American Skin

Tommy was gone for nine months. I got intermittent calls that told me little, save he was wired, I asked if I could come see him but no way. Whenever I tried to probe, he’d cut the connection. A guy I knew had set up a music shop, a small operation but he needed assistance. I wasn’t doing a whole lot, so said I’d help out. Began with two days a week then got interested and ended up doing six, getting a real buzz. I was seeing Siobhan regularly and we were comfortable, easy round each other. My life settled into a routine that was the signal for me to glance towards the abyss.

Tommy returned, bringing if not hell with him, then certainly its embodiment.

Stapleton.

I was at home, seven in the evening, watching The Simpsons, Siobhan asked,

“Why do guys love Homer?”

You need to ask?

The phone went, I picked up, heard,

“I’m back.”

“Tommy! That’s great, come round, we’ll—”

“I’m not alone.”

I immediately jumped to a conclusion, the wrong one, went,

“Great, bring her round.”

A pause, and I had to go,

“Tommy, you still there?”

“It’s not a woman, it’s a... a guy, a fellah I’ve been working with.”

His tone was flat and I knew there was something amiss, said,

“Well, okay, we can do men, Siobhan and I will come meet you guys, where you at?”

“Garavan’s.”

One of the great old unchanged pubs.

“Right, say half an hour.”

“Steve...”

“Yeah?”

“Come alone.”

Click.

I relayed the conversation to Siobhan and she said,

“That’s odd.”

Which turned out to be some understatement. I put on a leather jacket I’d bought in New York, in the East Village. It looked beat up, shit it was beat up, leather fraying on the collar. Seemed appropriate. I kissed Siobhan, like I meant it, said,

“I won’t be late.”

She fixed the collar, licked her hand, patted down my hair, said,

“I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

“It’ll be fine.”

I was wrong.

They were in the snug. Garavan’s is one of the very few establishments that hasn’t moved on, time has stood still, thank Christ. Among its many blessings no muzak is one of the top. Tommy looked shagged, he’d grown his hair, it looked lank and, yeah, dirty. His weight had gone way down and his cheekbones bulged against the skin. He was wearing a combat jacket, the pockets overflowing. Pints of Guinness, shorts, lined the table. You’d have thought party save for the atmosphere. Heavy and lethal.

The man beside Tommy was also in a combat jacket. Older, in his fifties, with a shaved head. The light bounced off it, sending dark illumination. Sallow skin with deep ridges down his cheeks. Lots of lines round the eyes but you’d never call them laughter lines. A nose that’d been broken more than once, and oddly, a full sensual mouth. A livid scar across his forehead.

He had brown eyes with the oddest aspect, as if he were sleepy, one beat from closing down. They carried no message at all and that was worrying. Tommy said,

“Steve.”

I waited, expecting him to stand, get a hug. Wasn’t happening. He added without looking at him,

“This is Stapleton.”

I put out my hand and it hung there, no one rushed to hold it, I let it fall to my side, Tommy said,

“We got you a pint.”

Then the worst, he giggled. Not a suppressed laughter or god forbid, even what writers call a chuckle, no, a fucking giggle. Like some ten-year-old schoolgirl and said,

“Fuck, we got you lots of pints.”

I said,

“Hey, maybe the timing’s off, I’ll hook up with you tomorrow.”

Stapleton said,

“Don’t be a bollocks, sit down.”

An order.

I looked at him, he seemed to be enjoying a private joke, so I asked,

“Was I talking to you?”

Tommy let out a deep breath, went,

“Whoops, it’s not going well.”

Stapleton stared at me, no discernible change in his eyes, said,

“You’re the guy took the king’s shilling.”

There it was.

Hundreds of years of history in one line. The insult used to describe a turncoat, an Irishman who enlisted in the British army. All the very worst of our past was contained there, informers, traitors, betrayal.