The Dramatist Read Free Page B

could have reached prettiness if she’d made the slightest effort. Tiny pearl earrings gave me the clue I needed. I said,
    “Ridge…give me a moment, Bridie…no…Bríd?”
    She gave a gasp of annoyance.
    “We don’t use the English form. I told you that like…so many times…it’s Nic an Iomaire.”
    The ban garda. We hadn’t so much collaborated as collided on a previous case. I’d eventually helped her gain credit on a major crime, though my help was highly suspect and definitely tainted. Our connection was fraught from the beginning. Her uncle, Brendan Flood, and I had had a mixed history, beginning as adversaries and ending as uneasy friends. His research and information had been vital to most of my work; then he became a born-again and his zeal had danced along my nerves. Then came his breakdown, through drink, loss of family and the abandonment of all belief. I’d spent a booze-lit session with him where we’d drank boilermakers and mainlined nicotine. I failed to pick up on the level of his despair. A few days later, he’d taken a solid kitchen chair, a rope, and hanged himself.
    To add to my guilt, he’d bequeathed me a chunk of money and the ban garda. Her, I tried to lose at every turn. Here she was again. She sat awkwardly into the opposite seat and I offered,
    “Get you something?”
    I indicated my plastic cup, added,
    “I can recommend the tea and it isn’t cheap.”
    I never actually believed people turned up their noses but she achieved it—looked like she’d a lot of practice—said,
    “I don’t drink tea.”
    “Jeez, what a surprise. If memory serves, our times in the pub, you had orange juice and, wow, that memorable time, you kicked against the traces, had a wine spritzer.”
    “But, of course, Mr Taylor, you drank enough for all of us.”
    Here was the old feeling, the urge to slap her in the mouth, settled for,
    “I’m off the booze.”
    “Oh…and how long will that last…this time?”
    I sat back, reached for my cigs, and she near spat,
    “I’d really prefer if you didn’t do that.”
    I lit up, said,
    “Like that would ever be a consideration.”
    She waved her hand in front of her face, the universal flag of serious irritation by non-smokers. I asked,
    “You going to Dublin?”
    “Yes, court observation. The super has decreed all ranks must attend the Four Courts, see how justice is dispensed.”
    I could see the bureaucrats coming up with this brainwave, said,
    “Let me save you the trip: it’s dispensed badly. With the shortage of uniforms on the street, it’s vital the guards get observation experience. So did you get promotion?”
    A cloud passed her face, touched the corners of her eyes. She said,
    “Oh yeah, right, like they’re going to upgrade someone of my orientation.”
    I was confused, said,
    “Because you’re a woman?”
    She was out of patience, went,
    “What, you don’t know?”
    What the hell was she on about? I truly had lost the thread, asked,
    “Know what?”
    “That I’m gay.”
    God knows, for a so-called investigator, I am blind in all the obvious areas. There have been times, albeit rare, when I’ve made impressive deductive leaps. For the rest, it seemed like life sailed on by with me in the constant dark. There are probably a million permutations on the correct reply to the admission “I’m gay”. Apart from noises of solidarity, empathy, support, there are even replies that include not only encouragement but humour. I came up with,
    “Oh.”
    She stared at me and I grasped the meaning of “a loaded silence”. That’s what we had for the next five minutes. Then she stood, said,
    “I must return to my seat. Margaret will be wondering where I am.”
    Was Margaret the significant other? I hadn’t the balls to ask. She looked at the rack above me, no luggage, said,
    “You’re up for the day.”
    I wanted rid of her, said,
    “I’m going to jail.”
    “It’s where you belong.”
    And was gone.

 
    At Heuston I lingered