then, hit the cloud of unknowing. Took one, washed it down with the coffee, got out my address book, found the number, dialled, heard,
“Hello?”
“Bríd?”
“Who is this?”
“Jack Taylor.”
She was not happy to hear my name, went,
“You called me by my Christian name. Usually it’s ‘Ridge’, knowing I hate the English form.”
She was going to put me through my paces, so I got my responses primed, said,
“OK, let’s start over, Nic an Iomaire. There, does that score any points?”
Long pause. I debated asking how Margaret, her “friend”, was, but felt it wouldn’t further my cause, so I waited till,
“Are you still in hospital?”
“I’m out you’ll be glad to hear, and if not good as new, at least I’m full of fire. Thanks for taking the time to visit. How did you know?”
I pictured her having the vexed look; I’d seen it often enough. She seemed for ever on the verge of punching me out and, God forgive me, I got a buzz out of needling her. She was such a what the Americans call “tight ass”. Now she went,
“A guard half kills an ex-guard, you think every guard in the country doesn’t know?”
My turn at vexation, asked,
“Then how come your colleagues who interviewed me appeared baffled?”
She didn’t hesitate,
“Wake up and smell the coffee.”
If it was meant to irritate, it worked. My teeth clenched and I counted to ten, then,
“I’ll bet you have wanted to say that for a long time.”
Now she was impatient.
“Did you want something? This is hardly a social call.”
“The student who fell down the steps, do you know any details?”
She was angry, her breath coming rapidly, asked,
“Are you trying to be a private eye again? Surely you’ve learnt your lesson by now?”
I didn’t want her usual lecture, cut in,
“I just need to know one detail, can you find that out?”
“Go on.”
“When the girl was found, was there anything under her body?”
I could hear her intake of breath and I pressed,
“There was, Jesus…wasn’t there?”
An age before she answered, then,
“It’s complicated.”
“I can do complicated, try me.”
“If this gets out…OK, I’m friendly with one of the uniforms who was first on the scene. He picked up a book…”
“The stupid fuck.”
I could hear her reeling it in, trying to regain her edge. I recognised it as it’s a place I inhabit a lot. The radio was still playing and I heard the DJ announce an Elvis Costello song, ‘I Want You’, from the album Blood and Chocolate . The track was nasty, mean, angry, but disguised as something lighter. What you’d expect from a late-forties, white, divorced male. It seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Ridge said,
“He knows he screwed up.”
“Get the book.”
“What?”
“Get the frigging book from him. Are you deaf?”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s absolutely vital.”
And I hung up.
I was half sorry I hadn’t mentioned the headline on The Sentinel :
Bishop Bans Gay Weddings
At St Nicholas’s, the Protestant church, a gay wedding had taken place. Their bishop was now stepping in. As children, so conditioned by Catholicism were we that we hurried past that church lest its tentacles reach out and grab us. Even now, when I pass there, I quicken my pace.
The room had closed in and I had to get out. An obsession for Jameson had lodged in my brain. I took the stairs down, and with the cane it was a slow, awkward business.
Mrs Bailey appeared perturbed, said,
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Exercise is the best thing.”
She stabbed her finger at the newspaper before her. I knew it was the Irish Independent , as it had been all her life. It showed your political colours as clear as a banner. She said,
“The Nice Referendum, what does the government think? They can keep calling them till they get the result they want?”
Politics was the furthest thing from my mind, but I had to show some spunk, tried,
“I take it you’ll be voting
“Hello?”
“Bríd?”
“Who is this?”
“Jack Taylor.”
She was not happy to hear my name, went,
“You called me by my Christian name. Usually it’s ‘Ridge’, knowing I hate the English form.”
She was going to put me through my paces, so I got my responses primed, said,
“OK, let’s start over, Nic an Iomaire. There, does that score any points?”
Long pause. I debated asking how Margaret, her “friend”, was, but felt it wouldn’t further my cause, so I waited till,
“Are you still in hospital?”
“I’m out you’ll be glad to hear, and if not good as new, at least I’m full of fire. Thanks for taking the time to visit. How did you know?”
I pictured her having the vexed look; I’d seen it often enough. She seemed for ever on the verge of punching me out and, God forgive me, I got a buzz out of needling her. She was such a what the Americans call “tight ass”. Now she went,
“A guard half kills an ex-guard, you think every guard in the country doesn’t know?”
My turn at vexation, asked,
“Then how come your colleagues who interviewed me appeared baffled?”
She didn’t hesitate,
“Wake up and smell the coffee.”
If it was meant to irritate, it worked. My teeth clenched and I counted to ten, then,
“I’ll bet you have wanted to say that for a long time.”
Now she was impatient.
“Did you want something? This is hardly a social call.”
“The student who fell down the steps, do you know any details?”
She was angry, her breath coming rapidly, asked,
“Are you trying to be a private eye again? Surely you’ve learnt your lesson by now?”
I didn’t want her usual lecture, cut in,
“I just need to know one detail, can you find that out?”
“Go on.”
“When the girl was found, was there anything under her body?”
I could hear her intake of breath and I pressed,
“There was, Jesus…wasn’t there?”
An age before she answered, then,
“It’s complicated.”
“I can do complicated, try me.”
“If this gets out…OK, I’m friendly with one of the uniforms who was first on the scene. He picked up a book…”
“The stupid fuck.”
I could hear her reeling it in, trying to regain her edge. I recognised it as it’s a place I inhabit a lot. The radio was still playing and I heard the DJ announce an Elvis Costello song, ‘I Want You’, from the album Blood and Chocolate . The track was nasty, mean, angry, but disguised as something lighter. What you’d expect from a late-forties, white, divorced male. It seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Ridge said,
“He knows he screwed up.”
“Get the book.”
“What?”
“Get the frigging book from him. Are you deaf?”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s absolutely vital.”
And I hung up.
I was half sorry I hadn’t mentioned the headline on The Sentinel :
Bishop Bans Gay Weddings
At St Nicholas’s, the Protestant church, a gay wedding had taken place. Their bishop was now stepping in. As children, so conditioned by Catholicism were we that we hurried past that church lest its tentacles reach out and grab us. Even now, when I pass there, I quicken my pace.
The room had closed in and I had to get out. An obsession for Jameson had lodged in my brain. I took the stairs down, and with the cane it was a slow, awkward business.
Mrs Bailey appeared perturbed, said,
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Exercise is the best thing.”
She stabbed her finger at the newspaper before her. I knew it was the Irish Independent , as it had been all her life. It showed your political colours as clear as a banner. She said,
“The Nice Referendum, what does the government think? They can keep calling them till they get the result they want?”
Politics was the furthest thing from my mind, but I had to show some spunk, tried,
“I take it you’ll be voting
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