The Guards Read Free

quasi-American in the worst way.
    I stood up, grease covering my hands, waited. She continued,
    “I shouldn’t have said, you know… the awful thing.”
    “Hey, forget it.”
    Forgiveness is a heady fix. It makes you stupid. I said,
    “So, you want to go out, grab a bite?”
    “Oh, I couldn’t.”
    “What?”
    “You’re too old.”
    That evening, under darkness, I crept out, punctured her tyre again.
    I read. I read a lot. Between bouts of booze, I get through some print. Mostly crime. Recently, I’d finished Derek Raymond’s autobiography The Hidden Files.
    Class act.
    He’s the man.
    That the drink had finally taken him out was a further bond. Over my bathroom mirror I’d placed his:
    Existence is sometimes what a
forward artillery observer sees
of enemy lines through field glasses.
A distant and troubling view
brought suddenly into focus with a wealth of obscene detail.
    It’s the obscene detail I want to obliterate with every drink. Butit’s imprinted on my very soul, fetid and rank. No shaking it loose.
    God knows I’ve tried; since the death of my father, I’ve fixated on death most days. I carry it, like a song, half-remembered.
    A philosopher, Rochefoucauld, wrote that death is like the sun. No one can stare at it directly. I ploughed through books on death.
    Sherwin Nuland— How We Die
    Bert Keizer— Dancing with Mister D
    Thomas Lynch— The Undertaking.
    I dunno if I sought
    Answers
    Comfort
    Understanding.
    I didn’t get them.
    A hole had opened in my gut that felt for ever raw. After the funeral, the priest said,
    “The pain will pass.”
    I wanted to roar—"Fuck that, I don’t want it to pass. I want to hug it to me lest I forget”.
    My father was a lovely man. As a child, I remember he’d suddenly clear all the furniture in the kitchen. The chairs, tables, piled against the wall. Then he’d take my mother’s hand, and up and down the kitchen they’d dance. Laughter gurgling in her throat, she’d shout,
    “Yah eejit.”
    No matter what was happening, he’d say,
    “As long as you can dance, you’re ahead.”
    He did for as long as he was able.
    I never dance .
    “Dead children do not give
us memories,
they give us dreams.”
    Thomas Lynch, The Undertaking
    I visited the grave of the dead girl. She was buried in Rahoon Cemetery. Where Nora Barnacle’s dead lover lies.
    I can’t explain why I wanted to touch base there. My father’s grave rests on the small hill. I was too ragged to say hello. Felt as if I was sneaking past. There are those days I feel his loss too sharply to say hello.
    Sarah Henderson’s plot was down near the east wall. It’s one of the few spots to catch the sun. A makeshift, temporary cross read:
SARAH HENDERSON
    Nothing else. I said,
    “Sarah, I’ll do what I can.”
    Outside the gates I found a phone box, called Cathy B. She answered on the ninth ring with
    “What?”
    “Whoa, Cathy … nice phone manner.”
    “Jack?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How are you?”
    “I’m at the cemetery.”
    “Better than in .”
    “Can you do some work?”
    “Oh yeah, like I need the bread, so totally.”
    I gave her the background, the details, said,
    “Talk to her school friends, boyfriend …”
    “Don’t tell me my job.”
    “Sorry.”
    “You should be. I’ll call in a few days.”
    Click.
    About a year ago, I was heading home late along the canal. It’s a happening place after midnight. Drinking school, dopers, eco-warriors, ducks, and the no-frills crazies. I fit right in.
    A non-national offered to sell me his coat, but otherwise it was uneventful. As I got to the end of the canal, I saw a girl on her knees before a man. For one illucid moment, I thought he was getting a blow job. Until I saw his hand go up, come crashing down on her head. I came behind, used my elbow to hit him on the neck.
    He fell against the railing. The girl’s face was cut, and bruising already showed on her cheek. I helped her up. She said,
    “He’s going to kill me.”
    I