The Guards Read Online Free PDF Page A

Agnes of God”
    Then she saw my nose, my fingers in the cast, raised her eyebrows. I told her. She said,
    “Wow, like cool.”
    “What?”
    “Think they’ll come after me?”
    “There isn’t a ‘they’ … it’s coincidence.”
    “Yeah … sure.”
    The bell rang. Cathy asked,
    “How will I know what to do?”
    “Do what I do.”
    “That’s bound to get us slung out.”
    Inside, the tiny church was warm and welcoming. Cathy grabbed a hymn sheet, squeaked,
    “There’s singing.”
    “Not for you.”
    But it was.
    The congregation joined in the song performance. Cathy loudest of all. A nun came up after to congratulate her, asked,
    “Would you like to sing some Sunday?”
    I hopped in.
    “She’s not one of us.”
    Cathy and the nun gave me a look of withering contempt. I slunk outside.
    Fr Malachy had arrived. No sooner off his bicycle than he lit a cigarette. I said,
    “You’re late.”
    He smiled, answered,
    “But for what?”
    Malachy was like Sean Connery, minus
    The tan
    The golf.
    You couldn’t call him a friend. Priests have other loyalties. I knew him since I was a child. He took in my injuries, said,
    “You’re still drinking.”
    “This was unrelated.”
    He took out his cigarettes. Major. The green and white packet. As strong as a mule kick and twice as lethal. I said,
    “You’re still smoking.”
    “Me and Bette Davis.”
    “She’s dead.”
    “My point exactly.”
    He watched two nuns and said,
    “Great shiners.”
    “What.”
    “Polishing. No one can touch them for it.”
    I looked round then asked,
    “Where’s the Church on suicide these days?”
    “Leaving us, are yah?”
    “I’m serious. Is it still the ‘can’t be buried in hallowed ground’ stance?”
    “Ah, you’re very out of touch, Jack.”
    “That’s an answer?”
    “No, that’s a sad fact.”

FACTS
    Cathy B. and I were literally “eating out”. At the Spanish Arch, with Chinese takeaway, watching the water. She said, “I have my report.”
    “Let’s finish the grub first.”
    “Sure.”
    I threw some chow mein to the swans. They didn’t appear to like it much. A wino approached, asked,
    “Gis a fiver.”
    “I’ll give you a quid.”
    “Long as it’s not a Euro.”
    He eyed the food and I offered him mine. With great reluctance he took it, asked,
    “Is it foreign?”
    “Chinese.”
    “I’ll be hungry again in an hour.”
    “But you have the quid.”
    “And my health.”
    He ambled off to annoy some Germans. They took his photo. Cathy said,
    “Before my report, can I tell you a story?”
    “I can do stories.”
    She launched.
    “My dad was a second-rate accountant. You know the old joke … ‘How can you tell an extrovert accountant? He looks at your shoes.’ Anyway, he worked without promotion till he was fifty. My mother nagged him ferociously. What I remember most is he had ten suits. All identical and the object of my mother’s wrath. She was, to quote the Irish, ‘a holy terror’.
    “He always treated me with kindness and generosity. When I was nine, he lost his job due to drink. My mother ordered him out. He took his ten suits and went to live under Waterloo Station. In the tunnels there, he’d put on a fresh suit, and when it was dirty, he threw it away. At his last one, he stepped under the 9.05 from Southampton.
    “The express.”
    “I hated him ‘cause my mother did. Then, when I understood who she was, I began to comprehend him. I once read that Hemingway’s mother sent him the gun which his father used to kill himself. My mother would never have gone in for studied viciousness. After her death, I had to clear out her things. I found a train timetable for arrivals at Waterloo. Perhaps she thought he’d finally come up to speed.”
    She was crying, the tears rolling down her face and hitting the curried noodles with a soft plink, like rain off a sheet of glass. I opened our lone bottle of wine, handed it over. She waved it away, said,
    “I’m okay Are you still