Do be clear on this, I’m divorcing you.

Kiki

On the radio, Seamus Heaney is saying Ireland is chic. Keegan would agree, though his description might be a little more colourful.

I got a new case!

I was having a coffee in Nestor’s when a man approached.

“Mr Taylor, might I have a moment?”

“Sure, and it’s Jack.”

Another English accent. I hoped Bill didn’t get wind of it. He was about my age, with the air of an accountant, a heavily receding hairline and a face that just missed being interesting. He was dressed in jeans, and a heavy denim jacket. Said,

“I’m Michael Tate. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“No.”

“Or the GSF?”

“Nope.”

He seemed very put out, so I said,

“Tell me what it means?”

“The Galway Swan Foundation.”

“Oh.”

“It’s purely voluntary. We take care of the swans.”

“Great.”

“Have you been reading the Galway Advertiser?”

“Not attentively, no.”

“Someone is decapitating the swans.”

“Jesus.”

“The guards haven’t the time to mount an investigation. We heard you get results.”

“I don’t know. I…”

“Seven swans in two weeks. We will pay you, of course.”

“Where does it happen and when?”

“The early hours of the morning, in the Claddagh Basin.”

“Why don’t you rally your members, mount a continuous watch.”

He looked down at his shoes. A pair of brown brogues from Dunnes. I’d considered the very pair on my recent expedition. He said,

“The majority of our members are not in the first flush of youth, Mr Taylor. Even if we did as you suggest, the person who’s doing this…well, we’d be no match for such an individual…or worse, a gang.”

“When was the last attack?”

“A week ago. It’s usually a week between them.”

“OK, I’ll give it a go.”

He stood up, gave me an envelope.

“I hope this will be sufficent.”

After he’d gone, I opened the envelope. A single twenty pound note. I wanted to shout,

“The drinks are on me.”

I didn’t get to investigate that night. I’d halfways planned on buying some thermal gear, going down to the Claddagh in the early hours of the morning, but it got away from me. Laura had to cancel our evening, asking,

“Jack, can we please go dancing another time?”

“Sure.”

In John Straley’s book is the following:

In my universe there are drinkers and dancers. And the two should never intermingle. I have always been with the drinkers, self-conscious introverts who crack wise about the music and sneer at the dancers at the same time. They are consumed with envy.

The plan as usual was at fault. This was the plan: I’d go to a quiet pub, have one quiet drink and go quietly home. Yeah. Of late, my hangovers had been manageable. Just a slight nausea and the fragile feeling. Now, the reckoning had come with ferocity. Came to on the floor of my kitchen, half a green chicken on the table. Threw up there and then, then crawled through the morning. Whatever I attempted – tea, toast, water – just up-chucked. I was not a well person. A measure of how bad, a song kept repeating in my head. “Bend It” by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich. I could recall them on Top of the Pops in the sixties with Davy lashing a bullwhip: could hear the whistle of the rawhide even now.

Headed for Nestor’s and, thankfully, I met nobody. I couldn’t hold a match, never mind a conversation. Jeff was stocking up. I asked,

“Before you start, tell me, was I here last night?”

He shook his head and I said,

“That means what exactly?”

“You’re going down the toilet, Jack.”

I could lay into him, but I needed the cure, asked,

“Could we skip the lecture and get a pint.”

We didn’t talk after that. I took my drink and he busied himself on bar stuff. I had got a swig down, a cig lit when the door opened. In marched Michael Tate, carrying a bin liner. He shouted,

“You’re on the piss.”

“With your huge fee, I just had to celebrate.”

He looked like he might attack, said,

“It’s true what they say, you’re nothing but a rummy.”

“There’s a word you don’t hear much.”

Such was his outrage he couldn’t quite find the words to articulate it, settled for,

“You’re a bloody disgrace.”

I decided to try and calm him, said,

“Don’t get all bent out of shape, I’ll take care of the swans.”

“Oh, will you tell me…” he lifted the bin liner, “how will you take care of this one?”

Flung it at me.

The bag opened and blood, gore, pieces of swan covered me. I jumped up, going,

“Aw, Jesus.”

I could hear Jeff go,

“Hey!”

Tate turned on his heel and walked out. Jeff looked at the mess, said,

“Oh, my God.”

I tried for levity, horror bursting my throat, said,

“I’ll have to stop bringing work home.”

I met Keegan later in the day. I craved non-judgemental company. My clothes I had to dump. I was getting through wardrobes like a minor Elton John. Spent an hour in the shower, trying to erase the smell of the blood. A time was, like all Galwegians, I’d regularly feed the swans. It was part of your heritage. Course, like all the best parts of my life, it was long gone. Seemed highly unlikely now I’d ever be able to reenact the habit again. In Stone Junction by Jim Dodge, he says,

“I don’t know a fucking thing. That must mean I’m finally sane and that’s an excellent place to start going crazy again.”

Yeah.

Recently opened beside Hidden Valley were Lydl and Argos and, of course, the mandatory luxury apartments. I met my neighbour, wheeling a trolley, crammed with goodies from both stores. I said,

“That’ll see you through the winter.”

“As long as I don’t eat for six months.”

He stared over at the new buildings, said,

“I finally figured out the difference between flats and apartments.”

Now this I wanted to hear, said,

“Yeah?”

“Sure, if the Corpo give you a place, it’s a flat, but if you buy one, it’s an apartment.”

“Works for me.”

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Um…”

“Guy goes into the library, asks for burger and chips. The assistant says, ‘This is the library.’ ”

I knew the punchline. But in Ireland, never, like never, spoil a story. He was laughing already, in readiness to deliver. I said,

“And?”

“The guy whispers, ‘Burger and chips, please.’ ”

Chances were, he’d get to tell it six more times and be fresh enchanted with each telling. One of the reasons I came home. The English tell jokes with a blend of apology and cruelty. It’s not the laughter they enjoy but the derision. Kiki had once asked me about Irish jokes. The English fondness for them and the total lack of English ones in return. I said,

“They laugh at what they’re afraid of. We, however, have no fear of them.”

She was astonished, asked,

“The English are afraid of the Irish?”

“With good reason.”

I’d arranged to meet Keegan in Garavan’s, go basic if not ballistic. He was wearing a green wax jacket, Aran sweater and a tweed cap. He asked,

“What do you think?”

“Synge.”

“Sing what?”

“The Playboy of the Western World.”

“I went to the Aran Islands.”

“I’d never have guessed.”