7
328 Words
7
The train was due to leave Tuesday at 11 a.m. I’d plenty of time to kill, walked up to the cathedral and was relieved not to meet the snatcher. On by the hospital, on towards Cooke’s Corner. The rain started and I turned my collar up. As I turned into Mill Street I decided to buy cigarettes. For as long as I remember, there’s been a family grocery there. I noted it was now a mini-mart and wondered how much time had gone since my last visit. Walked in and got my second surprise: it was mini Africa. Black families chatted in the aisles, their kids spread out along the wall. Energetic music spilled from every corner. A jovial large man clapped my shoulder, said,
“Welcome, man.”
I moved to the till and a woman in her thirties with a face of stunning beauty served me. As I turned to leave, she said,
“Please visit soon.”
“I will.”
The rain had stopped and I passed by the garda station … or the barracks as it used to be known. It was a hive of activity. I paused for a moment, a jumble of emotions. Did I miss being a guard? Oh God, yes. Did I miss the bullshit? Never. I wondered how it would go if I called in to see my old nemesis, Clancy. Was I kidding? I knew exactly how that would go.
Badly.
A man in his fifties, with red protruding cheeks, purple nose, tweed jacket and the regulation blue shirt did a double take, asked,
“Jack?”
“Hello, Brian.”
If memory served, as it sometimes did, we’d pulled crowd duty in the days of cattle boats. Right down to his GAA tie and the gold fáinne, he was beyond caricature. No faking the gruff friendliness though as he bellowed,
“By the holy, I heard you were dead.”
“Close enough.”
He looked round and I knew it didn’t help any career to be seen with me. He offered,
“Have you time for a quick one?”
“I have a train to catch.”
- Writer
