We passed Toners on our left-hand side and he marched across the road, the traffic coming to a halt to let him pass; when I followed in his wake a moment later, every car honked their horn at me. Pushing open the door to the pub I could hear the buzz of the crowd within and looked around for my colleagues. I was expecting three of them: Martin Horan and Stephen Kilduff, two fellow researchers who shared an office with me, and Jimmy Byrnes, an on-air reporter who thought he was one of Ireland’s biggest celebrities just because he’d appeared on a few episodes of 7 Days. When I found them seated together at a corner table, I raised a hand in greeting but my smile faded when I saw that they’d been joined by a fourth person, Nick Carlton, a cameraman who worked on Wanderly Wagon and whom I had gone to great pains to ensure heard nothing about this gathering.
“Cyril!” they shouted, and I wondered how it would look if I bolted for the door and made a run for it down Baggot Street. Bizarre, I assumed, and so I introduced Julian to each of them in turn and he took orders for a fresh round of drinks, striding over to the bar where the crowd parted like Moses before the Red Sea to let him through.
“Nick,” I said, glancing at him as I sat down. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“Well, it’s not my usual sort of establishment, I grant you,” he said, lighting a Superking and holding it in his left hand, which he held at a right angle to his arm, his elbow resting on the table before him. “But I thought I’d come out and see how the other half lives.”
The truth was, I envied Nick Carlton. He was the only homosexual I knew who not only embraced his sexuality but sang it proudly from the rooftops. But such was his good humor and his resolute lack of shame that no one seemed to mind. The other lads made jokes about him behind his back, of course, in order to emphasize their own rigid heterosexuality, but nevertheless they usually included him in their outings and seemed to have adopted him as something of a mascot.
“And I’m very glad I did now,” he continued, glancing toward Julian, who was returning with a tray of pints. “Nobody said you were bringing Ryan O’Neal with you.”
“Ryan O’Neal was on The Late Late Show a few weeks back,” said Jimmy. “I’m surprised you didn’t come down and stake out his dressing room, Nick.”
“I was under strict instructions from the powers that be to leave him in peace,” said Nick. “Spoilsports. Anyway, it was Miss O’Mahoney’s birthday that night and she’d never have forgiven me if I hadn’t shown up.”
The lads guffawed and I laid into my Guinness, downing about a third of it in one go.
“Have I seen you on 7 Days?” Julian asked Jimmy, who beamed with delight at being recognized. “It’s all showbiz here, I’d say, is it? You must get to see all the stars out at RTé.”
“I’ve met Princess Grace of Monaco,” said Stephen.
“I’ve met Tommy Docherty,” said Martin.
“Occasionally, I write the script for Mr. Crow,” said Nick.
Perhaps it was his clothes, or the way he talked, or the way he looked. Perhaps it was the aura of sex that always emanated from him, as if he’d just risen from the bed of a model and left the house without even bothering to take a shower. Whatever it was, men, women, straight or gay, everyone wanted Julian to like them.
“Mr. Crow,” said Julian, considering this for a moment. “He’s the lad that pops out of the clock on Wanderly Wagon, is that right?”
“Yes,” said Nick, flushing a little in glory.
“Get out of town!”
“That’s my line,” I said irritably, to no avail.
“Why, do you watch it?” asked Nick, ignoring me.
“I’ve seen it.”
“It’s a kids’ show,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s mad stuff. Are you all on drugs when you’re making it or what?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment,” said Nick, winking at him. “But let’s just say it’s always a good idea to knock before entering anyone’s dressing room.”
“What is it you do yourself, Julian?” asked Stephen, offering him a cigarette, which he refused. Julian didn’t smoke. He had a phobia about it and always told girls that they would have to quit if they wanted a relationship with him.
“I don’t do very much at all, to be honest,” he said. “My old man’s ridiculously rich and he gives me a monthly allowance, so I just go off and do a bit of traveling. Once in a while I write an article for Travel & Leisure or Holiday. Last year I visited Mauritius with Princess Margaret and No?l Coward and wrote a piece about the wildlife there.”
“Did you fuck her?” asked Nick casually.
“I did, yes,” replied Julian, as if it was neither here nor there. “Only once but, trust me, once was enough. I’m not keen on being ordered around.”
“Did you fuck him?”
“No, but he was polite enough to ask. She didn’t. She just seemed to assume that’s what I was there for.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Jimmy, utterly enthralled.
“That must be why you have such a good color,” said Nick. “All that time spent on private islands populated by Old Money whores and nouveau riche chi-chi men. Any chance you’d take me with you next time?”
Julian burst out laughing and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he said. “There’s always room in my suitcase for a little one.”
“Who says I’m a little one?” asked Nick, faking offense.
“Get me drunk enough and maybe I’ll find out,” said Julian, and the whole table, with the exception of me, exploded in laughter.
“I don’t want to point out the obvious,” said Nick when the merriment died down. “But are you aware that you’re missing an ear?”
“I am,” said Julian. “And look.” He held up his right hand to display the four fingers that remained there. “I’m down a thumb too. And the little toe from my left foot.”
“I remember when you were kidnapped,” said Martin, for I had told them all before about the most famous incident of Julian’s (and my own) life so far. “We had bets in class on which body part would arrive in the post next.”
“And let me guess,” said Julian. “You all hoped it would be my dick.”
“Yeah,” said Martin with a shrug. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK. Everyone wanted that. Fortunately, it’s still where it should be.”
“Prove it,” said Nick, which made Stephen spit a mouthful of Guinness across the table, narrowly missing me.
“Sorry,” he said, grabbing a napkin to clean up the mess.
“Actually, they said they were going to pop an eye out next,” said Julian. “But I was found before that could happen. I asked Damien last year whether he thought they would have gone through with it and he said they would.”
“Who’s Damien?” I asked, having not heard him mention any friend by this name before.
“One of the kidnappers,” he replied. “Do you remember the guy who threw me in the boot of the car? Him.”
We were all silent for a few moments and I stared at him in bewilderment. “Wait a minute,” I said finally. “Are you telling me that you’ve been in touch with one of those IRA guys?”
“Yes,” he said with a shrug. “Did you not know that? We’ve been pen pals for quite a while now. I go in to visit him in jail occasionally too.”
“But why?” I asked, raising my voice. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, it was a very intense experience,” he said casually. “I spent a week living with those guys under very trying circumstances. And you must remember that they weren’t very much older than we were back then. They were almost as frightened as I was. Their overlords, or whatever you call them, had tasked them with kidnapping me and they wanted to do it right. To get promoted up the ranks, so to speak. Actually, we got along quite well most of the time.”