Laura arrived, short black coat and legs to die for. I clocked the porter give her a look of full appreciation. I stood up and she kissed me, said,

“It’s ages since I saw you.”

Took her coat off and she’d a black polo over black skirt. I said,

“Jesus, you look phenomenal.”

“For you, Jack.”

The porter came over, asked,

“Your daughter, Jack?”

“Yes, it’s mid-term break.”

Laura ordered sherry and I’d a Jameson; get the evening cooking. The porter, trying to regroup, asked,

“Would you be happier in the bar?”

“Nope.”

I told Laura about Bailey’s. She said,

“Oh, the Saturday dance. My dad used to go.”

Whoops!

We’d one more drink and got up to go. The porter took me aside, said,

“Jack, I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

“Forget it.”

“I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the guards.”

I didn’t correct him. If nothing else, it shows that contrary to popular belief, hotel porters didn’t know everything.

Mrs Bailey had a huge welcome, asked,

“Who’s this?”

“Laura Nealon.”

“Ah, I know all belong to you.”

Laura went to the ladies and Mrs Bailey said,

“I heard you got married.”

“Not to Laura.”

“I thought so. She’s far too fond of you to be your wife.”

This is Irish flattery at its finest. There’s something in there to like, but there’s also the suspicion of a lash. Whatever else, it keeps you on your toes. Now she said,

“I wouldn’t have you down as a dancer.”

“I’m not.”

The band didn’t disappoint. They had the mandatory blue blazers, white pants. None of them would see fifty again. Not that they’d gone easily into that good night. No, whether it was toupees or Grecian 2000, they’d a uniform of dark unmoving hair. And teeth? Man, they’d molars to die for. Like the showband legacy, they played as if they meant it. The showpiece was the bugles, with a one two dance step to match. Of course, a massive repertoire; if they’d heard it, they played it…energetically. From Roy Orbison through the Shadows (with a nod towards the Eagles) to Daniel O’Don-nell. It was Hospitals’ Request live. The time-honoured formula, too: a fast set, ladies choice, then fast. Interspersed was a lone vocalist. The stage would go black, a single spotlight on the singer. He’d stand, head lowered, and a voice would intone,

“Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis Presley” or Chris de Burgh or even Buddy Holly.

Same singer, of course. He had the sort of voice that got no votes on Opportunity Knocks. Halfway through the evening, the band took a break; like everybody else, they headed for the bar. As luck would have it, I was alongside the lead vocalist. Sweat was pouring off him. He gasped,

“Howyah?”

“Buy you a drink?”

“No, we got complementaries.”

“You deserve it, great show.”

“Thanks, it’s our last before the tour.”

“Tour?”

“Yeah, Canada, then two months in Las Vegas.”

I tried not to shudder, said,

“Lucky you.”

“And we have an album coming out.”

“Wow, what’s it called?”

“Greatest Hits.”

I had the grace not to ask,

“Whose?”

He lifted a tray of drinks and said,

“There’s a chance we’ll be on The Late Late Show.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

“We’d be made.”

“Hey, you’re made already.”

He loved that. When I tried to pay for my drinks, I was told the band covered it. There are moments, rare as luck, that you feel glad to be alive. That was one. I danced three times, managed to make two of them slow. You can fake your way through these. Just hold her tight and don’t walk on her feet, easy-ish. The fast numbers were a nightmare. I tried to look like I had some moves. A woman had once said,

“You learnt to dance in the sixties.”

It’s one of those statements you don’t question. There is never a time you want to hear the answer. Laura, of course, was a great dancer. As I fumbled through, the sweat cascaded down my body, a voice in my head roaring “horse’s ass”. When we stood for the national anthem, I swore never again. When we walked home, Laura linked my arm and said,

“That was terrific.”

Back home, she smiled, went,

“I can stay.”

After we’d made love, she perched on one arm, examining me. I wanted to plunge the room into darkness. Her fingers touched the tattoo and she asked,

“Is it an angel?”

“Yes.”

“Your guardian angel?”

“I don’t know, I got it in a snooker game.”

“You won?”

“No, I lost.”

One thing my dad had taught me was snooker. He’d played in provincial finals. I’d learnt well. Almost never lost. Till my training at Templemore. We’d a weekend break and had headed for the centre of Dublin. A snooker hall in Mary Street had a long-standing rep. I’d beaten all the other cadets when our sergeant arrived, challenged me to a game. I knew enough then not to play for money, so we’d wager anything else. The sergeant, his sleeves rolled up, was a riot of tattoos. He said,

“You don’t approve, young Taylor?”

“Not my thing.”

“Well, if you lose, you get one, how would that be?”

Piece of cake, I thought, and lost. Down on the quays we’d gone. Tattoo parlours in those days were dodgy. Of all the awful symbols on offer, the angel was the least offensive. Did it hurt?…Like a bastard.

I went to the army and navy store and bought heavy-duty polo necks, added thermal leggings and socks. The assistant, a young guy in his twenties, asked,

“How cold are you expecting it to get?”

“Where I’m going…very.”

“What, like Siberia?”

“No, like the Claddagh.”

On my way out, a vaguely familiar face said,

“Howyah?”

I stopped and tried to place him. He had his left ear pierced with four rings. He helped with,

“I used to hang with Cathy in her punk days.”

“Oh, right.”

“You’re the old guy…Taylor…Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“She said you were a cool dude.”

“Thanks again.”

I thought he was going to hit me for a loan so I said,

“Good to see you.”

“Listen, you want to score some speed?”

On the verge of saying no, I thought, “Hold a mo’.” I was pulling an all-nighter, an edge would help. I said,

“Sure, give me a few.”

Not cheap. Course the addict in me wanted to drop one immediately, see how it went. My teeth were dancing in their gums from lack of coke. Went home and rang Cathy.

“Jack, how are you?”

“Doing good. How’s the man?”

“He’s hurting.”

“Way it goes.”

“But he hasn’t taken a cure or anything, so I’m hoping it’s finished. Do you think it is?”

“Jeez, Cathy, I don’t know. But he has a better shot than most.”

“Jack?”

“So you won’t try to lure him away?”

“What?”

“Please, Jack?”

“No, I guarantee I won’t try to tempt him.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

Click. I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. The phone went. She was going to apologise. Keegan.

“Are you missing me, boyo?”

“I sure am.”

“I did some more checking on Bryson, even spoke to his mother.”

“And?”

“Yea, his old man was a vicious drunk and abused the boy in all sorts of ways.”

“So he has motivation to hate drunks.”

“Yea,…but…”

“But what?”

“I don’t think he’s your boy.”

“Oh, come on, Keegan, when you were here, you were ready to frame him.”

“Listen, Jack, I hate to be wrong. His mother and others say he was always claiming to have done things to get attention. Here’s the kicker: he might hate alkies, but he’s done an awful lot of good, too, really helped them.”