An easier exercise is

to look for evidence

rather than jump to

conclusions.

—Detective’s Handbook

I managed a day without much booze, cut way back on the pills, and so when the morning of Ridge’s arrival came, I was, if not clear-eyed, at least mobile. You take what you get. As I waited and sipped at a strong coffee, I practiced over and over with the Mossberg. I was getting there. It began to feel like an extension of my arm. That I thought this was some sort of achievement is a fucking sad depiction of how narrow my world had become. I blamed it on the loss of a love almost reached.

Guy like me, who the hell is going to give the dancer’s choice? I felt her loss like the departure of an aspiration you’d yearned for but never seriously considered.

To try and exorcise this demon of woe, I kept glancing at the notes I’d made on Headstone.

Something. Just nagging at the edge of my mind.

Nope, couldn’t get it.

Yet.

Ridge arrived promptly as said. She was dressed in a navy tracksuit with white stripes and looked good, very. She handed over a package, said,

“This was at your door.”

No fucking around, I opened it fast, I was sick to death of bad mail. It contained a glove; flesh-colored material, with a soft gel-like substance filling two fingers. I tried it on and the gel seemed to almost solidify, yet was flexible. I held up my hand to Ridge, said, trying not to let the sheer bitterness leak over the tone, “See, good as new.”

There was a brief note:

Concealment comes in many guises.

Kosta.

Stewart would have loved the Zen echo.

Ridge, awkwardly, asked,

“Is it comfortable?”

Nothing wrong with a pun, especially when you lived in a country that was being rapidly flushed down the toilet.

I punned,

“If the glove fits.”

Ridge took a rapid look at the Mossberg and before she could start her Guard tirade, I lied,

“It’s a replica.”

Did this fly?

Did it fuck?

Her face turned melancholic then, and she said,

“Stewart told me about your lady friend, I’m truly sorry, Jack.”

Jack!

Shite, how sorry was she?

I went the full Irish, said,

“God knows, you’ve had your own troubles.”

She simply nodded, didn’t volunteer more, so I let it slide, asked,

“You want some coffee, tea?”

“No, thank you, let’s get moving.”

Her car was new, a powerful Audi. She said,

“It’s Anthony’s.”

Then added in that tone that only a woman can,

“For now.”

I kind of liked that.

I certainly never liked the Anglo-Irish prick anyway.

She was a fine driver, careful, confident, and with a force that hinted,

“Do not fuck with me.”

She asked, switching gear, literally, no automatic for good ol’

Anthony,

“How do you think Malachy will be?”

That was a given. I said,

“Like a bad bastard.”

She nearly smiled. I added,

“He’ll also be still scared so expect him to be even more feisty than usual.”

She risked a look at me, asked,

“Is that how you handle . . . fear?”

I shook my head, said,

“The reason God gave us hurleys.”

She pushed,

“Are you talking from personal experience? I mean, about the fear and bad temper?”

Too easy.

I told her the truth, to see how that would go,

“I’m bad tempered naturally—my mother’s legacy. Fear makes me dangerous.”

But play the game. You ask questions like that, deep stuff , the least you can do is expect a lob back and I did, asked,

“What about you, you ever afraid?”

We were nearing the hospital and she swerved neatly to avoid a taxi, said,

“Sometimes I think I was born terrified.”

Deep.

I waited and sure enough, she added,

“Women have one trait in common with horses.”

Now there were so many easy awful bad responses to that, I just shut the fuck up, waited, she said,

“We both know early on, we are………………….prey.”

Maybe I was deflecting my own answer, so I asked,

“And how do you deal with the fear? I mean, you personally. Horses at least can run.”

She was sliding the powerful car smoothly into a space just vacated, seemed as if she didn’t hear me, then as she cut the engine, she turned to me, gave me the full blast of her wide blue eyes, said,

“Not with replicas.”

Of course, I hadn’t brought the Mossberg to the hospital. I wasn’t intending to shoot the grouchy priest but maybe . . .

We got out of the car. It was so reassuring to see my right hand appear whole. Total illusion but isn’t damn near everything? What can bear deep scrutiny? As we walked toward the main entrance, I veered to the right, saying,

“Hold it a moment.”

I moved towards a shed. The smokers’ latest quarantine. Ridge scoffed,

“You can’t be bloody serious. Malachy just came out of a coma, you can’t possibly believe?”

I gave her my best smile, part humor, mostly malicious. Dared, “Want to bet?”

We entered the shed. The thick density of the smoke made it nigh impossible to distinguish anyone. It was like seeing wisps of spirits trailing IVs, shrouded bodies on the precipice of a low-key volcano. I said to Ridge, she of the new James Lee Burke addiction,

“Ghosts of the nicotine mist.”

Then added,

“There’s our boy.”

Sitting on a rusty bench was a caricature of the man we’d both known. He’d aged ten years and lost a shitload of weight. He’d never been a poster boy for any health board but now he looked like he was waiting his turn to be put in the wooden box. I hailed,

“Malachy.”

He looked up, his eyes so far back in his skull they could only be seeing inwards. He said,

“Taylor, the devil in person.”

He was obviously intact, as far as his bitterness went. He bellowed, “What do you want?”

Apart from hitting him upside his stubborn head? Then he saw

Ridge, changed his tack completely, tried to stand, said,

“Ban Ni Iomaire, conas atá tú?” (How are you?)

I wondered if he’d be so fucking cordial if he knew she married a Prod. I tried to help him to his feet but he shrugged it off , took Ridge’s arm.

How lucky I’m not sensitive. We got him back inside, smoke trailing behind him like the worst of the tabloids. He had his own room on the third floor. In a hospital, where people lingered on trolleys for days, it showed the Church might be under attack but it had lost precious little of its clout. It’s not so much the Church minding its own as keeping them out of sight. Ridge helped him into bed. A massive crucifix hung over it, and, with any luck, would come crashing down, God coming to him, so to speak. Ridge did the nurse gig of fluffing his pillows, set them so he could be upright. The top of his pajamas was open, exposing a thin chest, bones protruding and covered with sparse gray hair. A very old battered scapular was intertwined among the dingy hair.

That got to me.

Moved me in ways I would never analyse, at least not this side of a bottle of the Jay. I reached in my Garda coat, handed over a 7-Up bottle. He regarded it with withering disdain, said,

“A mineral, that’s what you brought? I hate fizzy drinks.”

I stared at him, said,

“It’s not soda.”

Ridge threw me a look of pure hatred. Malachy took the top off, downed a hearty swig, gasped as the raw alcohol bit, and came as close to a smile as he ever would. A red flush already spreading across his mottled old face, he uttered,

“Sin and fear.”

Means, that’s my man, in total delight. Took another blast, blessed himself, said,

“Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

No mention of the bollix who brought the stuff . We couldn’t stay long as the doctors were doing their rounds and I didn’t want to be there when they smelled the sheer potency of his breath. We had a lot of questions but they could wait. Ridge gave him a gentle warm hug, lest she break one of those brittle bones. I didn’t . . . give him a hug.

The soda had definitely enlivened him and he spotted my hand,

asked,

“What’s with the glove, some sort of Michael Jackson commutations?”

I could have mentioned the item doing the rounds, Saint Padre

Pio’s healing glove, but went mundane, said,

“Caught my fingers in a door.”

He stared at me, muttered,

“Drunk no doubt.”

I fucking wish.

Ridge was silent and tight-lipped as we took the elevator down.

She marched, and I mean marched, to the car, said,

“Get in.”

She had to be fucking kidding?

Right?

She of all the people on the planet knew how I responded to orders.

I asked,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

Not exactly PC but then what was anymore? Keys in her hand, she turned, venom jumping from her eyes, said,

“You brought spirits to a man out of a coma?”

I tried for levity, said,

“Better than the usual, drink putting half the country into a coma.”

Didn’t fly, oddly enough. She said,

“Every time I try to cut you some slack you…………”

She paused, fighting for some semblance of control but losing, continued,

“And you just…….just…………piss all over it.”

It was direct, I’ll give her that. She indicated the car, meaning the car, and I said,

“Thanks officer, I’d prefer to walk.”

Was she finished?

Was she fuck.

Near screamed,

“I keep thinking you might change and then you descend to a new level of . . . of . . . depravity.”

I began to walk away, said,

“Least I raised his spirits.”

I didn’t look back but the screech of tires told me how she liked that.

The walk to town was treacherous, icy paths making a slip almost inevitable. An old woman ahead of me, walking as if her life depended on it (and it probably did), was making slow uneasy progress. I was right behind her as she lost it, caught her just in time and managed to steady her.

She began to weep, said,

“I have to do the shopping, we haven’t a thing in the house.”

I hailed a passing taxi. The driver rolled down the window, said,

“Taylor, I heard you were dead.”

I handed over some notes, said,

“Will you take this lady to the supermarket, wait for her, and then bring her home?”

He shrugged, sure, no biggie.

I helped her into the backseat and she dried her eyes with a spotless white hanky, looked at me, said,

“You’re an angel.”

The driver snorted.

I closed the door, nearly slipped doing it, and the cab eased away, like a gentle ghost into the black city.

Not a story that I’d share with Ridge. She wouldn’t believe it anyway. As I continued my careful walk, I thought,

“What does that buy you?”

And knew.

Nothing, nothing at all.

Pawnshops, under the guise of buying used gold or any item like laptops, musical instruments, or DVDs, had sprung up almost overnight. They had fancy names but they were pawnshops, like the ones of my youth, where women pawned their husband’s suit to put food on the table, and redeemed it if a wedding or funeral arose. Hoping for a funeral—mainly the husband’s. I stopped in the newest one in Mary Street, beside the vegetable outlet, and lo and wondrous, found the whole of the first season of Breaking Bad. For three euros and ninety-nine cents.

I was seriously delighted.