The Guards (11 page)

“He does admire painters. Fancies himself a collector.”

“You spoke to him.”

“Lovely man. I’m due at his place at noon tomorrow. You can come as my assistant.”

“What are you planning?”

“To frame the fuck. I’m a painter, Jack. Remember? I’ll pick you up at 11.30.”

I gave Ann her drink, said,

“I’ll just say goodbye to Cathy.”

“Tell her she was mighty.”

A true Galway description, the highest accolade. Cathy’s dressing room was jammed with admirers, her face was flushed, her eyes alight. I said,

“You were sensational.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Listen, you’re busy, I just wanted to let you know.”

“Keep the beard.”

“You think?”

“Makes you look like you’ve got character.”

A snake had bitten so many people that few ventured out.
The Master was credited with taming the snake. As a result,
the people took to throwing stones and dragging it by its tail.
The snake complained to the Master, who said,
“You’ve stopped frightening people, that’s bad.”
A very pissed-off snake replied,
“You told me to practise non-violence.”
“No, I told you to stop hurting—not to stop hissing.”

Next morning, I actually made breakfast. Not being sick, hung
over, was extraordinary. My face was healing and the beard hid the rest. Fixed a mess of eggs and cut a wedge of thick bread. I’d been to Griffin’s.

Full mug of tea and I was set. My door went and I said,

“Shit.”

It was Sutton. I said,

“Jeez, how early is this?”

“Man, I haven’t been to bed.”

“Come in, have some breakfast.”

He followed me in and I went to grab another plate. He said,

“I’ll drink mine, thanks.”

“All I’ve got is some cheap Scotch.”

“I’m a cheap guy. Gimme a coffee to colour it.”

My eggs had gone cold. After I got him the coffee and Scotch bottle, he indicated my plate, said,

“Tell me you’re not going to eat that.”

“Now I’m not. I’ve got this fetish, I like to eat my grub with some semblance of heat.”

“Whoo … testy.”

He looked round the flat, said,

“I could be happy here.”

“What?”

“I was round the other day, but you were off gallivanting. I got to chatting to your neighbour, Laura.”

“Linda.”

“Whatever. A thick country wan with all that low cunning. I, of course, charmed the pants off her. Not literally, of course. Once she knew I was an artist, she offered me your flat.”

“She offered what?”

“Is there an echo here? Yeah, said you were moving and she was looking for a suitable tenant.”

“The bad bitch.”

“The attraction of art, eh?”

“Are you serious, you’re going to move in?”

He stood up, slurped off the coffee, gave me a wide-eyed look, said,

“Hey big buddy. Would I shaft you? You’re my main man. We better go, art beckons.”

A beat up VW Golf was parked outside. A bright yellow colour. I said,

“Say it isn’t so.”

“Oh yeah. The Volvo is shagged. I had to borrow this.”

“They’ll literally see us coming.”

“Course they will.”

Planter lived in Oughterard. His house on the approach into the village. House is too tame a term. Obviously, he’d seen Dallas too often and decided to have an Irish Southfork. I said,

“Jeez.”

“But are we impressed?”

A lengthy tree-lined drive, then the main house. More garish close up. Sutton said,

“I’ll do the talking.”

“That should be a novelty.”

He rang the bell, and I noticed security cameras above the portals. The door opened, a young woman in a maid’s uniform asked,

“Que?”

Sutton gave his best smile, all demonic dazzle, said,

“Buenas dias, señorita,
I am
Señor
Sutton,
el artist.”

She gave a nervous giggle, waved us in. I looked at Sutton, asked,

“You speak Spanish?”

“I do spick.”

She led us into a lavish study, said,

“Momento, por favor.’”

Paintings lined every wall. Sutton gave them a close inspection, said,

“Some good stuff here.”

A voice said,

“Glad you approve.”

We turned.

Planter was standing at the door. I’m not sure what I expected, but with the house, the business, the reputation, I’d imagined a big man. He wasn’t. Came in at 5’5” or so, almost bald with a heavily lined face. His eyes were dark, revealing little.
Dressed in a sweater with a polo logo and very shabby cords. You knew he’d have a worn-to-shit Barbour jacket for outdoors. Nobody offered handshakes. The atmosphere couldn’t hold it. Sutton said,

“I’m Sutton and Jack here is my assistant.”

Planter nodded, asked,

“Some refreshment?”

Then he clapped his hands and the maid returned. Sutton said,

“
Dos cervezas.”

We stood in silence till she returned with the two beers on a tray. Sutton took both, said,

“Jack won’t be partaking. I don’t pay the help to drink.”

Planter gave a brief smile, said,

“Please be seated.”

He marched over to a leather armchair. I checked to see if his feet reached the floor. Sutton sat opposite and I remained standing. Planter said,

“I have been an admirer of your work for some time. The idea of a commission attracts me.”

Sutton had finished one beer, belched, said,

“How about a portrait?”

“You do portraits?”

“Not yet but a few more beers, I’d paint Timbuktu.”

Planter wasn’t bothered by Sutton’s manner. On the contrary, he seemed to find it amusing, said,

“No doubt. I think perhaps a landscape.”

I said,

“What about water?”

He was taken aback, had to turn to face me, asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

“Water, Bartholomew; you don’t mind if I call you that? How about Nimmo’s Pier, serve to jog your memory?”

He was up, said,

“I’d like you to leave now.”

Sutton said,

“I could go another beer.”

“Shall I call help?”

I said,

“No, we’ll see ourselves out. But we’ll be in touch, about Nimmo’s.”

I miss a lot of things
but most of all
I miss myself.

Outside Planter’s house, I said to Sutton,

“Gimme the car keys.”

“I can drive.”

“What if that prick calls the guards?”

I was never a great driver. With my left hand bandaged, I was close to dangerous. Still, a better option than the sodden Sutton. I ground the gears a few times and Sutton roared,

“You’ll burn out the clutch.”

“You said the car was borrowed.”

“Borrowed, not disposable.”

I took it slow, tried to ignore the impatience of other drivers. Sutton said,

“You fucked that good.”

“Come again?”

“Planter! I thought we agreed you’d keep your mouth shut.”

“I don’t do hired help good.”

“I wanted to play, fuck with his head more.”

“We fucked his head all right. Just a bit sooner is all.”

“What’s the plan now?”

“Let’s wait and see.”

“That’s the plan?”

“I didn’t say it was a good plan, just the only one.”

Back in Galway, eventually. Sutton had nodded off. I stirred him and he came to with a jump, saying,

“What the fuck!”

“Take it away, we’re in town.”

“Man, I’d a rough dream. Tobe Hopper would be proud of it. My mouth feels like a canary shit in it.”

“Do you want to come in, grab a shower?”

“Naw, I’m for the
leaba.”

I got out and waited. Sutton shook himself, said,

“Jack, you wouldn’t ever think of selling me out?”

“What?”

“‘Cause I wouldn’t like that. You ‘n’ me, we’re tied together.”

“Who’d I sell you out to?”

“The guards. You know the old saying … once a garda! You might want to score some points with your old mates.”

“That’s mad talk.”

He gave a long look, then,

“You’re shaping up to be a citizen, you know that. God knows, you were some fuck-up drinking, but at least you were predictable.”

“Get some sleep.”

“And you, Jack, get some focus.”

He put the car in gear, screeched into traffic. I went into the
flat, tried to rustle up some breakfast again. But my heart wasn’t in it. Settled for coffee and sank into a chair. I considered what he’d said and wondered if there was any truth in his accusations. One drink and that would burn any righteous notions. Burn everything else, too.

I thought about Planter and couldn’t see how I was going to prove he was responsible for Sarah’s death. Time was running out, too, on my accommodation. If I was going to be homeless, at least I had the beard for it.

The next few days, I heard nothing from Sutton. Checked at the
Skeff but no sign. Went into Grogan’s and Sean provided the real coffee. I asked,

“What? No biscuit?”

“You don’t need back-up no more.”

“Sean.”

“What?”

“You’ve known me … how long?”

“Donkeys.”

“Right. You’ve seen me in all kinds of states.”

“That I have.”

“So, all told, you know me better than anyone.”

“Too true.”

“Would you say I’d be capable of selling out a friend?”

If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. Seemed to give it serious thought. I’d been expecting an immediate “course not”. Finally he looked me right in the eye, said,

“Well, you used to be a guard.”

And I have held your hand
for reasons
not at all.

In reality, time doesn’t pass. We pass. I have no idea why, but I
think that’s one of the saddest things I ever learnt. God knows, anything I have learnt has been the hard way.

An alcoholic’s greatest defect is a complete unwillingness to learn from the past.

What I knew from mine was if I drank, chaos reigned. I was no longer under any illusion. Yet I’d have given anything to crack the seal on a bottle of Scotch and fly. Or even, a feast of pints. Close my eyes and there was a table. Wooden, of course. Dozens of creamy Guinness lined in greeting. The head … ahhh, just perfect.

Stood up and physically shook myself. This was eating me alive. Galway’s a great walking town. Walking the prom is the favoured route. Used to be only Galwegians followed a particular ritual. You started at Grattan Road, then up past Seapoint.
Stop a moment there and hear the ghost of all the showbands past:

The Royal

Dixies

Howdowners

The Miami

I can’t say if it was a simple age. But it was a whole lot less complicated. In the middle of a jive, no mobile phone blew away the magic. Then on past Claude Toft’s, along the beach till you reached Blackrock. Here’s where the ritual kicked in. At the wall, you touched it with your shoe.

Word is out though. Even the Japanese aim a semi-karate shot to the stone.

I don’t begrudge them the act, but somehow it’s been diluted.

Go figure.

I walked into town and decided to get a blast of caffeine for the trip.

As long as I remember, there’s been sentries. Two men who perch on stools at any given hour. Always the same duo. They wear cloth caps, donkey jackets and terylene pants. Never together. They sit at opposite ends of the bar. I wouldn’t swear they even knew each other.

Now here’s the thing.

No matter how you sneak up on these guys or what way you approach them, it never changes. Two pint glasses of Guinness, half full. It’s synchronicity gone ape. You couldn’t plan it. Some day, to walk in and see either full glasses or even empty, then I’ll know change is here to stay.

As I headed for my usual seat, I glanced to check. Yup, the two in place, halves at the ready.

Sean was as contrary as a bag of cats. Plonked coffee down in front of me, saying nothing. I said,

“And a good morning to you, too.”

“Don’t get lippy with me.”

Suitably chastised, I sipped the coffee. Not so hot, but I felt it wasn’t the morning to mention it. I glanced at the paper. Read how the gardaí wouldn’t be part of a new EU force as they weren’t armed. A fellow I vaguely knew approached, asked,

“Might I have a word, Jack?”

“Sure, sit down.”

“I dunno do you remember me. I’m Phil Joyce.”

“Course I do.”

I didn’t.

He sat and produced tobacco and papers, asked,

“Hope you don’t mind.”

“Fire away.”

He did.

He was one of those skull smokers. Sucked the nicotine in so hard it made his cheekbones bulge. He blew out the smoke with a deep sigh. Whether contentment or agony, it was a close call. He said,

“I knew you better when you were doing your line.”

God be with the days. Doing a line was all but redundant. Then, you met a girl, went to the pictures, for walks and, if you were lucky, held her hand for reasons not at all. Now, it was “a relationship” and you were ambushed at every stage by

issues

empowerment

and

the inner child

The only lines now were of cocaine.

You didn’t bring flowers any more, you brought a therapist. He said,

“I heard you were off the gargle.”

“A bit.”

“Good man. Will you give me a reference?”

“For what?”

“The Post Office.”

“Sure, but I’m not sure I’m the best choice.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, I don’t want the job.”

“Excuse me?”

“Keep the Social Welfare off me back. Look like I’m trying.”

“Um … OK.”

“Right, thanks a lot.”

Then he was gone. I stood up and made to leave money on the table. Sean was over, asked,

“What’s that?”

“The price of the coffee.”

“Oh … and since when did you start paying?”

I’d had it, barked,

“What sort of bug is up your arse?”

“Watch your language, young Taylor.”

I brushed past him, said,