Headstone (2 page)

holiday, drinking café au lait in the early morning

bistros, she reached across the table, took my hand

for reasons not at all, said,

“You make me happy.”

Jesus, mon Dieu, me, to make anyone happy. I was

fit to burst. Our last evening, in a restaurant on the

Left Bank, she literally fed me escargots and I

thought,

“Fuck, if they could see me in Galway now.”

And then her idea:

“Jack, if my next book deal comes through, would

you consider living here for six months?”

Was she kidding? I’d have just stayed there then.

In bed that night, after a slow lingering

lovemaking, we were entwined in each other and

she asked,

“Are you content to be with me Jack?”

I told the truth,

“More than my bedraggled heart could ever have

imagined.” After I got home and we were

arranging for Laura to come to Galway, I went to

the church, lit a candle, pleaded,

“I’ve never asked for much, but if it doesn’t screw

with some inflexible Divine plan, could I please

have this woman with me, could Paris be, indeed,

A Moveable Feast?”

And, I don’t know, the candle flickered, went out.

An omen?

Maybe.

My drinking. She was aware of it, Jesus, how

could she not? But seemed to think there was hope.

I abetted the illusion. No doubt, I’d fuck it up. Sure

as the granite on the walls of Galway Cathedral.

But if this were my one last day in the sun, then I

intended to bask.

My odd times friend/accomplice/conscience was

Stewart. A former drug dealer who’d reinvented

himself as a Zen-spouting entrepreneur. He’d

saved my life on more than one occasion. I was

never sure if he actually liked me but I sure as fuck

intrigued him. I could hear strains of Loreena

McKennitt carried on the light breeze from

somebody’s radio. Worked for me, till my mobile

shrilled.

I answered, heard,

“Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Stewart.”

Before I could snap off some pithy rejoinder, he

said,

“Malachy has been badly hurt.”

Father Malachy, bane of my life. Close confidant

of my late mother, he despised me almost as much

as I did myself. Stewart still clung to the notion I

could be redeemed. Malachy believed I had no

future and my present was pretty much fucked too.

His ingrained hatred of me was fuelled by the fact

I’d once saved his clerical arse. He could have

been the poster boy for “No good deed goes

unpunished.”

But I took no joy in him being hurt, unless I was the

one who did the hurting. He was part of my

shrinking history and I clung to the battered

remnants like an early morning wino and his last

drops of rotgut.

I asked,

“How?”

Pause.

Stewart was trying to phrase it as delicately as he

could, gave up, said,

“He was mugged.”

I nearly went,

“But he’s a priest.”

The awful fact wasn’t that priests were mugged in

our new shiny country, it was that more weren’t.

Stewart said that Malachy was in UCHG, the

University Hospital, in intensive care. I said I’d

get up there straightaway. He said, hesitantly,

“Ah Jack, go easy.”

Then a thought hit me.

Hard.

Steel in my voice, stiffening my question, I asked,

“You think I did it?”

“Of course not.”

I eased, said,

“Well, least you think I have some standards.”

He shot back,

“If you mugged him, he wouldn’t be in the

hospital.”

“What?”

“He’d be in the morgue.”

And he clicked off .

Reluctantly, I left Eyre Square. Was it my

imagination or was the sun already receding? The

recession was in full bite. We’d buried the Celtic

Tiger ages ago. The papers carried daily dire

forebodings of worse to come. The specter of

emigration was looming all over again.

And yet.

A huge new outlet for TK Maxx had just opened.

“Designer clothes at affordable prices.” The Grand

Opening a week before, people had queued for

seven hours. The line of recession-proof people

had stretched from the statue of Liam Mallow, our

Republican hero, past Boyles Betting Shop (free

coffee for punters!) along Cuba’s nightclub pink

façade, and of course the inevitable off-license

(ten cans of Bavarian Lager for ten euros) to the

very doors of the new shopping mecca.

On the great day, a local had invoked St. Anthony’s

Brief:

…………………………flee you hostile

powers

………………………..the lion of the

tribe of Judah

The

root

of

David,

hath

conquered……………Alleluia.

Saint Anthony wasn’t available that day, the only

alleluias we were familiar with were mangled

versions of Leonard Cohen’s classic by
X Factor

wannabes.

Recession my arse.

Swine flu continued to stalk, slow but deadly,

across the land. The death toll higher than the

government would admit. But hey, they had good

news: we’d only a year to wait for the vaccine.

And just to add a kick in the balls, they said,

“It will be administered according to priorities.”

Meaning the likes of me, and such, weren’t on the

top ten. I passed down by HMV, who were touting

Season Three of
Dexter,
the serial killer who only

kills the bad guys.

Maybe we could import him.

Then down past Abracadabra, the home of the

drunkard’s beloved late-night kebab. I turned at

what used to be Moon’s shop and is now the posh

Brown Thomas, selling the latest Gucci handbag at

the amazing price of only three thousand euros.

I doubt my late dad ever saw three thousand

pounds his whole wretched life.

Passed Golden Discs, now closed (the lease had

run out), and reached the Abbey Church. Recently

renovated, it looked much the same except the

price of a mass card had skyrocketed. I dipped my

fingers in the holy water font, blessed myself and

headed for St. Anthony’s altar. I lit a candle for

Malachy and for my legion of dead and departed.

The rate those I knew were dying, I could open my

own private cemetery, issue loyalty cards, and,

why not, air miles.

You want something from Saint Anthony, it’s real

simple,

“Pay him.”

I did.

Shoved a large note in the slot and momentarily

was lost for words,

So many dead.

The best and the brightest as always. I prayed for a

little girl, Serena-May, who still tore the heart out

of my chest.

Back when I’d been trying to find who killed

Stewart’s sister, I spent a lot of hours with the

Down syndrome child of my close friends Jeff and

Cathie. The little girl filled me with wonder and

yearning; I felt my life had some meaning. Her

gurgle of delight when I read to her did what

gallons of Jameson failed to do: it gave me ease.

Her terrible death, literally in my presence, was a

lament of such horrendous proportions that I had a

complete breakdown and was in a mental hospital

for months. Some things you never reconcile and

Serena-May was my daily burden of love and care,

crushed beyond all recognition.

I prayed for Cody, my surrogate son, dead because

of me. Back in the time of the Tinkers, I’d taken on

a young impressionable kid, one of those wannabe

American young Irish who saw the world through a

cinema lens. In the beginning, I’d given him

literally errands to run but, over time, we’d

developed a bond, so that I came to regard him as

the son I’d never have. It was a time of richness, of

joy, of fulfillment in my shattered life. And, what

the Gods give…………..they sure as fuck take

away.

Mercilessly.

He was cut down by a crazed sniper with a hard-

on for me.

His loss was a cross I’d never climb down from.

Finally, I asked that I might find a modicum of

peace.

It’s not what you read, or even study,

it’s how you bend

the material

to shape and endorse your own dark

designs.

—Caz, Romanian domiciled in Galway

The basement was lit by thirteen black candles. A

flat slab of granite in the rough design of a

headstone was supported by beer crates and acted

as a table. Three ordinary kitchen chairs were

placed thus:

Two on the right side.

One, almost forlorn, on the left.

Top of the table was an ornate throne, rescued

from a theatrical shop—like most businesses, gone

bust, and the throne had been dumped in the skip. It

had been cleaned up and now was alight with

velvet cushions and a decorative banner,

proclaiming “The New Order.”

Behind, pinned on the wall were:

A—a large swastika.

B—a black-and-white reproduction of a

school.

C—a worn, battered T-shirt of one of the

death metal groups.

On the right side of the table were two brothers,

Jimmy and Sean Bennet. They could have passed

as twins but Sean was actually three years older.

They both had long black hair that they seemed to

take turns in flicking out of their respective eyes.

They came from one of the wealthiest, oldest

Galway families and had inherited, aside from

shitloads of cash:

1—Arrogance.

2—Entitlement.

3—Deep seething malignant resentment.

An Irish version of the Menendez brothers but it

was unlikely they’d even heard of that infamous

duo. They had a limited range of knowledge, like

the product of all the wealthiest schools. They

smoked continuously, Marlboro Red, and had

identical Zippos, chunky ones with the logo:

Headstone.

Opposite them was the girl. Currently answering to

Bethany. That changed as frequently as her mood.

Her current look was Goth, deathly pale face,

black mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and, of course,

raven hair to her shoulders. As Ruth Rendell titled

her novel,

An Unkindness of Ravens.

She was very pretty beneath all of the gunk and she

knew it. More, she knew how to use it. She was

twenty-three, burning with a rage even she no

longer knew the motive for. She had embraced

hatred with all the zeal of a zealot and relished the

black fuel it provided.

On the throne was Bine.

Older than all of them and so intoxicated by power

he never even thought of his real name anymore. In

front of him was a small bust of Charles Darwin.

Bine had studied and completely misunderstood

what he read.

His crew were as he’d ordered, dressed in black

sweatshirts, combat pants, and Doc Martens. With

the metal toe installed. To his side was a wooden

crate containing:

Six grenades.

Three assault rifles.

A riot of handguns.

Eight sticks of gelignite.

Two years, count ’em, two fucking years, to bribe,

cajole, steal to assemble that arsenal. They were,

he felt, almost…………… almost ready. He

gestured to Bethany, said,

“Drinks.”

Like most raised in privileged fashion, he had no

fucking manners.

A fleeting frown crossed her face but she rose,

fetched the bottle of Wild Turkey, the inevitable

bottles of Coke,

…………………...………..
cos everything goes

better with it, right

Brought them to the table, thinking,

“Same old macho bullshit.”

Jimmy, always anxious to please, fetched the heavy

Galway Crystal tumblers and Bethany poured

lethal dollops of the Turkey, with a splatter of

Coke, handed the first to Bine.

He raised his, toasted,

“To chaos.”

As was the custom, they near finished the drinks on

a first attempt and all managed to stem the

“Holy fuck”

that such a dose of Wild demanded.

Bine, his cheeks aflame, said,

“To business.”

Sean stood.

Once, he’d sat while reporting and Bine slashed

his face with the Stanley knife. Sean said,

“Attacks:

We’ve hit the old priest, the lesbian, and await

your next target.”

Bine moved his finger, meaning

“Refills.”

That done, he almost seemed relaxed. He caressed