Cross - Ken Bruen [2]
I didn't want to discuss this, especially not with him, said, 'Not much escapes you.'
Then he abruptly changed tack. 'You ever visit your mother's grave?'
There are many crimes in the Irish lexicon, odd actions that in the UK wouldn't even rate a mention, but here were nigh on unforgivable.
Topping the list are:
Silence or reticence. You've got to be able to chat, preferably incessantly. Making sense isn't even part of the equation.
Not buying a round. You might think no one notices, but they do.
Having notions, ideas above your imagined station.
Neglecting the grave of your family.
There are others, such as having a posh accent, disliking hurling, watching BBC, but they are the second division. There's a way back from them, but the first division, you are fucked.
I tried, 'Believe it or not, when you're visiting a shot boy, shot full of bloody holes, it's harder than you might think to nip out to the cemetery.'
He blew that off, said, ''Tis a thundering disgrace.'
The current national disgrace was the major hospitals admitting they'd been selling the body parts of dead children without the permission of the parents. Even the tax shenanigans of the country's politicians paled in comparison to this. The Government had pledged that heads would roll – translate as, scapegoats would be found. I'd had enough of Malachy and made to move away.
He asked, 'What do you make of the crucifixion?'
I was lost. Was this some metaphysical query? I went for the stock reply. 'I take it as an article of faith.'
Lame, right?
We'd been walking, walking and sparring, and had reached a shop at the top of the canal. Moved under the store's canopy as drops of rain began to fall.
A man emerged, stopped, pointed at a No Smoking decal, barked, 'Can't you read?'
Malachy rounded on him, went, 'Can't you mind your own business? Fuck off.'
As I said, not your expected religious reply.
The man hesitated then stomped away.
Malachy glared at me, then said, 'When the Prods crucified some poor hoor two years ago, I believed it was just one more variation on the punishment stuff that paramilitaries do, but I thought it was confined to the North.' I tried for deep, said, 'Nothing is confined to the North.'
He was disgusted, began to walk away and said, 'You're drinking again. Why did I think I could talk sensible to you?'
I watched him amble off, scratching his head, a cloud of light dandruff in his wake. It never occurred to me the horror he'd mentioned would have anything to do with me. Boy, was I wrong about that.
The booze, sure, I was nearly drinking again. You get shot at, you're going to have a lot of shots in the aftermath. Course you are. It's cast-iron justification. More and more, I'd begun to re-walk my city. What is it Bruce Springsteen titled his New York, 'My City Of Ruins'? At the back of my mind was the seed of escape, get the hell out, so I'd decided to see my town from the ground down. Ground zero.
I moved from the canal to St Joseph's Church, and a little along that road is what the locals now term Little Africa. A whole area of shops, apartments, businesses run by Nigerians, Ugandans, Zambesians, people from every part of the massive continent. To me, a white Irish Catholic, it was a staggering change, little black kids playing in the streets, drum beats echoing from open windows, and the women were beautiful. I saw dazzling shawls, scarves, dresses of every variety. And friendly . . . If you smiled at them, they responded with true warmth.
And that, despite the despicable graffiti on the walls:
Non Irish Not Welcome
Irish Nazis . . . a shame of epic proportion.
An elderly black man was moving along in front of me and I said, 'How you doing?'
He gave me a look of amazement, then his face lit up and he said, 'I be doing real good, mon. And you, brother, how you be doing?'
I ventured I was doing OK and fuck, it made me whole day. I moved on, a near smile on me own face. Hitting the top of Dominic Street, I turned left and strolled towards the Small Crane.
Isn't that a marvellous