couldn’t match them. Keegan said,
“My govenor came through from London.”
“Who?”
“My chief inspector.”
“What did he find out?”
“Our boy comes from money, like major bucks. Did public school, all that good shit. He’s a bona fide social worker all right. Now here’s the thing, he was attached to at least ten centres. The ones who had either street alcoholics or what the do-gooders call ‘the Marginalised’. He always left each place under a cloud. No specific charges, but a definite cloud of disturbance. So, people could disappear, who the fuck would notice? Then he did what the smart sickos do; he emigrated.”
The connection hit. I said,
“He follows Laura, deliberately, assaults her, knowing what she’ll do. That she’ll call me. I’ll come charging and my house is empty.”
Keegan nodded, said,
“Let’s get down there.”
“He’ll have been and gone.”
“But let’s see what he’s gone and left you.”
On our way there, he said,
“You think, Jack, that I don’t get the Irish. That I’m some sort of plastic paddy.”
I started to protest but he ploughed on.
“Just because I love the blarney shit doesn’t mean I’m blind. My mother was Irish, and when they’re rearing kids in England, they’re more Irish than you’ll ever know. She used to say, ‘Rear? I didn’t rear ye, ye were kept at room temperature like Fruitfield jam.’ You might have lived here, laddie, but I was fucking marinated in it. I knew what a hurley was before I could walk. When she used it, I definitely couldn’t walk. So do me a favour, pal, don’t pull Celtic rank on me.”
I was saved from a reply as we’d arrived at the house. The door was open. Keegan went,
“Uh-oh.”
And went first. The smell hit straight away. A huge crap in the kitchen. All the crockery was smashed and excrement smeared on the walls. In the front room, the new books were in tatters, the remains piled on the slashed sofa and reeking of urine. Keegan said,
“I’ll get cleaning.”
I went upstairs. My new clothes in bits and stuffed in the toilet, a note left on my pillow.
“Wanna play, Jack?”
Keegan shouted,
“Bad?”
The coke was gone, but more worrying, so was the 9mm. I was debating whether to tell Keegan when the phone rang. He said,
“I’ll get it.”
Obviously I only got Keegan’s side, which went like this.
“Jack’s not available. Oh, I know who you are, Ronald. Who am I? I’m Detective Sergeant Keegan from the Met, and I’ve a full report on you, son. Quite a work record. Oh dear, that’s very foul language. Yes, I’ve seen your actions here. Very impressive. I do hope you wiped your arse. Don’t shout, Ron, that’s a good lad. You’re leaving the country! Think about this, boyo; some day soon, you’ll get a tap on the shoulder and guess who? We have something in common…Oh, yes, I have a very dodgy past. I’m the animal you
Guardian
readers get orgasms about. No, no, Ronald, don’t worry about jurisdiction, because I certainly won’t. You’ll get to shit your pants again, and I’ll make you eat it. Okey-dokey, cheerio…lovely to chat with you.”
I was standing next to Keegan as he hung up, asked,
“He’s leaving?”
“So he says.”
“I had a gun here; it’s gone.”
“No sweat, I’ll make him eat that, too.”
“I don’t think he’ll go yet.”
“Me neither.”
Keegan said he’d yellow-page it and have the house cleaned, told me,
“Go see your girl.”
“Thanks, Keegan.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s what I do, clean up shite.”
“I feel odd calling you Keegan all the time. What’s your first name?”
“You feel odd! Gee, that’s a pity, get over it.”
“All islanders, no matter what their ethnicity, live with a certain kind of longing.
It’s a type of travel that is kept in check by fear of the unknown world.
White people just make an aesthetic out of it. Living on an island is its own excuse to stay home and dream.”
John
“My govenor came through from London.”
“Who?”
“My chief inspector.”
“What did he find out?”
“Our boy comes from money, like major bucks. Did public school, all that good shit. He’s a bona fide social worker all right. Now here’s the thing, he was attached to at least ten centres. The ones who had either street alcoholics or what the do-gooders call ‘the Marginalised’. He always left each place under a cloud. No specific charges, but a definite cloud of disturbance. So, people could disappear, who the fuck would notice? Then he did what the smart sickos do; he emigrated.”
The connection hit. I said,
“He follows Laura, deliberately, assaults her, knowing what she’ll do. That she’ll call me. I’ll come charging and my house is empty.”
Keegan nodded, said,
“Let’s get down there.”
“He’ll have been and gone.”
“But let’s see what he’s gone and left you.”
On our way there, he said,
“You think, Jack, that I don’t get the Irish. That I’m some sort of plastic paddy.”
I started to protest but he ploughed on.
“Just because I love the blarney shit doesn’t mean I’m blind. My mother was Irish, and when they’re rearing kids in England, they’re more Irish than you’ll ever know. She used to say, ‘Rear? I didn’t rear ye, ye were kept at room temperature like Fruitfield jam.’ You might have lived here, laddie, but I was fucking marinated in it. I knew what a hurley was before I could walk. When she used it, I definitely couldn’t walk. So do me a favour, pal, don’t pull Celtic rank on me.”
I was saved from a reply as we’d arrived at the house. The door was open. Keegan went,
“Uh-oh.”
And went first. The smell hit straight away. A huge crap in the kitchen. All the crockery was smashed and excrement smeared on the walls. In the front room, the new books were in tatters, the remains piled on the slashed sofa and reeking of urine. Keegan said,
“I’ll get cleaning.”
I went upstairs. My new clothes in bits and stuffed in the toilet, a note left on my pillow.
“Wanna play, Jack?”
Keegan shouted,
“Bad?”
The coke was gone, but more worrying, so was the 9mm. I was debating whether to tell Keegan when the phone rang. He said,
“I’ll get it.”
Obviously I only got Keegan’s side, which went like this.
“Jack’s not available. Oh, I know who you are, Ronald. Who am I? I’m Detective Sergeant Keegan from the Met, and I’ve a full report on you, son. Quite a work record. Oh dear, that’s very foul language. Yes, I’ve seen your actions here. Very impressive. I do hope you wiped your arse. Don’t shout, Ron, that’s a good lad. You’re leaving the country! Think about this, boyo; some day soon, you’ll get a tap on the shoulder and guess who? We have something in common…Oh, yes, I have a very dodgy past. I’m the animal you
Guardian
readers get orgasms about. No, no, Ronald, don’t worry about jurisdiction, because I certainly won’t. You’ll get to shit your pants again, and I’ll make you eat it. Okey-dokey, cheerio…lovely to chat with you.”
I was standing next to Keegan as he hung up, asked,
“He’s leaving?”
“So he says.”
“I had a gun here; it’s gone.”
“No sweat, I’ll make him eat that, too.”
“I don’t think he’ll go yet.”
“Me neither.”
Keegan said he’d yellow-page it and have the house cleaned, told me,
“Go see your girl.”
“Thanks, Keegan.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s what I do, clean up shite.”
“I feel odd calling you Keegan all the time. What’s your first name?”
“You feel odd! Gee, that’s a pity, get over it.”
“All islanders, no matter what their ethnicity, live with a certain kind of longing.
It’s a type of travel that is kept in check by fear of the unknown world.
White people just make an aesthetic out of it. Living on an island is its own excuse to stay home and dream.”
John
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