Flood stopped, asked,

“Could I have a glass of water, please?”

For all the world like Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws. I got the water, toyed with the idea of a poitín spike, but let it go. As I handed him the water, his hand shook. I said,

“Jeez, this shit really gets to you.”

“Please don’t swear. Yes, evil deeply disturbs me.”

I sat, lit a cig, said,

“Highly impressive, but it amounts to what? I already know who the killer is.”

He drank deep of the water, gulped, said,

“Ah, Mr Bryson. That’s why I’m here. I’m not sure he fits the profile.”

“Profile, bollocks. Where do you think you are? Quantico? Wake up. You’re an ex-guard with no future, playing at detection. Believe me, I know how sad it gets. You pray, I drink, and may someone have mercy on our miserable souls.”

He was stunned by my outburst. Sat back in the sofa as if I’d hit him. In a sense, I had. A few moments before he spoke, then,

“I didn’t realise the depth of your bitterness. I am sorry for your despair.”

“Whoa, Flood, back up. I don’t want your sorrow.”

He took a deep breath, said,

“Jack, these assessments are uncanny in their accuracy.”

“So?”

“If it’s Bryson, he wouldn’t have run.”

I stood, said,

“It’s him.”

He stood, pleaded,

“Jack, listen please. You have that friend, the English policeman, get him to check the background on Bryson, see if it matches the profile.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Jack!”

I showed him the door, said,

“Tell your friend I’ll buy the book.”

“You have a hard heart, Jack Taylor.”

“So they tell me.”

And I shut the door.

The phone rang continuously that afternoon. I could care. I was the other side of Roscommon’s finest.

There are few nightmares to touch those engendered by poitín. In the early sixties, there was a classic whine record called “Tell Laura I Love Her”. The guy in the song is killed on his motorcycle as he roars the above. I dreamt of this. The guy was Jeff on his Harley, and my Laura is calling my name. I’m covered in swan entrails, and Clancy is coming at me with a machete. I came to in the back yard, rain lashing down upon me. No idea how I got there. The poitín bottle was smashed against the rear wall.

I crawled into the hallway and threw up, vomit cascading along my sodden clothes. A thirst burning supreme. Managed to stand and pull the ruined clothes off. Shoved them in the washing machine, turned to max. Then had to force it open, water pouring on to the floor, and ladle in washing powder. Kicked it shut. Into the kitchen and found a can of Heineken, lacerated my fingers attempting to open it. Muttered,

“Thank you, God.”

Swallowed half and threw up again. I climbed the stairs and got in the shower. Did five scalding minutes, dried myself slowly as every muscle ached. Nothing kicks the shit out of you as systematically as that uisce beatha. No wonder Connemara men drink sherry for penance during Lent. Pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. To my horror, the shirt had a logo. When I finally focused, I read “I’m a gas man.”

Fuck.

Lay on the bed and passed out. Didn’t wake till late evening. More nightmares. Sat up with a start, my heart pounding. I’d been sick again, so tore the bed linen off. Another shower, feeling one degree less awful. Downstairs to search for another cure. Not a drop: zilch, nada, nothing. Had drained everything in the house. I’d have to go out. Last pair of jeans, sweatshirt and my guards coat. Buttoned it tight as a spasm of ice racked my system. A cold from the very dead. The phone went and I nearly didn’t answer. If I hadn’t, I wonder if things would have turned out any different. Probably not, but I can’t help wondering. Picked it up, said,

“Hello?”

“Jack, it’s Sweeper.”

“Yea?”

“We got him.”

“What?”

“In Athlone, working with the homeless.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s asking for you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to see him?”

“Um…OK.”

“I’m sending Mikey for you.”

“Tell him I’ll be in Nestor’s.”

“OK.”

I headed for the pub. Jeff was behind the bar, looking fit and healthy. The sentry was in place and said,

“Saviour of the swans.”

I ignored him. Jeff said,

“You don’t look so good, Jack.”

“What else is new? You, however, are shining.”

“Thanks to you, buddy. I owe you one.”

“Yea, yea, gimme a pint and a half one.”

For a split second, he hesitated, and I said,

“What?”

He got the drinks. The sentry tried again,

“You’re a hero, Jack Taylor.”

“Fuck off.”

Jeff put the drinks on the counter, said,

“On me.”

I got out my money, said,

“No, thanks.”

Took the drinks, my hands shaking, and I had to put them back. Jeff was going to help but saw my face and backed off. I took the short in both hands, drained it. The sentry was mesmerised. I said,

“Didn’t I just tell you?”

He studied his habitual half empty glass. The whiskey hit my stomach like a rocket. Felt the blood rush to my face, knew I’d have the instant barroom tan. A glow rose from my guts, up through my chest, and I felt the ease. A few seconds later and I could lift the pint with one hand, no tremor. Was about to ask Jeff to hit it again when Mikey appeared at my elbow, asked,

“Bit of a party?”

“You want something?”

“We don’t have time. We’re having a bit of a party ourselves.”

He’d a half smirk. I said,

“Time for a fast one.”

I ordered a double and said to Mikey,

“Join me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.”

I lit a cig with the silver Zippo. Mikey said,

“That’s Sweeper’s lighter.”

“So, what’s your point?”

He didn’t have one. I drained the glass, waited for the jolt, said,

“Let’s go.”

Jeff said,

“Take care, Jack.”

I didn’t answer. The Jameson kicked, robbing me temporarily of speech.

Mikey had the van parked outside. Looked battered till you got in and saw it had been custom fit. You could happily live there with all the comforts. I said,

“Nice transformation.”

“I’m good with my hands.”

He put the van in gear, eased into traffic. I asked,

“Where are we going?”

“ Headford Road, the settled community.”

The contempt in his voice was like a knife. I didn’t bite, and he looked across at me, said,

“I’m not a tinker.”

“What?”

“You presume I am.”

“Yo, Mikey. I don’t presume anything about you. This may be hard to believe, but I don’t think about you at all. I met you what…once?”

“Twice.”

“Twice?

“I was along for the Tiernans, remember? Of course, you just saw a band of tinkers.”

I shook my head and got out my cigs, reached for the Zippo. He said,

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, not in my van.”

I lit up, said,

“Like I give a fuck.”

At Woodquay, he said,

“My mother, when I was four, had me out walking at midnight. Ended up at the Fair Green. She tore all her clothes off. Always at a certain point of drink, she’d do that.”

When I didn’t answer, he continued,

“A van hit her, killed her instantly. Not that she felt anything, she was too drunk for that. The tinkers adopted me.”

“Why?”

“Their van.”

“What about your family?”

“It was just me and her…oh, and the booze. In a flat in Rahoon, remember those? You wouldn’t put a dog in them. A Galway ghetto, like America.”