Mass of potatoes

Ton of vegetables

Salt

Chorizo

I kid thee not, chorizo gives it a kick like bargained absolution. Profane but exhilarating. Washing the veg, then slicing, even with my dud hand, was a comfort, as if normality might be accessible, like in a patch. Lashed the lot, with the spuds, into a huge pot, added a wee dram of the Jay, now leave to cook for a few hours. The smell permeated the apartment, like a childhood revisited, save we never had the peace such aromas supposedly bring.

I had white wine cooling, Kelly said it was her preference. Made the bed, clean sheets, and ignored what this might entail. Set the table, with a red candle centerpiece, then surveyed.

Not bad.

Wanted to call Ridge, describe it, then roar,

“See, I can do this shit.”

But she’d say I was drunk. I’d taped the big match, Man City versus Man U in the game of the decade. Didn’t think Kelly would want to watch but you could dream. I put the Pogues on, sat back as Shane gnarled his way through Dirty Old Town. Their thirtieth anniversary this year. Who figured Shane would still be around? He made me seem positively teetotal-part of the reason I loved the band.

Now all I had to do was wait.

A tricky gig when I’d oceans of booze right there but I managed, barely. I’d just checked on the stew, added some more Jay, left it to simmer when the doorbell went off.

“Game on,”

I whispered.

* * *

Kelly looked divine, black silk shirt, tight, over white jeans and scuffed boots with a serious heel. Her hair, tumbling over her face in the way that begged wrap your fingers in this. I said,

“Jeez, you look great.”

“I know.”

She came in, gave that detailed inspection that women do. Said,

“Zen via poverty.”

I laughed, went,

“I’m not that deep.”

She plunked herself down on the sofa, said,

“Oh, I know that.”

I offered a drink and got,

“Only if you’re joining me.”

Hmmm. .

Took that long to reach my decision. As she sipped on a vodka tonic, I drew from a Shiner Bock, checked my stew, sure smelled. . strong. The slug of Texas beer only increased my nervousness. Second drink in, I suggested we might try the dinner but, no, she produced a spliff, said,

“We mellow out, won’t no ways matter how bad the food is.”

Fuck.

Trouble was, hitting on the joint made me want a whole pack of Marlboro Red. Must have been strong dope. We’re sitting on the floor, piled plates of stew on our laps, eating like munchkins. She said,

“No shit, but this is like being back at Kent State.”

Showing I was still in the set, I asked,

“Where you studied?”

“Fuck no. Where I smoked major dope.”

Right.

She asked,

“Am I really flying or do I taste whiskey in this here stew?”

I said,

“That would be crazy.”

I curse my own self. Jesus wept. The mix of dope and the food, booze, I felt my eyes droop. Kelly said,

“Hey Jack, put your head on my shoulder, grab five.”

Damn it to hell.

Woke early next morning, blankets around me and no Kelly.

She left a note.

“I had my way.”

What?

And

She’d done the dishes.

To block out my frustration, I switched on the radio.

Sarkozy was gone, Hollande the new president.

You could say he and I got the wake-up call too late.

Quel dommage. Bad fook to it.

14

An angel in Hell flies in its own little cloud of paradise.

— Eckhart

Stewart heard the news late in the evening. He’d been keeping busy, his various business interests, like everything else, leaking money and credibility. Global news was, as usual, dire. Greece about to drop out of the euro. France had a new president, adding to the unrest. Syria continued to murder its own people with impunity.

Stewart was restless, his Zen doing little to ease him down. An almost fevered agitation spurring him on. Ridge was due to visit. He’d even promised her a meal but had been unable to settle to the preparation. His affection for her was huge but now all he could think. .

“She’s a cop.”

How would she respond if he told her of his treatment of Brennan? Beating the guy to within an inch of his wretched life. They’d been down a lot of dark roads, but some semblance of justice had been riding point, even if it didn’t warrant close scrutiny. He knew if he’d shared with Jack how that would go.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Yeah.

The doorbell went. He made the mental leap of control, took a deep breath, opened the door. Ridge, cleaned up, dressed in a black tracksuit, white glowing T-shirt, looked tired: hospital fatigue, the shadows under her eyes. She gave him a tight hug and he could feel how thin she was, the years of wear catching up. He lied,

“You look great.”

And she laughed.

She sat on the sofa as he prepared tea. Ridge being one of the few who appreciated his herbal efforts. She said,

“I miss living here.”

A time, last case, he’d given her refuge from her husband and the violence swirling around her. The darkness had reached out, followed them literally to the doorstep, but they’d found a new alliance in each other. To his dismay, he’d enjoyed her company but, one thing he knew, you never traveled back.

Never.

He said,

“It was real good, sister.”

Striving not to leak all over the sentiment with his new shadows. Laid out the tea, the soda bread, honey, crackers, her favorite snacks. He sat opposite, willing himself to tell her about Brennan, to share the burden. She said,

“They’re advertising for police in Australia.”

“What?”

She was serious.

Half the young people were lined up to leave, Australia being very keen to recruit our trained young. Stewart asked,

“But what about Jack?”

She gave a bitter laugh, said,

“We can hardly take him with us.”

Us?

She gave him a shy smile, then,

“Couples seem to have a better chance.”

He was incredulous, pushed,

“As. . what?”

“Friends?”

Threw him, completely. She moved to pour the tea, reading him wrong, blustered,

“Forget it. It was just a thought. These days, the panic in the air, everybody’s desperate.”

Sharing with her now was slipping away and it seemed to be more urgent. He started,

“If Jack went after the guy who hurt you, would you. . you know. . be angry. . at. . the vigilante aspect?”

Groaned, the fuck had happened to his facility with language?

She gave a rueful smile, said,

“Thing with Jack, he’d never tell you.”

Said, like, she admired that.

They muddled through the tea, both knowing something had changed but for different reasons, each now locked alone, regretting the inability to spew out the truth. She stood and he tried to lighten the mood with,

“Jack in Australia, eh?”

Harsh tone, harsher look. She said,

“Wise up, Stewart.”

Added at the door to his silence,

“Jack is fucked, always has been.”

I was reading about rinsing.

What?

Yeah, me too.

Describes young women who post on Twitter, Facebook, that they want, say,

“Diamond earrings, new car, some cash-heavy item.”

And an old guy provides.

Seriously.

No physical contact takes place. . they say.

Jesus, virtual hooking.

The phone rang, heard

“You like literature, Oscar?”

Kelly.

I went,

“Bit early for it.”

Heard the laugh, then,

“See, the thing is, Town Hall tonight, one night only, ‘Irish Literature as Seen Through an Urban Malaise.’”

Then she read me the names of the local suspects who’d be discoursing. I said,

“Compelling as that is, tonight is the final part of The Bridge.”