mouth. But I
knew – Jesus, did I ever – how short-lived it would be.
I heard him ask – no, demand – 'You deaf or something?'
Right.
I asked, 'What?'
He sighed. 'I've spoken to you twice and you didn't answer.'
If I turned my right ear towards him I could
hear better, so I did and said, 'Run it by me one more time.'
With exaggerated slowness he said, 'The case you assigned me? Two more dogs were taken in Newcastle.'
Sarcasm dripped from his lips.
He wanted to fuck with me, he'd picked the right time.
I snapped, 'So what are you doing about it?
Christ, you used to be a Guard, you can't find a dog-stealer?'
He reeled from the lash. Paddy has only so much power.
He stammered, 'It . . . it . . . takes time to get my shit together.'
I wasn't letting up, said, 'If it's too much for you, I can get someone else, someone who doesn't reek of stale booze.'
I'd hurt him and I wasn't sorry, not one bloody bit.
He tried, 'I'm on it, Jack. Honest to God, I
can handle it, I won't let you down.'
I threw some notes on the table and as he eyed them I said, 'It's for the coffee.'
His eyes had the look of a broken child and he asked, 'Could you maybe advance me some cash?'
Without skipping a beat I replied, 'So you
can piss it up against a wall? Get me some results and we'll see then.'
As I turned to leave he said, 'You're one hard bastard.'
I smiled. 'This is me on a good day, mate.'
And then the silence . . . Out of nowhere, I was enveloped in this eerie quiet, as if everything had stopped. I thought at first it might be as a result of my ear examination, some late kick-in, an aftershock, if you will.
But no, it was an utter stillness, the kind that survivors describe when they attempt to articulate the moments before a disaster. I
literally couldn't hear a thing. I was walking but couldn't hear my feet on the footpath.
I was alarmed but not yet panicked. And then . . .
Then my phone shrilled.
I pulled the phone out of my pocket, realized my heart was pounding, pressed the little green key.
'Mr Taylor?'
'Yeah?'
'This is the hospital. You'd better get up here.'
'What, is it Cody? Is he all right?'
'Please get here as soon as you can, Mr Taylor.'
Hung up.
I don't much believe in anything no more, but attempted, 'Oh God, let him be OK. I'll be better.'
Whatever 'better' meant, I'd no idea.
11
. . . And burn in Hell.
Maria Willis just could not get past the death of her brother. That he had been crucified only added to the horror in her head. John had been a gentle soul. In a world of chaos, cruelty and sheer indifference, he'd been almost childlike. Her impulse had always been to mind him. She couldn't help wondering if he'd thought of her as they drove the nails into his hands.
The only comfort she could find was to drive out to Salthill, sit and watch the ocean. It calmed her, she didn't know why, it simply eased the agony she carried in her heart.
Thursday evening, she was sitting again, parked down from the old ballroom. Her parents had danced to the show bands there.
Before the tragedies, her father would recite the names of the bands like a rosary, the names slipping from his mouth with obvious
delight: the Clipper Carlton, the Regal, the Miami, Brendan Bowyer with his famous dance, the Hucklebuck. Once, he and her mother had demonstrated this particular oddity. It consisted of sliding both feet and moving like you had a greyhound on your arse. They had all fallen about laughing and her mother had said, with deep warmth, 'You might laugh, but that dance was the craze of the country.'
Maria would have given her soul to be back in the kitchen, watching her parents, sweat pouring off them, delight on their faces, and her brothers smiling, despite their efforts to appear unmoved.
A tap on the window of her car. She looked to see a wild-haired girl, her eyes heavy with mascara and dressed all in black, a young man behind her. The girl was one of those – what did they call them? –
knew – Jesus, did I ever – how short-lived it would be.
I heard him ask – no, demand – 'You deaf or something?'
Right.
I asked, 'What?'
He sighed. 'I've spoken to you twice and you didn't answer.'
If I turned my right ear towards him I could
hear better, so I did and said, 'Run it by me one more time.'
With exaggerated slowness he said, 'The case you assigned me? Two more dogs were taken in Newcastle.'
Sarcasm dripped from his lips.
He wanted to fuck with me, he'd picked the right time.
I snapped, 'So what are you doing about it?
Christ, you used to be a Guard, you can't find a dog-stealer?'
He reeled from the lash. Paddy has only so much power.
He stammered, 'It . . . it . . . takes time to get my shit together.'
I wasn't letting up, said, 'If it's too much for you, I can get someone else, someone who doesn't reek of stale booze.'
I'd hurt him and I wasn't sorry, not one bloody bit.
He tried, 'I'm on it, Jack. Honest to God, I
can handle it, I won't let you down.'
I threw some notes on the table and as he eyed them I said, 'It's for the coffee.'
His eyes had the look of a broken child and he asked, 'Could you maybe advance me some cash?'
Without skipping a beat I replied, 'So you
can piss it up against a wall? Get me some results and we'll see then.'
As I turned to leave he said, 'You're one hard bastard.'
I smiled. 'This is me on a good day, mate.'
And then the silence . . . Out of nowhere, I was enveloped in this eerie quiet, as if everything had stopped. I thought at first it might be as a result of my ear examination, some late kick-in, an aftershock, if you will.
But no, it was an utter stillness, the kind that survivors describe when they attempt to articulate the moments before a disaster. I
literally couldn't hear a thing. I was walking but couldn't hear my feet on the footpath.
I was alarmed but not yet panicked. And then . . .
Then my phone shrilled.
I pulled the phone out of my pocket, realized my heart was pounding, pressed the little green key.
'Mr Taylor?'
'Yeah?'
'This is the hospital. You'd better get up here.'
'What, is it Cody? Is he all right?'
'Please get here as soon as you can, Mr Taylor.'
Hung up.
I don't much believe in anything no more, but attempted, 'Oh God, let him be OK. I'll be better.'
Whatever 'better' meant, I'd no idea.
11
. . . And burn in Hell.
Maria Willis just could not get past the death of her brother. That he had been crucified only added to the horror in her head. John had been a gentle soul. In a world of chaos, cruelty and sheer indifference, he'd been almost childlike. Her impulse had always been to mind him. She couldn't help wondering if he'd thought of her as they drove the nails into his hands.
The only comfort she could find was to drive out to Salthill, sit and watch the ocean. It calmed her, she didn't know why, it simply eased the agony she carried in her heart.
Thursday evening, she was sitting again, parked down from the old ballroom. Her parents had danced to the show bands there.
Before the tragedies, her father would recite the names of the bands like a rosary, the names slipping from his mouth with obvious
delight: the Clipper Carlton, the Regal, the Miami, Brendan Bowyer with his famous dance, the Hucklebuck. Once, he and her mother had demonstrated this particular oddity. It consisted of sliding both feet and moving like you had a greyhound on your arse. They had all fallen about laughing and her mother had said, with deep warmth, 'You might laugh, but that dance was the craze of the country.'
Maria would have given her soul to be back in the kitchen, watching her parents, sweat pouring off them, delight on their faces, and her brothers smiling, despite their efforts to appear unmoved.
A tap on the window of her car. She looked to see a wild-haired girl, her eyes heavy with mascara and dressed all in black, a young man behind her. The girl was one of those – what did they call them? –
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