The Guards Read Free Page A

elbowed him again and he went,
    “Urg … gh.”
    I said,
    “I don’t think so.”
    I asked her,
    “Can you walk?”
    “I’ll try.”
    I grabbed the guy by his shirt.
    Up
    One
    Two
    And over.
    Let his own weight launch him into the canal.
    As I was opening the door to my flat, we could hear roars from the water. She said,
    “I don’t think he can swim.”
    “Who cares?”
    “Not me.”
    I made tower-block hot whiskeys.
    Tons of sugar
    Cloves
    Gallon of Jameson.
    Put the glass in her two hands, said,
    “Get that in yah.”
    She did.
    I put Lone Star on the speakers, kicking off with ‘Amazed’. She said,
    “Is that Country and Western?”
    “Sure is.”
    “It’s shite.”
    “Drink up, you won’t care.”
    I took a full look at her. Spiked hair, pierced eyebrow, trowel-thick black make-up. Somewhere in there was a prettygirl. Her age could be sixteen or thirty-six. Her accent was London, blunted a little by Irish inflexion. The effect was as if she was for ever about to launch into what the English believe is a brogue.
    That she never did is to her ever-lasting credit.
    No wonder I liked her.
    A marathon of heavy silver bracelets lined her left arm. Didn’t quite hide the old tracks. I said,
    “You were on the gear.”
    “What are you, the Old Bill?”
    “Used to be.”
    “You what?”
    “I used to be a cop.”
    “Bleedin’ hell.”
    That’s how I met Catherine Bellingham. She’d washed up in Gahvay in the wake of a rock group who played the Black Box. They split, she stayed.
    “I sing,” she said.
    Without preamble, she launched into “Troy". Unaccompanied, it must be the most difficult choice. I had never been an avid Sinead O’Connor fan but, hearing this, I reconsidered.
    Cathy made it a dirge of bleak beauty. I was astonished, held my drink up to the light.
    “This is powerful shit.”
    Immediately, she followed with “A Woman’s Heart”.
    Yeah, Mary Black would also require reassessment.
    It was like I’d never heard those songs. After, I said,
    “Christ, you’re good.”
    “I am, amn’t I?”
    I poured more drink, said,
    “Here’s to beauty.”
    She didn’t touch hers, said,
    “I never do the next song, but I’m drunk so …”
    It was “No Woman, No Cry”.
    I’m an alky, I was born to these sentiments. Listening to her, I wished I had the strongest Colombian available. Conversely, it made me feel I had a shot. But at what I didn’t know. Cathy stopped, said,
    “That’s it, show’s over.”
    I said, without considering,
    “No people sing with such pure voices as those who live in deepest hell.”
    She nodded, said,
    “Kafka.”
    “Who?”
    “He said that.”
    “You know him?”
    “I’ve known hell.”

KEENING
    In Ireland they say, “If you want help, so to the guards-if you don’t want help, go to the guards.”
    I went.
    Since my dismissal, every few months, I’d receive the following letter:
THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
    A Chara,
    In compliance with the terms of your termination, it is required you surrender all property belonging to the Government.
    See Article 59341A of Uniform and Equipment. It has come to our attention you have failedto return Item 8234—A regulation gar da all-weather coat.
    We trust in your speedy return of said item.
    Mise le meas,
B. Finnerton.
    I crumpled the most recent and lobbed it across the room. I missed. The rain was bucketing down outside as I bundled into Item 8234.
    Fit like harmony.
    The only link I had to my former career.
    Would I return it? Would I fuck.
    My former colleague, Clancy from Roscommon, had risen through the ranks. I stood outside the garda barracks and wondered at my welcome.
    Taking a deep breath, I headed in. A garda, aged about twelve, asked,
    “Yes, sir?”
    Jesus, how old had I got. I said,
    “Would it be possible to see Garda Clancy? I’m not sure of his rank.”
    The youngster’s eyes popped. He said,
    “Superintendent Clancy?”
    “Must be.”
    Then suspicion.
    “Have you an