The Magdalen Martyrs (9 page)

“I didn’t forget the coffee, but all it gives you is a wide-awake drunk.”

I had no answer for her. No civil one anyway. Went up to my room and collapsed on the bed, was out in seconds.

I had a dream where I went to Zhivago Records. Declan, of course, was in attendance and sold me the complete back catalogue of REM. Nightmare indeed. Behind the counter was a girl whose hair had been shorn, and she asked me where could she buy some bleach. As the dream wavered, I swear I could hear, clear as day, Stipe singing “Losing My Religion”.

“The difference between an alcoholic and a heavy drinker is an alcoholic believes his flaws are sincere but his virtues are fake. A heavy drinker keeps his virtues for himself and cripples others with his flaws.”

Phyl Kennedy,
Where Am I Now When I Need Me?

The next few days were hell personified. Hangover supreme.
Spent them mostly on, under, across the bed. All the while, the booze calling,

“Come, let us fix you.”

Yeah.

At one stage, I came to with the sheets in a noose round my neck. Did not want to ever analyse that. On the bureau was a small photo. Was I hallucinating? Blinked twice but it remained. Approached slowly. It was of a man in a cheap tweed suit, suffering writ large on his face. At the bottom, I read,

“Matt Talbot.”

Crept back to bed after turning the photo face down. Next time I surfaced, it was gone. I would never ask Janet about it. Could only hope she was the culprit . . .
ELSE
?

Third, fourth day, weak as a kitten, I showered, put on fresh clothes. I felt more fragile than a whisper. My mind locked on whiskey, I headed for a cafe on Prospect Hill. Ordered scrambled eggs, toast and tea. The table swam before my eyes and sweat cruised my body. If I could get some nourishment. . .

Months before, on my previous case, I’d been deep into
coke. Ran out and panicked. Cathy, in her punk days, knew all the drug players. I’d leaned heavily on our friendship and gotten the name of a dealer. It bruised our relationship, but coke recognises no loyalties.

I’d gone to meet “Stewart” and scored. He was far from the stereotype. Lived in a neat house near the college, and if he resembled anyone, it was a banker. What kept him successful, un-nicked and unknown was a low profile.

I pushed the breakfast away, couldn’t eat. The waitress asked,

“Was there something wrong?”

Was there ever, but not with the food. I even put the tea aside, said,

“No . . . I’m not feeling well.”

She gave me a motherly smile, said,

“ ’Twill be that stomach bug, the whole town’s got it.”

I walked to the canal, alternating hot and cold, praying Stewart was home. Knocked on the door, waited a minute, then he opened, said,

“Yes?”

“Stewart, I dunno if you remember me?”

The sharp eyes opened, then,

“Cathy’s friend . . . don’t tell me . . . it’s John Taylor.”

“Jack.”

You have to ask, do you want drug dealers to remember your name? He said,

“Come in.”

The house was spotless, like a showplace. Stewart was wearing pressed chinos, a white shirt, loosely knotted tie. He offered me a seat, asked,

“Tea, coffee, pharmaceuticals?”

“You wouldn’t have a cigarette?”

That old craving suddenly surfaced. He gave a measured laugh, said,

“The corner shop would be the place. I don’t allow smoking in the house.”

Sure enough, on the wall was a decal with

SMOKE FREE ZONE

I said,

“You’re kidding.”

“Foul habit.”

“Stewart, you’re a drug dealer . . . come on.”

He raised a finger, said,

“I’m a businessman. I never indulge.”

“Pretty flexible set of morals you got there, pal.”

He spread his palms, said,

“Works for me. But I don’t think you dropped by for a debate on ethics, did you?”

“No, you’re right. I need some major tranquillizers. I’m really hurting.”

He tilted his head, like a doctor, asked,

“What have you been using . . . or abusing? I’m never quite sure of the terminology.”

“I am. Abusing is when you’re fucked.”

“Aptly put. I shall remember the distinction. Excuse me.”

He went upstairs. I looked round. If there’d been a drinks cabinet, I’d have
abused
it. When he returned, he was carrying a briefcase, asked,

“How much are you planning to spend?”

“As much as it takes.”

Big smile, everything to do with money and no relation to
humour. He laid a series of small plastic bottles on the table, said,

“You’ll notice red, blue, yellow and black caps.”

“Accessorised?”

Gave me a vexed look, said,

“You’d do well to pay attention.”

“I’ll try.”

“Red are powerful painkillers, the yellow are mega tranks, blue are Quaaludes and black . . .”

He gave a deep sigh of admiration, continued,

“Are black beauties!”

I asked,

“Could I have some water?”

“Now?”

“No, next Tuesday . . . come on.”

When he went to fetch it, I flipped the lid off the red, dry swallowed two. He returned with the water, and I gulped it down, the tremor in my hand like a flag. He said,

“For what it’s worth, I advise extreme caution with all of these.”

“Like a government health warning.”

He took out a tiny calculator, did the sums, presented the screen to me. I said,

“Jesus, I’d need the major tranquillizers.”

I laid out a mini-hill of bills and he said,

“For cash customers only, I throw in a little something special.”

“I doubt if it’s humour.”

He produced a small brown bottle, asked,

“What do you know about GHB?”

“Grievous bodily harm?”

“Not in the sense you mean. It’s alias ‘liquid E’ and it is a
painkiller. Within twenty minutes of downing it, your movements, control, vision and brain become impaired. Inhibitions, clothes, self-control disappear. It doesn’t have the rush of E. Do you want to know how they hit on it, if you’ll excuse the pun?”

He had a feverish glint to his eyes. Now I knew where he lived, . . . pharmacology. I said,

“Hit me.”

“It was first manufactured as an experimental anaesthetic and aid to childbirth. It relaxes the muscles. Alas, it was banned in America because it caused seizures. Then it became linked to Rohypnol, the date rape number. Its big plus is the morning after. It leaves you perky and alert.”

“I like this already.”

He held the bottle up, said,

“Now for the downer. Mess with the dosage and you can go into a coma. Taken properly, it gives you euphoria and libido. Listen carefully . . . are you listening?”

The two reds I’d popped couldn’t possibly be kicking in yet, but I was definitely on the mend, said,

“I’m rapt.”

“OK, here are the rules. Never mix with alcohol or any other chemicals. Always take the right dosage. Wait forty minutes between doses. Let somebody know what you’re doing. On no account drive a car.”

“Got it.”

“You certain?”

“Yeah.”

He added the bottle to the other goodies. He sat back, gave me a long look, and I went,

“What?”

“You know, Jack . . . you don’t mind if I call you Jack, do you?”

“It’s my name, just don’t wear it out.”

His eyes lit and he said,

“Don’t tell me . . . Robert De Niro to Ed Harris in . . . shit, what is the film?”

The pills had hit big time, and I was almost warming to him. As I couldn’t recall the movie either, I smiled enigmatically. He said,

“OK, that’s cool, it will come to me. Anyway, I was going to say, despite your smart mouth . . . and boy, do you ever have that. . . I have a sneaking regard for you.”

I was full tilt boogie now, said,

“Glad to hear it.”

He was on his feet, saying,

“Tell you what I’m going to do.”

I waited. Shit, I felt so fine, I’d have waited a week. He said,

“I’m going to Vike you.”

I didn’t know was this some sex thing or had I simply mis-heard. He went,

“Vicodin is a prescription painkiller. It’s Vike that kept Matthew Perry in rehab.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know
Friends’?”

“I’ve seen
Buffy.”

He waved that aside, continued,

“It’s the drug of choice for rappers, rockers and the A-list. Eminem has a tattoo of the ovoid shape on his arm. He even put a graphic of Vike on ‘Slim Shady’.”

I was lost, if happily so. On he went.

“An American psychologist characterised the average Vike user as having all the attributes of the economic winner today . . . agility, problem solving, system application. It’s a
bastard to get supplies of, but I’m expecting a delivery soon, and your name goes on the list.”

“Thanks, Stewart.”

He stared at me, so I figured it was time to go. I stood up, wanting to glide, said,

“It’s been a time.”

“Stay in touch, Jack, for the Vike vibe.”

“Gotcha.”

He put my purchases in a McDonald’s bag and let me out. For the sheer novelty of a pain free walk, I headed for the River Inn. There is no sign of a river and the canal is a good two miles away. I’d been in here once before. I took a window seat, and a girl in her twenties approached, said,

“Howyah?”

“Great.”

“What can I get you?”

“Coffee.”

I didn’t need a drink; I didn’t even want one, just to bask in the glow of the drugs. A man was sitting near me, engrossed in a book. He looked up and nodded. With my fresh bonhomie, I asked,

“What are you reading?”

“The Assassin’s Cloak
.
”

“Crime?”

“Good Lord, no. It’s an anthology of diarists. You read one entry per day. Everyone from Pepys to Virginia Wolfe.”

“Good?”

“Brilliant. I missed a few days, so I’m treating myself to a week’s catching up.”

And then I remembered Rita Monroe. Went through my pockets and found her address. I was practically in the
neighbourhood. Outside, I could feel a second wave of elation hit me. I cruised past the hospital.

Found the house without any trouble. A passing Franciscan glared at me, and I blamed the McDonald’s bag. The last Franciscan I’d spoken to had been outside the abbey. Near Cafe Con Leche. I’d gone in to light a candle. As a child I’d learnt,

“A candle is a prayer in action.”

Worked for me once.

The people I’ve loved most and treated the worst are all dead, buried in a cluster at Rahoon Cemetery. Visiting graves is a respected, honoured tradition in Ireland. I mean, do they have “Cemetery Sunday” in London?

I rest my case.

I am shocking in my duty. Rare and rarer do I go. Can’t plead I meant better ‘cause I didn’t, then or now. So I sneak compen-sate. Thus the candles, Uke ready-made reparation. One of my favourite crime writers, Lawrence Block, has written fourteen Matt Scudder novels. The hero, a hopeless drunk in the early books, becomes a St Augustine—quoting, recovering alcoholic in the later ones. I Uke the early ones best. Matt, when he gets any cash, tithes his money. To any church, though the Catholics get the Uon’s share.

I’d put some money in the donations box and was standing outside when the friar appeared. A freezing cold day. I noticed his red toes in the open sandals. He said,

“Good for the circulation.”

“I’m going to take your word on that.”

Then, he’d given me the full stare. I learnt similar in the guards. It’s not all intimidation, but it is related. He said,

“You’re not from this parish.”

“No, St Patrick’s.”

He frowned, definitely the lower end of the market, asked,

“And why are we blessed with your trade today?”

It crossed my mind to go,

“Fuck off.”

But he was sockless, so I said,

“I was passing.”

In my time, I’ve been barred from the best of pubs. Could only hope I wasn’t going to add churches. The trick to priest-conversation is simple. Don’t ever be surprised. They don’t follow the usual rules. This guy was no exception, said,

“Do you know the two men I admire most?”