Cross - Ken Bruen [19]
Never ceases to amuse Americans.
And more's the tragedy, this self-sufficient community ceased to exist in 1934 when their homes were demolished to provide so-called more sanitary dwellings. They didn't use the term 'progress' then, but it was the same spirit of change and obliteration as was running riot today.
But the spirit, the sheer will of people from Claddagh, still exists, handed down through all these years, and even in a cosmopolitan city, Claddagh folk are their own distinctive breed.
Me, I love the place.
Used to be a time when feeding the swans was a real lift and not just for them. It was part of the Galway deal. And you'd look up, see Nimmo's Pier, and the ocean beckoning to you, calling you to a life that seemed ablaze with promise. On the horizon, the Aran Islands and a way of living that didn't entail hurry. But this was no longer a comfort zone for me. Too many scenes of violence and loss were tied up with the area.
I walked quickly through. A guy sitting at the water's edge was alternately feeding the swans and a greyhound. The dog was in bad shape, skinnier than a tinker.
I said, 'How you doing?'
Without looking at me he asked, 'Want to buy a greyhound?'
'Er, not right now.'
He shrugged as if it was my loss, added, 'This animal is a winner.'
Yeah.
I didn't want to delay, but some nonsense just has to be addressed, else you begin to believe that chaos really does rule. I asked, 'Why don't you race him your own self?'
He gave a laugh clogged with bitterness and regret, said, 'My missus, she hates dogs.'
Maybe she was the one stealing the Newcastle ones. He added, 'But I hate her, so it like, evens out, you know?'
On impulse I asked, 'Offhand, would you know why a person would snatch dogs from various houses?'
I thought he hadn't heard me or couldn't be bothered to answer so I moved on, but then he shouted, 'To eat them.'
Dare I say, food for thought?
I stood before the house, taking a moment to compose myself. The building was one of a terrace, small, rundown, with an air of poverty. I recognized it, as I'd grown up in one just like it. The small garden was well tended, some rose bushes defiantly facing the worst the North Atlantic had to throw. I popped a mint in my mouth. If you want the world to know you've been drinking, take one. It's like, Hello, I'm disguising the smell of booze. Even though I hadn't drunk, old habits die slow. Ask Sinn Fein.
I knocked once, then for good measure took another mint.
A man in his late sixties answered. He was small, with white hair and an air of defeat, black rings under his eyes.
'Mr Willis?'
He stared at me. 'Yes.'
I was about to launch in when he said, 'I know you.'
I waited, wondering if he was going to slam the door, but he gave a small smile, his mouth contracting, like it had forgotten how to.
'You're the man who saved the swans.'
And then before I could respond, he said, 'Please come in.'
He ushered me into a dark hall, then shut the door quietly. 'In here, please.'
A spotless living room, with a flamenco dancer poised on top of the television, testament to happier times, perhaps. A cabinet with a glass front held trophies, photos and a line of Reader's Digests.
He motioned for me to take a seat and said, 'I'll just get my wife. Would you like coffee, tea, or maybe something stronger?'
I declined, if not easily. I noticed a silver photo frame, the centrepiece on the cabinet, and moved closer. It showed three people: two young men and a girl. The dead man I recognized and the girl would be the sister, Maria, but the third? A line of T.S. Eliot ran in my head . . . something about a third who walks beside you. His hair was red but his resemblance to the other two was marked, he had to be a brother. I muttered, 'There is another brother?'
How had Ridge missed him? I'd need to check him out.
The silence in the house was unsettling. The father returned with a woman who looked even more defeated than him. Her body had folded