“I’m sorry.”
He was at the door, said,
“I’m sorry too, sorry they didn’t cut your balls off.
Two days later, finally, I was released. Ireland was coming to the end of the freakish three-week period of freezing ice and snow. People had broken hips, bones, on footpaths deadly with black ice. The government had imported salt from Spain.
Fuck, I knew we were short of most everything, especially irony, but salt?
Come on.
The salt was to cover the roads.
Schools were closed, water was rationed, pipes were burst or frozen, we’d already entered the Apocalypse. You don’t get to leave hospital without stern diatribes from a doctor. Mine warned me about the phantom feelings I’d have in my lost fingers. I nearly said,
“Rubbing salt in the wounds?”
Went with,
“All my feelings are ghosts anyway.”
He stared at my now impressive black eye. I said,
“I fell out of bed and, no, I won’t sue.”
He, God bless him, prescribed some heavy painkillers, cautioned,
“Avoid alcohol while taking them.”
I’d have winked but my eye still hurt.
They insist on wheeling you to the door in a wheelchair till you are safely off the premises. Break your arse on the ice outside, they could give a fuck. Stewart was waiting outside, dressed in a fetching Gore-Tex coat and a Trinity scarf wrapped round his neck. He didn’t go there but, then, who did? I was so glad to see him but did I show it? Did I fuck.
He said,
“I asked the hospital to notify me on your release.”
My legs were unsteady from disuse and my limp had roared back with a vengeance. First thing, I lit a cig, Stewart frowned and I snapped,
“Don’t fucking start.”
He sighed, said,
“The car is over here, I’ll swing it round.”
I began to walk, slowly, badly, but doing it. Dizziness from nicotine, the cold, freedom, jostled to land me on my arse but I stayed, if not steady, at least moving. I said,
“I’ll be in the River Inn, and who knows, I might even buy you lunch.”
The ice was even worse than I expected and it took me twenty minutes to maneuver the short distance. Getting in there-ah, bliss. The waitress who’d served Gabriel and me like what seemed a lifetime ago, certainly Loyola’s life, exclaimed,
“By all that’s holy, Jack, what on earth happened to you?”
I said,
“I got religion.”
She was well used to not understanding a word I said but she liked me anyway. Led me to a corner table and I ordered a large toddy. She said,
“And why wouldn’t you? And this is on me.”
Such people kill me. Give me the arseholes, the head fucking bangers, the predators, and I can function, but a truly nice person. .. it makes me want to weep.
I was settled in a comfortable chair, watching the wind rage outside, the hot Jay before me, trying to prise the top off the painkiller tube, when Stewart arrived. He took it all in but said nothing. On the good side of the hot spirit, the pills doing their alchemy, I let out my breath. Stewart watching me, like a dejected Siamese cat, asked,
“How’d you get the black eye?”
“The nurses didn’t like me.”
He nearly smiled, then told me, without emotion, of Ridge receiving my fingers in the mail and the continual apparently random attacks on the frail and vulnerable. I said,
“Let me guess, the victims are all different from the so-called ordinary citizens?”
Those Zen eyes allowed a small surprise. He asked,
“Go on.”
I told him of the speech the bastard had given me before he used the knife. He stared at me, asked,
“Close your eyes for a second, visualize the scene.”
I finished my drink, my stomach already warm and fuzzy, asked,
“Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m trying like a banker to blank out the whole thing.”
He persisted,
“Do you trust me Jack?”
Jesus, what a question.
I didn’t trust me own self, never mind anybody else.
Fuck.
Before I could utter some lame shite like
“Sure….but…” he held up his index finger, said,
“This will be brief, I promise. Focus on my finger and then hear me count from ten.”
I thought,
“Bollocks.”
And then-whiteout.
Literally.
Where did I go?
What happened?
To this bloody day, I’ve no idea. One of those terrible ironies of alcoholism, striving for numbness and terrified of losing control.
What the Brits call a conundrum.
Great word and I might actually understand what it means someday.
Stewart was tapping my shoulder, saying,
“You did great; it’s done.”
Took me a moment to refocus. I wasn’t in hospital, unless they’d installed a bar on the wards and don’t rule out the possibility. I wasn’t being tortured, I think, and I felt pretty OK. I asked,
“What did you do?”
He shrugged, no biggie, said,
“Just a mild hypnosis.”
I asked,
“Did I give up my ATM number?”
He nearly smiled, said,
“You remembered a name, the name of the guy who gave the ethnic cleansing speech.”
I was impressed, asked,
“Who is he?”
“Bine.”
I nearly choked, spluttered,
“Bine, that’s it? The fuck kind of name is that?”
He was deep in thought, held up a hand, the equivalent of “Sh-issh.”
Which I love.
He said,
“It triggers something. I’m not quite there yet but I’m so close.”
My waitress brought us over two toasted sandwiches, said,
