Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

I said, ‘Next time, I’ll be more accurate.’

He put his hand to his ear, checking to see if it was still attached, and muttered, ‘Holy mother of God.’

I laughed. ‘You’ll need her if I hear of anything happening again.’

I went to the fridge, the gun held loosely in my hand, and took out the fresh salmon. I turned, gave him my best smile and said, ‘Change your diet. Need to get some meat on you, pal.’

I took the fish with me.

I headed along the Newcastle Road, the fish under my arm, until I came to the Salmon Weir Bridge, where I threw the salmon into the water.

A young boy, maybe twelve, was watching me. ‘Is that fish still alive?’ he asked.

I lied, said, ‘The water will revive him.’

He gave me a look of total contempt. ‘The water is poisoned, it will kill him.’

He gave one more look into the water, hoping against hope, I think, then turned back to me.

‘You’re a very stupid man.’

Few would disagree.

Next morning, I woke to my first hangover in years and go figure, it wasn’t too bad. Sick stomach, sure, groggy head, par for the course. But nothing major. Not one of those biblical gigs where you swear, Never again .

I didn’t think it was a whole new era. The real deal was coming down the pike but I was grateful for small mercies. I drank a half-litre of water, boiled the night before. It threatened to come right back up, then settled.

I shaved and only cut meself once. My eyes were red and there was a grey pallor on my face but it could have been worse.

I made some coffee and actually drank a cup. I didn’t enjoy it much, but then I wasn’t exactly looking for that. I wanted the caffeine hit. Where was it written that enjoyment would be part of the deal?

I dressed in a clean white shirt, cleanish jeans and a pair of Doc Martens I’d been breaking in for a while. Once you get past the new stage, few things are more comfortable.

I went out and knocked on my neighbour’s door. He opened it cautiously. I said, ‘I paid a visit to the guy who beat you up.’

He tried to read my face and then smiled. He had one of those radiant ones, like a child who still believes the world is good. ‘Did you hurt him?’

‘I stole his fish.’

He thought about that, then laughed. ‘That’s so Godfather . I love it.’

I shrugged and as I moved away he shouted, ‘Party on, next Friday, bring anything but fish.’

He was a hard guy not to like.

I was up and out by noon the next day.

I started to walk along by O’Brien’s Bridge, my heart light. I’d just reached the junction where you turn into Market Street when I almost collided with Father Malachy. He was the most dedicated smoker I know and was shrouded in a blizzard of smoke, as usual. He had enlisted my help when he had been threatened and his life was in danger and we had almost reached a state of friendly hostility. But it didn’t last.

I stopped and looked at him.

‘Taylor, by the holy, . do I smell drink on you? Ah, you’re a hopeless case.’

I grabbed his arm. ‘I helped you one time and you never paid me. You can pay me now by buying me a pint.’

He was going to protest, but Ireland had changed so much. A guy manhandling a priest wasn’t going to bring the cavalry; in fact, it might well bring a lynch party.

I said, ‘I need to talk to you.’

I indicated the short cut along by St Nicholas’s Church and the pub across from it.

He said, ‘I don’t think you want to go in that place.’

I’d never been in. I knew it had changed hands many times, but then, hadn’t everywhere? When I stared at him, he said, ‘Your old friend works there.’

‘Jeff?’

Jeff was the father of Serena May and the last time we’d run into each other, he’d asked me if I was going after Cathy, his wife. Since then, I’d learnt that Cathy may have killed her own child. I wondered if he knew too. I said, ‘That’s not a problem,’ and dragged him in.

A young barman was polishing glasses and two lone drinkers were sipping quietly at pints. No sign of Jeff.

I said to the young guy, ‘Pint and a Jameson and whatever his holiness wants.’

He wanted tea and biscuits, if they had them.

The pub smelt fresh. Since the no-smoking ban had come in, this was one of the benefits.

Not for Malachy, though. He put his pack of Major — the strongest brand you can find — on the counter, with a box of Swan matches. He looked longingly at them, asked the barman, ‘Do ye have a smoking room?’

The barman smiled. ‘Yeah, sure, it’s called the street.’

Not a devout Catholic then.

Malachy glared at him, muttered, ‘Young pup.’

Finally the order came and we carried it over to a window table. We had a view of the church and I wondered if it bothered Malachy to be shadowed by a Protestant one.

He stirred the teapot, said, ‘One lousy teabag. It must have broke their bloody hearts.’

I raised the pint and swallowed half. He gave me a look of pure disgust.

Before he could start, I said, ‘I’m asking you again: what is benediction?’

He was dipping the biscuit in his weak tea and, distracted, lost half in the cup. ‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

He gazed in dismay at the soggy biscuit skimming the surface, then said, ‘It’s a blessing and also evening devotions, not that anyone goes any more. If you’re looking for a blessing, you’d better ask someone else. You’ll get none from me.’

I raised my glass of Jay. ‘Glad to see you’ve mellowed in your old age. But why would, say, someone call themselves Benedictus?’

He pushed the whole ruined tea business aside and said, ‘Because they’re a lunatic.’

I had to agree he was probably right about that.

He stood up. ‘I’m going for a fag.’

Any Americans within earshot would have been taken aback to hear that, though with all the clerical scandals, maybe not.

I said, ‘You’re forgetting something.’

He looked round and I added, ‘Paying. Even priests have to pay now. You had it free long enough.’

He moved to the counter, gave the bar guy a bollocking about the tea and then came back. ‘No wonder there’s no one here, the prices they charge.’

I drained my drink and followed him outside.

He lit up, coughed and I asked, ‘Give me one.’

He considered, then said, ‘Buy your own.’ And stomped off in a haze of self-satisfied smoke, like a fuming devil.

I’d been listening to Billy Joe Shaver. His legendary album Restless Wind was on the track called ‘Fit To Kill And Going Out In Style’ when my mobile rang. It was Stewart. He sounded almost excited, if a Zen devotee could ever rise to that.

He said, ‘I’ve some news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We need to meet. I’m in the Meyrick, I’ll buy you a coffee.’

Coffee. Like fuck

I asked, ‘Where the hell is the Merrick?’ Not even knowing I was spelling it wrong.

He laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that old Galway gig of yours. It used to be the Great Southern Hotel.’

‘Then why the hell didn’t you say so? See you there in ten minutes.’

A few days had gone by since my visit to Gary Blake and there had been no reports of gay-bashing.

I’d found a temporary way to avoid complete alcoholic meltdown: an eye-opener at noon, then four pints and shorts in the evening. Ten drinks a day. It was holding, barely. I was never completely out of the game, but never quite with it, either. The time was coming when I’d lose count, literally, and just not give a fuck. Then watch out. I’d even gone to Jeff’s pub a few times, looking for what — confrontation, affirmation, forgiveness? But no Jeff so far.