Free The Guards by Ken Bruen

for him at a pub in Newry. I usually had a book hidden on my person, snatching a read at opportune moments. I was thus engrossed when I heard,
    “Jesus, Taylor, always with the books.”
    I moved to put it away, but he grabbed it, read the title “The Hound of Heaven” said,
    “Francis Thompson, eh?”
    “You know it?”
    He put back his head, recited,
    “I fled him down the nights and down the days …”
    I nodded and he said,
    “He died roaring.”
    “What?”
    “It’s how alkies go, they die roaring.”
    “Jesus.”
    Whenever misgivings arose, I shut them down. Drilled into my mind—"He’s my friend. Anyway, who’s perfect?”
    The library in Ballinasloe was closed. For renovations. My days were spent in OT. A basket of tiny springs on the table. My job, to fit them into biros.
    Rest of the time, I gulped Librium, tried to avoid Bill and longed for the sleepers come night.
    The last Ballinasloe dream was so vivid, I’m not sure it didn’t happen. Sutton saying,
    “You’re the reader … the crime expert in fact.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Read Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside?”
    “Missed that.”
    “You missed the best one.”
    But there’s God. And not only in Tom Jones’ song. The day of my release, I was given my clothes, fresh washed and ironed. Plus a bulging wallet. No drinker ever ends up with money. It’s against the laws of nature. When I’d left my flat, I couldn’t have had more than thirty odd quid. I stared at the wallet. The nurse, misreading it, said,
    “It’s all there, Mr Taylor, we don’t steal from our patients. Four hundred and fifty pounds. Count it if you like.”
    She stormed off. I went to say goodbye to Dr Lee. I said,
    “Could I make a contribution?”
    “Don’t drink.”
    “I meant …”
    “So did I.”
    He put out his hand, said,
    “There’s AA.”
    “There is.”
    “And Antabuse.”
    “Right.”
    He didn’t shake his head, but the implication was there. Then, he asked,
    “Jack … have you family … friends?”
    “Good question.”
    “Well, you better go find out.”
    Outside, the sun was shining. A coach paused and every one on the crowded thing stared at me. Backlit by the most infamous asylum in Ireland, with my body in bits, I sure as hell wasn’t staff.
    I gave them the finger.
    Most applauded.
    Naturally, but a spit from the hospital was a pub. For one dizzy moment, I was poised. Oh, never did the siren song cry so awful bright. I couldn’t … I couldn’t. I looked back and felt Dr Lee nodded, as if he could see, and I walked on.
    At the train station, I’d only half an hour till the train. Sat in the buffet, ordered nothing. There was a newspaper on the chair. More tribunals. I felt I’d gotten my own brown envelope. Checked the date and my stomach did a flip over. I’d been gone for twelve days. One for each of the apostles. Doing some calculating, I’d been three days missing in action and … earning money.
    The train came and I got a window seat. I hadn’t shaved in hospital and a half decent beard was coming in. I looked like Kris Kristofferson’s dad. The mangled nose gave a total “don’t fuck” look. Leaving the hospital, I’d taken a hard stare in themirror. Solved what was puzzling me. My eyes. They were clear and nearly alive. Not bright but in the neighbourhood. After years of sickness lodged therein, it was some revelation.
    Outside Athenry, the refreshments trolley came. A young lad of eighteen or so asked,
    “Tea, coffee, minerals?”
    “A tea, please.”
    I could feel him inspecting my injuries, I said,
    “Came off my bike.”
    “Wow.”
    “Yeah, doing ninety.”
    “A Harley?”
    “Is there another?”
    He loved that, then,
    “Do you want a drink?”
    “What?”
    “Look, see we’ve all these miniatures, but like, who’s gonna pay these prices?”
    “No … thank you.”
    “I’ll give you two for one. How would that be?”
    “I can’t … I mean … I’m on tablets … for the pain.”
    “Ah …