The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(35)

“Time to go child, surely the asylum has strict curfew?”

Emily walked right over to me and, in a snap, French kissed me with a lot of heavy noise then turned, headed for the door, slapped the nurse on the bum, said, “Keep it buttoned, Ratched.”



The charities in Ireland

Prove

You can

Pretty much

Con

Most of the people

Almost all of the time.





The day of my release from the hospital I was sitting by the bed when the nurse came in, handed over a large bag, said, “Your daughter left fresh clothes for you.”

Emily.

I opened the bag carefully. She was quite capable of planting an incendiary there.

Nope.

Just clothes.

Very expensive ones.

A shirt handmade on the Aran Islands. Those suckers last for a hundred years. I, on the other hand, might be good for six months. Armani jeans, I shit thee not. But not those horrors, skinny jeans. The greatest codswallop ever apart from Irish sunglasses.

Doc Marten boots, and don’t ask me how but nicely scuffed. And a pea jacket from Gap.

There was a note.

With Emily, there is always a note.

Read,

“Darlin’

Here be some clobber for the life you should have led. Cost me 1,500 euros so I went on shoplifting spree.”

Then in blatant capitals:





“WHY


Did you not tell me they killed that beautiful pup?

I will spread a wrath of fucking epic dimension on the cunts who did it.”

Then, in italics,

“I swear Rhett that I will rebuild Tara.”

She signed off with many hearts and dancing ponies.

I guess she liked them.

Least the ones who dance.

A doctor came in, clipboard at the ready and a brisk attitude they instill in med school that translates as “You, the patient, know sweet fuck all. I, the doctor, am omnipotent.”

He said,

“I am Doctor Singh.”

Waited.

I looked at him; he seemed about twelve. I said,

“You inject that with a certain amount of gravitas, as if I should go, Dr. Singh!”

I let the length of a bad cigarette pass, then added,

“Don’t mean shit to me pal.”

When you have been declared at death’s door and given a limited time to live by doctors, it tends to obliterate any lingering genetic fear you may have had.

He was stunned, mustered,

“I don’t think there is any call for that.”

I gave him my rabid smile, said,

“No call for Brexit, either, but here we are.”

He shook his head, began to consult his file, said,

“Mr. Taylor, you have a rather colorful, checkered medical history and—”

I held up my hand, said,

“If you have a prescription for heavy-duty painkillers then we can chat but, otherwise, sayonara.”

I was outside the hospital and cadged a cig from a poor creature trailing an IV.

He gave me a Major, the heavy-duty Irish cigs that would fell an ox. He looked so bad, I had to look away. I wondered if he would last the time it took me to smoke the cig. He rasped, “We are not allowed to smoke here.”

As we both fumed away.

I said,

“What will they do? Kill us?”

And, oh, fuck, instantly could have bit my tongue off. He caught it, said,

“They’ve already done for me in there.”

Indicating the hospital. A security guard did make a brief appearance but something in my face turned him in another direction. The man said, peering at me closely, “You’re the young Taylor lad.”

Lad!

We both smiled at that and he said,

“They call me Oats.”

I asked,

“As in the sowing of?”

He seemed confused, then said,

“I was the clerk for the commissioner of oaths.”

Before I could comment on this he pointed a shaking finger toward the gate, said, “I think that young girl is waving at you.”

Indeed.

Dressed in what appeared to be a school uniform, she was gesturing wildly. I stubbed out the cig, said, “Take care.”

He gripped my arm, nigh pleaded,

“Will you say a few words at my funeral?”

Fuck.

“I am … Sure. Anything special you’d like mentioned?”

“Say about my love of hurling.”

I asked,

“Love it, do you?”

He spat to his right, muttered,

“I fucking loathe it.”

The girl looked familiar. She was in a school uniform but pinked up, as in chains along the blazer and a ripped seam to the side of the skirt. Then I recalled her, with a sinking feeling.

Lorna Dunphy, who had tried to employ me to find her nonexistent brother. I had tracked down her dad and, oh, fuck, bad.

A broken man whose wife had committed suicide, I had drunk some Jay with him, smoked some cigs, and provided him with comfort not at all.

And suddenly I was enraged.

All these lunatics in my life. She began,

“Why haven’t you found my brother? I paid you.”

I took a deep breath, said,