Ken Bruen - The Devil

I took one, lit up, said,

‘Nicotine is the least of our problems.’

As we walked towards the Spanish Arch, she linked my arm.

It felt good.

She asked,

‘So who is he, Jack?’

I said,

‘Wrong question. Not who… what ?’

We reached the memorial there near the bridge to the lost seamen, and I said that some people just liked to see everything burn.

She asked if that was one of Stewart’s Zen lines.

‘No, it’s Michael Caine in The Dark Knight .’

We watched the swans for a while and her face was like a little girl’s, her delight in those creatures as basic as good nature.

She looked at her watch, nice slim gold Patek Philippe.

Anthony obviously still had some funds.

She said,

‘I’m on duty soon.’

I nodded, feeling the old pang for the career I’d lost.

‘What are we going to do, Jack?’

I stayed with the same movie, said,

‘Kill the batman.’

I’ve also been holding off about Father Ralph.

Why?

Because I liked him.

When Malachy told me of his demise, I was utterly lost.

I’d never expected to meet a priest I not only liked but respected, and I’d truly thought I could relate this earlier.

I couldn’t.

Does it seem out of synch?

That’s how it felt and that’s how it will always feel.

I can only tell it after time has put some distance there.

If I hadn’t met him, I’m in no doubt he’d be still alive.

That’s a given.

So perhaps you can understand why I’m telling this in flashback – or in truth, in cowardice.

Plus it gives a feel of how Xanax and booze and the Devil distort everything.

Works for Paul Auster, so who am I to argue?

*

The morning started with all that luring promise of an Irish fine day.

You know it won’t last.

Dress lightly and yup, you’ll be drenched in jig time.

But you buy into this crap.

Why?

Otherwise you’d believe it rains all the time.

It does.

I was having me morning coffee – none of that latte shite, a double espresso and no sugar.

Was it bitter?

Like me heart.

I was going through the bookcases, trying to find an answer to Carl, to Kurt, to the Devil. Settled on this from that bastion of depressed priests, St Augustine:

Everyone who knows that he is doubting, knows something that is true, and about the thing he knows, he is certain. Everyone therefore, who doubts whether there is truth, has something true in himself, which he may not doubt.

I sat back, mused on this, sipped at the coffee and wondered if a Xanax would clarify it.

Did the X anyway and brewed more caffeine.

The sun was still conning us, of that I could be certain, so I headed out after the X kicked in.

How long since I’d been in a church?

Let’s say they still used the Latin version of the Mass, was when.

What drove me in?

No, not Augustine, I’m certain.

Rain and desperation.

I’d been feeding the swans.

As a Galwegian, there are certain things you do:

1. Talk shite.

2. Never answer a question.

3. Stay the fuck away from notions.

4. Feed the swans.

The heavens opened and down came teeming torrents.

And yeah, I’d bought into the con of the early sun.

Was wearing a light wind-breaker, T-shirt featuring Barack, my perennial 501s, Converse trainers and no hat.

No warning, of course, so you could dive for shelter.

Just lashed down like the last refrain of the song ‘Expectation’.

The Claddagh church has always been one of me favourites. The Dominicans had done one wondrous job on the restoration.

The church was nigh on empty.

One bent-over old lady doing the Stations of the Cross.

She seemed transfixed on the seventh.

I lit candles for my dead.

That took a time, not to mention a fair whack of Euros.

I was drenched, rain leaking from my hair down into the collar of my T. As I knelt before the array of candles, I tried to summon up the right prayer.

I had nothing, save ‘God mind ye well.’

Least I meant it.

I took a pew near the altar, and like the government, decided to sit out the deluge.

I never heard the priest approach.

They’d become the stealth bombers of our nation.

That or be crucified.

He gave me a start. Realizing, he said,

‘God forgive me, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

Way too easy to utter, Ye’ve been doing it for centuries .

I nodded.

Wetly.

He was tall, mid fifties, full head of white hair, thin, in need of spuds and bacon.

I said,

‘I’m used to frights.’

He gave a lovely smile. Then asked if he might sit for a moment with me.

If he wanted money, he’d have to raid the candle gig.

I said,

‘Your church.’

Sounded more bitter than I intended, but I was wet and cold and not in need of a homily. The Waltons were on DVD if I needed that shite.

The smile again – could get on your nerves a bit. He said,

‘God’s, actually.’

Wrong programme. I should have said Little House on the Prairie .

He indicated the barrage of candles.

‘You must have a long list.’

I could have said, And you have a long fucking nose .

But it was a church.

To rattle him, or just the bad drop in me, I said,

‘I’m trying to neutralize fifty black ones someone lit in my home.’

Worked.

He was rattled.

‘Mother of God.’

I don’t in fairness think he could lay it on her.

I didn’t reply, so he asked,

‘Why on God’s blessed earth would somebody do sucha…’

He couldn’t find an adequate description so I supplied,

‘Diabolical?’

Nice to help a priest and gets you all kinds of good shit in the hereafter. I even added,

‘A fiend.’

He was nodding, like he could see it, said,

‘Exactly. That’s precisely the term.’

A priest tells you that you’re so correct, watch yer wallet.

As I was on a clerical roll, so to speak, I said,

‘Left a headless dog too.’

That did him in entirely.

Horrified, he made the sign of the cross.

‘In Ainm an Athair ,

An Mhic ,

Agus ,

An Sirioaid Naoimh .’

Said it aloud in Irish, In the Name of the Father…

I was impressed with his Irish. He spoke like a native speaker.

They were as rare as decency.

I could see he was wondering if perhaps joining me had been such a smart move.

There was just us two in the church now.

The old woman had packed it in on the eleventh Station, and who could blame her?

He ventured,

‘Might I pry into what in God’s heaven would possess a person to do such an act?’

Possess?

How apt.

I told him most of the story, omitting my…retaliation.

I know the clergy is big on retribution, but retaliation?

I painted a fairly comprehensive picture of Carl/Kurt and his minions.

He muttered,

‘The Devil’s minions.’

I almost slipped, Good name for a rock band, yah think?

Instead, I concluded with,

‘There is a Ban Garda – actually a Sergeant now – and she can verify everything I’ve told you, lest you think I’m a raving lunatic.’

It wasn’t that he didn’t hear me, he clearly did, but in his face, something had changed. He was remembering something he had hidden and wished it had stayed thus.

My dripping clothes had formed a pool of water at our feet. He stood and said,