“Watch the news. Everybody hates the tinkers.”

“That’s a help.”

I needed a suit and I needed to connect. Oxfam has priced itself out of the market. In London, once, I’d gone to their branch at High Street, Kensington. Jackets were chained like the most paranoid Regent Street outlet. What’s that about? No, thanks. Went to Age Concern, found a dark blue, looked too big but I could bulk up. Pack the gun and any suit would fit. The price was a fiver with a navy shirt and worsted tie. The assistant, English of course, said,

“Sorry it’s so expensive.”

“Are you serious?”

She was.

“It’s brand new, you see, so we had to make it a little dearer.”

I considered. Sure she was English, but they can do humour. I said,

“Daylight robbery.”

Huge smile then.

“Tell you what, I’ll add a new hankie.”

“My cup overflows.”

Shoes I had. Kiki had bought me a pair of Weejuns. Next, it was time to score. I hated what I had to do, but the devil drives. Rang Cathy. She answered with a breezy,

“Jack.”

I said,

“I need your help, girl.”

“Of course, Jack, what do you need?”

“A name.”

“Oh, Jack.”

She knew. I guess she’d been through the hard station. I let some plead into my voice.

“I’m hurting, Cathy.”

I waited, what else could I do? Standing in a phone box, holding my blue suit, like a guard on holidays. Then,

“Stewart.”

And gave me the address. I asked,

“Will he be home?”

“He’s always home.”

Click. I held the dead phone. She wouldn’t tell Jeff, but I had trod on our friendship. We’d survive, but I had seriously tarnished it. Went to the place, near the canal. The house looked normal. No shingle outside proclaiming “Drug Dealer”. I rang the bell. The door was opened by a bank clerk. Leastways, he had the moneyed eyes. I asked,

“Stewart?”

“Cathy rang; come in.”

An ordinary sitting room. There weren’t flying ducks on the wall, but you get the picture. There was a framed Desiderata. Stewart said,

“Get you anything?”

“Yes, a gram of coke.”

He gave a polite laugh, so I had to ask,

“You’re not with the Bank of Ireland by any chance?”

“Hardly. I know you though.”

“Yes?”

“Jack Taylor, ex-cop…you were in the papers last year.”

“Stew, where are we on the coke?”

He excused himself, then returned with a brown envelope. The country was awash in them. He said,

“There’s one and a half.”

“Great, what’s the damage?”

It was steep. As he let me out, he said,

“Call any time.”

The funeral was massive and probably the biggest I’ve seen. God knows I’ve seen a few. Sometimes, I feel like an old cemetery, laden with coffins. There is nothing like the funeral of a tinker. It almost beggars belief. If there be truth in nothing in your life becomes you like the leaving of it, then they score heavily on all fronts. Descriptions like show-stopper, showpiece, showboat don’t come close. The first thing to know is expense doesn’t matter. Secondly, you will almost never experience such an outpouring of grief. Arab women used to have the lock on public demonstrations of sorrow. Not even close to the women of travelling stock. It’s not that they rend their garments: they lacerate their very souls. Dylan Thomas, when he wrote of rage against the dying of the light, would have witnessed his words personified.

I was relieved it was the Bohermore Cemetery because none of my crowd is buried there. We’re planted in Rahoon with Nora Barnacle’s dead lover. One of those days, I’d have to go visit.

Walking behind the hearse is a custom almost obsolete. Not that day. Sweeper came over, said,

“I got you a lift.”

“I’ll walk.”

He was very pleased. At the graveside, various travellers shook my hand, clapped my shoulder. Word was out that I was OK. Neither settled community nor tinker, I was outlaw enough to be accepted. They said,

“God bless you, sir, thank you for your trouble. May Mary His Mother mind all belong to you.”

Like that. Warmth articulated. I was coked enough and feeling no pain. Began to wander among the tombstones and there it was.

Tommy Kennedy

Librarian

1938-1989

Jesus, perilously close to the age I was now. I don’t believe in omens, but coke does. I gave an involuntary shudder. Never heard Sweeper come up behind. He said,

“Jack.”

I jumped two feet. He nodded at the headstone, said,

“He was a friend to my people.”

“To me, too.”

“The best go first.”

“More’s the Irish pity.”

He gave me a look of near total compassion. That’s not a guy thing. We don’t show that stuff. I didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to what he thought of me. He said,

“There’s a bit of a do at the hotel.”

“Thanks, I’ll be there.”

“I know you will, Jack.”

And he was gone. I put my trembling hand on Tommy’s stone. Few men had ever shown as much kindness or taught me as much. I’d gone off to Templemore for guard training and forgotten all about him. To my eternal shame, he was dead for two years before I heard. God might forgive me, it’s the business He’s in. I won’t. The presiding priest was my old nemesis, Fr Malachy. He was a friend of my mother’s and loathed me. He smoked Major cigarettes, which had a brief fame when Robbie Coltrane smoked them in Cracker. True coffin nails, stronger than poitín and twice as lethal. He’d aged badly, but what smoker hasn’t? Malachy approached me, said,

“You’re back.”

“True.”

“I’d kill for a cig.”

“You quit?”

“Good heavens, no, I left them in the vestry. The altar boys will steal them.”

I offered the soft red pack. He gave me the look.

“And when did you start?”

“Forgive me, Father, you want one or not?”

He did, tore the filter off. I lit him up and he ate lungfuls, said,

“Shite.”

“Nice language for a priest.”

“I hate those things.”

“So stop.”

“Not cigarettes…funerals, especially this crowd.”

“All God’s children surely.”

He slung the cig, said,

“Tinkers are nobody’s children.”

He was gone before I could respond.

Needless to say, I was first at the hotel. As a better man than me put it,

“Fair fuck to them for letting the tinkers in.”

Recently the tinkers had hit back after years of discrimination, successfully suing pubs that denied access. The publicans had to regroup. As someone who’s been barred from most establishments, my heart does not bleed. I stepped up to the counter. The barman looked like Robbie Williams. I could only hope his manner was different. He said,

“Good afternoon, sir. Are you with the funeral party?”

“I am.”

“The bar is free until two thirty. What can I get you?”

“A pint and a Jameson chaser.”

“Would sir like to take a seat? I’ll bring it over.”

I nibbled at the peanuts. Of all things, I was thinking of two authors. Tommy Kennedy had introduced me to them. Walter Macken, as fine then as now, and Paul Smith. Time was, on my shelf were Esther’s Altar, The Stubborn Season and my sad favourite, Summer Sang in Me. Not too long ago, I’d found his The Countrywoman in a Lambeth library. Published in 1961, for me, it beats hands down either Strumpet City or Angela’s Ashes. Through Paul Smith, I discovered Edna St Vincent Millay, a mega bonus. The barman bought the drinks, said,

“Good health.”

“Whatever.”

The pint was as near perfect as I’d experienced. Got to agree with Flann O’Brien, “A pint of plain is your only man.” Washed over the cocaine like a rosary. As a young guard, I went to see Eamonn Morrissey in The Brother and I was supposed to see Jack McGowran in Waiting for Godot. Got pissed instead. What a mistake. Took a hit of the Jameson and was as close to heaven as it gets. The travellers began to trickle in. Sweeper came over, said,