The Emerald Lie (5 page)

“Mr. Taylor.”

Had that Dublin 4 accent that spoke of privilege and confidence, spoke like Bono and, Christ, who wants that? I said,

“I thought all the young guns had emigrated.”

He didn’t smile. No, a serious young man with a serious agenda. He said,

“Actually I have a position in Dubai and will be taking that up soon.”

Of course.

He read through my chart, said,

“This is not my first rodeo.”

Now I smiled, countered,

“
Justified.
”

He knew the show but went with,

“You have been, mmm … in many incidents, mutilated fingers, broken nose, ribs, injured leg, and, oh, Lord, a hearing aid. Please tell me you work in a library.”

“I used to be a cop.”

Even now, it hurts, the past tense. I added,

“I’m working on a quieter life.”

A hint of a smile. He said,

“Not sure that is working out for you.”

Then read some more:

“A problem with alcohol and prescription drugs.”

He looked at the morphine button by my side and I went,

“No, don’t even think about it.”

He said,

“Just don’t … abuse it.”

Yeah.

Morphined hours later, I woke from a fluff dream where I was … happy. Jesus, that dope is mighty. And sitting at the end of my bed was Madonna.

Emily, in Madonna gear, circa 2005, the workout gloves and the wife-beater shirt. She certainly was glowing, if not from exercise, something very fine. She asked,

“How are you liking the room?”

Took me a minute to focus, get some water for my dry mouth, then,

“You got this?”

She held out a bunch of grapes, said,

“Know how many hotshots I had to blow?”

Phew.

I said,

“Thank you, and for the grapes.”

She moved closer, did the air kiss, mocking herself as she did so. Said,

“Ain’t no free lunch, right?”

I relaxed back in the bed, almost as ready as you can be for whatever insanity would follow. I said,

“Not a whole lot I can achieve from here.”

Shrugged that off with,

“Doctors say you are good to go in a few days.”

“How come they told you? I mean, bit early for a blow job.”

She took a grape, threw it in the air, and bingo, caught it expertly in her mouth, said,

“I’m your daughter.”

God forbid.

It was hard to say if she was even pretty. She had the necessary details to add up to that but they’d been arranged just off center. Yet, she had this life force, a sheer constant burst of light, tinged with the darkness, of course, but you were drawn in. I asked,

“So, what am I going to have to do, to, um, earn my keep?”

She gave me a long calculated look, as if she were getting the measurements for a body bag and, in her case, never rule out the crazy, and said,

“There’s a guy running round offing folks for bad grammar.”

As usual she blended, mixed, and cajoled a number of accents and slang, all of which kept you, if not on edge, at least on your toes. I asked,

“You know this how?”

“A Guard told me.”

Sometimes, if the effect was right, she just went with the bald truth. I suddenly wanted a cigarette, no idea why one particular addiction raises its needy head. They just do. I tried,

“Seriously, a guy is killing people for that?”

She gave a mock frown, said,

“Dude has a point. Civilization begins its slide when the language is fucked.”

She might well have believed that. Wouldn’t be the worst of her notions. I asked,

“This concerns you and now it seems me, how?”

She did a little skip across the floor. Why? God knows. Said,

“I’m a little bored, you know, need a challenge, and you, my sleuth friend, are going to assist me.”

I shook my head, said,

“Even the doctor thinks I need to, um, ease off on … my active life.”

She looked as if she might be considering a headstand as she gauged the distance near my bed, asked,

“Don’t you want to know the second favor?”

I didn’t.

She said,

“I want to see my mother, and I want you to come with me.”

Whoa.

“But you hate your mother.”

“Why I want you to come with me so I don’t kill her.”

I didn’t have a whole argument to run here as I had loathed my own mother. She’d been dead a time now but her poison still filtered through most of my existence. She had made my beloved father’s life a living hell and when I turned out to be pretty much a total fuckup, she was as delighted as if I’d become a priest. Of course I could have become a priest and killed two birds with one prayer but those are the breaks. She’d done that gig that was popular in the country when we had no economy, fucked or otherwise: she’d gotten herself a tame priest who tagged along and lapped up her pious bullshit.

I had met Emily’s mother in the last game and she was a pitiful drunk. One drink from the abyss.

Emily said,

“She got sober.”

“Seriously?”

A flash of anger in those lovely eyes, and you got a peek at the steel that she hid behind all the play personas. Emily gathered up her stuff, said,

“Bitch, just when I thought it could only be a matter of weeks until she choked on her own vile vomit, she goes and gets sober; really, really fucking annoying.”

I decided to let that dog bark on its own, no gain in my pithy comments further. She paused at the door, said,

“Heal fast, Jack-o. We have a shitload of work to do.”

A thought struck her. She asked,

“You still watching
Justified
?”

“Religiously.”

I was discharged from the hospital two days later. The doctor gave me a pep talk, beginning like this,

“A man of your age …”

Translates as

“Tops, a year.”

He did give me a painkiller prescription, warning,

“These are heavy-duty …”

(I should fucking hope so.)

“And I trust you will use discretion and due diligence.”

Doctors nowadays speak more like lawyers and lawyers won’t speak at all without heavy cash up front. I said,

“Thank you for all your care.”

He looked to see if he detected a barb, added,

“And absolutely no alcohol.”

“As if I would.”

I called a cab from the River Inn, situated right across from the hospital, and they do a roaring trade. The barmaid, Mary, said,

“Jesus, Jack, you look pale.”

“But willing. I’ll have a Jay and pint.”

My timing was good, finished both as the cab pulled up. I left a tip for Mary, who said,

“You’re the only guy who does that.”

“Due diligence,”

I said.

She shook her head, said,

“I don’t know what you mean but then I never do.”

The cabdriver was a Man United fan.

Alas.

He started,

“We’d a nice win on Saturday. I think Rooney is going to be a fine captain.”

Would I bother?

I would.

Said,

“He got sent off.”

He eyed me in the mirror, not seeing much he liked, then,

“Take that fucking Arsenal, beaten in twelve matches by Chelsea.”

I had nothing to say to that.

He took my silence as assent, said,

“You hear about that guy is killing people for talking bad?”

I didn’t know it was out there, asked,

“How are the people feeling about that?”

He cheered up, could be the voice of the populace if briefly, said,

“They’re hoping he’ll go after the government.”

He then went into a long harangue about the water charges and I said,

“Just drop me here.”

As I paid him, he said,

“Don’t mind me saying so but you’re a bit pale.”

Jesus.

When I opened the door to my apartment, I was near knocked down by the pup. Did twirls and turns of delight and in truth I found my heart sing at such a welcome. A moment later, my neighbor appeared, said,

“Good to have you back, Jack.”

He had stocked my fridge and even laid in beer, cold and plenty. I tried to pay him but he was having none of it, said,

“Minding that pup is a joy.”

I took a sneak look at my neighbor. He was of tremendous help to me in so many ways yet I knew next to nothing about him. Hell, he might even be the Grammarian for all I detected. I gave the pup some chews and a rough ear rub, then fetched two cold ones from the fridge, said,

“Take a pew.”

He settled himself in the armchair, took a long swig, then asked,

“Would you have a cigarette?”

I would and did.

Said,

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

He leaked a smile, said,

“No reason why you should. Just odd times I get the urge and one thing I’ve learned at my age is, have at some of the urges.”

Never having resisted any of my own, was I going to give him an argument?

No.

I asked,

“How are you liking Galway?”

He mulled that over, then,

“I love the poetry of the streets, if that doesn’t sound too much of an asshole thing to say.”

A moment, then we both laughed. I said,

“Poetry and assholes, our speciality. In fact they are intrinsically linked.”

He gave me a very direct look, not something you get much with English people. They tend to come at you sideways. He said,

“You have a great fondness for language.”

What could I answer but,

“Like the Grammarian I hear.”

He was debating something, then,

“My days in the army, the squad called me Doc.”

Was I to call him that?

Continued,

“Not a medical thing but I could doctor any paper you desired.”

Wondering where this was headed, I tried,

“You think I need some … papers?”

He smiled, and the change, his whole personality altered, he looked … um …
doctored
? Said,

“Never know when the shit hits the fan and it’s time to move fast.”

Then he veered away, said,

“I’ve been reading Paula Fox,
The Western Coast
, and she reminded me of the small subtle damages we inflict on each other.”

“Haven’t read her.”

“She went out of print in 1992 and then Jonathan Franzen bigged her, the mags got hold of her connection to Courtney Love, and, voilà, she’s experiencing a mini resurgence.”

Was there a moral, an inference? I couldn’t join the dots so went lame, said,

“Guess it’s never too late to grab the brass ring.”

Lame.

He finished his beer, stood, said,

“I’m glad you are home, Jack.”

And it sounded as if he meant it. I had that awkward male moment of

“So, okay, do we hug or what the fuck?”

The pup came trailing the lead and saved us. I said,

“Looks like I’m going for a walk.”

I got in touch with a semiretired villain I’d known back when my friend Stewart had been alive. The loss of Stewart weighed heavy, like all the others. Sweeny, the ex-crook, spent most of his time in Spain but had returned. He said,

“Too many Irish drug dealers setting up shop there.”

We met in Roldan’s, a quiet pub near what had once been thriving docks, now was just a wasteland like the country itself. Sweeny was brown as oak and had more lines than an Ordnance Survey map. His voice was raspy from too many cigarettes but it worked for him, gave him a gravitas that was an asset in his former line of work. He greeted me warmly, if raspily. He said,

“Look like you’ve been in the wars, Jack.”

“I was caught without a hurley.”

He liked that. His weapon used to be a solid iron bar. He was drinking wine and had ordered a pint and chaser for me. Knew my form. He nodded at the wine, said,

“Got a taste for it on the Costa.”

Drank a sip, then,

“Boring as fuck out there. Us Irish, we don’t do sun real well. I got me an iPad and, after a few glasses of this shit, I’d start buying stuff on Amazon. I wanted to see
The Bridge
and guess I was a bit befuddled as I ended up with

… get this,

The Bridge
, Danish original

The Tunnel
… Australian

The Bridge
, the Yanks setting it on the Rio Grande.

So I’m watching all three on consecutive nights and I get to see the icy blond chick in three different nationalities.”

I smiled, asked,

“How’d that work out for you?”

He sighed, said,

“Fuck it. I gave up, went back to
Father Ted
, the devil you know, eh? But you didn’t ask to meet me to discuss the merits of European crime drama versus the Yanks.”

“No, I wanted to get some armory.”

We decided on something light, in terms not of stopping power but of weight. He took off for about half an hour and I listened to the jukebox.

I kid thee not, an actual jukebox with no fucking Rihanna. Blessings. A tune playing:

“If I Didn’t Have a Dime.”

Oh, Lord.

The days of the dance halls and show bands. When the only booze you brought into the hall was the booze in your belly and priests patrolled outside to ensure there was no impropriety as their colleagues abused the children of the country and destroyed most of a generation.

Next tune up was one of the first pop songs that ever registered with me:

“From the Underworld”

By the Herd.

Right, who the fuck is the Herd?

The lead singer left the band. Peter Frampton, who became a global heartthrob. Cover of
Rolling Stone
and all points north. Where was he now?