Priest (20 page)

‘Here I am at the end of the road and trying to stop smoking.'

He gave that deep consideration, or else he had gone to sleep, then he asked,

‘Do you believe in evil, Jack?'

I looked round to see if we could be heard, but no one was paying any attention so I said,

‘I've seen it first hand.'

He turned to face me, said,

‘Yes, yes you have. And did it burn you?'

I told the truth, went,

‘It did and it still does.'

He said,

‘I was in attendance at an exorcism once.'

I wasn't sure I wanted to hear about that. I had enough demons to carry without getting first-hand testimony on them. He was quiet, then said,

‘You surprise me, Jack. Most people would be full of curiosity.'

I measured my words, tried,

‘The thing is, if I ask you something, can I live with the answer?'

His face creased in a smile of genuine delight and he said,

‘What a wonderful reply. You could be a metaphysician.'

He took a tiny swallow and I ventured,

‘Was the exorcism successful?'

The question seemed to trouble him, then,

‘The boy had said voices were controlling him. After, he said he was controlling the voices. Would you deem that success?'

Needed some time to digest it, then I said,

‘Well, it would certainly be progress, but for whom?' And as I said it, I realized that only three places were really conducive to such a conversation:

Pubs,

Asylums,

Religious houses.

Gerald raised his right hand, held it there, and it dawned on me he was signalling Trade. I said,

‘Hey, I'll get it for you.'

He shook his head, said,

‘No need, I'm the only customer he serves at a table and that's because he suffers from fear. He thinks if he cultivates a priest, even a poor excuse for one, he'll be saved, the misguided wretch.'

Sure enough, Trade was over in a flash, asking in a voice I'd never heard,

‘What will it be, Gerald?'

‘Two of your finest, innkeeper – one for my comrade.'

Trade gave me an odd look, as if he'd misjudged me, went to get the drinks. My first one stood untouched, like original sin. Gerald said,

‘The demon spoke to me at that exorcism. You wish to know what it said?'

I figured I could handle it, said,

‘Yes.'

‘It said it would kill me.'

Not for the first time, I jumped to the wrong conclusion, asked,

‘Is that why you ended up here?'

He gave a full laugh which disintegrated into a bellow of phlegm, then,

‘Good Lord, no. The demon is the father of lies. I'm here because of drink.'

Trade was back, put two lethal amounts before us. Gerald produced a wad of notes and Trade took three, said,

‘Thank you, Father.'

I moved my glass a few inches, said,

‘Cheers.'

He nodded and said,

‘The cure of evil is simple, but oh so complicated.'

I was hoping to go, so to speed up the deal asked,

‘And it is?'

‘Love.'

What a crock. He must have sensed my disappointment, said,

‘I've never asked, in my sentence here, never once asked why a person was here, but I'd like to ask you, Jack, if you don't mind?'

Did I mind? Well, maybe a little, but what was there to lose? Said,

‘I killed a child.'

He groaned in actual pain, his face contorted and I thought I'd caused a stroke, but he rallied, said,

‘What an awesome burden.'

We sat in silence for a while. Not an uncomfortable one, but laden with significance, and finally he said,

‘There is an answer.'

I insisted,

‘No, Gerald, no there isn't.'

He seemed to expect that and went,

‘Forgive yourself, that's the key.'

He disappointed me. What a tired, lousy cliche. I had anticipated better from him, but I suppose he was, after all, just a priest. He said,

‘I've disappointed you, yes?'

‘A little.'

‘I'm truly sorry, I don't have anything else. You're no doubt familiar with the words
Come to me and I will give you rest.
Alas, that's a lie.'

I stood up, said,

‘I've got to go. See you another day, maybe.'

His eyes were closing and I saw he was on the verge of sleep. He muttered,

‘The Devil's right hand.'

I near scoffed, went,

‘Revelations?'

‘No, Steve Earle.'

‘A priest is a wolf in sheep's clothing.'

Old saying

 

 

 

Poets and demons, fathers and sons. The story of my existence, and I don't know if I believed in either. I was coming down Dominic Street, a miserable half-hearted rain beginning, couldn't make up its mind whether to piss heavy or dribble on. There was a time I read Louis McNeice and I knew
Autumn Journal
by heart . . . lines coming to me, like . . . bullets from a forgotten war. Something about haunted faces and the description
surly.

For a long time, I'd thought
surly
was
hurley . . .
which in light of my recent activities was a whole other weapon. I muttered the lines as I limped along . . . some more exploding in my mind . . . rotten guts . . . I know those words were in there.

Then Cody appeared from the canal side. There's a huge sign saying,

The Samaritans, we're here for you

planted right by the water, so if they couldn't help you, was the river the next stop?

He was nervous, asked,

‘Can I speak to you?'

I looked at him, let my body go slack then put out my hand, said,

‘I was out of order and I want to . . . apologize.'

His face lit up and he protested I'd nothing to be sorry for, weren't we mates and partners? I was already sorry I'd apologized. He said,

‘Jack, she's back.'

He took a deep breath then launched,

‘The guy you asked me to look for, Jeff? The wino . . . I mean . . . am . . . your friend. His wife – Cathy? – is back from London, in the Rosin most nights. She gets very drunk, says she's here to shoot you, and she's saying now that you have a son, she can even the tally. What's that about? Do you have a son?'

I ducked the son question and to cover I laughed out loud, said,

‘Tell her to join the fucking queue. I already ran into her and it was not . . . conciliatory.'

His mobile rang and he looked sheepish. I said,

‘Go ahead, I'll give you a ring later.'

I heard him go,

‘Mary
a gra
(love),' and envied him.

I was so glad he was back in my life. I'd nearly said,

‘Take care, son.'

Where you turn for O'Brien's Bridge, there's a travel agent's on the corner. I looked in the window: specials to the Canaries, to Barbados, to anywhere. I had to fight down the impulse not to shoot in, book the first available flight
to a warm climate and get the fuck out. Pledged to head for America when this whole situation was resolved. I had the money, now all I had to find was the energy.

Tired, a ferocious weariness creeping over me, I headed for my apartment to get some shut eye, try to momentarily forget priests and killers and nuns and ice cream. Gave one of those out-loud laughs that scared the bejaysus out of me as I realized I'd the makings of a country song – to the air of ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves' . . .

Had a shower when I got home, made a sandwich of fried rashers, tomato, mayo, built it fat and thick, like the country, and got about as much pleasure from it as the nation was receiving from the numerous tribunals.

Before climbing into bed, I rang Malachy. The phone rang for ages till finally,

‘What?'

Gruff, unfriendly, hostile. I asked,

‘Is that the way you talk to parishioners?'

‘Who's this?'

‘Jack Taylor.'

Not happy to hear me. Quelle surprise.

‘What do you want?'

Him I could deal with. I said,

‘You'd a different tone when your ass was on fire and you wanted a case solved.'

He grunted a bit, then accused,

‘You weren't at the Mass.'

‘What?'

‘I told you I was saying Mass for that poor man who hurt Father Joyce.'

I could hardly believe it, said,

‘Hurt? He fucking beheaded him.'

Heard an intake of breath, then,

‘Don't use obscenities on the phone.'

This was pointless. I could exchange unpleasantries all day and he'd never tire of it. The clergy have special training for that, they call it theology. I decided to cut to the chase, said,

‘I need a favour.'

His tone became heavy with spite, sarcasm.

‘By the Holy, the great Jack Taylor wants a favour. I thought you asked no man for quarter?'

Boy, was he being a prick or what? I reined in, asked,

‘Could you arrange for me to meet a nun?'

He laughed out loud, went,

‘A nun won't save you, boyo.'

If I could have got hold of him . . . Tried,

‘Sister Mary Joseph, do you know her?'

‘Of course I know her, I'm a priest. How big do you think the town is? This isn't New York yet, we still know our people.'

‘Would you arrange a meeting for me?'

I could hear the suspicion in the drawn breath. He snapped,

‘Why?'

‘I don't know much about Father Joyce, I want to get a fuller picture.'

He snorted. I'm not kidding. I thought that was solely an expression, that only horses actually made that sound, but no, he actually made that awful
snnnnn
. . . Then he said,

‘You said the case was closed. The fella confessed, it's over. What are you stirring up trouble for?'

I counted to ten, then,

‘If you don't arrange a meeting, I'll kick up such a shit storm, the papers will hear you know the killer and that you . . . what will I say? . . . Yeah, you said a Mass for him. See how the bishop likes to read about you over his poached eggs of a morning.'

I could hear him light a cig. His rage was palpable. He said,

‘After the ten o'clock Mass tomorrow morning, I'll bring you to her. And listen, laddie, you better watch your step with her. If I hear you upset her . . .'

Now I laughed, said,

‘You have an uncanny resemblance to Clancy, the head honcho of the Guards.'

Malachy changed pitch, said,

‘A lovely man. Pity you wouldn't take a page out of his book.'

‘Gee, why am I not surprised you and he are buddies?'

He digested that, then took his shot, said,

‘Tell your wino
buddies
to stay out of my church. It's not a doss house.'

Got me. I didn't have a clue what he meant, but I had a bad feeling I wasn't going to like it, asked,

‘What are you on about?'

‘Ha, that fellow with the ponytail you used to knock around with, married to an English wan, kipping down in the door of the church.'

Jeff.

Hit me like thunder. I could hear the tremble in my voice, asked,

‘Where did he go?'

Now he was triumphant, said,

‘How the devil would I know? I kicked his arse out of there, told him there was a perfectly decent poor house in the Fair Green.'

Click.

Hung up on me. I found the number of the Simon Community in the Fair Green, got through, asked if they had Jeff. They were very helpful, but so many men passed through, they didn't know, and when I described him, they admitted that no, nobody like that had been recently. I rang the hospitals, other shelters – same result. Climbed into bed in black despair.

Up early next morning, got some coffee down, got the fire stoked, kick started the engine which was on very shaky legs. I hate sweet things, but sugar would give me a crank. Showered and assessed the beard progress, without seeing my eyes or most of my face. Required contortions of the frenzied variety. It was shaping up, which was more than I was doing.

Dress for a nun? I knew the key was not to intimidate, to look almost clerical with an air of accountancy. So, the black suit, whitish shirt and tie loosely fastened. I didn't want to seem as if I was collecting for anything. That's their territory. Black shoes that needed polish, so I used spit and a towel. Kind of worked. They weren't great, but at least passable.

The caffeine kicked in. This was only my second day of
being able to drink real coffee – the taste of that decaff is hell on wheels. And I was able to get out the door, the point of the exercise. Went to Roche's, wandered the aisles till I found the ice cream. Shit, what a selection. I hate variety, it confuses me. When I was a child, there was precious little ice cream. Maybe on your First Communion. The choice was vanilla or vanilla. When they added a stick of flake to a cone, there was a huge buzz in the town. Woolworth's had them on special display, titled ‘99'. I'd asked my father why they were called that and he said that because of the chocolate flake they weren't 100 per cent ice cream. It is probably as good an explanation as any other.

It was all you knew of heaven. I remember pledging that when I grew up I'd live on french fries and 99s. We called fries chips – still do. Everything else is gone to hell in a basket.

As I pondered the dilemma, Liz Hackett came along, a stalwart of Roche's. From Woodquay, she personified all that was best of Galway: friendly, warm, enquiring without being obtrusive. She said,

‘Jack Taylor, is it yourself?'

Questions don't come any more Irish or welcoming. I agreed it was and she said,

‘I never had you down for an ice-cream lover.'

Which said what?

I nodded, then tried,