The Magdalen Martyrs (12 page)

“Not for Brendan. He was always a guard.”

“Um, could I speak to him?”

“No.”

Like a slap in the mouth. I regrouped, tried,

“Excuse me?”

“He hung himself.”

“To this scene come Eddie and Ray Bob, outsiders from the rural frontier, from the unseen and forgotten bumfuck outskirts of the urban media landscape. Rubbernecking the city, seeing what’s what, not much impressed. fust more folks humping the dollar.”

Christopher Cook,
Robbers

Brendan Flood had left an envelope addressed to

‘Jack Taylor.”

I offered to come round, she said,

“I don’t want you in my house.”

Fair enough.

Anyone who thinks suicide is an easy option might reconsider, especially if a rope is their choice, Brendan had put the noose around a sturdy beam, then, dressed in his guard uniform, climbed on to a plain kitchen chair. A guy in Bohermore used to handcraft them. Built to last. The rope near decapitated him. He’d vented his bowels, ruining the trousers. I was given all these details by the young guard who’d had to cut him down.

I asked Mrs Flood,

“When is the funeral?”

“From Flaherty’s, at six tomorrow . . . to St Patrick’s. He’ll be buried in the new cemetery.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Leave me alone.”

Click.

I could not believe he was dead. That I’d failed him was obvious. Remembered all the shit I’d read about “Gatekeepers”, how it said,

Gatekeepers are the first people to realise the potential suicide is serious. They are the first “finder”. It’s their duty, responsibility, to direct the potential suicide towards help.

Oh God . . . finder! My whole career now was based on a rep as finder. And gatekeeper! Could there be a worse example than me. I’d flung the frigging gate wide open, had as good as said,

“Go hang yourself.”

The pure legacy of suicide is the survivors’ guilt. A barrage of questions that can never be answered:

Could I have helped?
Why didn’t I act?
How blind was I?

All now useless. I wanted to crawl into a whiskey cloud and never emerge. Personify
The Cloud of Unknowing.

Guilt roared up my body to emerge as a howl of total anguish. Oh Christ, yet another grave to join the long line that I so badly neglected.

Dry swallowed some Quaaludes in the hope of artificial peace. They’d need to be mothers. Lay on the bed, sobbed intermittently. As the pills kicked in, my eyes began to close. My last thought,

“Hope they frigging kill me.”

They didn’t.

But did they ever knock me out. Came to in darkness. Checked my watch, 8.30 p.m. Jesus. And knew what I was going to do.

Dressed in black, not least for Brendan. Jeans, T-shirt, watch cap. Fitted the gun into the waistband of my jeans. Checked myself in the mirror. The face reflected was a chunk of worn granite. When your eyes look hard to yourself, you’ve gone west.

Made a caffeine-loaded drink, washed down some black beauties. Took deep breaths, said,

“Incoming.”

The docks were quiet. Less than a tourist away was Eyre Square with its attendant madness. Wouldn’t you know, caught on the wind was David Gray’s “This Year’s Love”.

Slaughters me. I can sing every lyric and, worse, mean it. Tear the goddamn heart right out.

I’d roared at the sky,

“God, why torment me so?”

Course He didn’t answer. Least not in any fashion I could decipher. Even Thomas Merton couldn’t help me there.

As I neared Sweeney’s, I could feel the gun butt, cold against my skin. My mind was closing down on all fronts. Could have been the drugs . . . or grief. I’d never understood the connections it makes at such times of intensity. In rehab, on one of my numerous incarcerations, a shrink had said,

“Your mental processes suggest an underlying psychosis. It’s significant that in periods of stress, you fix on passages from books you’ve read.”

He’d rambled on in a pseudo-American style, using the term empathy a lot.

They do that, watch your wallet; it’s going to cost.

Now a piece from Pete Hamill’s
Why Sinatra Matters
surfaced.

Italians had suffered in their adopted America. In New Orleans, a jury had acquitted eight Italians on murder charges, reached no
verdict on a further three. Citizens went ape, claimed it was a mafia fix. A mob of several thousand stormed the jail. Two Italians were hanged screaming from lampposts. Another was shot with hundreds of bullets. Seven were executed by firing squads. Two more had crawled into a doghouse, were found and butchered.

In his sixties, Frank Sinatra said,

When I was young, people used to ask me why I sent money to the NAACP. I used to say, because we’ve been there too, man. It wasn’t just black people hanging from the end of those fucking ropes.

Amen.

A tiny alley is a few doors up from Sweeney’s. Even in day-light, it’s dark. For a brief time, a drinking school set up there till the blackness ran them off. Winos more than most people seek the light. I got in there, checked my watch . . . 10.30 p.m. If Casey were as habitual as I’d observed, he’d be swinging by in an hour. Hunkered down against the wall, got almost comfortable. A rat shot out from the wall, scampered over my legs and was gone. I hadn’t moved. You never want to focus their attention. A chill ran along my legs from where he’d touched. You have water, you have rats, don’t sweat it, but I did.

Who wouldn’t?

Took out the piece, examined it by touch.

Knew the details by rote:

Heckler & Koch, H-K-4 double action pistol
.32-calibre, 8-shot magazine
Barrel: 3/50
Weight: 16 oz
Stock: black plastic
Sights: fixed blade front
Features: gun comes with all parts prepared.

What more could you need to know?

One of the very best handguns on the market.

If you ever want to bore a woman rigid, list the above.

If you can’t impress your mates with football, list the above.

Vive la difference.

Heard the sounds of the bar closing. People on the street, shouts and laughter, a guy came into the alley, and I crouched lower. He unzipped and let loose a volley.

I thought,

“You pig, you couldn’t use the pub toilet?”

Nearly shot him.

He gave a sigh of relief, buttoned up and headed off. I wanted to roar,

“Wash your hands.”

Things quietened down. The docks have never been a place to linger. You move fast. All the gentrification, all the prosperity, wouldn’t change that. Stall here you’d get nailed. I moved to the front of the alley, holding the HK down along my right leg. Took some deep breaths. Heard a loud

“Goodnight.”

Then the pub door pulled shut.

Here he was, the bold Casey. Lumbering by in the white tracksuit. I raised the gun, fired twice into the back of his right knee. The Belfast special. I moved, turned left, walked rapidly towards the Victoria Hotel. Two minutes.

In three, I was among the crowds jostling for the nightclub. Tore the cap off, opened my jacket.

Four, I was through the doors of the Great Southern, nodding at the porter. He said,

“Jack.”

“How yah doing?”

Six, I caught the last order from a young barman.

“Large Jameson, pint of Guinness.”

And I sunk into those embracing couches at the end of the foyer, a bust of James Joyce on a shelf above. I raised the pint, sank a level, then the whiskey, a mouthful, tilted the glass up-wards, said,

“Here’s looking at you, Jimmy.”

Now, I thought, I just have to find Nev, the one who’d played the Russian roulette, and I’d have something medieval for him.

In 1985, we had the summer of moving statues. All over the country, the statues were on the move. I was stationed at Mount Mellary in Waterford, and for nine nights, the Virgin appeared to three children. I was assigned crowd control, and I was too pissed to control a match. The very air was full of expectation as each night the people gathered to see the Virgin. By then, my cynicism had kicked in full time and I asked my sergeant,

“So, if the crowd get excited, am I to use the baton on them?”

He gave me the look, sighed and said,

“In a country where statues walk and children speak directly to Our Lady, do you seriously think a baton is going to make the slightest difference?”

All I’d learned in the intervening years was that if you wanted to make a difference, a gun sure tipped the balance. The statues had long since ceased to move, but the country had gone to the dogs. The message from the visionaries had been that Ireland would be saved! The Celtic Tiger gave the lie to that. I picked up a book. This train of thought had sparked a memory, and I found the passage that went like this:

“But I’d still bet none of the pimply neighbours and second cousins on your list ever came upstairs with a twenty five-cal semi auto. Is that fun?”

“No,” she says, “a gun takes the fun out of fucking.”

From
Hollowpoint
by Bob Reuland.

Next morning, I pilled ahead of the hangover. Cut it off at the pass. Brendan’s funeral, I’d have to look half right. Went to the abbey, asked for a mass card. The guy there looked about a hundred. And to judge by his manner, none of them easy years. He barked,

“Name of deceased?”

“Brendan Flood.”

“Single or series?”

“What?”

“One mass or a whole bunch?”

I tried to appear as if I was seriously contemplating this, then,

“Single, I guess.”

Was going to add,

“With salt and vinegar.”

But let it slide.

His expression said,

“Cheap bastard.”

I asked,

“How much is that in Euro?”

It was a lot. I was tempted to say,

“Couldn’t I just rent a mass?”

But he was already shutting the grille, and I barely slipped in,

“God bless.”

Next to order a wreath. Went to the same florist, same girl I’d been to so many times. She gave me a huge smile, said,

“ ‘Tis yourself.”

You have to be Irish to catch the full flavour of that. Then,

“Is it wedding or funeral?”

I let her see my face, work it out. She did.

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Something simple or decorative?”

“Something expensive.”

She gave me the saddest smile. We knew. The banner riding front, guilt riding shotgun. I gave her the details and she asked,

“A message?”

“Yes, ‘To the Last Guard’.”

A Galway girl, she had the class not to ask the meaning. I’m not altogether sure I could have explained anyway. When I was going, she said,

“You’re a good man.”

“Don’t I wish?”

Saw the crowds as I neared the funeral home. Had to fight to view the remains. Relatives were lined inside the door. I put the mass card in the basket, joined the queue to file past Brendan. An open casket.

Fuck.

He looked like a wax effigy. His neck, of course, was covered with a high collar. Despite the undertakers’ best efforts, they couldn’t disguise the grimace of his mouth. If you’ve been almost beheaded, smiling you weren’t. What scarred me the most was a bruise on the bridge of his nose. Deep and . . . sore, oh God.

His hands were folded on his chest, a rosary beads interwoven through the fingers. Like handcuffs. I wanted to touch his hand, but the coldness would freak me. I’d lose it entirely, muttered,

“Goodbye, buddy.”

Lame . . . and don’t I know that.

Shook hands with a gaggle of relatives. I said,

“So sorry.”

They intoned,

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Murder.

A brief blessing and a decade of the rosary before the priest dismissed us. Outside, the men produced packs of

Carroll’s
Major
and
Silk Cut Ultra’s.

Leaning against the wall, in civvies, was Superintendent Clancy, his finger up, beckoning me. He’d dropped a few pounds; he sure needed to. I clocked two burly minders a few yards away. Serious protection.