Once outside, I felt better-not great but getting there. What I needed was a large Jameson but maybe some caffeine would be wiser first.
I turned left at Nun’s Island, moved along to the low bridge close to the Samaritans, stole a furtive glance at Mill Street, the Garda headquarters, a pang,
“never to belong there no more.”
Muttered,
“Get a grip.”
Turned left again and across O’Brien’s Bridge. Saint Patrick’s school looming large and off-white. In my time, the teachers were mostly Patrician Brothers. They wore a green sash like a belt and were very fond of the reed cane. They could lash with impunity and did. At least once a week I staggered home, my legs bruised and battered, welts clearly visible on the bare skin. No one questioned their authority. They walloped the bejaysus out of you, it was simply the norm.
It wasn’t that they were always right, simply that a cowed populace never thought to ask if they might be wrong.
All has changed, utterly. Corporal punishment is illegal. And in a ferocious, ironic turnaround, the teachers were now the ones being bullied.
I had replaced their reeds of punishment with a whole new way of lacerating myself.
Called it Jameson.
Stood there for a moment, thinking,
“If I continued to dig the hole, I was going to need the headstone sooner than expected.”
Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk.
That will keep your mouth shut.
– Irish proverb
I walked down Quay Street, stepped into Cafe Du Journal. Real Irish place, right?
I half hoped I’d run into Vinny from Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop but, no, the place was half empty. I got a corner table, old cop habit, so you can see who’s coming at you. Ordered a double espresso, a large Danish. I had no appetite but figured it would soak up the inevitable Jay. The sugar rush wouldn’t hurt either. Far end of the cafe was a Goth girl. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. They are harmless, do their gig, despite ridicule, and carry a continuous torch for The Cure.
I admire tenacity.
The girl, beneath the white makeup, the black eye shadow, black lipstick, couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was staring right back at me. She was pretty, in a sort of wounded way; even the Goth stuff couldn’t quite hide that. Her eyes, a deep brown, were boring into mine, so I asked,
“Help you with something?”
She moved from her table, took the seat opposite me, and, when she spoke, I noticed the stud in her tongue. How do they eat with that?
Maybe they don’t.
She said,
“You don’t know me.”
Statement.
I asked,
“Any reason why I should?”
Allowing a hint of force in there. If she was here to bust my balls, she’d chosen the right fucking day and the right fucking time to try it.
Her accent was the new cultivated Irish that spoke of: money, education, confidence, and fuck you.
As alien to me as a Brit.
She said,
“You put my brother in the mental hospital.”
As lines go, it’s a showstopper.
I asked.
“What?”
She took my spoon, asked,
“May I?”
Cut a corner of my Danish, said,
“I like sweet things.”
She’d thrown me. The only person I knew for sure I’d put in the home for the bewildered was my own self. Then,
Jesus Christ.
Years ago, a young man had been beheading swans. I’d nailed him and, yeah, he came from a good family, meaning cash and clout. No jail time, sent to a hospital. She asked,
“Coming back dude? The booze hasn’t destroyed all the brain cells?”
I’d met most brands of psychos during my career as a half-arsed investigator. They all shared the same total lack of empathy. Not so much they lacked a human element, more like they were a whole other species. A highly lethal one. But that kid, he’d used a samurai sword to decapitate the swans. What I most recalled was the absolute glee in his eyes. He didn’t so much enjoy his deeds as revel in them. I’d used a stun gun to knock him back into the water. The swans had gone for his eyes. He lost one. Every fiber of my being had been to let him drown. But I’d dragged him out. I’d hoped never to see the creep again.
Years later, he’d turned up,
“ Cured,” he told me.
The medicine hadn’t been invented to rewire his kind. They simply changed their act. The deadly impulse even more honed and ferocious than ever. He’d then vanished from my radar. I always knew he was out there and I was unfinished business. I said,
“I remember him; he told me he was a student.”
She gave me a look of pure defiance, said,
“He got his degree.”
I couldn’t resist, said,
“Long as it wasn’t as a vet.”
She pushed the Danish back, said,
“It’s stale.”
I said,
“So….?”
“He’s missing.”
I wanted to say,
“He was born missing,” but went with
“And I should care… why?”
“I want you to find him.”
I laughed, said,
“I’m the very last person he’d want on his case. You never gave me your name.”
Her whole body language was screaming that she had ammunition. She said,
“Bethany.”
I signaled to the waitress for the bill, said,
“Your family as I recall has lots of resources, and at last count, there are nine professional investigators in the city. They’d be glad to take your money. Me, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse what happens to your whacko brother.”
I paid the bill, stood up, and was turning to leave when she near whispered,
“I have something you want, Taylor.”
I shook my head, had already reached the door when she hissed,
“I know what happened to the priest,” pause,
“and the retard.”
