The Dramatist by Ken Bruen Page B

said,
    “Who’d have expected us to become friends?”
    I couldn’t let that go, asked,
    “You think we’re friends?”
    “Oh yeah, Jack, we’re close.”
    I called Ridge and she said there was no evidence of foul play. When I mentioned the book, she said she couldn’t explain that. Perhaps it was a bizarre coincidence, one of those thousand-to-one chances that defy logic. I’d lost patience, asked,
    “You really believe that?”
    “Does it matter? We have nothing else, or rather you have nothing else.”
    “There’s somebody out there, playing a weird game and getting away with murder.”
    Changing the subject, she said,
    “Write down this number.”
    I got a pen and she read the digits. I wrote them down, asked,
    “And I’m going to do what with this number?”
    Her exasperation was audible and she answered,
    “If you’re smart, you’ll call. It’s Margaret.”
    “Margaret?”
    “Yes, I’m as surprised as you sound. What on earth she sees in you is beyond comprehension. I gather your previous encounter wasn’t exactly promising.”
    My heartbeat had increased, a wave of near delight swept through me, yet I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Ridge’s obvious displeasure didn’t help. I asked
    “She’s interested in me?”
    Her derision was clear and she snapped,
    “Did I say she was interested? Did you hear me say that? Your ability to jump to conclusions is beyond belief. I said to call her, but if you mess her around, you’ll answer to me.”
    “Jeez, Ridge, that sounds like a threat.”
    “It is.”
    Click.

 
    I did call Margaret and she responded with warmth and, Good Lord, affection. As a young man, I hadn’t been what you could ever term a ladies’ man. Alcoholics have a deadly combination of ego and no self-esteem. It sure confuses the hell out of you. You select a woman who is top of your wish list (ego dictates this), then the lack of self-esteem dismantles every single reason she might ever consider you. So, you move way down the scale and search out the grateful ones. Their gratitude lies in that hardly anyone would ever consider them. Thus the dual damage, the hurt, has piled on already. The whole shabby ritual is preordained to failure. The guys you know, they sneer,
    “She’s a nice girl.”
    In macho terms, she doesn’t, as the Americans say, “put out”. In other words, buddy, you ain’t getting any. But you go with the flow. Drink conceals the flaws and cracks in such endeavours. Back then, you “did a line”. No, not cocaine. This was before we learned about relationships. You followed the strict ritual: brought her to the pictures, then progressed to an evening’s restrained drinking. She’d have an orange or, wow, if she was forward, a Babycham. While at the bar, you hammered in some serious short ones, then took a pint back to sit with her and sip. Moved on to going dancing on Saturday night, the showbands in their heyday. Here the nightmare began in earnest. My generation didn’t dance. The girls could jive and move till the cows came home. The guys poured the booze from prohibited flasks, did the “slow set” and got to lay a hand on her shoulder, perhaps feel the bra strap and be hot for weeks. If you were coerced into joining her for the fast numbers, you demonstrated how child of the sixties you were. Did a series of quirky disjointed twitches without moving your feet and sweated ferociously. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the DTs and may have been the very early rehearsal. Not till Ann Henderson did I ever fall in love. And I blew that to smithereens.
    So Margaret and I began to do a millennium version of “the line” of that forgotten era. We went to the cinema, took short walks to the Claddagh and fed the swans.
    Galway stuff.
    I didn’t tell her about the swan killer. Once, near the church, I saw him leaning against the statue of the Blessed Virgin. And I mean leaning, his shoulder against hers, his legs loose as if he was her buddy. A