The Killing of the Tinkers (13 page)

Third night and I’m crouched against the wall. A driving rain
found me at every turn. The swans were huddled towards the shore; felt I’d gotten caught in some episode of
The Twilight Zone,
for ever surrounded by unpredictable swans. Had decided to cut out early on this vigil, maybe fuck off home at five. Just after four, a figure stopped at the wall, directly above me. I could hear troubled breathing, like asthma or something. I watched as he approached the slipway…

And stepped down.

All I could make out was a long overcoat, wellingtons and, then, a flash of metal. Machete.

He began to walk towards the water. I was up, trying to ease the pain in my joints. I could hear identical sounds to the swans. He was calling them. That spooked me more than anything. Two of the birds were approaching. He raised the knife. I said,

“Yo, shithead.”

He turned and I moved nearer. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, blond hair cut short, an ordinary face, nothing to distinguish it, till you saw the eyes. I once read how Hemingway described Wyndham Lewis as having “the eyes of a professional rapist”. Here they were. He said,

“Fuck off or I’ll cut you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“For me exams.”

“What?”

“Lucifer will give me all A’s for eighteen heads.”

“Eighteen?”

Annoyance crossed his face and he spat,

“Six six six, the number of the beast.”

“Jesus.”

He ran at me. I let him come, then hit him with the stun gun. The voltage took him off his feet and into the water. I was astonished at the power. As the kid thrashed, it crossed my mind to let him drown. Then the swans went at him. I’d a battle to fend them off as I dragged him out. Took a second to catch my breath and then heaved him over my shoulder. He was groaning as I made my way across the road. I banged on the door of St Jude’s till a light came on. Tate opened it and went,

“Oh my God.”

“Here’s your swan killer.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

I laid the kid on the ground, said,

“You better do it quick, whatever it is, as I think the swans took his eye out.”

I turned and started to walk. He shouted,

“Where are you going?”

“For a pint.”

The story made page one.

I’d finally solved a case. Yup, I cracked it. Did I feel good?
Did I fuck. A sense of desolation engulfed me. Cloud of unknowing?…Not quite. I knew and was not consoled. Emptiness lit my guts like a palpable sense of dread. Back to basics, back to books. I read as if I meant it. In ’91, I came across David Gates, first novel
Jernigan,
not a book much ratified by addicts. The narrator is boozy, belligerent, demented. Crucified by his own irony, he is on a course of bended analysis. It depicts the horror of American suburbia. I lent it to a few people who hated it. I asked,

“What about the humour?”

“You’re as sick as Jernigan.”

Valid point. Payback though when he was nominated for the Pulitzer. I settled down to read his short stories titled
Wonders of the Invisible World.
In “Star Baby”, a gay man leaves the big city for life in his home town, only to find himself cast as a father figure to his detoxing sister’s son.

“Mostly he avoids taking Deke to restaurants, not because of the catamite issue but because the two of them look so alone in the world.”

I thought what a great word
catamite
was. A little difficult to insert into everyday conversation, but you never knew. The next up was “The Crazy Thought”. A woman misses her true love and chafes at city life with an embittered husband.

“ ‘Nothing wrong with John Le Carré,’ Paul said. ‘I’d hell of a lot sooner read him than fucking John Updike. If we’re talking about Johns here.’ ”

The doorbell went. I said,

“Shite.”

And got up to answer. At first I didn’t recognise him, then,

“Superintendent Clancy.”

He was in civies, dressed in a three piece suit. A big seller in Penney’s three years ago. He asked,

“Might I step in?”

“Got a warrant?”

His face clouded and I said,

“Kidding. Come in.”

Brought him into the kitchen, asked,

“Get you something?”

“Tea, tea would be great.”

He eased himself into a chair, like someone who has recently hurt his back. He surveyed the room, said,

“Comfortable.”

I didn’t think it required an answer. I took a good look at him. When I first knew him, he’d been skinny as a toothpick. We’d been close friends. All of that was long ago. His stomach bulged above his pants. Rolls of fat near closed his eyes, his face was scarlet and his breathing was laboured. I put a mug before him, said,

“I’m all out of bickies.”

He gave a wolf’s smile, said,

“You’re to be congratulated.”

“On a lack of biscuits?”

Shook his head, said,

“The swan business. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Lucky was all.”

“The other business, the tinkers, are you still pursuing that?”

“No, I got nowhere. Couple of your lads gave me a wallop recently, said you ordered it.”

“Ah, Jack, the new lads, they get a touch overzealous.”

“So why are you here?”

“Purely social. We go back a long way.”

And all of it bad. He stood up, the tea untouched.

“There was one thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Bill Cassell, our local hard case, you’d do well to steer clear.”

“Is that a warning?”

“Jack, you’re becoming paranoid. I’m only passing on a friendly word.”

“Here’s a word for you…
catamite
. Look it up, you’ll be rewarded.”

As he stepped out of the door, a car glided up, a guard got out and opened the rear door. I said,

“Impressive.”

“Rank has its privileges.”

I gave him the stare, said,

“It shows; you’re a man of weight all right.”

I’d been reading Derek Raymond again, and noted,

Over the next few days, I laid low. The most amazing thing had happened. I’d cut back on the booze. The ferocious craving for coke had subsided. Now just a dim ache I could tolerate. Was afraid if I went out, the whole nervous charade would collapse. Read some Merton in a futile search for spiritual nourishment. And got none.

In truth, he now irritated the shit out of me. This usually prefaced a bender of ferocious intent. When Laura rang, I said,

“Hon, I’ve got flu.”

“I’ll come mind you.”

“No, no, just let me Lim-Sip through it.”

“I want to see you, Jack.”

“Not sick you don’t.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jeez, how many ways do I have to say this, you don’t want to see me sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. Three days tops, I’ll be fine.”

She annoyed me, too. I’d have been hard put to name anything or anyone that didn’t. Second day of interment, the doorbell went. Opened it to one of the clan. I’d seen him with Sweeper. I snapped,

“What?”

“Sweeper asked me to check you were OK.”

“You checked, goodbye.”

Tried to close the door. He put out his hand, said,

“I’m Mikey, could I come in for a minute?”

“A minute, that’s it; the clock is ticking.”

He came in, glanced round. I asked,

“What were you looking for?”

“Nothing. You’ve kept the place nice.”

He had a studied way of speaking, as if he tasted each word. He asked,

“Any chance of a glass of water?”

I gave him that and he drank deep, said,

“I’ve a desperate thirst. Must be the rashers I had for breakfast.”

“Mikey, why do I get the feeling you have an agenda?”

“I used to live here.”

“Sweeper said it was a family.”

“No, just me.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Sweeper moved me for you.”

I lit a red, blew smoke in his direction, said,

“Ah, you’re pissed off.”

He squeezed the glass, said,

“I wouldn’t mind if you’d earned it.”

“I found the most likely suspect.”

“And he’s…where?”

I’d had enough, said,

“I’ve had enough. Was there anything else?”

“No. Could I borrow some books?”

“You read?”

“You think tinkers don’t read?”

“Gimme a break. I’m in no mood for persecution gigs.”

He didn’t move, said,

“So, the books?”

I moved to the front door, said,

“Join the library.”

He stood at the step, said,

“You’re not letting me have books?”

“Buy your own.”

And I slammed the door in his face.

The bell rang again and I pulled it open, ready for fight. It was my neighbour. I said,

“Oh.”

He looked rough at the best of times. Now he appeared to have been turned inside out and trampled. He held a bottle, said,

“Poitín.”

“Um…thanks…I think.”

“I bought a scratch card, won.”

“Much?”

“I’ve been on the batter for a week.”

“That much, eh?”

“I was in a human pub last night.”

“A what?”

“You open the door and everybody’s singing…‘I’m only human’.”

I held up the bottle. The liquid was as clear as glass. I said,

“The real McCoy.”

He shuddered, said,

“I can vouch for that. The still is in Roscommon.”

“I thought the guards were cracking down.”

“A guard sold it to me.”

“A guarantee in itself.”

“None better.”

Another day of hibernation. On the radio for some reason
they’re playing an interview with Muhammad Ali. I’m only half listening till,

“The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.”

I’m turning that sucker over.

Jesus.

Figuring it’s time to return to crime, bookwise anyway. I get
stuck into Lawerence Block; have to speed-read him as Matt Scudder, his hero, speaks at length about recovery from alcoholism. Thin ice at its thinnest. Worse, at one stage, he describes the difference between an alcoholic and a junkie. With the cloud of speed, coke over me and a bottle of
poitín
in the cupboard, I’m between that rock and a hard place. Am I ever? Phew-oh. He writes:

“Show a stone junkie the Garden of Eden and he’ll say he wants it dark and cold and miserable. And he wants to be the only one there.”

I stood up, got a cig, I was not enjoying this passage. Put on Johnny Duhan’s
Flame
. The perfect album for my fragmented state. By the third track, I’m easing down, said,

“OK.”

And went back to Block.

“The difference between the drunk and the junkie is the drunk will steal your wallet. So will the junkie, but then he’ll help you look for it.”

I put the book aside, said,

“Enough, time to go out.”

And out I went, more’s the Irish pity.

Passing the GBC I thought of my last meeting there with Keegan. On that whim, I went in, got a double cappuccino and an almond croissant. Asked the assistant,

“Don’t put sprinkle on.”

She was amazed, said,

“How can you drink it without that?”

“With great relish, OK?”

Took a window seat, let the world cruise by. Cut a wedge of the croissant and began to chew. Good? It was heaven. Helped distance the coke craving. A woman approached, said,

“You’re Jack Taylor.”

Mid bite, I managed,

“Yes.”

“Might I have a minute?”

“OK.”

She was late fifties but well-preserved. Wearing the sort of suit popularised by Maggie Thatcher. Which told me one thing: “Pay attention.” She sat, fixed me with a steady gaze, asked,

“Do you know me?”

“No, no, I don’t.”

“Mrs Nealon, Laura’s mother.”

I put out my hand and she gave it a scornful glance, said,

“We’re in the same age bracket, wouldn’t you say?”

The froth on my coffee was disappearing. I tried for the light touch, said,

“Give or take ten years.”

Bad idea. She launched,

“I hardly think Laura’s in your range, do you?”

“Mrs Nealon, it isn’t a serious thing.”

Her eyes flashed.

“How dare you? My daughter is besotted.”

“I think you’re overstating it.”

She stood up, her voice loud.

“Leave her alone, you dirty lecher.”

And stormed out.

All eyes in the place on me, high with recrimination. I looked at the pastry, curling in on itself, thought,

“Too sweet really.”

The cappuccino had wasted away entirely.

As I slunk out of there, I remembered a line of Borges that Kiki was fond of quoting:

“Waking up, if only morning meant oblivion.”

Tried to tell myself the old Galwegian line:

“The GBC is for country people. Them and commercial travellers.”

Would it fly? Would it fuck.

Rang Laura, who exclaimed,

“You’re better.”

“What?”

“Your flu, it’s gone.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m so happy. I bought you a get-well card, it has Snoopy on the front, and I don’t even know if you like him. Oh Jack, there’s so much I’m dying to know about you. I’ll come over right now.”

“Laura…I…um…listen…I won’t be seeing you.”

“You mean today?”

“Today and…every other day.”

“Why, Jack? Did I do something wrong? Did I…”

I had to cut this, said,

“I’ve met someone else.”

“Oh God, is she lovely?”

“She’s older.”

And I hung up.