The Magdalen Martyrs (16 page)

“Whoa, down boy. You’re always reaching conclusions. Nothing is ever as it appears. My husband, my dear departed, had it pinned above the bathroom mirror. I guess it stuck.”

“YMCA” began, to delighted shrieks from the crowd. Kirsten pushed the empty glass into my hand, said,

“I warned you.”

And was gone.

Went after her. My arm grabbed in the corridor. Terry, now seriously dehydrated, shouted,

“What’s your game, Taylor?”

“A ploy . . . face to face with her accuser, she might confess.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“That, too.”

“And you remain, inviolate.,:

Johnny Duhan, “Inviolate

Kirsten was heading fast towards the Augustinian. A very drunk
businessman was swaying at the door of his BMW, singing “A Galway Girl”.

Last time I’d heard it, Steve Earle had been on stage in the Town Hall. This guy was beeping the locks of the car in time to the song, on, beep, off, beep, hiccup,

Like that.

He appeared deliriously happy.

Envy writ large, I swallowed, shouted,

“Kirsten . . . Jeez.”

Caught her at the top of Buttermilk Lane. She said,

“Terry shouted ‘whore’ at me before I left, then he spat.”

“Christ.”

“I told him to relax, unless he wanted a heart attack.”

She hailed a taxi, asked,

“You coming?”

“Sure.”

The cab driver told us why the people rejected the Nice Treaty, said,

“Can’t have Europe bullying us, am I right?”

No one answered him. Kirsten gave him directions, and undeterred he went on to discuss the Danes. At the house, she hopped out, said,

“Pay him.”

And disappeared inside

As I rummaged for money, the driver surveyed the house, said,

“You’re in there, pal.”

“I’m the hired help.”

He winked, then,

“Them
FÁS
courses are mighty.”

And burnt rubber down the drive. I went inside; no sign of her. A shout from upstairs,

“I’m in the shower, make yourself at home.”

I tried.

Found the bar, poured a scotch, plonked myself on the sofa.

A scatter of books on the table, including Jackie Collins, Alice Taylor, Maeve Binchy.

And lo and behold, a beautiful slim volume titled
The Legend of the Holy Drinker
by Joseph Roth. Translated by Michael Hofmann.

I was definitely caught.

I read the flap:

Published in 1939, the year the author died. Like Andreas, the hero of the story, Roth drank himself to death in Paris, but this is not an autobiographical confession.

I said aloud,

“Thank Christ.”

And lit up a cig. No sign of an ashtray. Read on:

It is a secular miracle tale, in which the vagrant Andreas, after living under bridges, has a series of lucky breaks that lift him briefly on to a different plane of existence. The novella is extraordinarily compressed, dry-eyed and witty, despite its melancholic subject matter.

Published by Granta. Am I old or what? I remember when Bill Buford began the magazine and the book he wrote,
Among the Thugs.

Should be mandatory for guards dealing with football hooligans.

It crossed my mind to nick it. Just slip it into item 8234’s voluminous pocket, say nowt. I put it back on the table.

Kirsten walked in, towelling her hair. Barefoot, wearing a short silk kimono. That’s an image that’s always worked for me. It’s so casually intimate. I’ve only glimpsed it rarely, and that is the indictment of my isolation. I savoured it then. She glanced at the book, said,

“Cross your mind to steal it?”

“What?”

“I know you, Jack. That’s how I got it.”

She moved to the bar, began fixing a drink, humming softly. Jesus, I hate that; it’s a notch below musak. Still, I thought I recognised it, asked,

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I keep hearing it on a golden oldies station.”

Came to me. I said,

“Jeez, Kevin Johnson.”

“Who?”

“ ‘Rock and Roll I Gave You All the Best Years of My Life.’”

A
bottle of Stoli held midair, she asked,

“That’s a confession?”

“The name of the song.”

“I like it.”

“There’s a line in there, sums up my years in the guards.”

“What’s this, Taylor, you’re getting all choked up on the past?”

I ignored that, said,

“I don’t remember the line exactly, but like this: ‘Trying to go it solo in someone else’s band’.”

She poured the drink, took a hefty belt, said,

“That’s you . . . the maverick.”

I rooted in my pocket, asked,

“Want to do GHB?”

“Oh, punishment, you pervert.”

Produced the liquid E, began,

“You have to be very careful with this.”

Her eyes alight, she went,

“Fuck that, let’s get it on.”

We did.

All the promised effects: inhibitions, clothes and self-control did disappear.

Stewart had guaranteed it gave euphoria and libido.

He wasn’t kidding.

Course he’d advised extreme caution with alcohol, but I figured care was an area I’d never given much time to. Too old to begin then.

“Fifty is a dangerous age
—
for all men. The man of fifty has most to say but no
one will listen. His fears sound incredible because they sound so new
—
he might
be making them up. His body alarms him; it starts playing tricks on him, his
teeth warn him, his stomach scolds, heys balding at last; a pimple might be cancer;
indigestion a heart attack. He’s feeling an unapparent fatigue; he wants to be
young but he knows he ought to be old. He’s neither one and he is terrified.”

Paul Theroux,
Saint fack

Came to in broad daylight, sat up. Where was I? In a huge bed,
white silk sheets. Two things hit me: I was naked and unhungover. No sign of Kirsten. A clock on the bedside table read 12.05.

Past noon, high or otherwise.

How long had I been out? No idea. I could recall magnificent gymnastic sex. Me! Boy, would my body pay when reality returned. But the lengthy sleep . . . An alcoholic skirts as close to insomnia as it gets. Enough booze to put down Young Munster, yet wakes after an hour, replete with hangover. The rest of the night consists of a befuddled series of fevered naps, nightmares, dread and sweats.

And waiting at daybreak, the whole sorry circus over again,
Groundhog Day
with the emphasis on hog. I didn’t leap out of bed but was nearly agile. No sign of my clothes. Went to a large wardrobe, opened it.

Jesus.

One of those walk-in jobs. Must have been fifty suits, as many sports jackets and, lined in military precision, shoes. Close to a hundred. Imelda Marcos would have sung. I pulled
a heavy cotton shirt and a pair of Farah slacks. Fit pretty good. Went back to the bedroom, saw my cigs, lighter on the bureau. Fired up.

The door opened and Kirsten entered with a tray. Wearing the kimono, she’d a shit-eating grin, said,

“Well good morning, stud.”

I groaned.

She set the tray down. I saw toast, eggs, OJ, folded napkins and, God, a red rose. Silver coffee pot, steaming. I said,

“I’d kill for a coffee.”

Malicious smile, then,

“Is that appropriate to say to a murder suspect?”

She poured and passed me the cup. It smelled fantastic. Actually tasted near as good. It’s one of life’s jokes that coffee never fulfils its promise. If you based your life on that truth, you’d probably become a TD. She buttered some toast, laid a wedge of egg on it, said,

“Open wide, Romeo.”

Shook my head,

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t want me to feed you?”

“No.”

“I used to feed my husband.”

“And he’s . . .”

She shrugged. I drank the coffee, asked,

“Where’s my clothes?”

“I burned them.”

“Seriously, where are they?”

“I seriously burned them.”

“Christ, why?”

She turned to look at me, said,

“You’re going to be with me, you’re going to have to smarten up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think you’re going to smarten up . . . or you don’t think you’re going to be with me?”

“Both.”

She pointed to the wardrobe, said,

“My husband’s clothes will fit, and believe me, they’re the very best. I bought them.”

A thought struck me, and I grabbed her arm, shouted,

“The coat. . . my garda coat. . . did you burn that?”

“I tried . . . you’re hurting me.”

I tore down the stairs, the hall, through the kitchen and could see the fire in the garden. Flung the door open and approached the flames. The coat was thrown to the side, badly singed but intact. I grabbed it, the smell of smoke in my nostrils. Kirsten was at the door, hands on her hips, asking,

“What’s the deal? It’s a piece of shit.”

“That, lady, is my history, my career, the only Unk to my past.”

“What a pathetic history then.”

I brushed past her, went through to the front room, searching. She followed and I asked,

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The GHB.”

Half smile curling, she said,

“We used it all.”

“Like I’ll take your word for it. Where’s the empty bottle?”

She waved towards the garden.

“With your clothes. Want to check?”

I took a deep breath, said,

“Kirsten, I hope that’s the truth. You don’t want to fuck with that stuff. It can cause a coma.”

Now she was smiling, said,

“It sure set your motor running.”

I went upstairs, selected a heavy pair of brogues. Tight on the toes, but hey, pain was familiar. She shadowed me all the way, asked,

“When are we getting together?”

“Kirsten . . . what do you do?”

“Do?”

“You know, with your life, during any given day.”

“Shop and fuck.”

“What?”

“The town is full of young guys. They give it up for the price of a drink.”

I shook my head, unable to ask about condoms, protection. I truly was afraid of the answer. Instead I asked,

“So what do you want me for?”

“You amuse me.”

I headed down the stairs, and she asked,

“You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“You think you can fuck and fly?”

Is there an answer?

I got the front door open, and she called,

“Yo, Jack.”

“What?”

“That liquid E?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a killer.”

“Where you staying?”
“The Empire Hotel.”
“The Empire eh? Nobody but drunks stay there.”
“That’s fine. I’m something of a drunk myself.”

Andrew Pyper,
The Lost Girls

The bad drop.

I’m not talking about a pint of Guinness gone sour. It’s a concept I tried once to explain to Clancy, back when we were friends. It’s a slice of ice in your heart. And not a bad thing, the ability to lash out at the final moment, a shard of preservation that comes into play when you’re backed up, right against the wall. You don’t even know you have it till it’s absolutely vital.

Then, suddenly, a voice takes over, goes,

“Fuck with me . . . you have no idea of the ferocity I am capable of.”

Clancy had shook his head, gone,

“Ary, that’s mad talk.”

He went on to become the embodiment of a very bad drop. Now, as I headed down Taylor’s Hill, the voice kicked,

“So Kirsten, screw you.”

And felt it.

I walked past Nile Lodge, turned at Scoil Ursa, and the Gaelic connection reminded me I had a date with a ban garda. I was looking forward to it; at least I could pretend so. A guy near the site of the Sancta Maria Hotel was playing a tin whistle, a cap
for donations at his feet. If there’s a worse spot to busk in Galway, I couldn’t think of it. Nobody walks along that road. It’s true ghostville. People shunned the area if they could. The hotel had burned to the ground with a tragic loss of life.