The Killing of the Tinkers (12 page)

“Hey.”

“What kept you?”

“I took a wrong turn.”

Small smile and,

“Didn’t we all.”

Sean’s son wasn’t around so I ordered a pint. Jeff said he’d have a double Paddy. I didn’t comment. When I sat down, he asked,

“Got a smoke?”

Course I wanted to say, “You’re smoking again,” but how redundant was that? Fired him up. He said,

“Wow, this tastes like shit.”

“Why do we do it? You don’t think we enjoy it, do you?”

He drained the double, took a moment, then,

“Are you going to read me the riot act?”

“Me! I don’t think so.”

“Good. Did you ever hear of Phil Ochs?”

“Um…no.”

“A folk singer in the early sixties, he was revered in Greenwich Village, bigger than Dylan. Then he lost it, tumbled into alcoholism. Finished up sleeping in the boiler room of the Chelsea Hotel, where upstairs Leonard Cohen was putting the make on Janis Joplin. Ochs finally hung himself in the bathroom of his sister’s house.”

I had no idea where this was going so asked,

“And this tells me what exactly?”

“He wrote three great songs, ‘An Evening with Salvador Allende’, ‘Crucifixion’ and ‘Changes’. Man, those had it all: humour, politics, compassion. Do you know how many great songs I wrote?”

“No.”

“None.”

We let that circle above our heads, then he said,

“A woman said to me yesterday, nodding at the baby, ‘They love music,’ as if they were fucking pets.”

Jeff never, and I mean
never,
ever cursed. He continued,

“Another one says, ‘They bring great blessing to a house’; and my absolute favourite, ‘They’re all love.’ Jesus, I can’t get my mind off
Mongoloid
. Is it me or is that an ugly word? What happens when she gets to school? She’ll be bullied, taunted as a retard?”

He stopped, and I said,

“That happens, we’ll burn the school.”

“They say she won’t be able to marry.”

“Jeff, buddy, whoa, she’s what? Three weeks old and you’re worried about marriage? Trust me, marriage isn’t so hot.”

“I can’t handle it, Jack.”

“OK.”

He stared at me with rage writ large, said,

“I’m serious, Jack. I can’t raise a handicapped child.”

“So don’t.”

“What?”

“Raise her the best you can, as Serena May.”

“You think?”

“Sure. Don’t get lost in the world of mental disability. You don’t have to go down that road. You think Cathy and the baby will survive if you’re gone?”

He took that, asked,

“What are you planning to do with me?”

“Buy you a drink, then get you home.”

“And if I resist?”

“I’ve got a stun gun.”

“You probably do.”

The awful thing now was, I wanted to continue drinking. The demons were roaring in my soul, and I thought Jeff would be good company. But I locked down, said,

“If you’re ready?”

“Jack, the drinking, how do you keep at it? I’m walloped already.”

“Truth is, I don’t know.”

On the way up Shop Street, he staggered a little but otherwise wasn’t too ripped. He said,

“You know she can’t be a nun?”

“Serena May?”

“Yea, they don’t take Down’s syndrome.”

“Gee, that’s a tragedy, I’m sure you had your heart set on a nun.”

“Makes you think, though.”

“Jeff, it makes you think they’re as black as they’re painted.”

I finally took Laura to a dance. As Jack Nicholson said,

“I’d rather have stuck needles in my eyes.”

Before going to London, I’d lived in Bailey’s Hotel. You have to be old Galway to know it. Well, you have to be old. Off Eyre Square, towards the tourist office, a small street on the left and you’re there. The owner was in her eighties, a feisty old devil. A chambermaid, Janet, was even older. She’d once given me a rosary beads. Shortly after, I’d killed my best friend. I’m not saying there’s a connection.

It was Janet who told me about the Saturday night dances. Sounded safer than a club and the band was live. If wearing a blazer and being over fifty counts as live. I dressed casual; black jeans, white shirt and a deep anxiety. Arranged to meet Laura in the Great Southern. She asked,

“Why there?”

“So we can begin with notions.”

She, as usual, had no idea what I was talking about, but she agreed. As I swung through the revolving doors, the porter said,

“Jack Taylor, by the holy!”

“How you doing?”

I couldn’t remember his name so leant heavily on the greeting. Seemed to work as he said,

“Grand. I heard you went to London.”

“I’m back.”

“That’s great, Jack.”

I took an armchair in the lobby, just sink in those mothers, feel important.

Laura arrived, short black coat and legs to die for. I clocked the porter give her a look of full appreciation. I stood up and she kissed me, said,

“It’s ages since I saw you.”

Took her coat off and she’d a black polo over black skirt. I said,

“Jesus, you look phenomenal.”

“For you, Jack.”

The porter came over, asked,

“Your daughter, Jack?”

“Yes, it’s mid-term break.”

Laura ordered sherry and I’d a Jameson; get the evening cooking. The porter, trying to regroup, asked,

“Would you be happier in the bar?”

“Nope.”

I told Laura about Bailey’s. She said,

“Oh, the Saturday dance. My dad used to go.”

Whoops!

We’d one more drink and got up to go. The porter took me aside, said,

“Jack, I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

“Forget it.”

“I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the guards.”

I didn’t correct him. If nothing else, it shows that contrary to popular belief, hotel porters didn’t know everything.

Mrs Bailey had a huge welcome, asked,

“Who’s this?”

“Laura Nealon.”

“Ah, I know all belong to you.”

Laura went to the ladies and Mrs Bailey said,

“I heard you got married.”

“Not to Laura.”

“I thought so. She’s far too fond of you to be your wife.”

This is Irish flattery at its finest. There’s something in there to like, but there’s also the suspicion of a lash. Whatever else, it keeps you on your toes. Now she said,

“I wouldn’t have you down as a dancer.”

“I’m not.”

The band didn’t disappoint. They had the mandatory blue blazers, white pants. None of them would see fifty again. Not that they’d gone easily into that good night. No, whether it was toupees or Grecian 2000, they’d a uniform of dark unmoving hair. And teeth? Man, they’d molars to die for. Like the showband legacy, they played as if they meant it. The showpiece was the bugles, with a one two dance step to match. Of course, a massive repertoire; if they’d heard it, they played it…energetically. From Roy Orbison through the Shadows (with a nod towards the Eagles) to Daniel O’Don-nell. It was
Hospitals’ Request
live. The time-honoured formula, too: a fast set, ladies choice, then fast. Interspersed was a lone vocalist. The stage would go black, a single spotlight on the singer. He’d stand, head lowered, and a voice would intone,

“Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis Presley” or Chris de Burgh or even Buddy Holly.

Same singer, of course. He had the sort of voice that got no votes on
Opportunity Knocks.
Halfway through the evening, the band took a break; like everybody else, they headed for the bar. As luck would have it, I was alongside the lead vocalist. Sweat was pouring off him. He gasped,

“Howyah?”

“Buy you a drink?”

“No, we got complementaries.”

“You deserve it, great show.”

“Thanks, it’s our last before the tour.”

“Tour?”

“Yeah, Canada, then two months in Las Vegas.”

I tried not to shudder, said,

“Lucky you.”

“And we have an album coming out.”

“Wow, what’s it called?”

“Greatest Hits.”

I had the grace not to ask,

“Whose?”

He lifted a tray of drinks and said,

“There’s a chance we’ll be on
The Late Late Show.
”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

“We’d be made.”

“Hey, you’re made already.”

He loved that. When I tried to pay for my drinks, I was told the band covered it. There are moments, rare as luck, that you feel glad to be alive. That was one. I danced three times, managed to make two of them slow. You can fake your way through these. Just hold her tight and don’t walk on her feet, easy-ish. The fast numbers were a nightmare. I tried to look like I had some moves. A woman had once said,

“You learnt to dance in the sixties.”

It’s one of those statements you don’t question. There is never a time you want to hear the answer. Laura, of course, was a great dancer. As I fumbled through, the sweat cascaded down my body, a voice in my head roaring “horse’s ass”. When we stood for the national anthem, I swore never again. When we walked home, Laura linked my arm and said,

“That was terrific.”

Back home, she smiled, went,

“I can stay.”

After we’d made love, she perched on one arm, examining me. I wanted to plunge the room into darkness. Her fingers touched the tattoo and she asked,

“Is it an angel?”

“Yes.”

“Your guardian angel?”

“I don’t know, I got it in a snooker game.”

“You won?”

“No, I lost.”

One thing my dad had taught me was snooker. He’d played in provincial finals. I’d learnt well. Almost never lost. Till my training at Templemore. We’d a weekend break and had headed for the centre of Dublin. A snooker hall in Mary Street had a long-standing rep. I’d beaten all the other cadets when our sergeant arrived, challenged me to a game. I knew enough then not to play for money, so we’d wager anything else. The sergeant, his sleeves rolled up, was a riot of tattoos. He said,

“You don’t approve, young Taylor?”

“Not my thing.”

“Well, if you lose, you get one, how would that be?”

Piece of cake, I thought, and lost. Down on the quays we’d gone. Tattoo parlours in those days were dodgy. Of all the awful symbols on offer, the angel was the least offensive. Did it hurt?…Like a bastard.

I went to the army and navy store and bought heavy-duty polo
necks, added thermal leggings and socks. The assistant, a young guy in his twenties, asked,

“How cold are you expecting it to get?”

“Where I’m going…very.”

“What, like Siberia?”

“No, like the Claddagh.”

On my way out, a vaguely familiar face said,

“Howyah?”

I stopped and tried to place him. He had his left ear pierced with four rings. He helped with,

“I used to hang with Cathy in her punk days.”

“Oh, right.”

“You’re the old guy…Taylor…Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“She said you were a cool dude.”

“Thanks again.”

I thought he was going to hit me for a loan so I said,

“Good to see you.”

“Listen, you want to score some speed?”

On the verge of saying no, I thought, “Hold a mo’.” I was pulling an all-nighter, an edge would help. I said,

“Sure, give me a few.”

Not cheap. Course the addict in me wanted to drop one immediately, see how it went. My teeth were dancing in their gums from lack of coke. Went home and rang Cathy.

“Jack, how are you?”

“Doing good. How’s the man?”

“He’s hurting.”

“Way it goes.”

“But he hasn’t taken a cure or anything, so I’m hoping it’s finished. Do you think it is?”

“Jeez, Cathy, I don’t know. But he has a better shot than most.”

“Jack?”

“So you won’t try to lure him away?”

“What?”

“Please, Jack?”

“No, I guarantee I won’t try to tempt him.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

Click. I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. The phone went. She was going to apologise. Keegan.

“Are you missing me, boyo?”

“I sure am.”

“I did some more checking on Bryson, even spoke to his mother.”

“And?”

“Yea, his old man was a vicious drunk and abused the boy in all sorts of ways.”

“So he has motivation to hate drunks.”

“Yea,…but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t think he’s your boy.”

“Oh, come on, Keegan, when you were here, you were ready to frame him.”

“Listen, Jack, I hate to be wrong. His mother and others say he was always claiming to have done things to get attention. Here’s the kicker: he might hate alkies, but he’s done an awful lot of good, too, really helped them.”

“Sorry, Keegan, the fuck sent me a hand.”

“A real one?”

“No, plastic, and trust me, the shock was real enough.”

“That’s it, Jack. He’s a nuisance and needs a kick in the head, that’s all.”

“Keegan, London has screwed up your head. It’s him.”

“Look, Jack, there’s lots more, I…”

“I’ve got to go, Keegan.”

“Jack, come on, think about it.”

“I already did. Got to go.”

Click.

London was like that, put all sorts of doubts in your head. I’d have to bring Keegan back, straighten him out.

I had hoped never to see Nimmo’s Pier again. A daunting task if
you live in Galway as it’s the crucial point in walking the Prom. That walk is mandatory. I had drowned my best friend from there, with malice aforethought. The largest gathering of swans is at the Claddagh, and the pier is the focal point. There is only one way to approach the birds, and that’s down a slipway to the water. Most days, somebody’s there, distributing bread. The swans gather at this feeding point. You plan on killing one, this is where you have to do it. A week now since the last slaughter, I got down there at two in the morning. The lights of the city across the bay. I kept my eyes averted from Nimmo’s, found a place to hunker down against the wind. In my dark clothes, I was invisible to passers-by. Least, hoped I was.

Clad in my all-weather coat, thermal gear and gloves, I could endure the wind. A black watch cap pulled over my ears. As preparation, I’d filled a thermos with coffee and brandy. Music and laughter floated across the water. I nipped from the flask. My legs were aching with stiffness, and I did some exercises to free them. At four, fatigue came calling and I popped the amphetamines. For twenty minutes, nothing; figured the guy had sold me a dud. Well, I’d have his ass. Next thing, I was near catapulted to my feet with a jolt of energy. Cranked? I was in hyperspace. Into my mind came “Speed kills”, followed by “Who gives a toss?” My heart was accelerating by the second, and I was digging it. You’re in serious bother when massive palpitations are a buzz.

And buzzing it was. Felt I could bend iron bars with my teeth. The inspiration for a novel came roaring down the pike and I speed-wrote it in jig time. Wanted to shout,

“It’s going to be a classic.”

Kept hopping up and down like Johnny Rotten at his zenith. Jumped up on the road, begging the swan killer to show. He didn’t. Eight o’clock, winding down, I headed home. My face felt raw with twitches, the nerve ends were electric. A milkman said, “Good morning,” and I roared, “
GOOD MORNING TO YOU
.” Tried to rein it in but shouted at a postman and a cleaner. Took me two hours to get to the house as my feet propelled me into hundred metre dashes. Finally home, I ran up and down the stairs in a frenzy. With the thermal gear on! The crash when it came was nasty and brutish. Collapsed on the sofa, totally wiped. Focused on the clock and saw it was noon, muttered,

“Not-High Noon.”

Slept then till ten at night. Coming round, thought,

“You are no way up to speed.”

Tried the restoration stuff: shower, food, coffee, fresh clothes. Barely dented the speed afterburn.

Come midnight, I prepared again. When this was done, I checked the mirror. Not good. The skin on my face was grey, my eyes like high points of lunacy. Trudged again to the Claddagh. Whatever else happened, I wouldn’t be using the speed. Took my place against the wall as heavy rain began. If the attacker showed up, the very best I could do was call him names. He didn’t show. Odd times, I dozed, just enough to run through a nightmare. Round four, I woke to two swans pecking at my feet. I shouted,

“…the fuck away!”

They hissed and seemed set to strike. The sound they make is truly intimidating. I forced myself to stay still, and finally they waddled away. I was fast losing my fondness for them. The early hours of the morning, cold wet and depressed, I muttered,

“Am I too old for Tesco?”

The swans were beginning to scare the bejaysus out of me. In the half light, they appeared so menacing. I drank often from the flask, begging the brandy to ignite. As dawn began to break, I swore.

“No more; I’m through with this.”

At nine, I moved from my vigil and climbed wearily on to the walk. A spasm of dizziness, and I barely made it to the bench. Tried to light a cig but they were sodden. A short time later, I heard,

“Jack Taylor?”

Turned to see the swan guy. I nodded and he said,

“My God, you look awful.”

“It’s my disguise.”

“Have you been here all night?”

“Yea.”

He indicated the houses behind, said,

“Look, I live over there…St Jude’s. I’ll get you breakfast, a hot shower.”

“No, I’m OK.”

“I apologise for the outburst the other day. I see now you’re a conscientious person.”

I stood up, said,

“I’ll have to go.”

He put out his hand, said,

“Thank you for helping.”

I’d gotten about a hundred yards when he shouted,

“I’m going to personally see to it that you get another pound.”

I was tempted to go,

“My cup overfloweth.”

But he was, as the Irish say, “a harmless idiot”, so I simply waved my hand. My bile could be better directed.

Laura came by the next evening. She’d bought Chinese and we’d a mini feast. With a shy expression she said,

“I bought wine.”

“Great.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Me neither.”

Big smile.

“You’re a lovely man.”

“So, what did you get?”

“Beaujolais, is that all right?”

“Perfect.”

Later, she said,

“Something odd happened last night.”

“Tell me.”

“I went out for a jar with Vicky…you know, my friend?”

“Right.”

“So, we were in Busker’s and these two guys, they kept bothering us, just wouldn’t let up. Anyway, when we left, they tried to grab us on the street. Then this man came out of nowhere and…” she opened her arms wide, “banged…” she brought her palms together, smack, “their heads together, ran them into the wall. He turned to us and said, ‘Miss Nealon, you can carry on now.’ We were like gobsmacked.”

I thought Bill was keeping his word, could only hope when the time came, I’d be able to keep mine. I said,

“Old Galwegians, they look out for each other.”

“Oh, it isn’t anyone you know?”

“Me? No.”

What was I going to tell her, that I’d hired protection. No, I’d keep that deal on the need-to-know basis. There was no way in hell she needed to know. I raised my glass, said,

“Sláinte.”