Cross Read Free Page A

and went, 'How would you know that? You in the army?'
    Not that I thought for a moment he was. He was too fragile.
    He grinned, answered, 'No, just London.'
    He was scratching his arms. I recognized the speed burn, and then he started to talk, a spew of words, his mouth unable to keep up with the flow of thought. 'You ever listen to The Libertines? Pete Doherty, their singer, is like, gone from dope, and The Black Keys, 10 AM Automatic, fatback blues and I've gotta get me some Prodigy. Dunst, he's living the dream, man, and you ever get to
London, you gotta hear Roots Manuva, he's like –'
    He paused, losing the thread, then, 'Razor rap and funny, you know?'
    Stopped, realizing he'd given me a mini lecture on music, just like Cody used to do, without me ever mentioning it.
    So I cut him some slack, said, 'You like music, kid?'
    His attention span was so like Cody's. One minute he was focused on you, then, bang, he was off again, as if one thought, one line of concentration was too much. He stood up.
'See you around.'
    Then he paused, added, 'Dude.'
    The movie Wayne's World has a lot to answer for. It was one of Cody's favourites.
I had no reply to this – not then, not now. I
simply nodded and he shambled off, in that half crouch young people adopt, like, who gives a fuck?
    A waitress began clearing the table. She held the bent Red Bull tin, pissed by it, indicated my slice of Danish. 'You going to eat that?'
    I looked at her and asked, 'You like The Prodigy?'
    I had a mobile phone. Not that it ever rang, but it made me feel vaguely connected so I
dutifully charged it daily. Carried it like a sad prayer in my jacket.
    Went to McSwiggan's. There's a tree in the centre of the pub, always reassures me that the country still has a sense of the absurd.
    It's situated in Wood Quay, not a spit away from Hidden Valley, where I once briefly had a home, courtesy of the tinkers. Wood Quay is one of the few real neighbourhoods in Galway. The people have lived there for generations and managed to hold on to their homes despite the rampant developers. You stand at the bottom of Eyre Street and you can see the whole of the area, the park that is still green, still untouched, where the kids play hurling and, OK, frisbee, but hurling has the upper, for the moment, and just beyond it is Lough Corrib. It gives a sense of community and they have their own street carnival every year. They are fiercely proud of how they've managed to stay intact in a city of so many rapid and ruthless changes.
    McSwiggan's is right at the beginning of the neighbourhood. A newish pub, it has somehow grabbed an echo of old Galway. The tree is right in at the back and yes, they built the pub round it. Now that to me is called having your priorities correct. And more of a rarity,
the staff are all Irish. This is becoming more and more of an oddity.
    It was just after twelve and the bar guy was doing pub stuff, a frenzy of glass-polishing, stocking shelves, but cheerful with it.
    'Howyah?'
    I acknowledged I was OK, ordered a pint and a small Jameson.
    'Ice with that?'
    I gave him the look. Was he serious?
    He said, 'No ice it is.'
    The pub smelled odd and he noticed me noticing, said, 'It's the lack of nicotine.'
    Christ, he was right.
    Then he added, 'Our showjumper got a Gold medal.'
    I was delighted. I don't know shit from horses, but a Gold, the country would be on the piss for a month.
    He let my pint sit before he creamed off the head – knew his stuff – and put the Jameson on the counter. 'I've a ticket for the Madonna concert.'
    Almost like the old Ireland, telling you their business without you ever asking. I took a smell of the Jameson and instantly I was convivial.
    'You're a fan, right?'
    Not the brightest query seeing as he'd a ticket, but luckily logic counts for very little in such exchanges. He was horrified.
    'Don't be fecking mad, I hate the cow.'
    I managed to keep the drink on the table, not to drink it. You have to think, What dementia,