“For me exams.”

“What?”

“Lucifer will give me all A’s for eighteen heads.”

“Eighteen?”

Annoyance crossed his face and he spat,

“Six six six, the number of the beast.”

“Jesus.”

He ran at me. I let him come, then hit him with the stun gun. The voltage took him off his feet and into the water. I was astonished at the power. As the kid thrashed, it crossed my mind to let him drown. Then the swans went at him. I’d a battle to fend them off as I dragged him out. Took a second to catch my breath and then heaved him over my shoulder. He was groaning as I made my way across the road. I banged on the door of St Jude’s till a light came on. Tate opened it and went,

“Oh my God.”

“Here’s your swan killer.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

I laid the kid on the ground, said,

“You better do it quick, whatever it is, as I think the swans took his eye out.”

I turned and started to walk. He shouted,

“Where are you going?”

“For a pint.”

Afterglow

The story made page one.

LOCAL HERO

Galway born Jack Taylor helped apprehend the person suspected of killing swans. In recent weeks, residents of the Claddagh had been outraged at the attacks.

A spokesperson for the area said, “The swans are part of our heritage.”

Mr Taylor, an ex-guard, had mounted a vigil over a number of nights. The alleged perpetrator is believed to be a teenage boy from the Salthill area of the city. Superintendent Clancy, in a brief statement, said:

“The guards are increasingly concerned at the lack of respect by young people for the institutions in the public domain. We will not tolerate wanton vandalism.”

He called on parents to play a more active role in the supervision of young adults. Mr Taylor was unavailable for comment.

I’d finally solved a case. Yup, I cracked it. Did I feel good? Did I fuck. A sense of desolation engulfed me. Cloud of unknowing?…Not quite. I knew and was not consoled. Emptiness lit my guts like a palpable sense of dread. Back to basics, back to books. I read as if I meant it. In ’91, I came across David Gates, first novel Jernigan, not a book much ratified by addicts. The narrator is boozy, belligerent, demented. Crucified by his own irony, he is on a course of bended analysis. It depicts the horror of American suburbia. I lent it to a few people who hated it. I asked,

“What about the humour?”

“You’re as sick as Jernigan.”

Valid point. Payback though when he was nominated for the Pulitzer. I settled down to read his short stories titled Wonders of the Invisible World. In “Star Baby”, a gay man leaves the big city for life in his home town, only to find himself cast as a father figure to his detoxing sister’s son.

“Mostly he avoids taking Deke to restaurants, not because of the catamite issue but because the two of them look so alone in the world.”

I thought what a great word catamite was. A little difficult to insert into everyday conversation, but you never knew. The next up was “The Crazy Thought”. A woman misses her true love and chafes at city life with an embittered husband.

“ ‘Nothing wrong with John Le Carré,’ Paul said. ‘I’d hell of a lot sooner read him than fucking John Updike. If we’re talking about Johns here.’ ”

The doorbell went. I said,

“Shite.”

And got up to answer. At first I didn’t recognise him, then,

“Superintendent Clancy.”

He was in civies, dressed in a three piece suit. A big seller in Penney’s three years ago. He asked,

“Might I step in?”

“Got a warrant?”

His face clouded and I said,

“Kidding. Come in.”

Brought him into the kitchen, asked,

“Get you something?”

“Tea, tea would be great.”

He eased himself into a chair, like someone who has recently hurt his back. He surveyed the room, said,

“Comfortable.”

I didn’t think it required an answer. I took a good look at him. When I first knew him, he’d been skinny as a toothpick. We’d been close friends. All of that was long ago. His stomach bulged above his pants. Rolls of fat near closed his eyes, his face was scarlet and his breathing was laboured. I put a mug before him, said,

“I’m all out of bickies.”

He gave a wolf’s smile, said,

“You’re to be congratulated.”

“On a lack of biscuits?”

Shook his head, said,

“The swan business. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Lucky was all.”

“The other business, the tinkers, are you still pursuing that?”

“No, I got nowhere. Couple of your lads gave me a wallop recently, said you ordered it.”

“Ah, Jack, the new lads, they get a touch overzealous.”

“So why are you here?”

“Purely social. We go back a long way.”

And all of it bad. He stood up, the tea untouched.

“There was one thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Bill Cassell, our local hard case, you’d do well to steer clear.”

“Is that a warning?”

“Jack, you’re becoming paranoid. I’m only passing on a friendly word.”

“Here’s a word for you…catamite. Look it up, you’ll be rewarded.”

As he stepped out of the door, a car glided up, a guard got out and opened the rear door. I said,

“Impressive.”

“Rank has its privileges.”

I gave him the stare, said,

“It shows; you’re a man of weight all right.”

I’d been reading Derek Raymond again, and noted,

THE CRUST ON ITS UPPERS

It seems to me that no matter whether you marry, settle down or live with a bird or not, certain ones simply have your number on them, like bombs in the war; and even if you don’t happen to like them all that much there’s nothing you can do about it – unless you’re prepared to spend a lifetime arguing fate out of existence, which you could probably do if you tried but I’m not the type.

Over the next few days, I laid low. The most amazing thing had happened. I’d cut back on the booze. The ferocious craving for coke had subsided. Now just a dim ache I could tolerate. Was afraid if I went out, the whole nervous charade would collapse. Read some Merton in a futile search for spiritual nourishment. And got none.

In truth, he now irritated the shit out of me. This usually prefaced a bender of ferocious intent. When Laura rang, I said,

“Hon, I’ve got flu.”

“I’ll come mind you.”

“No, no, just let me Lim-Sip through it.”

“I want to see you, Jack.”

“Not sick you don’t.”

“I don’t care.”

“Jeez, how many ways do I have to say this, you don’t want to see me sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. Three days tops, I’ll be fine.”

She annoyed me, too. I’d have been hard put to name anything or anyone that didn’t. Second day of interment, the doorbell went. Opened it to one of the clan. I’d seen him with Sweeper. I snapped,

“What?”

“Sweeper asked me to check you were OK.”

“You checked, goodbye.”

Tried to close the door. He put out his hand, said,

“I’m Mikey, could I come in for a minute?”

“A minute, that’s it; the clock is ticking.”

He came in, glanced round. I asked,

“What were you looking for?”

“Nothing. You’ve kept the place nice.”

He had a studied way of speaking, as if he tasted each word. He asked,

“Any chance of a glass of water?”

I gave him that and he drank deep, said,

“I’ve a desperate thirst. Must be the rashers I had for breakfast.”

“Mikey, why do I get the feeling you have an agenda?”

“I used to live here.”

“Sweeper said it was a family.”

“No, just me.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Sweeper moved me for you.”

I lit a red, blew smoke in his direction, said,