I had a whole six months of sessions with Simon Moriarty before the medical discharge finally came through after my second tour. Twice a week I took a bus to his Dalkey practice and waved a cup of coffee under his nose until he rolled out of bed.
‘Come on, Sergeant,’ Moriarty said to me one day, with a grin that told me he knew a whole lot more about the world than I did. ‘Make it difficult for me. This is too easy, textbook stuff.’
I was lying on an oxblood leather sofa, feeling about as comfortable as a cat in the doghouse. Usually Simon lay on the sofa, but this was our last session and he was taking me to task.
‘I’m an open book, huh?’
‘A pane of glass, Sergeant. Trans-parent.’
‘Let me in on the secret, Doc. What’s my problem?’
Simon lit a thin cigar. ‘With Irish and Jews usually it’s the mother; with you it’s daddy dearest.’
I sat up, gave him a serious look. ‘Are you trying to tell me that having an abusive father leads to problems in later life? You must be some kind of genius.’
‘Hilarious, Sergeant. Hiding behind humour. Good tactic. How’s that been working out for you?’
Simon could be a pain in the arse, but he generally hit the nail on the head.
I lay down. ‘Not so good. Listen, Doc, everyone’s got problems, issues, whatever. You just get on with it, try to stay as calm as possible.’
Moriarty flicked ash from the front of his Ramones T-shirt. ‘That’s what we’re here to as-certain, Daniel. Can you stay calm? We can’t go releasing a trained murder machine into the big city if he can’t keep his talents to himself.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve seen enough bloodshed.’
‘You have plans?’
‘I’m free on Tuesday and I know a nice bar.’
More ash-flicking. ‘Life plans, smartarse. With your tendencies, you need to be careful what kind of situations you put yourself in.’
‘Tendencies? You make me sound like a pervert.’
‘Here’s my theory, Daniel. You had a violent father who beat up on your mother, yourself and your baby brother, got the entire family, except you, killed drunk driving. So now you feel like you have to protect the defenceless. That’s why you joined up. Not to kill, to pro-tect. The problem is that you also have difficulties with authority, father figures. So, you felt compelled to join the army, and you also felt com-pelled to clock your superiors. Do you see the conflict?’
I felt I had to defend myself. ‘My superior officer left three of his own men pinned down between Israeli troops and the militia and he refused to order any covering fire. Some people need to be clocked.’
Simon pretended to write something. ‘There are protocols for these things, Dan.’
‘I know. Fired upon twice, blah-blah-blah.’
‘So you broke protocol and once again drew fire on your own twenty by deciding to ignore the chain of command and providing some covering fire of your own.’
‘Twenty? That’s CB, not military.’
‘I’m reaching out; cut me some slack. So you break protocol, this time getting half a mortar shell up yer hole.’
‘It was a whole shell.’
Simon frowned. ‘A shell made specifically for holes?’
‘Whole with a silent w.’
‘Oh, I see. But my point stands: you felt compelled to protect.’
‘Com-pelled to pro-tect. Got it. Where were you when I was signing up?’
‘Also you have the gambling addiction.’
This was a new one. ‘Addiction? Come on. Who told you that? I like a hand of poker, it’s true, but no more than the next man. It’s hardly a problem.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ Simon admitted. ‘I grow weary of this analysis, plus I like a game of poker myself.’
‘I don’t think you’re a man to be bluffed.’
Simon closed his notebook with a snap. ‘All in all, I think the medical discharge is the best thing for you.’
‘Medical discharge? Sounds disgusting.’
‘Find yourself a nice conflict-free position,’ continued Moriarty, ignoring my attempt to hide behind humour. ‘Somewhere you don’t have to protect anyone.’
I can’t help it. ‘Don’t you mean pro-tect?’
Simon ha-ha’ed drily. ‘Very good. Wisecracks, the fast track to mental health. Seriously, Dan, find yourself a stress-free position. No cards, no boss and no one depending on you for their well-being.’
So now I’m a doorman at a casino. But it’s not my fault; I’m com-pelled.
The town is busy tonight, but I don’t feel connected. It’s like I’m watching everything through a dirty window. The world I’ve been holding together with spit and dreams is finally coming apart. The cops toss us out on the street like we’re trespassers and tell us to get lost. There won’t be any rickety roulette or polka-dot bikinis tonight.
Connie is dead, Zeb is missing. I killed a person with a key, for Christ’s sake.
I know that really the key part of it is not important, but there seems to be some kind of irony in it.
Instead of locking the door, I opened Barrett’s doorway to the next life.
Forced. Laboured.
There is no key to life, just a key to death.
Better, but I won’t be writing slim volumes of poetry any time soon.
I feel sick deep in my stomach and there’s bile in my throat. Bile and tequila. I stop and spit in the drain, and as I hawk it up, bent over with my hand on a pole, I see a glint of streetlight on a gum wrapper and remember something.
Macey Barrett’s stiletto spinning
like a cheerleader’s baton, burying itself in the ceiling.
The stiletto. It’s still there.
Shit.
Shit. Shite and bollocks.
What can I do about it? What should I do?
I straighten slowly, like a very old man, and actually admonish myself aloud.
‘Okay, Daniel. Think about this calmly.’
In the third person now? Christ, things are bad.
Unfortunately my calm thinking space is out of service at the moment. I try to swat aside the waves of grief and tequila fumes, but my brain is fogged and buzzing.
It should be fine.
So the stiletto is up there; it shouldn’t lead back to me unless there’s a spy-cam in the handle.
The way my luck’s been going . . .
I chuckle and spit one last time to restore my manhood after all those thoughts of irony.
Think this thing through.
Going back to the surgery would be a big mistake. Irish Mike could be keeping an eye on the place, and showing up would only put me on his radar.
What about Zeb?
I want to think something positive, I would kill for some kind of bright shining answer, but there’s nothing coming out of my brain but fog and sadness.
Connie, darlin’.
Zeb is dead.
Call him and find out. It’s a thought.
I block the ID on Barrett’s Prada cell and punch in Zeb’s number.
Couple of rings, then a man answers.
‘Yeah?’
Not Zeb. I can tell from a single syllable. Zeb’s got this asthma voice, all in the nose.
‘Dr Kronski?’ I ask, like it’s a professional call.
‘Who’s speaking?’ says the man.
‘You are,’ I say, and hang up. I should probably have invented some medical yarn and promised to call back later, but I can’t be bothered.
They’re answering his calls too. Whatever Macey Barrett was looking for, they haven’t found it yet, otherwise Zeb’s phone would be at the bottom of the reservoir, along with his body.
I shouldn’t have called. I don’t want any of this information; it’s funnelling me towards a choice.
There’s a dawn glow cupping the clouds by the time I get home. I feel like crap and probably look like week-old crap. The last thing I need is my upstairs neighbour Mrs Delano going off on an abuse bender, not to mention the fact that Mike Madden could have cottoned on to my being a fly in his ointment by now.