Free The Guards by Ken Bruen Page B

accidental death. I went to the funeral.”
    “You’re kiddin’.”
    “Poor attendance. You’d get a bigger crowd for a Hib’s game.”
    I didn’t know what to think. Sutton patted my shoulder, said,
    “Good fuckin’ riddance.”
    I got home near eight. My flat was cold and forlorn. The empty cognac bottle was by the window. I put the phone back on and rang Ann. She recognised me straightaway, exclaimed,
    “Oh, thank God, oh Jack … are you okay?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine … I had to get away … I needed some time …”
    “But you’re back now.”
    “I am.”
    “That’s wonderful. I lit candles for you.”
    “God knows I needed them.”
    She laughed then and the tension was broken. I arranged to meet her for lunch next day. After I put the phone down, I wondered why I hadn’t said I was sober. Not sober but not drinking. The gulf of difference. If sobriety is “of soundmind” then I had a ways to go. I hadn’t said anything to her ‘cause I didn’t know if I’d be drinking when I met her.
    The Coke had given me a splitting headache, but I could hack that. A sense of dis-ease was harder to handle.
    I watched some bad television and at eleven turned it off.
    In bed, I tossed and turned, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall the face of the paedophile.

ROCK ME GENTLY
    Is there a soundtrack to dreaming? Like, with nightmares, you get heavy metal or Boyzone. As I slept, it seemed like the mellowest of Southern California were playing. I dreamt of my father. As a very young child, I was holding his hand at Eyre Square. A bus passed and I suddenly realised I could spell … I read aloud the ad. On the side …
PADDY
    He was delighted. Not only because it was the first word I spelt but it was his name. A more cynical view is my first word happened to be the Irish whiskey.
    But nothing dims the warmth of that moment. I felt completely joined with him. Years, experience, life dented the union so many times, but only superficially.
    The phone dragged me up. I couldn’t see the time, mumbled,
    “Hello.”
    “Jack, it’s Sutton.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Later than we think.”
    “Jeez, Sutton, what is it?”
    “I thought you might be suffering, needing a hit.”
    “I was sleeping.”
    “Yeah, like I believe that. Anyway, while you were away, some kids took to burning winos.”
    “What!”
    “Yeah, and winos, they’re our brothers under the skin. They’re walking point. Anyway, I’m here with a few like-minded people, and we’re going to nab the kids’ ringleader.”
    “To do what?”
    “Burn the fucker.”
    “Jeez, Sutton.”
    “So, wanna come along, play with fire?”
    “Are you nuts, that’s vigilantism.”
    “It’s justice, man.”
    “Sutton, tell me this. Is this you with or without the brakes on?”
    He gave a wild laugh, said,
    “Got to go, time to fry.”
    No return to sleep after that. I paced the floor for a few hours, thought of chewing the wallpaper. Went to the bookcase, selected John Sanford. He’d written twelve in the Prey series and I chanced on this.
    Coming down hard. He’d been flying on cocaine for three days. Then, last night coming down, he’d stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of Stolichnaya. There was no smooth landing after a three day toot but the vodka turned a wheels-up-belly-landing into a full crash and burn. Now he’d pay Now he was just gonna have to suck it up.
    Enough.
    The madness is I then wanted a drink beyond urgency. Not just any drink. Oh no, it would have to be an ice-cold Stoli.
    Back to bed. Sleep gave grudgingly and with conditions.
    I got the nine o’clock news the next morning. Third item in,
    A youth was seriously injured after being set on fire in the early hours of the morning. The incident took place on Eyre Square. Gardaí are anxious to trace four men in connection with the attack. Superintendent Clancy, referring to a suggestion that this was in retaliation for recent fire attacks on homeless men, said:
    “Any type