Headstone Read Online Free PDF Page B

you know, she said, ‘The
    sun danced in the sky.’”
    Like all nuns, she had that flawless skin. Why the
    cosmetic companies aren’t researching them is a
    mystery. Her eyes were clear blue, lit with a
    lovely hint of devilment. She asked,
    “What do you think of that?”
    I had no idea, said,
    “I’ve no idea.”
    She pulled out a batch of cards, asked,
    “Your name, please, for the draw?”
    “It’s Jack but honest to God, no need to put me on
    the tickets.”
    She seemed surprised so I tried,
    “I’ve never been lucky.”
    I was about to leave when she took the piece from
    round her neck and slipped it over my head, I
    began,
    “I can’t . . .”
    She said,
    “Better be blessed than lucky.”
    That moved me so.
    Go figure.
    My last encounter with a nun had resulted in
    murder. Outside, the sky was darkening and the
    deadly ice they were predicting seemed to hang,
    waiting. A guy was selling DVDs outside, I guess
    he figured even nuns watched movies.
    Newly blessed, I bought:
    Orphan,
    Traitor,
    Passengers,
    District 9,
    and I swear to God
    Sam Raimi's
    Drag Me to Hell.
    There is some mega-metaphysical irony in all the
    above but I’m fucked if I can join the dots. As I
    headed off, the guy said,
    “Cool chain dude; Medugorje rocks.”
    Bono must have played there.
    A new off-license had opened, the budget had been
    announced and . . . the price of booze was lowered
    .
    In a country devastated by alcohol, they were
    encouraging us to drink. It was state of the art
    premises and even offered loyalty cards! And
    brews you’d never see ordinarily so I stocked up
    on my favorite hard-to-get brands:
    Shiner Bock,
    Blue Moon,
    Asahi,
    Sam Adams.
    I’m an alkie, I’m hurting, I’ll drink anything, even
    aftershave, and have done so.
    Though I suggest you avoid Old Spice.
    But as Derek Raymond said, in The Crust on Its
    Uppers, I can be a beer buff.
    What this flashy new place showed, though, deep
    in recession, we were not only drinking as mad as
    ever, but with some discernible taste. I got back to
    my apartment, anticipating a blast of Blue Moon
    and twenty minutes of Johnny Duhan’s new album.
    I had a wad of cash in my jacket, new DVDs, the
    literal blessing of a good nun, and a new case.
    Laura would soon be coming from London.
    How good can it get?
    I don’t do happy.
    But I was real close then.
    Wouldn’t I just love to be the poster boy for
    Prozac, have a kickarse smile perpetually in place,
    plaster my face on those Prozac bottles, with the
    logo,
    “We Rest Our Case.”
    But my past was too littered with the wasted and
    the wounded. Ever hear Marc Roberts sing “Dust
    in the Storm”? Listen and weep.
    I’m not a total eejit, I’ll grab the moments of peace,
    fleeting though they be, when they deign to appear.
    That’s how I was feeling. Opened the door of the
    apartment, a ton of junk.
    I’d won ten million in the Nigerian Lottery, got a
    voucher for a free pizza from Papa Joe’s, an
    appeal for orphans, till I came to a small tightly
    wrapped parcel.
    In black paper.
    Uh-oh.
    Neatly printed in red Gothic lettering on the front
    was
    “Jack Taylor.”
    Not good. A gut feeling, I fingered the Medugorje
    chain round my neck. My apartment opens up to a
    large room, which has the books, TV, laptop, and
    leads to a small kitchen. Marble-top counter from
    Connemara constitutes the dining area. I placed the
    package there and pulled back from it. Opened the
    fridge, pulled out a Shiner, drained half that in jig
    time. No shite but those Texans make good beer. I
    approached the package as if it were incendiary.
    My history of such mail was
    all
    bad.
    Took a deep breath and tore it open.
    Out, onto the marble top, fell a perfect miniature
    sculpture.
    A headstone
    the size of a Bic lighter.
    I stared at it, muttering,
    “The fuck is this?”
    It was exquisitely carved, polished to a high sheen.
    Any other circumstances, I’d have admired the
    sheer artistry.
    In a state of alert, I reached for