The Guards by Ken Bruen

it.”
    “Do you want to come in, grab a shower?”
    “Naw, I’m for the leaba.”
    I got out and waited. Sutton shook himself, said,
    “Jack, you wouldn’t ever think of selling me out?”
    “What?”
    “‘Cause I wouldn’t like that. You ‘n’ me, we’re tied together.”
    “Who’d I sell you out to?”
    “The guards. You know the old saying … once a garda! You might want to score some points with your old mates.”
    “That’s mad talk.”
    He gave a long look, then,
    “You’re shaping up to be a citizen, you know that. God knows, you were some fuck-up drinking, but at least you were predictable.”
    “Get some sleep.”
    “And you, Jack, get some focus.”
    He put the car in gear, screeched into traffic. I went into theflat, tried to rustle up some breakfast again. But my heart wasn’t in it. Settled for coffee and sank into a chair. I considered what he’d said and wondered if there was any truth in his accusations. One drink and that would burn any righteous notions. Burn everything else, too.
    I thought about Planter and couldn’t see how I was going to prove he was responsible for Sarah’s death. Time was running out, too, on my accommodation. If I was going to be homeless, at least I had the beard for it.
    The next few days, I heard nothing from Sutton. Checked at the Skeff but no sign. Went into Grogan’s and Sean provided the real coffee. I asked,
    “What? No biscuit?”
    “You don’t need back-up no more.”
    “Sean.”
    “What?”
    “You’ve known me … how long?”
    “Donkeys.”
    “Right. You’ve seen me in all kinds of states.”
    “That I have.”
    “So, all told, you know me better than anyone.”
    “Too true.”
    “Would you say I’d be capable of selling out a friend?”
    If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. Seemed to give it serious thought. I’d been expecting an immediate “course not”. Finally he looked me right in the eye, said,
    “Well, you used to be a guard.”
    And I have held your hand
for reasons
not at all.
    In reality, time doesn’t pass. We pass. I have no idea why, but I think that’s one of the saddest things I ever learnt. God knows, anything I have learnt has been the hard way.
    An alcoholic’s greatest defect is a complete unwillingness to learn from the past.
    What I knew from mine was if I drank, chaos reigned. I was no longer under any illusion. Yet I’d have given anything to crack the seal on a bottle of Scotch and fly. Or even, a feast of pints. Close my eyes and there was a table. Wooden, of course. Dozens of creamy Guinness lined in greeting. The head … ahhh, just perfect.
    Stood up and physically shook myself. This was eating me alive. Galway’s a great walking town. Walking the prom is the favoured route. Used to be only Galwegians followed a particular ritual. You started at Grattan Road, then up past Seapoint.Stop a moment there and hear the ghost of all the showbands past:
    The Royal
    Dixies
    Howdowners
    The Miami
    I can’t say if it was a simple age. But it was a whole lot less complicated. In the middle of a jive, no mobile phone blew away the magic. Then on past Claude Toft’s, along the beach till you reached Blackrock. Here’s where the ritual kicked in. At the wall, you touched it with your shoe.
    Word is out though. Even the Japanese aim a semi-karate shot to the stone.
    I don’t begrudge them the act, but somehow it’s been diluted.
    Go figure.
    I walked into town and decided to get a blast of caffeine for the trip.
    As long as I remember, there’s been sentries. Two men who perch on stools at any given hour. Always the same duo. They wear cloth caps, donkey jackets and terylene pants. Never together. They sit at opposite ends of the bar. I wouldn’t swear they even knew each other.
    Now here’s the thing.
    No matter how you sneak up on these guys or what way you approach them, it never changes. Two pint glasses of Guinness, half full. It’s synchronicity gone ape. You couldn’t plan