Ken Bruen - The Devil

That’s as close to ‘Fuck off’ as it gets.

But I persisted, asked,

‘And, er…your friend?’

‘He wasn’t my friend.’

I began to move off, wasn’t going to do a whole lot of spreading the joy there, and he said,

‘He died.’

I nodded, kept going.

I’d read my Russell Friedman on grief and how not to express remorse/sorrow for someone you never knew.

Some books do actually help.

My sympathy would only have elicited more bitterness and I’d enough of my own to be going on with.

Malachy had gone right down to the end of the pub and found a table, and I joined him. I figured he’d already put in an order.

Sure enough, the drinks came.

Two large Jamesons.

No ice.

The barman said,

‘On the house, Father.’

If Malachy was grateful, he was hiding it. He said, ‘I don’t see you at Mass.’

The barman gave him a look – not of respect or awe, those days were well over – said,

‘I took my business elsewhere.’

And moved off.

Malachy, already raising his glass, muttered,

‘A pup, that fellah.’

Not a compliment. I raised my glass, toasted,

‘Good health.’

He made a sound halfway between hmmph and Is it on meself? Then drained most of the double Jay.

I did the same.

Waited.

The whiskey hit him fast, a crimson glow mounting like sunburn up his cheeks, making his battered face almost glow. He said,

‘I don’t have many friends in the priesthood.’

I was surprised he had any friends anywhere, but kept my mouth shut. He continued,

‘Over in the Claddagh, Father Ralph was my friend. We were in Maynooth together and took our final vows on the same day. We always stayed in touch, a card or letter, even after he went on the Missions.’

I had no idea where this was going.

Something between a sigh and groan escaped him as he said,

‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’

Took me a moment, then I blurted,

‘Ralph’s dead?’

He was startled, turned to look at me.

‘You knew him?’

I was trying to focus, muttered,

‘I met him once. I liked him a lot.’

Malachy shook his head, amazed and, I think, angry. I’d known his friend. Then he made that condescending gesture that serious drinkers all over the fucking world hate. He raised his hand in a drinking gesture to his mouth, the words conveying, in bright shame, alkie . Said, as if I didn’t get it already,

‘Fond of it, you know, no denying that. But to do what he did, I never realized he was so far gone.’

Had I missed something? I was trying so hard not to lash him across his smug non- alkie face that rage temporarily blinded me. I asked,

‘What did he do?’

Jesus wept. Not another child molester. That I couldn’t stomach, not now. Malachy said,

‘Your turn for a round, I believe.’

The bollix.

I jumped up, went to the counter, tried to rein in the ferocious wave building, said to the barman,

‘Same again, please,’ and put a twenty Euro note on the counter lest he think I was freeloading.

If he thought neat larges that early in the day were odd, he said nothing. He got the drinks, gave me the pittance change, said, nodding to Malachy,

‘Contrary bastard.’

I took the drinks, looked at the paltry change, said,

‘Put it in the Missions box.’

He laughed, said,

‘Where have you been? We are the Missions.’

I got back to the table – no sign of Malachy. I looked round and the barman indicated the shed beside the bar.

The smokers’ room.

Beside the toilets, of course.

I sat, sipping my fresh drink, trying to keep my mind blank and a lid on my temper.

Malachy returned, reeking of cigarettes, sat, grabbed the new drink and downed a fair portion. Then took a breath and said,

‘They’ve covered it up, of course, said he died of a heart attack. If the truth came out, they’d be more banjaxed than before.’

He emitted a long sad sigh, said,

‘He hanged himself.’

I was appalled, said,

‘I’m so sorry.’

He rounded on me, spittle dribbling from the corners of his mouth, accused,

‘ You? You’re sorry? I thought the likes of you would dance a jig at the clergy being destroyed.’

I understood the blind lashing out of grief, had done it often enough, and when you add Jameson to a simmering fire…I said,

‘You make me sound like the Devil.’

He sat back, drained instantly, said,

‘I met a man last week, he frightened me, Jack.’

Jack!

‘Good-looking fellah, lovely suit, said he wanted to make a donation to the Church fund and asked me to excuse his poor English. I think he was French, said he’d been recommended by you! At first I was glad – we’re always happy with donations and supporters of the Church – till he began to look at me. He scared me, Jack. It was like he was – Jesus, God forgive me for taking the Holy Name in vain, but he looked like pure badness, and as he was leaving, he handed me a large wad of notes – hundred notes they were, Jack – and said with this awful smile…’

He had to stop. Sweat was pouring down his face and he grabbed at his glass, then continued,

‘He said, “Priests shouldn’t be hanging round.” Jack, he stressed hanging, and as he left, he stopped and said, “If you really are a friend of our Jack, I might have to return, make another donation .”’

I didn’t like Malachy, never had, but I didn’t like to see him afraid. I asked,

‘Who do you think he was?’

He jumped up, his eyes mad in his head, shouted,

‘You’re the Devil’s spawn! Even your blessed mother, God rest her, she always said some day he’d come to claim you.’

And he stormed out.

I finished my drink and thought, if I was going to hell, the worst thing would be that the bitch she’d been all her miserable life was sure to be the first to welcome me.

Ian Dury and the Blockheads – the cheerful face of punk, if there was such a thing – had a big hit with ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful’.

For the life of me, I couldn’t think of one.

Ian Dury, badly crippled by polio as a child, never gave anything but his best in concert.

He had passed on too.

Everybody of fucking note had.

I finished my drink, headed out and said to the lone sentry,

‘God mind you well.’

He never looked up from his pint, said,

‘God, like the rest of the slick bastards, moved to a tax haven.’

What to say?

Save think of what Ronnie Scott said to Van Morrison,

‘You’ve made a happy man very old.’

My limp had been acting up and I figured a decent walk might ease the ache. I took the route that leads to Grattan Road. But first I went to the Dominican church, to see Our Lady of Galway. When I’d sheltered from the rain and met Father Ralph I’d never given her a second thought, so if I made up for the lapse now, who knew, maybe she’d appreciate it.

A seventeenth-century Italian Madonna. There is a mother-of-pearl bead in her hand, given by a fisherman.

Her crown was presented by the first ever Catholic mayor of Galway in 1683.

She was literally buried when the waves of persecution began.

I love the altar surrounding her, it shows a Claddagh boat,

St Nicholas, patron saint of Galway,

St Enda, venerated on the Aran Islands.

It is said that if a real Galwegian asks her help, she will grant it.

So I asked,