“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.
Belief in nothing is at least a belief.
– Jack Taylor