Ken Bruen - The Guards

Its almost impossible to be thrown out of the Garda Sochna.

You have to really put your mind to it. Unless you become a public disgrace, theyll tolerate most anything.

Id been to the wire. Numerous

Cautions

Warnings

Last chances

Reprieves

And still I didnt shape up.

Or rather sober up. Dont get me wrong. The garda and drink have a long, almost loving relationship. Indeed, a teetotal garda is viewed with suspicion, if not downright derision, inside and outside the force.

My supervisor at the training barracks said,

We all like a pint.

Nods and grunts from trainees.

And the public likes us to like a pint.

Better and better.

What they dont like is a blackguard.

He paused to let us taste the pun. He pronounced it, in the Louth fashion, blaggard.

Ten years later I was on my third warning. Called before a supervisor, it was suggested I get help.

Times have changed, sonny. Nowadays theres treatment programmes, twelve-step centres, all kinds of help. A spell in John O Gods is no shame any more. Youll rub shoulders with the clergy and politicians.

I wanted to say,

Thats supposed to be an incentive!

But I went. On release, I stayed dry for a while, but gradually, I drank again.

Its rare for a garda to get a home posting, but it was felt my home town would be a benefit.

An assignment on a bitter cold February evening. Dark as bejaysus. Operating a speed trap on the outskirts of the city. The duty sergeant had stipulated,

I want results, no exceptions.

My partner was a Roscommon man named Clancy. Hed an easygoing manner and appeared to ignore my drinking. I had a thermos of coffee, near bulletproof with brandy. It was going down easy.

Too easy.

We were having a slow duty. Word was out on our location. Drivers were suspiciously within the limit. Clancy sighed, said, Theyre on to us.

Sure are.

Then a Mercedes blasted by. The clock hit thermo. Clancy shouted,

Jaysus!

I had the car in gear and we were off. Clancy, in the passenger seat, said,

Jack, slow down, I think we might forget this one.

What?

The plate... see the plate?

Yeah, so what.

Its government.

Its a bloody scandal.

I had the siren wailing, but it was a good ten minutes before the Merc pulled over. As I opened my door, Clancy grabbed my arm, said,

Bit o discretion, Jack.

Yeah, right.

I rapped on the drivers window. Took his time letting it down. The driver, a smirk in place, asked,

Wheres the fire? Get out.

Before he could respond, a man leaned over from the back, said,

Whats going on?

I recognised him. A high profile TD. I said,

Your driver was behaving like a lunatic.

He asked,

Have you any idea who youre talking to?

Yeah, the gobshite who screwed the nurses.

Clancy tried to run block, whispered,

Jeez, Jack, back off.

The TD was outa the car, coming at me. Indignation writ huge, he was shouting,

Yah brazen pup, Ill have your job. Do you have any idea of whats going to happen?

I said,

I know exactly whats going to happen.

And punched him in the mouth.

There are no private eyes in Ireland. The Irish wouldnt wear it.

The concept brushes perilously close to the hated informer. You can get away with most anything except telling.

What I began to do was find things. Not a difficult task, it requires only patience and pig stubbornness. The latter was my strongest point.

I didnt come to one morning and shout, God wants me to be a finder! He could care less.

Theres God and theres the Irish version. This allows Him to be feckless. Not that he doesnt take an interest, but He couldnt be bothered.

Because of my previous career, it was believed I had an inside track. That I knew how things worked. Over a period of time, people sought me out, asked for my help.

I hit lucky and found resolutions. A minor reputation began to build on a false premise. Most important of all, I was cheap.

Grogans is not the oldest pub in Galway. Its the oldest unchanged pub in Galway.

While all the rest go

Uni-sex

Low-fat

Karaoke

Over-the-top

it remains true to the format of fifty or more years ago. Beyond basic. Spit and sawdust floor, hard seats, no-frills stock. The taste for

Hooches

Mixers

Breezers

hasnt yet been acknowledged.

Its a serious place for serious drinking. No bouncers with intercoms on the door. Not an easy pub to find. You head up Shop Street, skip Garavans, turn into a tiny alley and youre home. If not free, at least unfettered.

I like it because its the only pub that never barred me. Not once, not ever.

The bar is free of ornamentation. Two hurleys are crisscrossed over a blotched mirror. Above them is a triple frame. It shows a pope, St Patrick, and John E Kennedy. JFK is in the centre.

The Irish saints.

Once the pope held centre field, but after the Vatican Council he got bounced. He clings to an outside left. Precarious the pose.

I dunno which pope he is, but he has the look of them all. Its unlikely hell regain mid-field any time soon.

Sean, the owner, who can recall Cliff Richard being young, said to me,

Cliff was the English Elvis.

A horrendous concept.

Grogans was my office. I sat there most mornings and waited for the world to come knocking. Sean would bring me coffee. A measure of brandy poured in to kill the bitterness.

Some days, he seems so frail I fear hell never make the few steps to my table.

The cup rattles on the saucer like the worst of bad news. Id say,

Use a mug.

Hed be horrified, say,

There are standards!

Once I asked, as he shook in unison with the cup,

Will you ever retire?

Will you ever stop drinking?

Fair enough.

A few days on from Cheltenham, I was at my usual table. Id won a few quid on the Champion Hurdle and hadnt yet squandered it. I was reading Time Out. Most every week Id buy it. The London guide, listing nigh on every event in the capital.

My plan.

Oh yeah, I had one. Few things more lethal than a drinker with a plan. Here was mine.

Id gather up every penny I had, borrow more, then head for London.

Rent a fine flat in Bayswater and wait. That was it. Just wait.

This dream got me through manys the awful Monday.

Sean rattled over, put my coffee down, asked,

Any sign of you going?

Soon.

He muttered some benediction.

Took a sip of my coffee and it burned the roof of my mouth.

Perfect.

The brandy after-hit lit among my gums, battering my teeth. Those moments before the fall.

Paradise encapsulated.

J.M. ONeill in Duffy is Dead wrote that brandy gives you breath, then takes it away. More, you had to get up earlier and earlier to drink yourself sober enough for opening time.

Try explaining that to the non-afflicted.

A woman came in, looked round, then moved to the counter. I wished I was more than I was. Putting my head down, I tried out my detection skills. Or rather, my power of observation. Had only glanced at her; how much could I recall? A fawn medium-length coat, expensive cut. Brown hair to her shoulders. Make-up but no lipstick. Deep-set eyes over a button nose, strong mouth. Pretty, but not overly so. Sensible shoes of good brown leather.

Conclusion: out of my zone. She spoke to Sean, and he pointed at me. I looked up as she approached. She asked,

Mr Taylor?

Yeah.

May I have a few words?

Sure, sit down.

Up close, she was prettier than Id seen. The lines around her eyes were deep. Her age Id put at late thirties. I asked,