The Killing of the Tinkers (3 page)

On release from Mill Street, I walked towards Shop Street.
Radiohead’s Thom Yorke said,

I stood on the bridge for a few moments. Across the water, over near Claddagh, I could see Nimmo’s Pier. Sutton’s body had never been found. His paintings were now collectable. The French have a word for nightmare…
cauchemar
. Man, that is evocative. An alcoholic has dreams to rival that of any Vietnam vet. Closing your eyes you mutter, “Incoming”…and kidding you ain’t. Initially, like the worst irony, alcohol dispels them. Leastways you don’t remember. Then, of course, it fuels and powder-kegs them to the ninth level. Not a level on which to linger. The Irish for dreams is
broinglóidí
, a beautiful gentle sound. Of the many impossibles, a drinker prays most in that direction. In vain. I never dream of Sutton. Sure, I think about him most days, but he remains in the daylight hours. Thank Christ.

I needed Merton and a pint. Not necessarily in that order. Headed for Charlie Byrne’s, a second-hand bookshop. It is
the
bookshop. During my apprenticeship with the librarian Tommy Kennedy, as he shaped and nurtured my reading, he told me about Sylvia Beach. In Paris, in the true glory days, her bookshop held court to

Mr Kennedy’s voice would get such a sound of longing in the telling. As he recounted the near mythic atmosphere, I could smell the Gauloise, the aroma of pure French coffee. Being young, naturally, I asked,

“Did you go there, Mr Kennedy?”

With such loss in his eyes, he said,

“No, no…I didn’t.”

One of my embracing poems is
Howl
by Ginsberg. Nobody I ever told ever seemed surprised. I guess they’d heard me howl too often. It travelled back from London in the pocket of my jacket. The other travel book was
The Hound of Heaven
. It had been a collectors’ item, bound in calf with gold trim. When I told Tommy Kennedy of my career choice — the guards — he’d been bitterly disappointed. My farewell present from him was the Thompson book. Nights of drunkenness had marred that beautiful volume.

Charlie Byrne’s comes close to Tommy’s ideal. Some years before, I’d been lurking in the crime section. A student had a beautiful American edition of Walt Whitman. He was peering at the price. Charlie, passing, said,

“Take it with you.”

“I haven’t enough.”

“Ary, settle it some other time.”

AND

Handed him
The Collected Robert Frost
, adding,

“You’ll want this, too.”

Class.

Vinny Brown was surfing the net, looked up, said,

“You’re back.”

The hardcore team: Charlie, Vinny and Anthony. I’d introduced Anthony to Pellicanos, and in return he’d given me the complete Harry Crews. An American, he seems to understand the pace of Galway. I still don’t. Vinny asked,

“How was London?”

I’d recently ploughed through
London: The Biography
by Peter Ackroyd. Trying not to sound too smart-ass, I said,

“London is chaos, an unknowable labyrinth.”

Took Vinny a time, then he ventured,

“Ackroyd?”

I don’t know about serendipity. I don’t mean Sting’s atrocious song but coincidence. When God is playing a lower profile. There was a travelling woman in the children’s section. Weighing the difference between Barney and
The Velveteen Rabbit
. I nodded and she said,

“Mr Taylor?”

That “Mr” is a killer. I asked,

“You doing OK?”

“There’s the replay on Sunday.”

“There is?”

“I said a prayer we’d beat the Kingdom. Do you think that’s all right?”

“Against Kerry, I’ll go and light a candle myself.”

She gave me the full look. It’s no relation to inquisitiveness, but it has everything to do with concern. She said,

“You grew the beard.”

“I did.”

“Suits you.”

Thomas Merton in his journal, written six months before his
Asian journey:

A freak electrical accident in Bangkok would kill him, midway through the trip.

Aura of the lost.

In London, I tended to hang with the fallen. My aura of eroding decay was a beacon to those travellers of the road less survived. The drunks, dopers, cons, losers, dead angels. Come to me, all ye who are lost, and I’ll give you identification. Two people I cultivated most. They belong on the fringe of the group I’ve outlined. Detective Sergeant Keegan was a pig. Worse, he was proud of it. Of murky Irish ancestry, he was based in south-east London, Brixton and Peckham being his beats of choice.

A loud vulgar bigot, he was coasting on dismissal from the force.

I was drinking on the Railton Road, nursing a hangover and the need to coke connect. The clientèle was predominantly black. Some whites, of course, who’d taken a wrong turn. The choice of booze was black rum with coke or without. Bob Marley was giving it large. A dreadlocks had offered to sell me a Rolex. I said,

“I don’t do time.”

“Yo, man, y’all be giving it to yer lady.”

“No lady.”

He threw back his locks, joined with Bob in “No Woman, No Cry”.

I love that song.

Through the smoke, over the music, I’d heard guffawing. Glanced over my shoulder, saw a fat large man standing over a group of people. His suit jacket was lying on the floor, a pot belly had burst the buttons on his shirt. He’d a scarlet face, ruined in sweat. Mid-joke, he was gesturing obscenely. I muttered,

“Redneck.”

Maybe louder than I intended, as the dread caught it, said,

“Yo no be messing with dat man.”

I was a rum past caring, asked,

“Why’s that?”

“Dat be Keegan. Dat be mujo trouble.”

“Looks like a fat fuck to me.”

The dread looked into my eyes, said,

“Yo be Irish, mon.”

And fucked off. I signalled for more drink. It was a tad sweet for my taste, but went down like a smooth lie. I looked again at Keegan. He was singing now, “Living Next Door to Alice”. I definitely heard the words
blow job
in there, which is some achievement, albeit a pointless one. I figured, he’s one of two things, connected or cop. Not that they’re mutually exclusive.

In my head, I was trying to remember the words to “Philosopher’s Stone”. Later, in my shitty bedsit, I’d attempt Marianne Faithful’s version of “Madame George”. Now that’s a torch song.

A shoulder knocked against me and I spilled my drink, went,

“What the fu…?”

Heard,

“Sorry, pal.”

Turned to look into Keegan’s face; sorry he wasn’t. His actual words carried the sense of “screw you”. He gave me the look, calculated, said,

“You’re a cop.”

“Not any more.”

“An Irish cop. Well, fuck me…the Garda Chikini.”

“Síochána.”

“You what?”

“The pronunciation, you have it arseways.”

For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to hug me. The thought danced round his eyes, faded, then,

“I love the Irish; well, some of the buggers anyway.”

“Why?”

He gave a huge laugh. Heads turned, then away. Everything about him shouted animal, redneck, ludrimawn. But the laugh, you could forgive him lots on that. Came from way down and was sprinkled with graft and pain. He said,

“I had a holiday in Galway once, it was the races, but I never saw one bloody horse.”

“I’m from Galway.”

“You’re having me on.”

No one claims to be from there; you either are or you aren’t. I knew I could shut down the whole deal right there and then, simply say,

“We don’t like the English.”

Maybe it was his laugh or the rum or even blame Brixton. I put out my hand, said,

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

He shook, said,

“Keegan.”

“Nothing else?”

“Unless you count Detective Sergeant.”

He whistled to a woman; she sashayed over. No amount of rum would ever call her pretty. What she oozed was sex, lashings of it. He put his hand on her arse, asked,

“What’s your name again, darling?”

“Rhoda.”

“Rhoda, this is Jack Taylor, on undercover work for the Irish guards.”

She gave an encompassing smile. She’d heard every tired line a parade of tired men ever pedalled. He slapped her arse, said,

“Go powder your nose, hon. This is guy stuff.”

He watched her walk away, then asked,

“So Jack…want to ride that?”

London offers nigh on most things a person could crave. E.B.
White wrote of New York,

“Above all else, it offers you the chance to be lucky.”

London doesn’t quite make the same pitch, but it’s in the neighbourhood. It never ceases to surprise. I wanted education.

My reading, expansive if not exhaustive, was haphazard. I wanted it formalised. Enrolled in night classes at London College. Taking literature and philosophy. At least I had a beard. Got a scarf in Oxfam and I was in the student mode. I wasn’t the oldest, but I certainly appeared the most battered. London in November is a rough deal. Walking up Ladbroke Grove with that wind howling in your face, you are deep frozen. My bedsit was the last word in forlorn. A bed, a chair, electric heater and a shower. Oh yes, a hot plate. It had flock wallpaper, I kid you not. To compound the misery, I’d been reading Patrick Hamilton,
Hangover Square
. Grim fare. He wrote, “To those whom God has deserted is given a gas fire in Earls Court.” I could have hacked Earls Court.

There is a magical Irish word,
sneachta
. Pronounce it “shneackta”, heavy on the guttural. It means snow. My first night of college, there were shitfuls of that. Harsh and unyielding. I was wearing black 501s, thermals, work boots, plaid shirt, denim jacket. Over that, I’d the leather coat and a watchcap. Still I was cold. Remember
Hill Street Blues,
the undercover guy who yelled “dogbreath” at perps? That’s how I looked. Hardly enticing, yet I scored. Leastways, I thought I did. Nothing was further from my mind. Ann Henderson, in Galway, had crushed my heart. I didn’t believe I had the mileage for another woman.

The lecturer was a prick. Bearded, too. He treated us like shite. I could care. He was mouthing about Trollope and I tuned out. At least it was warm. I’d clocked a dark-haired woman to my left. Aged in early forties with a strong face, sallow skin. Beneath a heavy parka, I surmised a rich body. She’d caught my eye, lingered, moved on. Class over, the guy was handing out assignments. The woman turned to me, said,

“Guten Tag, Gedichte und Briefe zweisprächig.”

“What?”

“Emily Dickson, her poems.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She put out her hand, said,

“Kiki.”

You immediately betray your age if you think “Kiki Dee”. I said,

“Jack Taylor.”

“So, Jack Taylor, would you join me for a drink?”

“I’ll try.”

She had an accent like a European who’s learnt English in America. Not unpleasant.

There’s a certain grandeur about English pubs. It’s entirely different from the Irish animal. I hate to be the one to voice it, but they seem cosy. They did after all give us the term
snug
. Battened against the cold, we didn’t speak the short distance to the pub. Once inside, we thawed in every sense of the word. She stood before an open fire, began to unwrap. I began to unravel. I hadn’t had a line in four days. Not abstinence but my dealer got busted. The sniffles had nothing to do with temperature. I was cold, within and without, asked,

“What’ll it be?”

“Oh, hot toddies, am I correct?”

“Are you ever?”

The barman/governor was elephants. The giveaway: blasted face, tired suit and too tight sovereign rings. He bellowed,

“And a good evening to you, sir.”

“Um, right, couple of hot ones, better make them large…Oh, and whatever you’re having yourself.”

The beauty of the English system, drinking on duty. Had cost me my career. He had a large brandy, saying,

“I don’t mind if I do.”

Kiki was sitting almost in the fire. I said,

“You’re hot.”

“You wish.”

I’m too old for powerhouse sex. But right there, right then, I felt the ghost of it. Handed her the drink, said,

“Sláinte.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Irish.”

“It’s lovely.”

Usually I don’t fuck with whiskey. No ice, no water, straight as an angel. Those hot ones though, they were good. We got another round, could feel the warmth to my toes. I asked,

“Where are you from?”

“Hamburg.”

I’m sure there is a wise, not to mention pithy, reply, but I couldn’t summon it. My mind locked on
Fawlty Towers
with “don’t mention the war”. I said,

“Ah.”

She studied me closely, then,

“Fifty-three.”

“What?”

“You are fifty-three.”

Now I could hear the German, almost,
you will be fifty-three
. I said,

“Forty-nine.”

She didn’t believe me. The oddest thing was happening. In my head, I could hear the Furey Brothers with “When You Were Sweet Sixteen”. Not just a snatch, the whole song. For a moment, it drowned out everything. I could see Kiki’s lips moving but hear nothing. Shook my head and it ebbed. She was saying,

“Would you sleep with me?”

Another tinker was killed. I’d slept late, woke in disorientation.
Where the hell was I? A comfortable bed, clean room, chintz curtains. Hidden Valley. Shit, I was a home owner. I liked the feeling. Took a slow shower, and with a tolerable hangover, I wasn’t hurting. Dressed in trainers, Brixton Academy sweatshirt. Went barefoot to get the benefit of those wood floors. Did some eggs over easy and, bonus, real coffee. The kitchen smelled good. I’d splashed on some Harley and blended in.

Got the radio tuned in and it was an old rock hour. Heard Chicago and Supertramp. Did me.

The doorbell went. Opened it to Sweeper. Rage writ large, he shouted,

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Another one of our people has been killed.”

“Oh, God.”

He stormed in. I closed the door, resolved to proceed with caution. He was staring at my eggs. I asked,

“Get you something?”

“Tea, please.”

He took a seat and produced a cigarette. Not a packet, just one crumpled fag. I passed him the Zippo and he said,

“Took me six months to quit.”

Then he lit up. I got him his tea, fired up a red. My eggs had congealed. He said,

“I spoiled your breakfast.”

“No worries, I hate eggs.”

I didn’t push for details, let him come to it. He said,

“Sean Nos was my nephew. I bought him his first van. Last night, he was found naked in the Fair Green; his hand was chopped off.”

“Jesus.”

“Left him to bleed to death.”

He reached down and touched an Adidas holdall. I hadn’t noticed it. He slid the bag along the floor, said,

“Open it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Open it, Mr Taylor.”

I hunkered down, took a deep breath, then pulled back the zip. Saw the bloodied hand. The awful curse of observation. Even as my stomach churned, my mind ticked off details. The nails were clean, a thick wedding band on his wedding finger, black hair near the savage incision. I stood up, the kitchen spun. Turned round, got the cold tap going, put my head under it. How long I don’t know. Then Sweeper was handing me a towel, asking,

“Need a drink?”

I nodded. Saw the bag was closed and back by the chair. Sweeper pushed a mug into my hands. Took a slug. Brandy. The last time I had that, I woke up in the mental hospital at Ballinasloe. If I could get upstairs for a moment, I’d follow it with a line of coke. Fuck, lots of lines. My stomach warmed and I felt the artificial calm spread. Sweeper shook one of my cigarettes free, lit it and put it in my mouth. I said,

“OK, thanks, I’m all right.”

Sweeper made more tea and said,

“It was left on my doorstep. One of my children could have opened it.”

I knew it was pointless but made the play, asked,

“The guards, have you called them?”

He made a hissing noise through his teeth, like a spit articulated, asked,

“Did you yourself not meet with the top man himself only yesterday?”

“How did you know?”

“You work for me, it is my business to know how you conduct that work.”

I wasn’t real hot on “You work for me”, no better opportunity to get that squared away. Put the mug down, said,

“We better get something straight, pal. I’m helping you out. I don’t work for you; you are not my boss; I am not an employee. Are we clear?”

He gave a thin smile.

“You are a proud man, Jack Taylor. I understand pride. Here, take this.”

He produced a cloth bundle. I said,

“You unwrap it.”

He did. It was a 9mm Browning, Hi-Power. He said,

“It’s the push-button release, see?”

He flicked his hand and the clip popped out. He continued,

“There are thirteen shots, one in the chamber. Here is the safety. To check it’s on, cock the hammer.”

He put it down on the table. I asked,

“And I’m supposed to do what exactly with it?”

“For protection.”

“No, thanks, I don’t do guns.”

He rewrapped the weapon, moved to the sink and opened the press beneath. Reaching behind the pipes, he inserted the package, said,

“You never know.”

“Have you any idea who’d want to kill your people?”

“Watch the news. Everybody hates the tinkers.”

“That’s a help.”