The Guards (3 page)

We trust in your speedy return of said item.

Mise le meas,
B. Finnerton.

I crumpled the most recent and lobbed it across the room. I missed. The rain was bucketing down outside as I bundled into Item 8234.

Fit like harmony.

The only link I had to my former career.

Would I return it? Would I fuck.

My former colleague, Clancy from Roscommon, had risen through
the ranks. I stood outside the garda barracks and wondered at my welcome.

Taking a deep breath, I headed in. A garda, aged about twelve, asked,

“Yes, sir?”

Jesus, how old had I got. I said,

“Would it be possible to see Garda Clancy? I’m not sure of his rank.”

The youngster’s eyes popped. He said,

“Superintendent Clancy?”

“Must be.”

Then suspicion.

“Have you an appointment?”

“Tell him Jack Taylor is here.”

He considered, then,

“I’ll check. Wait here.”

I did.

Read the notice board. Made the gardai appear a friendly, laid-back outfit. I knew better. The youngster returned, said,

“The superintendent will see you in Interview Room B. I’ll buzz you through.”

He did.

The room was painted bright yellow. A lone table, two chairs. I sat in the suspect’s one. Wondered whether to remove my coat, but they might seize it. Left it on.

The door opened, Clancy entered. A whole different animal from the man of my memory. He’d become, as they say, stout. Like fat, as in very. As no doubt fits a super. His face was ruddy, jowled, sagging. He said,

“By the holy”

I stood up, said,

“Superintendent.”

Pleased him. He said,

“Sit, man.”

I did.

We took time out, to survey, assess. Neither of us hot on what we got. He asked,

“What can I do for you, boyo?”

“Just a little information.”

“Oh.”

I told him about the girl, her mother’s request. He said,

“I heard you’d become some sort of half-arsed private dick.”

I’d no reply, so nodded. He said,

“I’d have expected more of you, Jack.”

“Than what?”

“Leeching off a poor woman’s grief.”

That hurt ‘cause of how close to the truth it was. He shook himself, said,

“I remember the case. It was suicide.”

I mentioned the phone call, and he gave a disgusted sigh, said,

“You probably made that call yerself.”

I gave my last try, asked,

“Could I see the file?”

“Don’t be a complete eejit… and sober up.”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

He stood, opened the door, and I grappled for some brilliant exit line. None came. As I waited to be buzzed out, he said,

“Don’t become a nuisance, Jack.”

“I’m already that.”

I headed for Grogan’s. Consoled myself they hadn’t got my coat.
Sean was behind the counter, asked,

“Who ate your cake?”

“Fuck off.”

I stormed to my usual seat, plonked down. After a bit, Sean arrived with a pint and a chaser, said,

“I presume you’re still drinking.”

“I’ve been working … OK?”

“On the case?”

“What else?”

“God help that poor woman.”

Later, the drink in full sway, I said to Sean,

“Sorry if I was a bit touchy.”

“A bit?”

“Pressure, it’s pressure I don’t do well.”

He blessed himself, said,

“Oh, thank God! Is that all it is

“When did a private detective
solve a crime? Never!”

Ed McBain

Some people live their lives as if they were in a movie. Sutton
lives his as if he were in a bad movie.

It’s said the difference between one friend and none is infinity. I’ll buy that. Or that no man who has a friend can be considered a failure. I have to buy that.

Sutton is my friend. As a young garda, I’d pulled border duty. It’s a tedious assignment of rain and more rain. You longed for a shoot-out. What you got was cold sausage and chips in a Nissan hut.

Recreation was the pub.

I drank in the imaginatively titled The Border Inn. My first call there, the barman said,

“You’re the heat.”

I laughed out loud, close to frostbite as I was. He said,

“I’m Sutton.”

He looked like Alex Ferguson. Not a young version but the shouting showman of treble glory days.

“Why are you a guard?” he asked,

“To annoy my father.”

“Ah, hate the old man, do you?”

“No, I love him.”

“You’re just confused, is it?”

“It was a test, see if he’d try to stop me.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Well, you can pack it in then.”

I kinda like it now.”

Over the months of my border duty, I drank in Sutton’s solidly. One time, we went to a dance in South Armagh, I’d asked Sutton,

“What will I need?”

“An Armalite.”

En route to the dance, I was wearing Item 8234 and Sutton asked,

“Tell me you’ll take the coat off for the dance?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, another thing. Don’t talk.”

“What?”

“This is bandit country; your soft vowels could land and us in it.”

“How am I supposed to dance—slip them a note?”

“Jesus, Taylor, it’s a dance. We’re going to drink.”

“I could show them my truncheon.”

The night was a disaster. A dance hall packed with couples. Not an unattached woman anywhere. I said to Sutton,

“They’re all paired off.”

“Sure this is the North, you can’t be too careful.”

“Couldn’t we just have gone to a pub?”

“And miss the ambiance?”

The band were sub-showband era. Nine guys in blue blazers, white pants, and more bugles than the army.

Any army.

Their repertoire went from the Hucklebuck through Euro-vision favourites to crescendo with the Beach Boys.

You don’t know hell till you stand in a damp dance hall in South Armagh as the crowd sing along to “Surfing Safari”.

On the way back, Sutton was navigating a treacherous road when I spotted headlights in the mirror. I said,

“Uh-uh.”

The car made various attempts to overtake, but Sutton was having none of it. We finally shook them off near the border. I asked,

“Which side do you think that was?”

“The bad side.”

“Which is …”

“The one that follows you at four in the morning.”

What remains isn’t always
the worst
that’s left behind.

Sutton moved to Galway. I asked,

“Are you following rne?”

“You betcha.”

He decided to be an artist. I said,

“Piss artist more like.”

But he had talent. I dunno was I delighted or jealous. Both probably, feeding off each other in the Irish fashion. His canvases began to sell, and he decided to act artistic. Bought a cottage in Clifden. Truth be told, I thought he’d become a complete asshole.

Told him so.

He laughed, said,

“It’s only a pose; like happiness, it won’t last.”

Nor did it.

He was back to his old self in a few months. Galway rain will drown out near most pretensions.

Sutton at his worst was better than most people at their best. After my meeting with Clancy I rang Sutton, said,

“Help.”

“What’s happening, dude?”

“The guards!”

“That crowd. What are they doing?”

“They won’t help me.”

“Get on yer knees and thank God.”

I arranged to meet him at Grogan’s. When I arrived, he was deep in conversation with Sean. I said,

“Guys!”

Sean straightened up. No mean feat. His vertebrae howled in anguish at the effort. I said,

“You need Radox.”

“I need a blooming miracle.”

Then they both looked expectantly towards me. I said,

“What?”

In unison, they said,

“Notice anything new?”

I looked round. Same old pub, the line of sad solid drinkers at the counter, chained to their pints by dreams no longer relevant. I shrugged. Which is not an easy thing to pull off for a man of forty-five years. Sean said,

“Yah blind hoor, look where the hurleys used to be.”

A Sutton painting. I moved closer. It appeared to be a blonde girl standing on a deserted street. Equally, it could have been Galway Bay. One of the drinkers said,

“I preferred the hurleys.”

Sean said,

“Gifted, isn’t it?”

He bustled off to make our coffee

Laced

And

Unlaced.

“I had an exhibition at Kenny’s. That one was priced at five hundred guineas.”

“Guineas!”

“Yeah, you can’t beat the touch of class. Like it?”

“Is it Galway Bay?”

“It’s
The Blonde on the Street Corner”

“Oh …”

“Crime novel written in 1954 by David Goodis.”

I put up my hand, said,

“Let’s have the workshop later.”

He grinned, said,

“You’re a thick bollix.”

I told him about my new case. He said,

“The rate of Irish teenage suicide has soared.”

“I know, I know, but something about the call the mother got …”

“Another sicko.”

“You’re probably right.”

Later, we walked down Shop Street. A Romanian woman was playing a tin whistle outside Eason’s. Well, she was blowing into it intermittently. I went over, gave her a few bob. Sutton exclaimed,

“Christ, you’re only encouraging her.”

“I paid her to stop.”

She didn’t.

An eco-warrior was outside Anthony Ryan’s, juggling flaming
torches. He dropped one but seemed unfazed. A garda was ambling towards us. Sutton nodded to him and the garda saluted us, “Men.”

Sutton gave me a curious look, asked,

“Do you miss it?”

I knew what he meant but asked,

“Miss what?”

“The guards.”

I didn’t know, said,

“I dunno.”

We went into Kenny’s in time to clock a bad shoplifter put a Patrick Kavanagh down his pants. Des, the owner, glided past, said,

“Put it back.”

He did.

We passed through the ground floor, out to the gallery. Two of Sutton’s canvases were on show, sold stickers prominent. Tom Kenny said,

“You’re making waves.”

Which is as high as praise rises. I said to Sutton,

“You can pack in the day job.”

“What day job?”

Hard to say which of us liked that answer best.

The next few days were spent investigating. Tracking down any witnesses to the “suicide". There were none. Talked to the girl’s teacher, school friends, and learnt precious little. Unless Cathy B. found startling evidence, the case was over.

Friday night, I resolved to have a quiet time. Two pints and a chips carry-home. Alas, the pints got away from me and I hit
the top shelf. Black Bush, too many to recall. I did get the chips. Piece of cod thrown in to make it appear substantial.

Is there anything more comforting than doused-in-vinegar chips. The smell is like the childhood you never had. As I approached my flat, I was in artificial contentment. Turning to my door, the first blow caught me on the neck. Then a kick to the cobblers. For mad reasons, I hung on to the chips. Two men, two big men. They gave me a highly professional hiding. A mix of kicks and punches that came with a rhythm of precision. Without malice but with absolute dedication. I felt my nose break. Would swear it made the “crunch” sound. One of them said,

“Get his hand, spread the fingers.”

I fought that.

Then my fingers were splayed on the road. It felt cold and wet. Twice the shoe came down. I roared for all I was worth.

They were done.

The other said,

“Won’t be playing with himself for a bit.”

A voice close to my ear.

“Keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

I wanted to cry, “Call the guards.”

As they headed off, I tried to say, “Buy your own chips,” but my mouth was full of blood.

those moments before the dose

Four days I was in and out of fever at University College Hospital,
Galway; locals still call it “The Regional". If you were there, you were fucked. Now if you’re there, you’re lucky.

A woman from the old neighbourhood said,

“One time we’d stomachs but no food. Now we have food and no stomachs.”

Or

“Loveen, there’s no drying out. When we had great drying, we’d no clothes.”

Argue that.

I came to and an Egyptian doctor was checking my file. I asked,

“Cairo?”

He gave a dry smile, said,

“You return to us, Mr Taylor.”

“Not voluntarily.”

I could hear the hospital radio. Gabrielle with “Rise”.

I’d have hummed “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” with her backing band but my mouth was swollen. When she returned to music, I read her ex-boyfriend’s stepfather’s head was found in a tip in Brixton.

I’d have shared this with the doctor but he’d gone. A nurse entered and began immediately fluffing my pillows. They do this if there’s the vaguest hint of you getting comfortable.

My left hand was heavily bandaged. I asked,

“How many broken?”

“Three fingers.”

“My nose?”

She nodded, then said,

“You’ve a visitor; feel up to it?”

“Sure.”

I’d expected Sutton or Sean. It was Ann Henderson. She gasped on seeing me. I said,

“You should see the other guy.”

She didn’t smile. Moved up close and said,

“Is this my fault?”

“What?”

“Is it because of Sarah?”

“No … no … course not.”

She put a paper bag on the locker, said,

“I brought you grapes.”

“Any chance of Scotch?”

“That’s the last thing you need.”

Sean appeared in the doorway, went,

“By the holy.”

Ann Henderson leant over, kissed my cheek, whispered,

“Don’t drink.”

And was gone.

Sean fragiled towards me, saying,

“You must have pissed someone off big time.”