She worked for Reardon.
2. See above.
The little time I’d spent that evening with her, I liked her. She was smart and caustic, and I seemed to amuse her in a vague fashion. Her age seemed to hover in that blurred could be thirty, probably forty set. She was waiting outside when I arrived, said,
“You’re sober!”
Registered my face, went,
“Kidding, sorry. Jeez, Jack, these are the jokes, right?”
I nearly turned on my heel, but took a deep breath, ushered her in. Long line of people at the counter for The Grinder. The specialty bread that had a taste like wish fulfillment. We got a table close to the wall, and I got a good look at Kelly.
But, oh fuck.
Skinny jeans.
Jesus weeping. And in that puke mustard shade that seemed to be the only damn color they were flogging. The hell was with that? Okay, she was thin, that vogue for starved-with-a-tan look.
Skinny jeans, I wanted to roar,
“No
No
Never.”
Unless you are a teenager or the bass player with Kasabian. She ordered soda bread, Galty cheese, Barry’s tea. Said,
“Get all my carbs stashed.”
No sane answer to that. I ordered a double espresso. She said,
“Bitter, huh?”
Our fare arrived and she laid on the thick Kerrygold butter with gusto, said,
“Reardon, my boss, he has . . . more than a passing interest in you.”
“Why?”
She was on her second round of bread. Jesus, this girl could eat, washed it down with tea, burped without fanfare, said,
“His research into the town, its recent history, your name keeps coming up, be it the swans, the tinkers, the church, Magdalene laundries, and you are, he feels, a person of interest.”
I thought about this, then,
“I feel he has plans for the city.”
She whistled, low but definite, said,
“Oh, yeah, like you wouldn’t believe and, who knows, maybe a part for you.”
I gave her my rabid smile, let that be its own reply. I drained the last of my coffee and, sure enough, down the yearning pike came the nicotine blues. She looked at me, asked,
“How long since you smoked?”
She was good.
I said,
“Well, I was the kind of dedicated smoker who smoked between cigarettes.”
She quoted,
“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied.”
I hazarded,
“Simon Gray, The Smoking Diaries.”
I could tell that went over her gorgeous head, she said,
“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
I ordered more coffee, get some palpitations running. She asked,
“Top of your head, no thinking, favorite book?”
“The Book Thief.”
Surprised her.
Fuck, surprised me.
She asked,
“You ever married?”
“No.”
She gave a radiant smile, then,
“Me neither. What’s your excuse?”
Tell the truth, then it’s their gig, said,
“Drink.”
She considered that. I asked,
“You?”
No hesitation.
“Never met anyone like my dad.”
Was she kidding?
Her mobile shrilled, she checked it, said,
“The mighty Reardon calls.”
Outside, we had that awkward moment
. . . do you mumble some vague shite about staying in touch?
Go,
. . . that was nice, let’s never do it again.
She asked,
“Want to see me another time?”
The thought struck me. I asked,
“Do I remind you of your father?”
She was moving, stopped, said,
“Don’t be ridiculous, he is a good man.”
10
Draw a picture of my soul and it’d be a scribble with fangs.
—Gillian Flynn, Dark Places
Souls in purgatory are supposed to be on day release.
I was arranging my DVDs on a shelf, mug of coffee in my hand, cigarette on my mind.
Stepped back, looked,
Game of Thrones, Series 2
Breaking Bad, Season 4
Treme
Weeds, the whole seven seasons
Conspiracy: The Wannsee Conference, The Final Solution
Damages, Series 4, with John Goodman.
You put John Goodman in a series, I’m there. On the coffee table, strewn almost casually, was
Matter of Heart: The Extraordinary Journey of C. G. Jung Into the Soul of Man. Visitors would be impressed. The empty walls sneered,
“What visitors?”
A heavy book, and I’m talking actual weight,
Gitta
