Born & Bred (12 page)

**

The Bishop’s secretary had smiled her knowing smile. “Good morning Father Reilly. Are you well? Have a seat and himself will be with you in no time. Can I get you a cup of tea in the meantime?”

He was getting the wait, the Bishop’s way of signalling his displeasure, but he wasn’t surprised. Fr. Brennan had been fielding calls for a few weeks. The parishioners were outraged and it was only a matter of time before the higher powers became involved. “Not at all Mrs. Mawhinney, I’m grand. Is he very busy?”

“He’s been on the phone to the Diocese all morning and,” she paused to smile at the errant young curate, “he’s in a right old mood.”

“You know, Patrick,” the Bishop began when he finally saw him. “The Irish are a very particular race of people. They have stood by the Church through the years of persecution, risking their very lives to hear Mass and take the Sacraments.

“And they have given their children to the missions to spread the word of God into every dark corner of the world. They’ve a particular passion for the downtrodden and the exploited and the Church needs as much of that as it can get.” He sipped his coffee and searched his nephew’s face for some indication that he was getting the message. “But they’re also a fiery people—the savagery of their Celtic ancestry is never far below the surface. And sometimes, when they’re outraged, they need to blow off a little steam. It’s at times like these that a good priest knows when to listen and when to talk. They’re very angry right now and we both know that they’ve every right to be. Am I right?”

“You are indeed, Your Grace.”

The Bishop noted his stilted formality.
Damn the boy for his hard head.
“Then why, in the name of God, did you have to take it upon yourself to berate them, now of all times?”

“I was just hoping to remind them of the true message of Christ.”

The Bishop’s eye bulged a little and his cheeks reddened but his voice remained calm and low, like he was coaxing a skittish foal. “The true message of Christ, you say? For the love of God man, don’t you remember what they did to Him?”

He regretted it the moment he said it. His nephew was starry-eyed enough without putting thoughts of martyrdom into his head. And it’d look so bad in the newspapers if his parishioners crucified him. It’d be better for all concerned if any killing of his holy spirit was done quietly, behind closed doors.

“So?” he asked in the most superior tone he could manage. “How’s it that you’re so certain what the true message was when the Pope and all of the cardinals sit up late at night trying to understand it?”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect with my comments. I was just hoping to remind them of the comfort the Sacred Heart of Christ offers to those in trial.”

It sounded like sass but the Bishop couldn’t be sure. His nephew’s face was in earnest.

“Patrick, matters of Church and State have a way of making simple things complex. The people of Ireland are at a crossroads and may choose to go on without us. Times are changing and with all this talk about civil rights, the old ways are in danger of being washed away—the good and the bad. The Diocese is most anxious that we do nothing that might tip the scales even if it means relaxing the reins a bit and letting them blow off their steam. Most of them will spend their rage getting a few pints into them and singing rebel songs. And so what if they burn down the British Embassy? It can be rebuilt, but our relationship with the people might not. Let them have their rage and we’ll rein them back when the time is right.”

“But what about the people that were killed in Aldershot?”

“Ah! We can only assume that God took them for his own purpose. Why else would he allow a priest to die?”

“But, Your Grace, the Provos are talking about bombing the Brits out.”

The Bishop paused to think. The Provisional IRA were young and hard and full of bile. And they had split from the “Officials” who had put aside the gun to unite the working men. He had seen their likes before—earnest, and driven by their cause; the most dangerous types of individuals. The types that could actually cause things to change. Church and State had worked hard to discredit them and turn the flock away from them. It would be a problem for a while, but in time, when their thirst for vengeance was slaked, they could be brought back in line. And a few dead Protestants was regrettable but better than dead Catholics.

Not that the other side wouldn’t strike back, too. The Church would just have to sit back and offer comfort where it could. There was no point in trying to talk peace to any of them right now—they were deafened by their rage.

“My advice to you, Father, is to pray to God for the wisdom and guidance so that you can be a comfort to the people instead.”

“Very well, Your Grace, I will.”

“And you’ll apologize, too, next Sunday. Or you’ll be off to Timbuktu in the morning. Now get off with you so I can get a bit of lunch into me.”

***

In time the parishioners accepted his apology, but Fr. Reilly never felt he re-won their trust. They tolerated him because of his collar but they put little stock in what he had to say. It was, he consoled himself, the cost of telling the absolute truth, something that he had become somewhat selective about since. He hadn’t started to lie, he just became more selective in how much of the truth he revealed. It was too bright a light to be flashing in the eyes of those who were living in darkness.

It had taken some cajoling but Danny finally agreed to meet him. They walked through the grounds of Rathfarnham Castle, away from prying eyes, and where the casuistry of the Jesuits might help in getting through to Danny. He could talk to the Garda voluntarily, or they would come and get him.

“But I keep telling you, Father, I don’t know anything about it.”

Danny seemed to be getting nervous and Fr. Reilly didn’t want to lose him. His good nature told him to believe the boy but he couldn’t trust that judgement. He wasn’t seasoned enough yet for these situations. But he had to be. He just had to apply his craft the way they had taught him after he left the seminary. Fr. Brennan always said that it was like trout fishing: getting someone to open up enough to share the burdens that God had put there for His own reasons.

That was another thing he didn’t understand. Why was this to be Danny’s lot? There was no logic behind it. Danny, God love him, had suffered enough. What more could God want from the boy?

“Well, that may be as well be, but the fact is the Garda still want to talk with you. They seem to think you have some information that might be helpful in finding who murdered Declan Scully.”

He thought Danny might have winced for a second but he had his head down as they walked the stone drive; the crunching of the stones in rhythm with the song of birds, the only noises of the world outside.

This was his Chuck O’Malley moment. This was when his worth as a priest was to be really measured. This was what Christ had called him to do—to save the soul of Danny Boyle.
Who had a grandmother in Heaven and
, he almost smiled as he thought it,
she probably had a hold of God’s ear by now—or at least someone that had
.
It was probably St. Jude
, Patrick Reilly decided. Jude was always his favorite; lost cause that he was.

“I’m not going to grass on anyone, Father.”

“Of course not, Danny. Nobody’s asking you to do that. All I’m telling you is that either you go to see them or they will come and see you.”

“Then I’m fucked—just like Scully.”

Patrick Reilly ignored the profanity in deference to the importance of the moment—when the sinner comes to the realization that a life without God would end down in Hell. He had to choose his next words carefully. He had to let Danny know that he understood the enormity of it all and that he wasn’t shocked or disapproving. He wasn’t there as a judge but as an advocate: Danny’s advocate before the courts of God, and man.

“Yes, Danny. It’s very serious. There is no point in trying to soften the truth. Declan Scully gave them your name and you have now become what they call a person of interest. You’re in very serious trouble, but you still have God to turn to.”

“Him? The same God that let my granny lock my mother up in the loony bin? I’d rather stick with my mates. At least I can trust them.”

“Danny, they didn’t do so well by Declan Scully. You know you can’t trust them.”

“Then what? Go to cops and grass? And spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder?”

“Danny. We could do a deal with them. If you’re willing to cooperate with them . . . then I’m sure we can ask them to protect you properly. I have even taken the matter up with the Bishop. He’s always been a great friend to your family.”

The Bishop would help—after he had berated Patrick for a while, but he would help. He had promised Nora Boyle that he would. Fr. Brennan would grumble, too, but he was getting old and would forget about it when the next outrage reached his ears.

Danny seemed to be considering it, even if he still professed denial. “I used to take the stuff; I won’t deny that. And I got a bit hooked—and the last time I got some from Scully, I never got around to paying for it. That’s why he grassed on me. I don’t know any more than that.”

He claimed that he had heard that that’s how things went; when a dealer got lifted he’d just give out all the names of the guys he dealt with. They never named anybody above—just the little guys below.

Fr. Reilly let it go in one ear and out the other. He wasn’t dismissing it, he just didn’t want to get distracted. Danny would say anything; addicts were like that. He had read up on them and the ways that were used to help them. And he read up on the impact all the years of violence must be having on their minds, too. He was going to be ready on all counts. But he’d need the Bishop and all the influence he had. It was waning but it was still potent enough to shade the thinking of policemen and judges alike. His uncle had friends who would listen to the truth about Danny Boyle. He wouldn’t be left to the mercy of the way things were done—like Declan Scully. No. Patrick Reilly would not fail Danny Boyle in this, his hour of need.

“I’ll go if you’ll come with me,” Danny finally agreed as the sun broke through again and showered them with light.

“Are you sure?”

“What fuckin’ choice do I have?”

*

“I have every reason to believe that he’s making a serious effort to turn his life around,” Patrick assured the detective, the taciturn one who had answered the phone. “He is willing to come in, voluntarily, and answer any questions you might have.”

“I’m very happy to hear that, Father. I think we all know that it’s what’s best.”

“There is just one condition. He will only come in if I’m allowed to stay with him.”

“Fair enough, Father, but I should warn you that if we find that Mr. Boyle has information he could be implicated in a murder case. Usually, people like him prefer to have solicitors.”

Fr. Reilly could imagine him smirking—in his reticent way. Probably no more than a snide wrinkling of his lips but at least he had agreed. “Well, I’m sure that after you’ve had a chance to speak with Danny, you’ll realize that he is telling the truth.”

“Father, in my line of work, truth is a rare commodity but I’ll be delighted if you’re right.”

Patrick would mention all of this to his uncle. He’d know how to deal with likes of them. He’d put them in their places quick enough. “Very good, then. I will bring him by the station tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good man, Father.”

*

“Who’s that you were talking to?” Fr. Brennan stood in the doorway, looking more and more dishevelled. He hadn’t had a bath in a few days and reeked of body odor. He hadn’t been changing his underwear, either. Something would have to be done.

“I was talking with the Garda relating to the Scully boy’s death.”

“Are you playing the detective now?”

“Not at all, Father. I was just passing on some information to them, that’s all.”

“Not something you heard in the confessional?”

“Of course not, Father.”

“Well, mind you don’t.”

“I will be very careful, Father.” He had played the deferent long enough and decided to turn the table, again. “Is there something the matter, Father? You seem agitated. Is there anything I can do to help you relax? Perhaps I could pour a bath and then you could sit out in Gethsemane for a while. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Father?”

“I can pour my own bath, you know.”

“Of course you can. I was just offering to be of some help.”

“That’s very Christian of you. Very Christian,” Fr. Brennan muttered as he went to take his bath.

Fr. Reilly listened to him cross, and recross floors. He heard him open the taps in the bathroom and go to the cupboard for a fresh towel. And in time he heard the taps close and the swish as the old man lowered himself into the water. He rose and closed the door to the study and reached for his writing paper.

He finished writing to Joe and put it with the others he hadn’t got around to sending. He had been avoiding Miriam and didn’t know how to explain that.
He missed being in contact with Joe who always knew what to say to cheer him up. For a long time, Joe’s letters were all that kept him from going completely and utterly mad.

*

Jerry sipped his tea and eyed Jacinta over the rim. He hadn’t told her about seeing Danny on the street. Even she would have heard the whispers about Anto.

No one could ever prove anything but everyone was sure that, if bad things happened in the neighborhood, Anto had something to do with it. They called him the “local general.” No one was really sure about anything but they avoided crossing his path.

A year ago, some of the lads in the pub finally decided to stand up and do something about it after a night of heavy drinking. And as each drink went down, their righteous anger grew.

Even Jerry got caught up in it all; it was the first time they had included him. They had always viewed him with a touch of wariness before—him having been to university, and all. And then there was the whole thing around Jacinta in the mental hospital, his banishment to England, his drinking, and the whole stink about Danny in the church with that young Deirdre one—not that Jerry blamed him. Deirdre was a bit-of-all-right and Danny would’ve been mad not to take his chance with her.