Headstone (22 page)

“You got a headstone in the mail, as did Ridge and

I, we have both been . . . shall we say . . .

contacted.”

He sounded just that little bit wary—not a trait he

displayed much—asked,

“You’ll have my back, right?”

“Count on it, buddy.”

He lingered, reluctant to ring off, said,

“Three to four days, you think.”

“Absolutely.”

For the first time in my chaos-ridden life, I’d

called it right on the money.

* * *

easy anchor in the bay, like a Galway snapshot of a

particular era. No, not a working girl, the beautiful

boat built in Galway. It gave me a vague comfort

that is inexplicable. I’d taken a moment to go down

to the docks and just stare at it, knowing this might

well be the last visual peace I’d have. Then turned

to the city and the business of bait.

As we waited for Stewart to establish his routine, I

went to the city center each day, never knowing

how some

chance

encounter

might

yield

information. I nearly looked for Caz, had to switch

channels, focus on the job at hand. Had an

encounter all right, just not one of any normalcy.

I was limping along Shop Street, trying to avoid all

the buskers; you give to one, you’d better give to

all. A man stopped me. I vaguely remembered him

from way back, when I had a career and he had

notions. Not either of us, not no more. Life had

walloped the slate clean. Dave. I don’t know how I

dragged up his name but he’d been a player in the

property game. Rode it till the bust and went belly-

up himself. I always kind of liked him as, beneath

his past posing, I’d detected a deep hurt from

childhood. The industrial schools that only Seamus

Smyth has ever really captured on paper.

Concentration camps for young boys, militarized

by the church. Dave tended to talk in sound bites,

lest you ever nail him down. He launched,

“Jack, the cunt bank refused my plea for an

extension of my mortgage.”

You’d infer from this that I saw him regularly, was

intimate with his life. Such are the Irish, tell you

all or fuck all. I hadn’t laid an eye on him for over

ten years. He’d weathered that decade bad, if

appearances were any indication. Shabby clothes,

furtive eyes, a face of broken veins, and that purple

complexion of the desperate drinker.

He continued,

“I’m going to lose my house, and what am I going

to tell my daughters? The youngest is only eleven.”

I wanted to scream,

“The banks will lend you millions but crush you if

you owe a paltry sum.”

But asked,

“How much to buy you some time?”

His eyes nearly rolled in his head. If not salvation,

at least a lifeline. He considered, then gave a

figure. Not the amount he wanted to give but he

knew me well enough not to act the bollix. I could

just about manage that, from Father Gabriel’s

blood money, said,

“Meet me in the Quays tomorrow, at twelve noon.

I’ll have it in cash for you.”

He was stunned, said,

“You’re a good man, Jack.”

My dad was a good man.

I wasn’t.

And you’ve got to think,

“The fuck was with that?”

Trying to buy redemption with one measly act of

generosity?

I don’t know, maybe.

The next day, I delivered the money as promised.

After, did I feel better?

Did I fuck.

I was torn apart from fresh dreams of Laura and the

sheer loss of her. A shrink telling me one time,

when I was in the home for the bewildered, the

confused, the looney bin:

“Jack, it’s not that you’re afraid to be happy but

you’re terrified of making someone else unhappy.”

I stopped at Wolfe Tone Bridge, the city swirling

around me, my heart in scorched ribbons, tears

trying to make inroads on my beaten face. Then got

a grip, sort of, muttered,

“A pint and chaser mightn’t help but, sure as rain,

might bring oblivion.”

I turned towards O’Neachtain’s, not a pub I much

used as it was so busy but now I needed the sound

of people. The sheer volume of a thousand stories

that had no bearing on my life, just to drown in the

variations.

Buttoned my all-weather coat, my act in gear, if not

really in place.

The sad line

of

slow suicides.

—Jack Taylor, watching a batch of huddled

drinkers

There weren’t a whole lot of things, then, to make

you smile but I was flicking through the
Irish Daily

Mail,
came across a cartoon by the gifted Graeme

Keyes. Showed a full shot of the Sanctuary at

Knock. The Irish answer to Lourdes.

A bewildered pilgrim, with rosary beads around

her neck, staring at a signpost which read

To Knock

To Mass

To Mass Hysteria.

And in the corner, an excited pilgrim gasping,

“The sun actually danced.”

Facing him is a less exalted pilgrim who sighs,

“Wow, the sun actually appeared.”

Classic.

Summed up the whole nation. I was waiting for

Stewart. He’d arranged to come to my apartment

and I’d mocked him,

“Bring your own herbal tea.”

He did,

arriving at noon as the Angelus bell rang. I was

probably one of the three remaining people in the

country who still said the prayer.

Stewart

brought:

herbal

tea,

box

of

McCambridge’s cookies, and an attitude.

None of which I welcomed.

I pointed at the kettle, said,

“Knock yourself out.”

No disrespect to the aforementioned shrine. He

made the tea, placed the cookies on a plate, I kid

thee fucking not. A plate?

Said, with gusto,

“Join me.”

Right.

I got a bottle of Blue Moon from the fridge, joined

him at the table, and dared him to comment. His

eyes were fixated on the gun. He asked,

“Is that a Mossberg?”

I was impressed, said so, added,

“Modified to fit in my jacket.”

He had an avalanche of comments, reined them in,

bit down on a cookie, then noticed my glove. I got

there first, said,

“Keeps me from freaking out.”

He drank his tea, seemed to enjoy it, then,

“The attacks on the vulnerable are continuing. The

Guards insist they are isolated incidents and not

connected.”

Looked right at me, asked,

“Are you familiar with Darwin?”

I flexed my nonexistent fingers, tried,

“
Origin of Species
. I’m waiting for the movie.”

He ignored that, said,

“Certain things Darwin wrote and said have been

used and subverted —let’s say, reinterpreted—to

fit the delusions of various whack jobs.”

I waited, he took out a notebook, read a piece,

asked,

“Know who wrote that interpretation?”

I said,

“No.”

He was all focus now, said,

“Columbine, the two high school killers.”

The lightbulb nearly exploded over my head as I

realized, said,

“Columbine. The fucker who took my fingers, they

called him Bine.”

And with the awful understanding then of what my

mind had been edging about, I said,

“Jesus, they’re going to hit a school, be the first

Irish event.” He nodded, could see I was coming

fast up to speed. Christ, I needed to chill, went to

the bedroom, drew down two Xanax from my

stash. Dry-swallowed them, my mind ablaze. I

came back to Stewart who was about to say

something but I cut him off with,

“Drink more tea, let me think, don’t talk, do some

Zen shite or something.”

He did. Leant back in the chair, curled his body up

into a ball of relaxation, closed his eyes, went . . .

away.

I scanned the notes I’d made, let all the data

saturate, pumped the Mossberg to keep me hyped,

then after fifteen, twenty minutes, I said,

“Stewart, they’re going to hit a special needs

school.”

He was appalled, hadn’t got that far in his own

musings, asked,

“What are we going to do?”

I knew, beyond a shadow, said,

“Keep with the bait gig.”

Course, he had to ask, sooner or later, ever since

I’d suggested he establish a routine,

“You think of me as bait?”

Had to defuse it a bit, said,

“Truth to tell, I rarely think of you at all.”

To soften it, I added,

“I’ll be there in the shadows, and if . . . if we can

just grab one of the bastards . . .”

My whole history of, let’s say, reliability was not

a great recommendation, and I could see it flit

across his face, so he had to ask, “What if you’re

not . . . not able to intervene effectively?”

I told the truth, said,

“Then you’re seriously fucked.”

When he was leaving, he’d admitted,

“I’m a little spooked Jack.”

I lied, said,

“Spooked is good, keeps you alert.”

I sat on the sofa, drenching myself in all that had

happened, thought, a Judas goat? Is that what I was

doing to Stewart?

Fucked if I could deny it.

Then told myself, I’d better get in the routine my

own self. Start shadowing Stewart as I’d

promised.

I got my coat and the Mossberg, and headed out.

Checked my watch. Stewart wouldn’t be at the

head shop yet so I figured on a fast pint.

No.

I owed it to him to at least appear to be together. I

went to the tiny café at the bottom of Quay Street. It

was quiet and I ordered a double espresso. Was on

the first sip when a stunning woman came in,

looked round, and caught me looking at her.

She walked over, asked,

“Mr. Taylor?”

“Jack, but yes.”

“May I sit?”

Was she kidding? She could sit forever and I

wouldn’t stir. The truly beautiful are almost painful

to see. You know that such a gift has to bring a

price of some kind, if only age alone. Sure enough,

she seemed to carry an aura of sadness. She had

that French elegance, effortless, compelling, and

utterly fascinating.

And she knew it and was not at ease with the

knowledge. Before I could catch my breath or offer

a coffee, she said,

“I’m Irini.”

And I knew, deep down, with a sense of dread, this

was not going to make me feel good. I said,

“Kosta.”

She nodded and began to speak.

One meeting, can it change your life? Maybe. It can

certainly twist and forge your whole previous way

of thinking.

When she left, I knew what I’d have to do and

hated it. No ducking this bullet. It had my name on

it, in neon.

Stewart and I had met again after the first day of

his laying down his routine, going over our

respective roles and what would go down after—if

there was an after. Finally, when all had been gone

over so many times, he reached in his jacket,

handed me over a syringe. I said,

“You think we need this?”

He was edgy, snapped,

“You’ll need it. This is your half-arsed plan.”

I took it and was about to enquire what it contained

but he was way ahead, said,

“You don’t want to know. Try to jab it in the neck.

Works faster and I’m thinking we won’t have a

whole lot of time.”

I’d set up my kitchen, in the optimistic wish that

we would actually grab one of them and could haul

the crazy body back here.

Day four, I was beginning to think I was as nuts as

Stewart implied. Standing across the street from

the head shop, the syringe in my right pocket, way

back in the shadow of a doorway, and forcing the

talk with Irini out of my mind. I nearly missed the

movement.

Then

Jesus, the girl, Bethany, setting up camp in the

alley next to the shop. I fumbled for the mobile, got

Stewart, rushed,

“She’s here, right next to you.”

A sharp intake of breath from him, neither of us

really prepared for the fact of my prediction

working. I added, trying to keep the panic at least

one sentence away,

“Come out of the shop real fast, don’t give her time

to think about it, cross the street. When you get to

your car, drop your keys and bend down to retrieve

them.”

He said,

“Jack, you ready for this? You really don’t want to

fuck this up.

Tell me you know what you’re doing.”

I clicked off.