Ken Bruen - The Devil

‘You poor man, you’re drenched and perished. Come on, I’ll get you a towel in the Sacristy.’

The inner sanctum.

Dan Brown, eat yer heart out.

Could be, he intended calling the Guards.

I followed him along the altar, genuflected when he did before the Holy Sacrament and remembered a lovely line,

‘Walk gently as you walk on Holy ground.’

He opened a heavy oak door, ushered me in.

Took a set of keys from his cassock, bent down, fiddled with a lock and then produced not only a fine thick towel but, get this,

a bottle of Bushmills -

and not just any old Bush,

Black Bushmills,

the holy grail of Irish whiskey -

two heavy glass tumblers, made of Galway crystal and, I shit thee not, with angels on the sides.

I dried me hair as he poured healthy measures into the glasses, handed me one, said, ‘ Is feidir liom .’

Made me smile. What Barack said to our prime minister on St Paddy’s Day.

‘I am able.’

Would that we were.

My kind of priest. I said,

‘ Bheannacht leat fein .’ (Blessing on yerself.) Added,

‘No offence, but you’re not the usual…how should I term it…clergy I’m used to.’

I put out my hand, said,

‘Jack Taylor.’

He had a firm grip in more ways than one, said,

‘Father Raphael – after the Archangel of Healing – but most people call me Ralph.’

Pity it wasn’t Michael, who smote the demon, but you take what you get, like Bushmills.

Then a light went off in his eyes and he asked,

‘Jack Taylor, who saved the swans?’

Saved is overstating it.

Through luck really, and a lot of sitting under Nemo’s pier on miserable nights, I caught a psycho who was killing those beautiful creatures.

I, shall we say, smote him.

Last I heard, the said nutter was a doctor.

Go figure.

Ralph and I drank in what might have passed as comfortable silence.

Give me Black Bushmills, I’m comfortable.

He was taking my measure. Good luck with that. Long as he wasn’t measuring out the Bushmills in the same way.

I could wait.

Then,

‘I spent a lot of time in Africa, Jack, back in the days when priests were welcome. I saw a lot of things that don’t have what you’d call a rational explanation.’

The recollection was hurting him, but he had a glass of the best, so he continued,

‘I was down in the townships, in Jo’burg, and…’

He stopped. Poured us damn nigh lethal measures, then went on,

‘There was a rash of killings there. Now bear in mind that killings and violence were, God forgive me, commonplace, but these were different. Young men and women were being killed, gutted and…’

He took a large sip, very large.

Me too.

‘Headless dogs were sometimes found in the bellies of the deceased.’

Now it was like every breath of air had been sucked from the room.

And that to happen on Holy ground?

He took a deep breath, said,

‘Jack, the natives – decent, lovely people – told me that the young people, the ones who…the ones who were butchered had been spending time with a man they referred to as Monsieur K.’

I had…nothing.

As Mr K might have put it,

‘ Rien .’

Save a warm glow from the fine booze. But I asked,

‘What happened?’

He gave a resigned sigh, said,

‘Monsieur K disappeared. The killings stopped and I prayed to God I’d never hear of him again.’

He was a priest – from what I could tell, an intelligent, level-headed, compassionate man. In my experience, such a person got fucked, one way or another.

You want to prosper?

Treat the world like the shite it is, then maybe, one day, if you meet a decent person, fuck him first.

But here was a man grounded in faith, taught Theology for what, seven years? And what do I know, maybe even Metaphysics. He knew stuff, had been freaking educated in it, so I asked,

‘What do you think now, Father…I mean, Ralph. This is way beyond coincidence, not to mention serendipity.’

He nodded, said,

‘Tis sad, tis true, that’s the Holy all of it.’

He was fucking kidding.

That air of resignation.

Where was the fight?

I mean, if the clergy hadn’t an answer to evil, what the hell was a poor bastard like me meant to do?

Pray?

Do the Lotto?

I wanted to shake him, demand a solution. He was a priest, our moral guardian, and if he gave in, what hope did the rest of us poor schmucks have?

But he was so visibly shaken, I eased on me ferocity, took the bottle, gave him a blast.

He didn’t even seem to notice.

The Sacristy had a beautiful stained-glass window and now a beam of light shone through.

You read a significance there?

Just Irish weather.

I said,

‘The rain has stopped, I should go.’

I put the towel on the back of the chair, put out my hand, said,

‘Thanks, Ralph, you’ve restored a lot of me faith in the Church.’

He walked me out, not saying a word. Outside, the sun having reappeared, the Claddagh Basin never looked so lovely.

For form’s sake more than anything else, I asked,

‘Any suggestions?’

I know defeat and despair, and it was mirrored here, and what had he got but cliché?

He took it.

I don’t blame him.

He said,

‘Ask God to rid us of this pestilence.’

I liked him, you’ve gathered that, but Jesus, I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t. Asked,

‘And if God lets more young people get killed?’

He reached in his cassock, pulled out his rosary beads like a coke head in need of the connection, muttered,

‘Jack, we have to believe. Faith is what sustains us.’

Sounded just like the government.

I said,

‘I have other options.’

Father Ralph was seriously disturbed by the encounter with Jack Taylor. And he felt that he had failed him. He went back into the church to say a decade of the rosary for the poor man.

He was startled to see a man in the front row.

A man with long golden tresses.

For a brief moment, he thought he’d imbibed too much of the Bushmills. It almost looked like Jesus!

Much as he’d always wished for divine intervention, he hadn’t necessarily wanted it so directly.

Without turning, the man said in some kind of foreign-accented English,

‘Rest easy, priest, I’m not the pale Nazarene.’

The urge to flee was paramount, but he drew on his will and the Bushmills. By God, he would not be intimidated in his own church.

The man had his feet up on the connecting pew, totally at his ease. He said,

‘Take a load off, Ralphy, come join me.’

Ralph approached slowly and the man turned to look at him.

Yellow eyes.

It wasn’t possible.

The man patted the seat, said,

‘I’m not going to bite you…yet.’

Ralph stood in front of him, and had to admire the sheer quality of the suit.

The man said,

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ and laughed, said,

‘Like the Stones song.’

Ralph felt a cold breeze rush down the aisle and nearly knock him over. He steadied himself, asked,

‘Is there something I can help you with?’

The man ran his fingers through his hair, almost a sensuous gesture, said,

‘You thought I couldn’t enter a church.’

Then reached in his immaculate suit, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with a slim gold lighter, frowned and asked,

‘Is it OK to smoke in the house of the dead Jew?’

Before Ralph could answer, the man blew a perfect ring towards him and said,