through and I asked,
“You were saying?”
“Pat’s a good guy. He’s not had it easy. In Bohermore they have a different take on sobriety. They stop drinking and get a bike. Not your textbook therapy but it works for Pat.”
My eyes strayed to the top shelf. Whiskey, brandy, eeny, meeney…vodka schnapps…miney, mo. Tequila, now there was something that did the job, fast, ruthless and efficient. I heard Emmylou’s lyric “Meant to ask you about the war” and snapped,
“There’s a point to this story?”
He was surprised, physically jerked back, said,
“Pat might be in the frame.”
“For what?”
“For the schoolgirl.”
I took a moment, got my head in gear, asked,
“How did that happen?”
Jeff ran his hand through his hair, deep lines across his forehead. When did they happen? He said,
“Pat was seen in the vicinity…And the girl knows him.”
Time to cut to the chase. I asked,
“What’s that mean? Knows him…what am I supposed to infer?”
“She asked him for money one time, for ice cream, and he refused.”
I didn’t see the problem, said,
“DNA will clear him, no big deal.”
Jeff was shaking his head, said,
“I don’t think an actual rape happened. The guards are under enormous pressure to get a result. The likes of Pat, he’ll do nicely.”
I raised my hands, had enough, said,
“Sad story, but shit happens.”
Now Jeff had reached the pass, stalled, then,
“I was hoping, you know, with your contacts, you could maybe make a few inquiries, put a good word in.”
I was truly amazed. Jeff wasn’t a guy to beg, to ask for a favour, but here he was, pleading for something. I wish I could say I was gracious, that I leaped at the chance to dig out my friend. No. I said,
“Aren’t you the guy always busting my balls, saying I have to give up the investigation business? Hell, you’re for ever expressing concern for my well-being, for my sobriety.”
The last word I lashed, then deliberately pushed the coffee cup aside.
Jeff took a deep breath, then,
“There’s talk of a vigilante group in the town, and I’m afraid they might target Pat.”
I let my face register ridicule, and he sighed; disappointment coursed through his body. He pushed back the chair, gathered the mugs, shrugged, said,
“Forget I asked.”
Immediately I felt bad. Fuck, I wanted to score a point, not annihilate him, tried,
“Jeez, Jeff, take it easy, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. Did I say that?”
His face showed how much he wanted to tell me to shove it, but concern for Pat Young overrode his personal bile. I could see the conflict, the turmoil in his eyes. He squared his shoulders, said,
“OK, anything you can do…would be…deeply appreciated.”
I’d made him jump through hoops and I regretted it. Blame my knee, blame the clergy who’d been in my face, blame the fact I wanted to drink till I howled. The truth is I behave badly more often than I dare admit. I stood up, trying for damage limitation, went,
“I’ll get right on it.”
He gave me an odd look, asked,
“You ever hear of the Pikemen?”
I rummaged through the haphazard store of Irish history, tried,
“1798, the rebellion—weren’t they some sort of secret society?”
He turned to the bar, then,
“The Pikemen I mean aren’t history.”
Then he moved away.
I was coming along the square and the sun appeared. It almost felt warm. I sat near the fountain and tried to figure out the mess of data I had. Without doubt, I was suffering from information overload. Attempting to list my priorities, I had:
The drug dealer
His dead sister
Synge
Another dead student
Another book?
An abortive rape
Jeff’s friend
The drinking school was in full roar near what used to be the public toilets. After the paedophile scandal, the toilets had been demolished and replaced by metal booths that were pay-to-enter. A wino detached himself from the group, approached. He had startling red hair, two teeth and a heavy black coat. A
“You were saying?”
“Pat’s a good guy. He’s not had it easy. In Bohermore they have a different take on sobriety. They stop drinking and get a bike. Not your textbook therapy but it works for Pat.”
My eyes strayed to the top shelf. Whiskey, brandy, eeny, meeney…vodka schnapps…miney, mo. Tequila, now there was something that did the job, fast, ruthless and efficient. I heard Emmylou’s lyric “Meant to ask you about the war” and snapped,
“There’s a point to this story?”
He was surprised, physically jerked back, said,
“Pat might be in the frame.”
“For what?”
“For the schoolgirl.”
I took a moment, got my head in gear, asked,
“How did that happen?”
Jeff ran his hand through his hair, deep lines across his forehead. When did they happen? He said,
“Pat was seen in the vicinity…And the girl knows him.”
Time to cut to the chase. I asked,
“What’s that mean? Knows him…what am I supposed to infer?”
“She asked him for money one time, for ice cream, and he refused.”
I didn’t see the problem, said,
“DNA will clear him, no big deal.”
Jeff was shaking his head, said,
“I don’t think an actual rape happened. The guards are under enormous pressure to get a result. The likes of Pat, he’ll do nicely.”
I raised my hands, had enough, said,
“Sad story, but shit happens.”
Now Jeff had reached the pass, stalled, then,
“I was hoping, you know, with your contacts, you could maybe make a few inquiries, put a good word in.”
I was truly amazed. Jeff wasn’t a guy to beg, to ask for a favour, but here he was, pleading for something. I wish I could say I was gracious, that I leaped at the chance to dig out my friend. No. I said,
“Aren’t you the guy always busting my balls, saying I have to give up the investigation business? Hell, you’re for ever expressing concern for my well-being, for my sobriety.”
The last word I lashed, then deliberately pushed the coffee cup aside.
Jeff took a deep breath, then,
“There’s talk of a vigilante group in the town, and I’m afraid they might target Pat.”
I let my face register ridicule, and he sighed; disappointment coursed through his body. He pushed back the chair, gathered the mugs, shrugged, said,
“Forget I asked.”
Immediately I felt bad. Fuck, I wanted to score a point, not annihilate him, tried,
“Jeez, Jeff, take it easy, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. Did I say that?”
His face showed how much he wanted to tell me to shove it, but concern for Pat Young overrode his personal bile. I could see the conflict, the turmoil in his eyes. He squared his shoulders, said,
“OK, anything you can do…would be…deeply appreciated.”
I’d made him jump through hoops and I regretted it. Blame my knee, blame the clergy who’d been in my face, blame the fact I wanted to drink till I howled. The truth is I behave badly more often than I dare admit. I stood up, trying for damage limitation, went,
“I’ll get right on it.”
He gave me an odd look, asked,
“You ever hear of the Pikemen?”
I rummaged through the haphazard store of Irish history, tried,
“1798, the rebellion—weren’t they some sort of secret society?”
He turned to the bar, then,
“The Pikemen I mean aren’t history.”
Then he moved away.
I was coming along the square and the sun appeared. It almost felt warm. I sat near the fountain and tried to figure out the mess of data I had. Without doubt, I was suffering from information overload. Attempting to list my priorities, I had:
The drug dealer
His dead sister
Synge
Another dead student
Another book?
An abortive rape
Jeff’s friend
The drinking school was in full roar near what used to be the public toilets. After the paedophile scandal, the toilets had been demolished and replaced by metal booths that were pay-to-enter. A wino detached himself from the group, approached. He had startling red hair, two teeth and a heavy black coat. A
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