The Dramatist Read Online Free PDF

Looked like I was selling something and not anything you’d ever need. My eyes were bright, clear. Six months clean and sober and here was the payoff. If only I could pass the message along to my soul.
    Took out my notebook, read the few details I had on Sarah Bradley: age twenty, student, final year. She lived—had lived—in Newcastle Park, No. 13. The address had surely been ill-starred. I figured this investigation would take all of ten minutes. The sun was shining and I stood at Eyre Square for a moment. The grass was packed with sunbathers. By evening, they’d be red and blistered, the whole sum of an Irish summer.
    As I passed the GBC café, I don’t know what prompted me to glance in the window. My heart did a jig. At a table was Ann Henderson, the love of my life. I’d been investigating her daughter’s suicide and fell in love. My drinking had driven her away. Was I over her? Was I fuck?
    All my instincts roared “Keep moving”. I was about to, but the set of her shoulders, the way she was seated, something was wrong. A voice in my head asking,
    “And this is your problem how?”
    Yeah, right.
    After she’d left me, she hooked up with a guard, name of Coffey. He was, in the memorable words of Superintendent Clancy,
    “A big thick yoke.”
    On the grapevine, I heard they’d recently got married. My hope had been they’d move…preferably to Albania. I had managed to avoid all word of them since.
    I pushed open the door, approached, went,
    “Ann.”
    She jumped. If not out of her skin, close to. Her head came up, and the first thing I noticed was the bruise on her left cheekbone; had seen enough to know there was only one explanation. A fist. Her eyes, way and beyond her best feature, were shadowed, haunted. Took her a minute to focus then,
    “Jack…Jack Taylor.”
    Was she glad to see me? No, the look in her eyes was misery unabated. I indicated a chair, asked,
    “Can I join you?”
    Not a difficult question, but it seemed to throw her, as if she was prepared to bolt. I sat, asked,
    “What’s wrong?”
    A waitress was approaching and Ann burst into tears. The waitress glared at me and I tried to indicate,
    “Hey, I just joined the party, don’t lay this on me.”
    I waved her off, and she had the face of someone who’s considering calling the guards. I wanted to reach out, touch Ann, but felt it would freak her further so I waited. Her shoulders convulsed as silent sobs racked her. Finally, they subsided and she reached for tissues, began to dab at her eyes, said,
    “I’m sorry.”
    Why wasn’t I one of those guys who’d have produced a brilliant white hankie and helped her dry her tears? I asked,
    “For what? You’re feeling bad; it’s not a crime.”
    Slight smile then,
    “I must look a fright.”
    To me?…never. But kept that to myself. I’d a hundred questions, went with,
    “How about some coffee, maybe a slice of Danish?…Hey, I know, they do a wicked cheesecake.”
    She looked at me then. The time, briefly, we’d been lovers, her afterglow was hot chocolate and cheesecake. Me? Just relief to lie beside her, the very beat of my heart. She said,
    “Coffee would be good. Will you excuse me while I repair my face?”
    Women can do that. Be destroyed with grief, go to the ladies’ room and return like a movie star. Guys? Well, they don’t do grief well, unless you count a six pack and Sky Sports a consolation. I signalled to the waitress. Grudgingly, she approached and I asked,
    “Two coffees?”
    She had the face of someone who’s going to knife you, growled,
    “Cream?”
    “Good thinking. Let’s shoot the works.”
    She stomped off. I figured she hadn’t read the lines of “Desiderata” recently. I planned on checking what the Sacred Heart calendar had to make of this. Better be good or it was bin time. The coffee came and, recent expert as I was, I could tell it was instant. The smell is the give-away. No wonder the glossy mags have articles on caffeine snobs.
    Ann