‘Oh, if your daughter being pregnant isn’t a priority then of course it can wait.’
‘Jeez … what? I mean, how …?’
‘Well darling, I know it’s been a while, but if you can’t remember how it happens … And she shrugged her shoulders. He couldn’t believe it. Worse, she walked off.
He thought: ‘Skin cancer
To roost
Stella Davis — Fenton’s ex-wife — was loading her washing machine. If she could have known it was the last day of her life, she might have done the wash regardless. It’s highly doubtful she’d have added fabric softener.
Her new husband was a teacher and the most stable person she’d ever met. Even his name — Jack Davis — rang of security. A no frills, no shit kinda guy. Jack was yer buddy, the sort of stand up guy who’d have a few beers and slip you a few bucks if you were hurting. When they devised the ‘Buddy’ system, it was the likes of Jack they envisaged.
Stella didn’t love him but, as they say at The Oval, she had a fondness for him. Plus, he was her Green Card, worth a whole shitpile of love and roses.
The love of her life had been The Alien. She came from a family of part time villains:
part of the time they were doing villainy
part of the time they were doing time.
So Fenton’s rep was known and admired in her street. It was a mystery to her why it was described as a working class neighbourhood, as few worked. Fenton appeared glamorous and dangerous and all that other good shit that causes fatal love. The biggest hook of all, he was gentle — to, with and about her.
When she got pregnant, he got three years and she woke up. That would be the pattern. He’d be banged up or killed and she decided to start over. Then she miscarried and the loss unhinged her. Near insane with grief and rage, she’d gone to the prison. As he walked into the visiting room, she saw the macho swagger, the hard-eyed hard man and she wanted to wound him.
So, she told him. ‘I aborted.’
And he’d gone berserk. Across the table at her and it took six guards to beat him into a stupor if not submission. Perhaps the worst horror was him never uttering a sound.
When Jack Davis showed up, she took him. She’d received one call before she left London from Bill who said, ‘Run … for all you’re worth.’
She did.
As the machine kicked into overdrive, Stella made some decaff. It was the state of low fat living. She’d been starting to talk American, eg ‘carbohydrated’.
The washing was in mega spin and she turned on the radio, it had Star Wars speakers and come-on hyper. It was nostalgia hour and she heard Steeler’s Wheel with ‘Stuck In The Middle With You’. Oh yeah. With Gerry Rafferty in the line up, they’d been touted as Scotland’s answer to Crosby, Stills and Nash, which was pushing the envelope; and then Vince Gill with ‘Go Rest High on that Mountain’ …
As she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, a song was playing. Elton John’s homage to Princess Diana. Then and now, Stella felt the song that sang it best, that sang it heart-kicked was Vince Gill.
When she heard it, she saw the photo of Di that would wound the soul of the devil himself. It shows her running in a school race at her boys’ school. Her face is that of a young girl, trying and eager, and mischievous.
Full of fun.
This whole thing Stella had told to Jack and then played the Gill song.
In a rare moment of insight, he’d said, ‘Down those mean streets, a decent song must sometimes go.’
She’d said, ‘That’s beautiful Jack.’
‘No, it’s Chandler pastiche.’
‘Oh …
Which bridge to cross and which bridge to burn
(Vince Gill)
Brant had to change flights at Dublin. There are no direct flights to Galway in the West of Ireland. He had contacted a long neglected cousin who said he’d meet him on arrival.
Brant asked, ‘How will you know me?’
‘Aren’t you a police man?’
‘Ahm … yes.’
‘Then I’ll know you.’
Brant wanted this crypticism explained but thought it best to leave it alone. Instead, he said, ‘So, you’re Pat de Brun.’
‘Most of the time.’
Brant concluded he was headed for a meet with a comedian or a moron. Probably both.
Brant was already confused by Ireland. At Dublin Airport the first thing he saw was a billboard, proclaiming:
‘Costa l’amore per il caffe’
Unless he’d boarded the wrong flight and was now in Rome, it didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they be touting tea, or jeez, at the very least, whisky?
His cousin, Pat de Brun, was smiling and Brant’s old responses kicked in. ‘What’s the joke, boyo?’
‘Tis that you look bewildered.’
And more bewildered he’d get. Pat said, ‘You’ll be wantin’ a drink, or, by the look of ye, the hair of the dog.’
Brant let it go and followed him to the bar. A middle aged woman was tending and declared, ‘Isn’t the weather fierce?’
Pat ignored the weather report and said, ‘Two large Paddies.’
Brant half expected two big navvies to hop on the counter. The drinks came and Pat said, ‘Slainte.’
‘Whatever.’
They took it neat, like men or idiots. It burned a hole in Brant’s guts and he went, ‘Jesus.’
‘Good man, there’s a drop of Irish in yah after all.’
‘There is now.’
Brant’s travel plans were:
1. London to Dublin
2. Dublin to Galway
3. Overnight stay
4. Shannon to America
So far so something.
A tape deck was playing ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’. Both men were quietly humming. Brant said, ‘Not very Irish is it?’
Pat finished his drink and answered, ‘Nothing is anymore. My name is Padraig but there’s no way a Brit like yourself could pronounce it.’
The drink was sufficiently potent for Brant to try. He said, ‘Pawdrag.’
‘Good on yah, that’s not bad; but lest I be living on me nerves, let’s stick to Pat.’
Brant swallowed. ‘Or Paddy.’
Pat de Brun was a distant cousin of Brant. Migration, emigration and sheer poor pronunciation had mutated
