The Dramatist (13 page)

He droned on about the lethal beauty of the weapon, its ferocious simplicity. I felt the guys behind me shuffle their feet. They’d heard this before. Their shoes, I looked at them, raised my head, said,

“These guys, they’re guards.”

He raised the pike above his head, shouted,

“We are the new guards.”

And slammed the pike into the centre of the wood table, the head imbedded a good three inches. The handle quivered with the force. Yeah, it got me and my body gave a jump. I felt anger build, asked,

“That what you used on the poor bastard, to disembowel him? How many of ye to hold him down?”

He gave the smile again,

“We’ve been watching you, Jack. In your own small way, you too have been fighting the evil that goes unpunished. You were a guard, too. Join us.”

I was lost for words, wanted to laugh out loud, said,

“Go fuck yourself.”

He gave a slight shake of his head—not anger, disappointment—then nodded to the men. They grabbed my arms, tied my hands behind me, pulled a cotton hood with no openings for eyes or mouth, over my head. I asked,

“What, you going to do me, too?”

I felt him close up, then a hand on my shoulder. He said,

“Jack, you will join us. As a demonstration of our belief in you, we’ve done you a special service this evening. I get the feeling you weren’t paying attention in your history class, so here is a brief summary. The rebellion began when the hated Yeomen burned the church at Boolevogue. Fr Murphy, who had advised his parishioners to give up their arms, now told them to die courageously rather than be butchered. Once the rebels took Vinegar Hill, the whole country rose up. The most effective weapon they had was the pike. A solid mass of Wexford pikemen could only be broken by heavy artillery fire.”

Then I was pulled to my feet and marched up some stairs, out to the street. I stumbled a few times. Being deprived of sight gives a complete sense of vulnerability. The van door opened and one of the guys said,

“Watch your step, Jack.”

His voice was friendly, slightly amused. Within ten minutes we stopped and my hands were untied, the door opened and I was pushed out. Gaining my balance, I pulled off the hood as the van disappeared round a corner. I was close to the hotel and, save for a lone student, the streets were deserted. He looked as confused as I felt, with traces of vomit on his jeans. He said,

“Party town, eh?”

And wandered in the direction of Eyre Square.

I went into Bailey’s, got to my room without seeing anyone and slumped on the bed. My head hurt but I didn’t think it was serious. I could now tell Jeff I knew what he was talking about, and who else? Ridge? She’d say there was nothing to pursue. Or I could go to the top, to the superintendent of the guards.

Clancy and I had been friends, pulled early duties together. My career had ended and he’d gone to the very top. Our paths had crossed in the years since, and we were, if not enemies, at least adversaries. He viewed me with contempt. Whenever I’d tried to enlist his help, he’d laughed in my face. I got into bed, no plan formulated. I needn’t have fretted; the superintendent was coming for me.

I was in a deep sleep when I felt myself pulled awake, muttered,

“What the fuck?”

Two guards towering over me. For a crazy moment, I thought it was the Pikemen again. The first said,

“Get dressed, Taylor.”

I tried to shake the sleep away, and the second one pointed at my pillow, traces of blood, said,

“We better take that.”

The room was in a mess; they’d already searched it. As I fumbled into my clothes, I asked,

“You want to tell me what the hell is going down?”

From a previous era, I’d stashed a Browning Automatic under the floorboards. Thank Christ, it wasn’t that category of search.

Otherwise.

At least I’d quit my cocaine habit and no longer kept a stash. There wasn’t even a bottle of booze. The first guard didn’t answer my question, and when I was dressed, he snapped,

“Let’s go.”

The second one asked,

“Do we cuff him?”

Got the look from us both. As we went past the reception desk, I shook my head at Mrs Bailey and she refrained from comment. A squad car was waiting and a small crowd had gathered. Someone shouted,

“Is it Bin Laden?”

They put me in the back and we moved away. The guards were silent, with grim expressions. I knew from my own career as a guard that silence meant serious trouble. Anything less and the guards would chat, if not freely at least quietly. They didn’t talk if they feared compromising the impending charge. I was rushed into the interview room, left alone. I asked,

“Could I get some tea?”

No tea.

Twenty minutes dragged by, then the door opened and Clancy entered, dressed in full regalia. The title of superintendent was still feeding his ego. His eyes were bleary, his skin mottled. The once formidable body had folded in on itself. He said,

“Taylor.”

The tone was heavy. I asked,

“What’s going on?”

He stared at me, then,

“Tim Coffey has been murdered.”

“What?”

Ann Henderson’s husband, who’d given me my limp.

Clancy asked,

“Where were you last night?”

And I felt relief flood in, said,

“I was with somebody.”

He raised an eyebrow, asked,

“What time and the name?”

He took out a solid black notebook. I remembered those well. You better get everything down, especially times, dates, locations. If you had to do court, it might be your sole line of defence against a rampaging cross-examination. Clancy read through what I’d said, then walked out. Two hours passed and I knew it wasn’t taking that long. The extra was to let me stew. When he eventually returned, he was not pleased, said,

“It checks out.”

“So, I’m free to go?”

He pulled up a chair, turned it round, cowboy style, so he could rest his arms on the support: macho pose.

He said,

“You could have hired someone.”

I let that notion float, then,

“You don’t believe that, and you certainly know you can’t prove it. Otherwise, I’d be hauled off to a cell and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He rubbed his cheek with his hand and I asked,

“How was he killed?”

“With some sort of heavy metal pole, his skull caved in. I understand you and he had an…altercation.”

He pronounced it with great care, almost delicately. It’s a true guard word, conveying seriousness and an implied grandeur. Not for everyday usage. One you saved, savoured and unleashed at the appropriate time. I repeated,

“Altercation! I must look that up.”

I did, later. The dictionary described it as “vehement dispute”. I sat back in the chair, said,

“He beat the living shit out of me and, yes, with a hurley, but you know this already. Your officers investigated and, gee whiz, superintendent, guess what? Nothing came of it, not a damn thing.”

He smiled and I noticed his teeth had been capped. No doubt it would enhance his media appearances. He was picturing the scene of Tim Coffey towering over me. I asked,

“Would you be interested at all in finding out who did kill Coffey?”

His smile didn’t fade but the wattage had dimmed. He said,

“I like you for it, Jacky-boy.”

I looked at him for a long time, wondering how it was we’d been such close friends and had moved so far from there. I said,

“The Pikemen.”

He laughed out loud, a braying harsh noise, like the essence of nastiness, said,

“Pikemen, me arse. They’re part of what the younger people like to call ‘urban legend’.”

But his body language had shifted, the deliberate casual pose was now on full alert. I said,

“Urban legend with guard shoes.”

He shot off of the chair, snapped,

“Get out.”

I stood up and for a mad moment thought we might shake hands. He flung the door open and I was out of there. I stood on the steps of the station, a brief shaft of sunlight on my face. From my left, a woman approached. Ann Henderson. Before I could formulate a single word, she spat in my face, then turned and walked away.

I was sitting in Nestor’s, a coffee going cold before me. I’d related
to Jeff the whole series of events and he never once interrupted. He’d been polishing a glass, his head tilted to the side. The glass was shining. Time to time, I touched my left cheek, under the eye where the spittle had landed.

Jeff put the glass aside, said,

“We’ll go after them.”

“You and me?”

He looked round. The sentry was staring into space. He asked,

“You see anybody else?”

“No.”

When I finally got back to the hotel, it was dark. Mrs Bailey asked,

“Are you all right?”

“I am.”

“Good man.”

I got upstairs and washed my face in cold water. Didn’t help. The spittle had burned beyond the skin. Jeff had said he’d find out the identity of the Pikemen’s leader. I’d asked,

“How?”

He shrugged.

“How hard can it be?”

“Heavy drinkers don’t need to talk or cause trouble. There is a mutual agreement to just sit there and watch things slow down as you go numb, and nobody has anything to add, no commentary or footnote.”

Chad Taylor,
Electric

Next morning I felt, as the lines go:

“Drained of all

But memories of you.”

I got the Synge books off the shelf and a pad and pen, tried to put him down on paper.

He was born in Dublin in 1871. His father, a barrister, died when Synge was in infancy. A student at Trinity, he later went to Paris. A meeting with W.B. Yeats was to be hugely influential. Yeats suggested he visit the Aran Islands, to learn how the Irish peasant lived and worked. From 1899 to 1902, he would visit there annually. The result was
The Aran Islands
in 1907, an account of his time there. Then there were the plays, the first,
In the Shadow of the Glen
, in 1903.

Riders to the Sea
in 1904.

Well of the Saints
in 1905.

Then of course, the famous riots in 1907 at the Abbey when
The Playboy of the Western World
was unveiled. If nothing else, it ensured his fame.

That year, 1907, also saw his diatribe against the clergy,
The Tinker’s Wedding
.

Synge became a director of the Abbey and 1909 brought
Poems and Translations
.

From 1897, he had suffered from Hodgkin’s Disease.
Deirdre of the Sorrows
was begun but never completed as he entered his final days.

His realism and brazenly uncompromising portrayal of his people made him many enemies. You can say anything you like about the Irish, just don’t say it directly.

I read through the notes and tried to grasp what a killer would find in Synge that would lead him to leave the man’s work as his signature. I couldn’t see it. I liked what Yeats said of Synge:

“He was the more hated because he gave his country what it needed, an unmoved heart.”

That description, an unmoved heart, set up a deep chord in my soul. I’d known it all my troubled life.

I sat back, tried to get a picture of what the link could be between Synge and the Dramatist. I felt an idea forming when the phone rang.

Shit.

I picked up, said,

“Yeah?”

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“This is the matron of St Jude’s, the nursing home?”

“Oh right, I was going to call you. I’ll be moving my mother today.”

Heard a confused voice in the background, her muffled reply, then,

“Today?”

“Yes, an ambulance will collect her I imagine.”

Her breath came in short gasps. She asked,

“How on earth did you know so quickly?”

My turn to pause, then I asked,

“Know? Know what?”

“That your mother died twenty minutes ago.”

I let the phone fall.

I don’t know what it is about funerals and the weather. Well, Irish
ones. We’re used to rain. It’s the west of Ireland; rain is what we do. But at funerals, every single one, it lashes down like it was personal.

My mother’s was no exception.

Never let up, just teemed like a bastard. A large crowd, mostly people from her church. At the grave, her old retainer, my old nemesis, Fr Malachy droned on about dust to dust. I looked at the faces of the assembled mourners. They were appropriately sad. Course, the incessant downpour wasn’t helping lift their spirits. As the only son, I was the chief mourner, but they managed to ignore me. If death brings a spirit of reconciliation, they weren’t privy to it. Finally, Malachy was done and sprinkled holy water on the casket. He looked at me, or rather glared. I moved to grab a handful of soil and he shook his head. I thought “fuck you pal” and let it fall on the coffin. The gravediggers began to lower my mother and signalled me to participate. She was no weight, no weight at all.

The task completed, I stepped back and Margaret took my hand. Malachy noticed and frowned. I gripped her fingers tight. Ridge, across from us, blessed herself and moved away.

I cleared my throat, said,

“Um, thank you for coming. I’ve booked Hollywood’s Bar, for…um…food, refreshments…you’re all invited…thank you.”

And felt like a horse’s ass.

They didn’t come.

Just Margaret, Ridge and tables of sandwiches, canisters of tea, coffee and five bar staff. Eventually, the bar manager, getting antsy, asked,

“Are you expecting more…guests?”

I shook my head.

Margaret took a sandwich. It left the mountain of food unmoved. She attempted a bite, asked,

“Your friend, the one who owns the bar?”

“Jeff, and his wife Cathy.”

She was nervous, sorry she’d mentioned them, and I said,

“They didn’t show.”

I offered no explanation as I had none. Ridge, toying with an orange juice, almost looked pretty. A dark suit, with a fashionably cut skirt, white blouse with a hint of cleavage. Close up, the cut of the outfit was poor; whatever else, Ridge always shopped cheap. I said,