Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

‘Home Ec?’

She laughed as if I was just a fun guy. ‘Home Economics. The girls learn to cook and run a home.’

I was going to add that the fast-food joints littering the town might be the reason for the absence of skills, but didn’t want to push my luck.

The girl said, ‘She’ll be down in a moment. She’s just fixing her make-up.’

Was she kidding?

Nuns. . make-up?

She added, ‘You’ll love Sister Maeve. Everybody does.’

I tried to contain my excitement.

The girl was in the mood to chat and asked, ‘When is the fundraiser?’

I was saved from yet another lie by the appearance of the nun.

I don’t know what I was expecting — at the very least a habit, cowl, etc. Nope. She was dressed in a smart jumper and skirt and low-heeled patent shoes, and looked all of twenty. What is it with nuns? They never seem to age. Not a line on her face. She had one of those open Irish faces — no guile or subterfuge had inhabited it. She was almost pretty, if lively eyes and a mischievous smile count.

She extended her hand and I saw the wedding band. I’d forgotten they’re married to God. She said, ‘I’m Maeve.’

A little bewildered, I asked, ‘I don’t call you Sister?’

Her eyes twinkled and she said, ‘Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

I said, ‘I’m Jack Taylor.’

Her grip was warm and strong as she asked, ‘You drink coffee, Mr Taylor?’

Jesus, I nearly quipped, Does a bear shit in the woods? Said, ‘Yes, and please, it’s Jack.’

She turned to the girl, said, ‘I’ll back in an hour. If anyone asks, I’m gone on a date.’

The girl loved that.

Outside, I thought for one awful moment she was going to link arms, but she just said, ‘Let’s go to Java, they have the best cappuccino — lots of chocolate sprinkle, and they give you a free biscuit too.’

‘Works for me.’

We got a table by the window and she said, ‘Oh, this is such a treat for me.’

Christ, I felt bad. She was truly a nice person and here I was, about to ask her literally murderous questions.

We ordered coffee and what the hell, I had the cappuccino, chocolate sprinkle and all.

When it came she said, ‘I never know whether to go for the biscuit first or have the coffee.’

Well, before the shit hit the fan I could at least be civil. I said, ‘You ever try dunking?’

She hadn’t, but did, tasted it and exclaimed, ‘Oh that’s perfect. You do know your sweeties, Mr Taylor — I mean Jack.’

I was sure glad no one who knew me could hear that last comment.

She took another sip of coffee, relished it, then folded her fingers and said, ‘I’m all yours, Jack.’

Was she flirting with me?

Time to ’fess up.

I said, ‘I lied to you.’

‘About the dunking?’

I wish.

I was as close to squirming as I’ve ever come. I plunged on. ‘This is not about charity. I’m here about Josephine Lally — Sister Benedictus?’

Her eyes lost their twinkle and causing that to occur jolted my heart. She gave me a long look, then asked, ‘Are you a policeman?’

Then before I could answer, she suddenly had a thought and her eyes lit up. Not, alas, with joy, but remembrance. She said, ‘Jack Taylor. . Oh my Lord, Jo talked about you.’

I was about to speak, but she help up her hand, the gold band on her finger catching a stray ray of sun through the window, almost like a shard of hope. I was interrupting her train of thought. Then she said, ‘Yes, her sister. Oh, poor tragic Siobhan. .’

She made the sign of the cross, then said, ‘Siobhan was raped, I believe in the most brutal way possible.’ She shuddered. ‘There was of course a trial and the two guards were maybe more involved than was said. I don’t like to cast aspersions but they definitely played a part and the rapist was exonerated, charges dismissed.’

She had to stop to compose herself. I could see the toll it was taking on her and I realized that the two guards who had been killed were the two bastards involved. What the fuck had the judge been thinking?

As if she read my thoughts, she said, ‘The judge, may God forgive him, commended the guards on their diligence and devotion to justice.’

Jesus Christ, no wonder the two guards were on the killer’s list — and the damn judge, he sure belonged on it. I’d have gone after all three myself.

‘Then Siobhan. . as you know, took her own life. That put Jo right over the precipice and she started to babble in voices, telling me that God would extract justice in this world and that He had selected His instrument. Mother Superior tried to get her to seek professional help and she blew up. There was a terrible scene and she was asked to leave the convent.’

She was weeping now. I was afraid to offer her a tissue lest she stop the flow of the story — I had to hear it. She was nearly done.

‘The last time I saw her, she was packing her meagre belongings and had a sheet of paper in her hand. She said, in the most chilling voice I’ve ever heard, “I shall be the instrument of the Lord.” I tried to give her a hug — she was my sister in all the ways that really matter — but she flinched when I touched her and said, “Benedictus will not be touched, but will, by the mighty wrath of God, touch all those who caused the death of the innocent.” I never saw her again.’

Her coffee had gone cold, and the remains of the biscuit floated near the surface like defeated dreams.

‘But why is she targeting me?’ I asked her. The drive for revenge on all who had wronged her sister was clear enough. But me? What was my part in all of this?

Sister Maeve stood up abruptly. ‘I must get back to my class.’

And she was gone.

Next morning I’m energized, gulp down some coffee, literally gallop out of my flat.

Stewart gave me the address of Benedictus’s brother, so I head for his house. Maybe he knows where she is now. And if he doesn’t tell me, I’ll beat the fucking daylights out of him and enjoy it.

I knock on the door. I have the revolver in me right pocket. If she comes at me with a hockey stick, I’ll blow the cunt to smithereens. Sorry for the language, but I’m spitting iron over the hurt to Stewart.

I hear real heavy footsteps. The door opens on the most overweight man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I mean, 300 lbs and change. He’s wearing what appears to be a blue tent and it’s lined with sweat.

He puffs, ‘May I help you?’

The butt of the revolver is sweaty in my hand and I let go lest I shoot me balls off from nerves.

‘I’m looking for your sister.’ Let lots of aggression into my tone.

He sighs, more like a rumble, says, ‘Taylor. . Jack Taylor. It is, isn’t it?’

I nod and he waves me in. He doesn’t walk so much as waddle and we go into a surprisingly neat front room, and he flops down in the largest chair I’ve seen.

He says, ‘I had to have it made special and it cost. Would you like a drink? You’ll have to get it yourself — in the cabinet there, and some water for me. I’m trying to cut back.’

He laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of this. He has a warm, embracing laugh. I’m trying not to like him.

Fuck it. I pour me a large Bushmills. When do you come across fifty-year-old black Bushmills? I get him a bottle of Galway water and a glass — all the glasses are clean and shining. I hand the glass to him and I sit in a hard chair opposite him.

He raises his glass, toasts, ‘Chin chin. . and I’ve enough chins for both of us.’