When I got to Hidden Valley, I was in the bag. Finally took the clothes out of the dryer. They weren’t so much dried as baked. The leather could stand up on its own, which was definitely the jump on me. I ironed it. They don’t suggest, they bloody roar,

“Don’t ever iron leather.”

Fuck them.

The day before Cemetery Sunday, I finally went to visit my dead. Sweeper had lent me the van. He’d come early in the morning and asked me my plans for the day. I said,

“At Rahoon, those I have loved best and treated worst are lain. Over a year and I have not said Kaddish.”

“Ka…what?”

“Respect.”

He nodded solemnly; this he understood. If the clans comprehend one thing better than us, it’s grief. God knows, they get enough practice. He asked,

“Do you wish me to keep you company?”

“No, I better do this alone.”

“I will give you the van.”

“Is it taxed?”

Big smile.

“Now, Jack Taylor, you sound like a guard. They say you were a fair one.”

“I’ll take the fifth on that.”

The van was left in the lane within the hour. Chock-a-block with flowers. No more than Keegan, Sweeper had some moves. I wore the suit from Vincent de Paul. Fit fairish. In other words, you knew it hadn’t been bought with me in mind. Sweeper had listened to my Bryson encounter, asked,

“You think it’s him?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

“Jeez, hold on. I have a few more checks to make.”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

“Sweeper, for Christsakes, will you stop saying that. You asked me to help, you have to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

Begrudging.

“So no killing?”

“I’ll wait.”

“OK.”

I drove the van up to Rahoon gates, took an armload of flowers. Two kids were kicking a ball just outside. One asked,

“Mister, you a tinker?”

“What do you care?”

“That’s a tinker’s van.”

“How do you know?”

“No tax.”

“Oh…should you be playing here?”

The second kid jerked a thumb at the dead, said,

“They don’t care.”

I levelled a look right at his eyes, asked,

“You sure?”

They left. First I said hello to my dad. I can say with my hand on my heart that he was a real gentleman. In the old sense of that. A woman once told me,

“Your dad, he was gallant.”

What a great word. He deserved it. Further on, I found Padraig’s grave. The head wino for a brief glorious reign. He led his pack with flair and humour till he was run over by the Salthill bus. Some terrible irony in that, but it escapes me. I poured a small Jameson into the soil. That’s a prayer he’d appreciate. Then Sean, the erstwhile owner of Grogan’s. His delight in my once brief period of sobriety was too much to recall. He was murdered because of me. Guilt overload. I put roses there and I didn’t say anything. While I was drinking, he wouldn’t want to hear it. Nor could I possibly utter it.

The sheer bastardry of alcoholism. I wanted a drink so badly, I could taste it.

The fourth and final grave: Sarah Henderson. A teenage girl, her grave was immaculate, weeded, tidied and laden with framed poems and fluffy toys. Everyone from Britney through Barbie to a Barney doll. Her mother had come to me, pleading I prove her daughter was not a suicide. A number of young girls had died in an apparent “suicide epidemic”. The case got solved. The girls had been murdered. The awful kicker was, Sarah did kill herself. Of course, I never told her mother. By then I was madly in love with her. I blew it all to hell and gone. A voice said,

“Jack.”

For a moment, I thought Sarah had called. Then a shadow fell across me. Ann Henderson, looking radiant. Her face glowing, those eyes looked at me. Summoning all my repartee, I said,

“Ann.”

She looked at her daughter’s grave, said,

“You brought six white roses.”

“Well.”

“You remembered, how wonderful.”

I had no idea what to do. Tried to get my mind in gear, but would it help? Would it fuck. She was examining me closely, said,

“Your nose has been broken again. Oh, Jack, what are we going to do with you?”

We!

She, however, could do whatever her heart desired. Am I weak? Oh boy…and she was saying,

“But you have lovely teeth; are they crowns?”

“Mmm…sort of.”

You’d think I’d have settled, got some bearings. No way, José. She asked, in that awful concerned fashion exclusive to those you’ve lost,

“How are you, Jack?”

I was giddy and, worse, reckless. Call it punch drunk. Said,

“I’m married actually.”

Wouldn’t that actually blow your head off? It did mine. I prayed she wouldn’t be happy for me. She gushed,

“Oh, Jack, how wonderful. Is she a local girl?”

“No…um…she’s left me.”

“Jack.”

I had to know about her life, and even though I dreaded knowing, I asked,

“What about you, still seeing, um…?”

“Yes, we’ve set a date for June. You’ll have to come, promise you will.”

I don’t know what I said. I stumbled away, bumping into headstones, cursing, near weeping. On the side of the van, one of the kids had glow scratched,

“TINKER.”

I’d spoken on the phone with Laura. Went like this:

“Jack, I miss you.”

“Good Lord, that’s…”

“Will I see you?”

“Sure.”

“Because Keegan is seeing my friend, like totally. She’s going to try for his baby.”

“That’ll get his attention. Look, how about a meal tomorrow night?”

“You’ll bring me to a restaurant, really?”

Why did I keep feeling she was winding me up? As soon as I got eager, people would leap out shouting,

“Ejit!”

Keep it low gear.

“I’ll meet you at eight in Garavan’s; we’ll take it from there.”

“I’ll look really nice for you, Jack.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Had eased my way back from the daily intake of coke. This could only be a good thing. I went to bed early and seemed to only just have got to sleep when the phone rang. I checked the clock, four…went,

“This better be bloody vital.”

“Jack, did I wake you?”

“Who’s this?”

“Thought you’d be guzzling whiskey all night.”

“Bryson.”

“What happened to you calling me Ron? Ah, be friendly, Jack.”

“Was there something?”

Could hear playfulness in his voice, a languid tone.

“I wanted to fuck with you, Jack, like you did with me today.”

“You’re getting there, pal.”

“Been doing your homework on me, Jack?”

“Why…have you something to hide?”

“Am I like ‘the Prime Suspect’? You, alas, are no Helen Mirren.”

“Would you like that, Ron, being a suspect?”

“Don’t patronise me, you worthless piece of sodden garbage.”

“Whoa…got a hard on for drinkers…that it, Ron?”

“How dare you presume to analyse me. Think about this, Mr Private Dick…Ann Henderson.”

I caught my breath. He heard it, said,

“Give you a start, did I, Jack? Now you have some clue as to who you’re dealing with.”

I needed some points fast; needed a cig, too, but fucked if I could see them, said,

“I know who I’m dealing with all right.”

“Pray tell?”

This last in a falsetto.

“A sick fuck who jerks off against windows.”

“8B, Hidden Valley, have I that right, Jack?”

Got me again, continued,

“Maybe I’ll drop by, catch you unawares.”

“You threatening me, Ron? I don’t do threats well.”

“You’ll grow accustomed. Alas, I must grab some zzzzzs, an endless line of deadbeat drunks to fix tomorrow.”

“Fix?”

“Oh, yes, Jack, I fix them fine. You’ll see soon enough.”

Click.

Got out of bed cursing,

“Where’s the fucking cigarettes?”

I couldn’t get hold of Keegan next day as he was touring Connemara. God help them, I thought. Sweeper was defending his position as leader of his clan. Literally. Every so often, a young buck would challenge and they’d settle it bare knuckled. Venues were usually held round Mullingar and attracted huge crowds. The betting aspect was the magnet, and fortunes were wagered. Nobody can generate cash flow like the clans. The guards would be reliably informed as to time, date and location. They’d overreact and flood a totally incorrect part of the country. The media particularly relished it and gave prime time to guards stopping innocent motorists. I had promised to attend at a later time. Not altogether sure I would.