Priest (24 page)

‘Piety is different from superstition.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
255

 

 

 

The man had lured the nun with the promise of money for the Church. He strangled her in the car – it didn't take long, she seemed to almost accept it with resignation, no struggle, as if it was the penance she'd been waiting for.

He muttered,

‘You had to mention my sister, didn't you? You crowd, you think you can destroy anyone you like.'

In the early hours of the morning, he'd taken her body to Spanish Arch. It was quiet then, nobody around, all the action across the water in Quay Street. Only the swans paid attention, as if he'd come to feed them. In a way he had.

He let her slide into the water and four swans swam over to investigate. He watched for a moment as she slipped beneath the water, a swan dipping its beak with short furious movements at the nun's habit.

Then he turned quickly, got in his car, headed out of the city.

There was a granite wall past Spiddal, built in penal times and still as solid as hatred. He accelerated as he approached,
not seeing the wall but a grand city, his city, perhaps a bronze statue by John Behan commemorating the man who'd brought it about,
a veritable emperor, who'd given his life for it,
the shining light in the darkness of Europe. He screamed,

‘The Emperor of Ice Cream.'

The car hit the wall at over a hundred miles an hour, the impact waking people from miles around.

 

I riffled through the books Vinny had given me. It was a long time before I'd examined the full range of titles Vinny had provided, and nigh lost among the mysteries was this: Blake Morrison's
And When Did You Last See Your Father?

I selected some poetry and tried to read, but what poet, what lines? I can't recall. I do remember believing I'd found the answer to anxiety. Gave the credit to literature and didn't acknowledge the dual longing in my heart for a child and yes, whisper it . . . Ridge. Still having dreams of her. I thought those dreams were the reason I was feeling feverish, worn out, wheezy. Got some Night Nurse, the pharmacist cautioning,

‘Don't mix alcohol with that.'

Oh gee, really?

Doesn't get any more Irish than that.

I caught a bad bout of flu. I'm not saying it was connected to reading poetry, but books are dangerous, ask any redneck.

I'd no idea where my investigation had been going to take me, save the docks. I went into a sort of emotional meltdown, as if I was behind glass. Nothing really
registering, like I was a spectator at events that were unfolding and I was powerless to prevent.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Once I heard a woman in Claddagh roar,

‘Can I just have one lousy blessing that's not in disguise?'

What saved me from total fade was Cody. He arrived at my apartment, waving tickets.

‘I've got us the stand for the match.'

The match.

The much-heralded hurling game. I didn't want to go, but Cody said,

‘I'm ashamed to admit it, but I don't know much about hurling. Will you explain it?'

So I went, and had a great day.

Great days and me are not often in the same sentence, much less the same neighbourhood. The day was one of those gorgeous crisp fresh ones, the type of day when you think that everything is going to be OK, not wonderful but in the zone. The match was a cracker. We roared like mad fellas, bought scarves and wore them with pride, had a fryup in the Galleon, one of the last real cafes in the country.

When I was heading home, Cody saying he'd had a brilliant day, that it was
gifted, mighty,
I very nearly gave him a hug. I realized the fog had lifted. The psychic shutters that had been blinding me were up and light was streaming in.

What I remember about that day is seeing fathers with their sons at the game and feeling part of that. It was, I hate to say it, downright intoxicating.

Back at my apartment, I met removal men and then the
tenant who busted my balls. He tried to duck me. I asked,

‘What's happening, bro?'

The
bro
was purely the bad drop in me. He tried to stand with his shoulders erect, but his face betrayed him, a blend of fear and trepidation. He said,

‘I'm moving.'

So I went for it.

‘Why?'

He nearly rose to indignation but flunked it, said,

‘This neighbourhood is no longer what it was.'

I offered to take the box he was carrying but he held it like a rosary at a wake. Near hysterical, he shouted,

‘I don't think your help is what I need.'

I smiled, kept moving, added,

‘Drop a card when you land.'

He stared at me and I said,

‘Gonna miss you, bro. Party animals are hard to find.'

Gave myself a new assignment: find Jeff, and maybe see if I could work up the courage to approach Cathy. It would occupy my mind. Then I rang Ridge and persuaded her to meet me for a coffee.

We met in Java's, neutral territory. I was amazed at how well she looked, dressed in a navy tracksuit, her eyes and hair shining. I said,

‘Dia go glor
(God be praised) . . . you look great.'

She smiled, said,

‘I met someone.'

She was delighted I was using Irish, her language of birth. She inspected me – when an Irish woman does that, you are thoroughly scanned – went,

‘You're sober.'

‘Today, anyway.'

I was going to add the rider,
One more attempt, one more failure,
but it had a whine to it. We actually had a civilized chat, then she confessed,

‘I never thought I'd hook up with anyone again.'

I was glad, genuinely so. Her hard edges were almost smooth. She leaned forward, said,

‘I did some checking on the . . . stalker . . . He was once picked up for possession of a high-powered rifle, but the case got thrown out.'

I shrugged, said,

‘He's gone. He got a serious wake-up call. The likes of him, they find a rock to hide under.'

She wasn't entirely convinced, said in Irish,

‘Bhi curamach
(be careful).'

Outside, we stood, surprised by the near intimacy we'd achieved. A cold wind was building. She commented,

‘Winter's coming.'

I said,

‘No biggie.'

And she laughed. Then we almost hugged. I said,

‘Be seeing you, Ni Iomaire.'

She nodded, said,

‘That'd be good.'

I kept going, picking up the pace, leaving her behind. The eerie bit, in my head was a priest I once heard in Christchurch singing the Exsultet . . . and a woman behind me going,

‘Jaysus, that's only lovely.'

*   *   *

The next few days, I stayed home, unplugged the phone, didn't watch the news or listen to the radio. I just wanted time to rest, try and get some energy back. Got deep into reading. David Goodis, of course. Among the batch I got from Vinny was Eugene Izzi, his
Invasions
crammed between
Dark Passage
and
Cassidy's Girl.

If ever a noir writer died a noir death, it was him. In Chicago, he was found dangling from the window of a fourteen-storey office block, wearing a bullet-proof vest. In his pockets were

Brass knuckles

Tear gas

Threatening letters from a militia group.

The doors to his apartment were locked and a loaded gun lay beside his desk. Almost like a cosy English novel, but there the resemblance ended.

I could identify with the paranoia.

In my hand was the tiny silver swan.

A Tuesday morning, the feast of St Anthony, a knock at my door. I considered ignoring it, but if it was Ridge . . . well hell, I got up, opened the door. A guy, seriously winded, holding a parcel, wheezed,

‘Man, this sucker is heavy . . . And them stairs?'

He paused, asked,

‘You Jack Taylor?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thank Christ. I'd hate to have to lug this another yard.'

He handed the parcel to me and he was right, it had weight. I put it down and he produced a form, asked,

‘Sign here.'

I did.

He mopped his brow and I offered him a drink, looking for my wallet to tip. He shrugged it off, said,

‘Naw, I'd be pissing for a week.'

Which was a little more than I needed to know. He wouldn't take the tip either, said,

‘Give it to the Poor Clares.'

I was going to tell him they'd a website but he was already wheezing away. I closed the door, put the parcel on the table, got a knife, tore the packing away, stood back.

John Behan's bronze bull.

Took me a moment before I saw the white card under the bull's feet. Picked it up. The lettering was in gothic script, read,

NUN
BUT
THE BRAVE.

‘Men are so inevitably mad
that not to be mad would be to give
a mad twist to madness.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
414

 

 

 

Malachy had come to my apartment, and to say I was stunned is putting it mildly. He said,

‘I heard you had a new place so I brought a St Bridget's Cross to keep the home safe.'

I offered him tea and he snapped,

‘Tea, you call that hospitality? Didn't you ever hear of whetting a man's whistle?'

I glared at him, said,

‘There is no booze here.'

He lit up a cig, didn't ask if it was OK, despite me still on the patches. Then his eyes locked on the tiny silver swan nestling on the bookcase. He went,

‘How on earth did you get that?'

I was confused, asked,

‘What . . . why?'

He'd gone pale, no mean feat when you have red ruddy cheeks, said,

‘In Father Joyce's hand, when they found his body, that . . . yoke . . . was clutched there.'

The room spun as the implications dawned. There had
only been two, both owned by Kate. I had to sit down, take a deep breath, then asked,

‘The nun, Sister Mary Joseph, is she all right?'

He was angry, said,

‘Ya eejit, she was found drowned. Must have fallen in when she was feeding the swans.'

I went for broke, asked,

‘Michael Clare?'

‘Him . . .'

His tone full of bile, he said,

‘Crashed his car into a brick wall. Good riddance.'

And in an instant, it was clear. Michael Clare did for the nun, but Kate . . . Kate did for Father Joyce. She had the strength, and leaving the swan behind – a form of poetic justice? Her version of admission – not to the world, but to Michael. Or maybe she had been careless. You sever a person's head off, clear thinking is not going to be your strong suit.

I said,

‘I'd like you to go now.'

‘What? I just got here. Don't you want me to bless the rooms?'

I stood up, said,

‘Shove your blessing.'

He considered squaring up, but said,

‘You just don't have it in you to be civil, do you?'

Evelyn Waugh once said,

‘You don't know how much nastier I would be if I hadn't become a Catholic'

What I went with was Orwell's line,

‘One cannot really be a Catholic and grown up.'

*   *   *

Nobody gets shot in Galway, I mean it just doesn't happen. Least not yet. We are supposedly getting Starbucks soon, so anything is possible, but gunplay, no. Give it a year and who knows?

We're not too far from the border and of course, theoretically, you could imagine on a clear fine night you can hear the sound.

But that's fanciful, and whatever else, we don't do a lot of wishful thinking. Knowing Kate went hunting pheasant, that the stalker had been arrested once for possession of a high-powered rifle, or that Cathy was mouthing off in the pubs about killing me didn't make me pause or check rooftops. I was so glad to be sober, to be out and not even smoking, guns were not on my agenda.

I wasn't unfamiliar with them but I was certainly not in the region where guns are expected.

Ridge had recently blessed me with,

‘Bhi curamach.'

Means ‘be careful' . . . I wish I'd listened to her.

I was out for an early-morning walk, early being ten thirty, working the limp out of my leg. Had strolled through the town and got a notion to see the ocean. Checked my watch and knew a bus was due to leave in the next ten minutes. I reached the top of Eyre Square when from nowhere Cody appeared, fell into step beside me on my left side, said, glancing at the leather jacket,

‘You're the boss.'

I smiled and he added,

‘I have a great idea for us.'

I never got to hear it.

 

I was thinking of my father, a time when my mother had been up to her usual shenanigans, causing havoc over the rent or some related issue. My father had whispered to me,

‘She means well.'

Never ceases to amaze me how we excuse the most despicable behaviour with that lie, and I have never believed for one friggin' second that the mean-spirited
mean well.
But they do rely heavily on us excusing them and thus they have a mandate to continue their cycle of disguised malevolence. Cody, assuming I wasn't paying attention, moved to my right side, blocking the sun.

I heard a crack, like the proverbial car backfiring.

Someone screamed,

‘Jesus, there's a sniper . . .'

The very spot I'd been in, where Cody now stood, that's where the bullet hit. Took him in the chest. A second shot, tearing a hole an inch further up, and I remembered Cathy, her words,

‘Can't seem to get that head shot, my aim is low.'

How fitting, I thought, that I was in Kennedy Park. A man was shouting,

‘Call an ambulance!'

Blood splatters were strewn on my shiny jacket.