The Magdalen Martyrs by Ken Bruen Page A

was shot through with it.
    In the lobby, Mrs Bailey asked,
    “Breakfast?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Are you all right? You look shook.”
    “I’ve to go to a funeral.”
    “Somebody close?”
    “I think so.”
    “I’ll say a prayer for him.”
    “Thank you.”
    After the funeral mass, I elected to walk behind the hearse. A custom that’s fading, I need it like confession. Still, despite rampant commercialism, passers-by stopped, took off caps, blessed themselves. That touches me in a way that religion never has. Walking, too, was a sprinkle of guards. Not in uniform but present. As always, they gave me the cautious nod, Brid Nic an lomaire among them. I am of . . . but not among them.
    I was one of the men who helped hold the ropes that lower the casket into the hole. God, it was heavy. We lost it a bit towards the end, and the coffin hit the dirt with a sound Uke “ AH ”.
    Like the gentlest sigh escaping
    Fr Malachy intoned,
    “Man, who has but a short time to live, is full of misery.”
    I hate that piece. As if things weren’t bad enough. After, he made a beeline for me, but I wasn’t in the mood for the ejit, said,
    “Piss off.”
    I saw the gravediggers smile.
    For that alone, it was worth it.
    In the Celtic tradition, there was the beautiful notion of
“anam cam”; anam
is the Irish word for soul and
cara
is the word for friend. In the
anam cara,
friendship, you are joined in an ancient way with the friend of your soul. So wrote John O’Donohue in his book,
Eternal Echoes.
    For too long I’d been neglecting Jeff and Cathy. Told myself,
    “ ‘Cause, they have a new baby, give them space.”
    I half believed this shit sometimes. The old saying,
    “If you have to know any act, let it be your own.”
    Whoops.
    Wore a sweatshirt that read:
    667
    ( NEIGHBOUR OF THE BEAST )
     
    And the faded 501s.
    Then remembered the AIB. Got out the account number, checked it and memorised it. Mrs Bailey was reading the
Irish Independent,
said,
    “Do you know who’s dead?”
    It doesn’t get more Irish.
    I said,
    “I already know who’s dead, believe me.”
    She gave me a head on look, said,
    “That’s a very relaxed outfit.”
    “I’m a relaxed kind of guy.”
    She gave a polite smile, with,
    “Not a description I’d have applied myself.”
    Went to the bank first. A non-national was perched on a mat outside, asked,
    “Euro please.”
    “Gimme a minute, all right?”
    “One minute, I am counting.”
    The temptation to crack his skull rose with the rejoinder,
    “Count on that.”
    Make local headlines with
    EX-GARDA ATTACKS REFUGEE .
     
    And they would.
    Into the bank and presented my account number to a cashier. She had the moneyed face, hard, hard, hard.
    A nametag proclaimed “Siobhan”.
    She tapped in the numbers, said,
    “This account has been opened for Jack Taylor.”
    I gave her the refugee smile, said,
    “I am he.”
    No brownie points. She frosted,
    “I’ll need to see some ID.”
    I’d been expecting this, plonked the following down: passport, driver’s licence, library card.
    She examined them like a tax inspector, snapped,
    “This licence has expired.”
    “A metaphor for my life.”
    She looked up, obviously not happy with my appearance. I said,
    “Siobhan, lighten up, this isn’t a tribunal.”
    “There is a considerable sum here.”
    “No shit?”
    Came involuntarily, but who could fault me? She stood up, said,
    “I’ll have to consult a manager.”
    “Gee, that’s surprising.”
    Eventually a suit approaches, says,
    “Mr Taylor, welcome to the AIB.”
    I’m wondering how much is a considerable sum?
    And asked exactly that.
    He looks round, says,
    “You can have a printout of the balance.”
    “Well, let’s have it.”
    When I get it, I didn’t look, shoved it in my pocket, said,
    “Tell Siobhan I love her.”
    Came out to find the guards arresting the refugee. I, Uke the horseman, passed by.

 
    “Be selfish, stupid and have good health.
But if stupidity