As homage to my father, I decided to take a last look at the station before they moved to the barren plains. I hoped I’d meet Brian Carpenter, for decades the stationmaster, or Martin Quinn who, even as mayor, continued his day job on the railway. Now that’s class.
As I got to the station, the occupants of the Simon Community were being sent out for the day, to kill the time till they could return. One asked me politely if I could spare a cig and I gave him the packet. I moved onto the platform, could almost feel my dad’s hand in mine as he showed me the trains when I was little more than a toddler.
Engulfed in memories of him, I failed to notice the burly figure come up behind me until he touched my shoulder. A train was approaching and I still wonder: if I hadn’t moved as fast, would the touch have become a push?
I swirled round to face O’Brien, Clancy’s hatchet man. We had bad history, mostly of violence and hurleys. He was surprised at my sudden turn, recovered, said,
“The Super would like a word.”
Not negotiable.
That much I knew from previous history. I followed him out of the station, resisting the temptation to look back. My dad was in my heart, that was what counted. A sleek Mercedes was outside, the engine humming, another thug at the wheel. I got in the back, O’Brien following.
The five-minute journey to Mill Street and Garda headquarters was swift and silent. I had nothing to say to these hoodlums. We moved quickly into the station and then Clancy’s domain/office.
He was sitting behind a new mahogany desk, as vast as his ego. He seemed to have grown in girth to match it. Dressed in full uniform, a riot of insignia pinned on the tunic, he busied himself with papers as O’Brien took up position behind him, smirk in place. Finally he looked up, took off his gold pince-nez, said,
“Ah, the fingerless Taylor.”
I said,
“Nice to see you too. Sir.”
He gave a predatory smile as he pulled up a very old file, blew the dust dramatically off it, said,
“Jacko, Jack, you must be very proud, your dike lady being promoted and your dope dealer friend involved in the head shops.”
Stick it to him or not?
I stuck it, said,
“One does what little one can, as you know. The little, I mean.”
O’Brien moved but Clancy waved a restraining hand. He had better fodder than a wallop. Asked,
“You a fan of TV, Jacky boy?”
“Just TnaG, the Irish channel.”
He was delighted, said,
“I think even they show a very popular series titled Cold Case.
We, in our own small way, have been going through old files, clear the debris of the past, onwards and upwards to a new proud Irish nation.”
I was lost.
He tapped the file, said,
“This is your old man. Now, I liked your father. Such simple men seemed to be the very backbone of our society then.” Seemed.
Very worrying. He continued,
“But I hate hypocrites and I detest thieves.”
I tried with all my might to rein it in. O’Brien knew, waited till I moved and he’d beat me senseless. Clancy continued,
“The files from the railway were fascinating, the pension fund especially. Did you know your father was in charge of it?”
I didn’t.
He was cruising, killing me, pushed for the home run, said,
“He was a thief, stole from the very families he was supposed to be looking out for. And you, you’ve turned out just like him. He’d be very proud of the drunken limping deaf disaster you’ve become.”
Instinctively, I reached for the Walther in my waistband and O’Brien’s face registered alarm, knowing he couldn’t get to me in time. But no weapon. Out of respect to my dad, I’d left it at home. I let my hand show.
Empty.
Like the damn poem:
Empty of all
…But memories of you.
I managed to mutter,
“Anything else, sir?”
Clancy looked to O’Brien.
“The fuck was going on?”
They’d hit me every which way but loose and I was… doing.. . nothing. O’Brien gave a cautious shrug and Clancy said, less certain now,
“No. You can go but bear in mind, we’ll be publicizing your father’s thievery.”
I managed to turn around, moved to the door, stopped, said,
“My left hand still has its fingers.”
He was puzzled, asked,
“So?”
I lifted the middle finger, said,
“Cold case that.”
Reeling down the town, my mind on hyperdrive from the revelations, I was stopped by a tinker woman who said,
“Jack Taylor.”
I nodded and she asked,
“My poor mother, she’s dead three years now and I can’t afford a headstone.”
I handed her my wallet, said,
“We can’t have that.”
