Cross - Ken Bruen [22]
If the barman had any comment on my long absence, he kept it to himself.
It was the day of my appointment with the ear guy, and I'd dressed for bad news.
How do you do that?
Dress down, dress black.
I wore me funeral suit, bought from the charity shop. It had a sheen from overuse.
The Crescent in Galway is our answer to Harley Street. Translate as cash – lots of. Old listed houses, covered in ivy and decay, with nameplates on the front. No titles like Doctor, it was all Mister, denoting a consultant and mainly denoting it was going to be expensive. As they said in town, 'That's the Mister you'll well fucking earn.'
These old crumbling houses are the last barrier in a town with modern construction run riot. The developers circled these properties, waiting for an opportunity – a death in the family, bankruptcy – any window to move, offer shitpiles of cash and get the place in their portfolio. Then they'll rip the guts out of it or raze it to the ground, and, presto, a new set of luxurious apartments, uglier with each successive purchase.
I liked these buildings as they stood: draughty halls, high ceilings, mildew in the corners, rising damp creeping along the walls, highly suspect floors, and the plumbing – don't even think about that. If you wanted to replace that, you'd need to win the Lotto. And cold – they were always freezing. It's a bizarre fact that the wealthy, the Anglo-Irish, all have houses that would freeze your nuts off. Accounts for why they are always dressed in Barbours and thick woollen scarves, and of course why they're always out fox-hunting.
The Mister I had my appointment with was Mr Keating. He was dressed in a tweed suit – no white coats for these boyos – and he treated me with mild disdain, bordering on sarcasm. He did a whole range of tests, and I swear, like the doctor who'd examined Cody, he did that tut-tutting sound I thought was confined to the novels of P. G. Wodehouse.
Finally he was done. He put his hand on his chin and asked, 'Have you ever received a blow to the head?'
For a mad moment I thought he was threatening me, but then realized he was inquiring.
Me . . . a blow to the head. Count the ways, O Lord.
I said, 'I used to play hurling.'
He gave what might have been a smile but could have been wind. 'And no doubt, you being a macho type, you didn't wear a helmet?'
Fuck, we could barely afford to pay for the hurleys. Helmets? Yeah, sure.
He said, 'I may send you for an MRI, but I'm pretty sure my initial findings are correct.' He paused and I wondered if I would have to guess. Then he continued, 'Your left ear, due to an injury, or perhaps simply age, is showing signs of degeneration – very rapid degeneration – and within a short time you will be completely deaf in that organ.'
Degeneration.
What a fucking awful word.
He began to scribble on a pad.
'Here is the name of a very fine hearing-aid man. He'll fit you with one.'
I was trying to play catch-up. 'I have to wear a hearing aid?'
Now he smiled.
'Enormous advances have been made in this field. You'd barely notice the newest models.'
Easy for him to say.
And that was it.
He said, 'My secretary will provide billing.'
Naturally. That I heard without any trouble.
I was at the door when he added, 'If you feel compelled to continue hurling, do use a helmet.'
I couldn't resist, said, 'Bit late, wouldn't you say?'
* * *
I met with Eoin Heaton. He was if anything even more bedraggled than before, and the booze was leaking out of his very skin. A stale, desperate smell.
He opened with, 'I've been on this dog thing, like, day and night.'
Sure.
I stared at him. It was like looking in a mirror, all the days I'd racked up in a similar condition. We were in a coffee shop in a side street near the Abbey church. The owner of the place was a Russian who had bought it from a Basque. You have to wonder, where did all the Irish go? We may have got rich but we sure were outnumbered. The latest figures showed that by 2010 Ireland would have one million non-nationals.
Heaton had a black