Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [23]
“Drive me out home, Dutch. I’ll sort you with a cab when we get there.”
“You’re going to Dee’s?”
“I’m paying for the place, Dutch. Since when is it Dee’s?”
“Since she keeps chucking you out if it.”
I shrugged. It was too late to get into it about Gonzo. He said: “If you want to stay here, Michelle won’t mind. The bed’s made up in the spare room. Don’t worry about the kids, a bomb wouldn’t wake them.”
“Cheers, Dutch, but no. I want to die in my own bed, boots off.”
I was lying, naturally. I didn’t want to die in my own bed, boots on or off, or in any other bed for that matter. I didn’t want to die, period, but even then I didn’t know then how fragile life can be, and how permanent death is. How squalid and black and final death really is.
Dutchie rang for a cab to meet us back at the house. I limped down the alleyway at his shoulder, the side he was carrying the baseball bat. He poured me into the car and we drove for home.
“What are you going to tell Conway?” We were passing the hospital.
“That a bottle of brandy is going on the expenses.”
“You’re keeping the case? What are you, fucking insane?”
“Only now and again. You’d go mad otherwise.”
“Cop on, Harry. What about Ben?”
“Ben’ll be okay. I’ll look after Ben.”
“You’ll look after Ben? Check the mirror, Harry, you’ve got mail.”
“No fucker’ll touch Ben when I’m around, Dutch. I’ll be cute.”
“You look cute. Cute like Quasimodo. And what happens to Ben if you’re not around?”
“I don’t know, Dutch. Give me a clue.”
“Jesus, Harry. It’s loonyfuckingtoons.”
I don’t like agreeing with people, it gives them the confidence to contradict you next time out, so I left that one hanging. The cab was waiting when we arrived. Dutchie turned as he was about to get in. I waited on the doorstep, not wanting to hear what he had to say.
“Let it go, Harry. It was only a hammering. Don’t take it personal.”
“I hear you.”
“Yeah, that’d be a first.”
“Take care, Dutch. And cheers.”
I should have listened to Dutchie and not taken it personal. Maybe that way I wouldn’t have ended up at the bottom of the river, a bullet under my ribs. Then again, maybe I’d have ended up there anyway, things have a way of working themselves out. Look at the platypus.
9
The lights were on in the sitting room, and I could hear the low murmur of the TV. I padded upstairs to the bathroom. Hoping the mirror would hold, because I still had three of seven left to serve on my current run of bad luck.
I’d got off light. The only visible damage was a bruised nose, a cut above my right eye. I mopped up with a handful of toilet paper, stuck a Band-Aid on the cut, went back downstairs.
Denise was curled up on the couch, a duvet tucked around her legs, smoking a joint, a fire dying in the grate. She didn’t offer the jay so I slumped into the armchair, wincing at the dull bolts of pain, and looked at the TV too.
She looked lifeless, sprawled out on the couch, worn, tired. Denise could sparkle when she scrubbed up but when she wasn’t interested she really let things slide. Shrouding her body under baggy jumpers, hiding behind a stony mask that emphasised the lines around her eyes. Laughter lines, she called them once, but nothing’s that funny. Nothing had been that funny since Ben was born, anyway. That day, Denise retreated behind a wall there was no climbing over, no going around and no tunnelling under. A damsel in distress, waiting in her tower for a handsome prince to saunter by, or maybe just a different frog.
It wasn’t post-natal stress either. Denise loved Ben right from day one and without reservation. Denise just hated Ben’s father, hated herself for succumbing to his soft-chat. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t much like Ben’s father myself, and I liked him less with each day that passed.
There was a movie on, based on a true story, Denise loved true stories, they made her feel