The Dramatist (6 page)

I recount all this to demonstrate how preoccupied I was. If I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have focused on
where
Ann had asked to meet. A car park, at night? You have to figure I deserved what was rolling down the wire. Went out the door with Emily Dickinson’s words as mantra:

“The heart wants what it wants

Or else it does not care.”

Yeah.

Mrs Bailey gave a gasp of delight, said,

“My oh my, if I were fifty years younger, I’d give you a run for your money.”

I was mortified, so kept it light, went,

“Ary, you’re too much woman for me.”

When she laughed, it came from her soul. You saw the woman who had weathered eighty years, who had witnessed her country dragged screaming into a prosperity that damn near destroyed all she believed in. She gave the stock reply of a satisfied Irish woman:

“Go on outta that.”

Smothered in warmth, these words launched manys the Irish male upon an unsuspecting world. I swear there was bounce in my step as I walked along the arse end of the square. Both my legs working strong and healthy.

“The one consistent interest, passion and obsession of her life was books—even on the night of the fire. While people had often disappointed her, books never did. She was seldom without a stack of ten or more unread library books; a hedge against the reality she could not face.”

Ann Rule,
Bitter Harvest

I reached the Fair Green, moved to where the Dublin coaches
park. No sign of Ann. Two buses were lined near the wall, a space between them. I walked along that, turned to see a man blocking my path. He was big, dressed in a tracksuit, a hurley held lightly in his left hand. He smiled, not with humour or warmth but with a definite air of malevolence. I said,

“Tim Coffey.”

He nodded, answered,

“My wife won’t be coming. Shame, seeing as you are all fancied up, even got a frigging tie. Going to take her somewhere special, were you? Then ride her after? Was that your plan?”

Spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth. I tried to remember what I knew of him. He’d been a sergeant just before I lost my job. Even then, he had a reputation for ferocity. Used his fists for the most trivial offence. The guards were changing; constant media scrutiny, public awareness, all had forced them to tidy up their act. But men like him, who employed brutal methods, were secretly admired and always protected. Plus, he’d been a hurler of some promise, had turned out for provincial teams. There, too, his temper had short-circuited his sporting future.

I let my hands, palms upwards, stand out from my sides, to signal

“Hey, I’m cool, I don’t want aggravation.”

He swung the hurley, catching my right knee with a sickening smack. The pain was immediate, white heat searing to my brain, proclaiming,

“This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

It did.

I fell against the coach, sliding to the ground. Wish I could say I behaved in the macho mode and simply gritted my teeth. No, I howled like a banshee. He swung the hurley again, shattering the bridge of my nose. Then, as the blood cascaded down my white shirt, he flung the hurley aside, bent down, said,

“I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”

And began to beat the shit out of me. I could smell his breath. He’d been wolfing curry recently and chasing it with Guinness and Jameson. Vomit mixed with my blood and I passed out. What I remember is that his nails were filthy, deep dirt entrenched, and I thought,

“Disgusting bastard.”

I opened my eyes and flinched, expecting pain. There was none
.
But I felt confined as if I was in a tight shroud. When I got my bearings I realised I was in hospital, sun streaming through the windows. My hearing hadn’t kicked in and I stared, in a soundless state. The ward was on full go, maybe fifteen other beds, with nurses, visitors and patients mouthing words I couldn’t hear. I began to sit up and, like a switch being turned, I could hear.

Too much.

Coming in stereo, like a wave of terror. I tried to cover my ears.

A nurse appeared, said,

“You’re back.”

She fluffed my pillows because nurses have a moral obligation to do this twenty times daily, said,

“Now, you don’t worry, I’ll get the doctor.”

Worry about what for Chrissakes? She returned with a babe from
Baywatch
. No kidding, this doctor had the regulation white coat, but everything else was supermodel territory. Plus, she looked all of sixteen.

I couldn’t help it, went,

“You’re a doctor?”

Gorgeous smile. She’d had this reaction before, especially from beat-up old men. She answered,

“I’m Dr Lawlor. How are you feeling?”

“Confused…and thirsty.”

She picked up my chart, said,

“You sustained a very severe beating. The guards will want to interview you. Your nose was broken…”

She paused, gave me an intense look, continued,

“But this is not the first time. Your nose has been broken before. Were you a rugby player?”

“Hardly.”

She wasn’t happy with my tone, but her happiness was way down on my list of priorities. When I said nothing further, she said,

“You have some broken ribs and you may experience difficulty breathing. Your right knee was severely damaged. We have inserted a pin. It’s very possible you may have a slight limp. However, physio will ease this.”

I wanted a cigarette…and a drink. But mostly I wanted out, asked,

“When can I leave?”

She smiled, asked,

“Pressing business?”

“Yeah.”

She scanned the chart again, said,

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be ready in a week.”

It was five days. The first time I got out of bed, I nearly fell over. A shard of pain from my knee rocked through my system. I gobbled painkillers, told the nurses that sleep was difficult and got sleepers.

They worked.

Jeff came to visit, bearing grapes. I said,

“I hate grapes.”

He looked the same as ever, like a half-assed hippy. Long grey hair pulled in a ponytail, black 501s, waistcoat and well-worn boots. He should have seemed ridiculous but he carried it off. His movements had a stoned languor and he never touched dope. He settled in the chair and I asked,

“How’s the baby?”

“The baby is nearly three and still not walking. You have to go that extra mile with Down’s syndrome, you know what I’m saying?”

I didn’t.

Initially, he had been near destroyed with his daughter’s handicap. Now though, he had a handle on it. He asked, indicating my condition,

“This related to a case?”

I considered laying it out for him, he was my friend, but went,

“No, it was personal.”

He digested that and I began to ease out of bed. He rose to help and I said,

“No, I’ve got to do this myself.”

A brief smile and he replied,

“Like everything else…you’re the last of the independents, like Walter Mathau in
Charly Varrick
.”

Walking was a bastard. They’d given me a frame but I refused to use it. Started to hobble out of the ward, Jeff walking point. I saw the nurses stare at him; he wasn’t unlike a Hell’s Angel, cleaned up for court. He did own a Harley, the soft-tail custom. Halfway down the corridor, there’s an alcove with signs warning:

NO SMOKING
.

Three patients trailing IVs were huddled there, smoking like troopers. You could barely see them through the blue haze.

Jeff said,

“Tell me we’re not sitting here.”

I sat.

Jeff sighed, asked,

“Can’t we go someplace private?”

The patient beside me had yellow skin, thin as mist, and when he inhaled, his cheekbones disappeared. I asked,

“Spare one, pal?”

He nodded, rummaged in his dressing gown, took out a crushed pack of Players, the old box with the sailor on the front. I didn’t think they made them any more. I took one, smoothed out the creases, tapped it on my wrist to shake the loose tobacco and put it in my mouth. The man produced a brass Zippo, lit me up. I stared at the lighter, said,

“I’d one of them once.”

He grunted, answered,

“It will see me out. I’ve cancer and no visitors.”

What do you reply…bummer?

I turned to Jeff, coughed as the nicotine hit, and he said,

“I can hear you’re enjoying that.”

“Yeah.”

Jeff leaned closer, said,

“If you need any back-up with…”

He indicated my injuries.

“I’m here for you.”

I looked at him in astonishment, said,

“You! You’re kidding! Since when did you do muscle?”

A note of derision in my voice and he caught it, said,

“I ride a Harley. You learn how to take care of things.”

I stubbed at the cig, said,

“Thanks, Jeff, but it’s over, it was a one-off.”

He wasn’t convinced. The lunch trollies were being prepared, and he put out his hand, we shook, and he added,

“You can’t go on living like this.”

I didn’t have an answer and watched as he walked away. Back at the ward, someone had stolen the grapes.

“Around me the world seemed to slip sideways and all the things in the room suddenly looked flat and sharply defined, like high resolution photos of themselves that were too intensely concentrated to recognize. I stood in a synaptic freeze and catalogued my idiocy.”

Matthew Stokoe,
High Life

The guards came, interviewed me briefly. They at least had the
grace to look ashamed as we went through the ritual. My song veered between “I don’t know” and “Don’t remember.” They chorused with “We’ll continue with our inquiries.”

I received get-well cards from Mrs Bailey, Janet, Cathy. The day before my release, I was in the alcove and sucking on a cigarette, looked up and there was Tim Coffey. I felt a shudder but he put out his hand. I asked,

“Where’s your hurley?”

He gave a knowing grin, said,

“I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones. What do you say, shake?”

My mouth had gone dry else I’d have spat on his outstretched hand.

He glanced at my leg, went,

“I hear you’ll have a limp. Jack the gimp, the kids will shout after you; little fuckers, they can be so cruel.”

In as level a voice as I could, I said,

“I’ll have a limp and you, you’ll have something to think about.”

It threw him slightly, but he moved his shoulders, adjusting his body weight, asked,

“And what would that be?”

“When I’m coming.”

There was no card from Ann. I watched the news. An oil spill at the docks, endangering the swans and the oyster beds. I heard someone call,

“Jack Taylor?”

Turned to face Fr Malachy, my mother’s friend. We had years of warfare. He surveyed my condition, said,

“The drink no doubt.”

“I haven’t had a drink for six months.”

“A likely story—you’ll never draw a sober breath.”

I stood, as you never want a man like him to have any advantage. The smell of stale cigarettes came off him in waves. He was wearing the black suit, dandruff on the shoulders, like a sinister jackdaw. The dog collar was grubby, and you wanted to stuff him in a washing machine, turn to mega cycle. I asked,

“They have you nurturing to the sick?”

He glanced around the ward, distaste writ large, said,

“Nobody wants the clergy any more, except the old biddies who try to grab your hand, ask you can you get Padre Pio’s glove.”

“Saint.”

“What?”

“St Padre Pio. He was canonised during the World Cup…the day Spain beat us on the penalties.”

“They should never have sent Roy home.”

I wasn’t going to open that can of worms. Not since the shooting of Michael Collins had the country been so divided. You either backed Roy Keane or you didn’t. Even Northern Ireland didn’t arouse the same passions. Malachy gave a deep groan, the signal for nicotine. I have never known anyone as addicted as him. He’d light one from the butt of another. The urge was on him now and with ferocity. I began to walk down the ward and he followed, whining,

“Hey, I haven’t finished.”

“You’ll want a smoke, right?”

“So?”

“So, even priests have to obey the rules…well, the blatant ones anyway.”

At the alcove, the huddled smokers chorused,

“Father.”

He ignored them, grabbed my arm tightly, and I said,

“Back off.”

He didn’t, went,

“Your mother had to be moved to a nursing home. She’s paralysed on one side and requires twenty-four hour nursing.”

She’d hate that, had said once:

“Nursing home? Knacker’s yard more like. Once you go in, you never come out. Promise me, son, promise me you’ll never let that happen.”

I never promised, but my father would turn in his grave so I asked,

“Where is it?”

“Grattan Road, called St Jude’s.”

He released my arm, seemed uncomfortable, so I pushed,

“Is it OK?”

He stubbed his cigarette on the floor, ashtrays all round him, said,

“It’s a bit basic. She doesn’t have a lot of money, but well, life is hard.”

One of the smokers moved forward, asked,

“Father, could you give us a blessing?”

“Don’t annoy me.”

He hissed and stomped off.

The hospital had cleaned my clothes, but the bloodstains still
clung faintly to the shirt. I looked bedraggled. To ease my limp, they’d given me a walking stick. I’d refused but had to relent. Leaning on it, I thanked the nurse, got a supply of painkillers and took the elevator to the ground floor. A fortune had been spent on the hospital foyer and spent recklessly. It looks like the departure lounge of an airport, with a flash coffee bar, massive potted plants and an air of opulence. Nobody can find Admissions, and people wander round in dazed confusion.

I phoned a taxi and the girl said,