Free The Guards by Ken Bruen Page A

tablets.”
    He seemed to know all about them, then,
    “I gotta go. You take care.”
    Alighting from the train, I met a taxi driver I’d known all my life. He said,
    “Travelling light!”
    “The luggage arrives with the car.”
    “Wise move.”
    If you can do this sort of stuff with a straight face, you’re elected. Taxi drivers, of course, have to take an exam in it.
    I looked out across Eyre Square and pubs beaconed from every corner. Backpackers thronged to and fro in search of Nirvana, a cheap hostel. A drinking school was in full song across from the Great Southern. As there was no one else to say it, I said,
    “Welcome home.”

THE DEAD
    Walking into Grogan’s, I felt a mix of dread and adrenalin. Sean, behind the counter, didn’t recognise me. I said,
    “Sean.”
    “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s Grizzly Adams.”
    He came out from behind the counter, said,
    “My God, where have you been? The whole country’s looking for you. Sit down, sit down, I’ll get your usual.”
    “Sean, no booze … just coffee.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Alas.”
    “Good man.”
    You know you’re bad when a publican’s glad you’re not drinking. I sat down, feeling light-headed. Sean came back with the coffee, saying,
    “I’ve given you a Club Milk to take the bare look off it.”
    I tasted the coffee, said,
    “Jeez, tastes good.”
    He clapped his hands like an excited child, said,
    “That’s real coffee. Usually I give you any oul dregs, but now …”
    “It’s great, terrific bite.”
    He laid his hand on my arm, said,
    “Tell all.”
    Nothing stops talk like this request. The mind instantly downs tools. But he continued,
    “Ann, that woman? She’s been in every day, phones all the time … and Sutton, he has me damned. Why didn’t you phone?”
    “I couldn’t.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    But he didn’t. He stood up, said,
    “All in good time. I’m delighted you’re all right.”
    After a bit, I decided to try and find Sutton. Which wasn’t difficult. He was propping the bar in the Skeff. He didn’t bat an eyelid, asked,
    “What kept you?”
    “I got sidetracked.”
    “I like the beard, makes you look even meaner. A pint or a short?”
    “A Coke.”
    “A Coke it is. Barman!”
    Sutton got a fresh pint and carried it and the Coke to a window table. We sat and he clinked the pint against the Coke, said,
    “Cheers.”
    “Cheers.”
    “So, was it Ballinasloe?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Dr Lee still there.”
    “He sure is.”
    “Decent man.”
    “I liked him.”
    Sutton held his pint up to the light, examining it closely, said,
    “Did two field trips myself. First time out, I drank right off.”
    “In that first pub?”
    He laughed but without humour, said,
    “Yeah, the barstaff there have some attitude, I tell you. Veterans of constant incoming. One of the few places I’ve been where the bullshit doesn’t fly. The hospital send out a mop-up squad come closing. You’re there, you’re nabbed.”
    He drained half the pint, continued,
    “Second time to bat, I got two days. Was leaping outa my skin. Boy, did I hit the bar with thunder.”
    “And now?”
    “What you see is part of what you got. I drink with the brakes on.”
    “Does it work?”
    “Fuck, no.”
    I went to order him a fresh pint, kept my eyes down. The barman asked,
    “Another Coke?”
    “I’d rather slash my wrist.”
    The barman got a big kick outa this. Back with Sutton, I told him about my loaded wallet. He said,
    “You star-trekked about twelve days ago … right? I vaguely remember some dope dealer got taken down.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah, some punk kid. At the Salmon Weir Bridge, he got the shite hammered out of him, his earnings lifted. The guards were delighted.”
    He glanced at my newly bandaged hand, went,
    “Mm … m … hmph.”
    Then he looked right at me, said,
    “How come you haven’t asked about Mr Ford, the late lamented paedophile?”
    “I hoped it was part of the jigs.”
    “No worries, pal. Verdict,