth was numb but not hurting. Numb I could hack. Asked,
“Who put me to bed?”
Half smile then.
“We found you on the floor. You were in bad shape, my friend. Got a doctor and he worked on you. That was two days ago.”
“Jesus.”
“The clan have guarded you in shifts. You will, of course, need a dentist.”
“I need tea.”
He got up, and I nodded at the gun. He said,
“If you’d been carrying this, you wouldn’t be toothless.”
“I was carrying chips. If I’d had that, they’d have made me eat it.”
“They surprised you?”
“They bloody amazed me.”
He went to do tea things, and I got cautiously out of bed. Woozy but functional, I moved slowly towards the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I’ve never been an oil painting, but without teeth, I was the total descent into ugliness. Told myself,
“Gives character to your face.”
Sure. That and a 9mm, maybe people wouldn’t fuck with me. When I finally got downstairs, I had on an NUI sweatshirt, faded 501s. My balls were black and blue and swollen. Managed to drink some tepid tea, skipped the toast. Sweeper passed over some red and grey capsules, said,
“Keep the pain at a distance.”
I was thinking coke, possible with a broken nose? He said,
“I removed the cocaine lest the guards come.”
When I didn’t answer, he said,
“Tiernans.”
“What?”
“Brothers, the ones who did you. They hate tinkers. They’ve gone to ground, but when they surface…I’ll let you know.”
The end, for all anyone could tell,
Was a conversation; polite, civilised
Almost banal; you had coffee with milk
No sugar. That was your
Customary choice. Nothing strange in that.
But, I had tea…
An unaccustomed choice;
Appropriate for an upheaval.
Jeff O’Connell
Apart from a visit to the dentist, I didn’t venture out much over the next few weeks. Stayed home, stayed semi-pissed. The dentist went,
“Argh…”
This wasn’t good. He asked,
“What happened?”
“ Rugby scrum.”
He gave me the look but let it slide. An hour and a half in the chair as he did horrendous things. My mouth was so full of instruments, I could have started a DIY. When we took a break, I said,
“Don’t tell me any of the procedures.”
“I’ve gotten most of the fragments out and…”
“Whoa, Doc…trust me, I truly do not want to know.”
Back in the chair, more excavation. Finally he did the impressions, said,
“Should be able to fit you in a fortnight.”
“Can’t you dance something temporary in there?”
Shaking his head, he said,
“Trust me, Mr Taylor, when the anaesthetic wears off, even your tongue is going to seem too much.”
As I prepared to leave, he asked,
“Have you medical insurance?”
“Nope, that and no teeth: the Irish male in all his glory.”
“Well, at least you’ve kept your sense of humour. I think you’re going to need it.”
“Thanks, Doc, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”
“I’d ease up on the rugby for a bit.”
During my last case, I’d been involved with a guard named Brendan Flood. He’d kicked the bejaysus out of me, broken the fingers of my left hand. That was the first time I met him. Then he got religion and a massive change of allegiance. Actually solved the case and led me to killing my best friend. What they call a colourful relationship. I’d kept his number and rang him that evening.
“Hello?”
“Brendan, it’s Jack Taylor.”
Long pause, then deep intake of breath.
“You’re back.”
“I am.”
“They never found your friend.”
“No, no, they didn’t.”
“What can I do for you, Jack?”
“Your information was gold before: I wonder if
I might prevail on you further?”
“As long as it concurs with the Lord.”
“Still a believer, eh?”
“Yes, Jack, the Lord believes in you, too.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I told him about the killing of the tinkers. He asked,
“The guards are not actively pursuing this?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. Can you help?”
“Give me your number, I’ll ask around.”
“Great, but be discreet.”
“The Lord is my discretion.”
Click.
I was drinking Robin Redbreast. Christ, if that isn’t a blast from the fifties. My father would have a glass with his slice of Christmas cake. God knows, as my mother baked it, you’d need all the help available. He was a good man. My mother is a walking bitch, then and now. I hadn’t heard light nor hair of her in over a year. Maybe she was dead. She adored my one outstanding credential: my failure. With such a son, she could be seen to endure. The woman was born to martyrdom, but only with an audience. Pay per view.
My expulsion from the guards, my drinking, my non-starter life: she couldn’t have wished for more. Bit down hard on this line of territory. Shit, what was I playing at? Picked up the phone, rang Kiki. This number I had memorised.
“It’s Jack.”
“Jack, how are you? Why haven’t you called? When can I come?
“Jeez, slow down, I’m fine and…I miss you.”
“So, can I come?”
“Of course, but give me two weeks.”
“Why, Jack?”
“Cosmetic reasons.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, good news, I have a house and a job.”
“But, Jack, you know I need my own space.”
I wanted to shout,
“If you need your own space, why the fuck come to Ireland?”
But stayed with it, said,
“Stay here for a few days till you get acclimatised.”
“ Ireland is so different?”
“Trust me, after fifty years, I’m still adapting.”
“I can come in two weeks?”
“Absolutely.”
“And, Jack, do you love me?”
“Sure.”
“I love you, too.”
Put the phone down and pondered the conversation. No, I didn’t love her. Blamed the Robin Redbreast.