Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

In that precise, clipped tone she said, ‘Surely you jest?’

I turned to face her. ‘Jest? Lady I’ve done lots of stuff in my life, but jesting hasn’t yet been one of them.’

Then lo and behold, a perfect single white feather came floating on the slight breeze and landed at our feet.

She was delighted, clapped her hands in joy, asked, ‘Do you know what that means?’

Many replies suggested themselves, all sarcastic, e.g. A bird doesn’t fly on one wing . But I went with ‘No.’

I picked it up and it was pristine, almost like the quills the monks used.

She said, ‘When a feather floats by, it means your angel is close by.’

Right.

I handed it to her.

She protested, ‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’

‘I insist.’

She took it gently, like a baby, put it delicately in her bag, then took out a card and said, ‘This is for you.’

I saw my drug-dealer approach. She stood and said, ‘My angel thanks you.’

And in then the brief moment when I should have been paying attention, which of course I wasn’t, she added, ‘Brian will love that.’

And she was gone.

The guy sat, looked round carefully, then laid an envelope on the bench. I palmed him the money and he said, ‘You need a refill, come back to this bench anytime.’

As he stood up I said, ‘My angel thanks you.’

He stared at me. ‘What?’

I shook my head, said, ‘I jest.’

I took the envelope, slipped it casually in my pocket, then remembered the card the pigeon lady had given me. It had a picture of a dark angel with a sword, slashing the bejaysus out of a serpent. I turned it over, and the print on the back said:

In benedictus

Requiescat in pace .

Holy fuck. It was her.

I jumped up, but she was long gone.

Despite the warming sun, I felt a chill run down my spine. Ice cold, like evil has reached out and touched you with its malevolence.

I opened the envelope, took out one of the pills, swallowed it and hoped to Christ they were as good as the character in John Straley’s novels claimed. He had described the effect as like being wrapped in cotton wool, a warm woozy feeling.

I stayed sitting, chilled to the depths of my very soul.

I felt powerless, wondering if she was watching me — not a feeling I’m used to. I’ve always been able to take action — usually of the worst kind, but able to function. This feeling was not only new but scary.

A familiar figure came shambling across the square, enveloped in nicotine. Father Malachy. He looked as he always did: angry, shabby, about to explode. Then his eyes lit on me and he approached.

No warm greeting, just straight in. ‘Too drunk to move, Taylor?’

Nice.

I gave him a bitter smile. ‘Actually I’m dealing drugs.’

He sat down, wheezing deeply. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me at all.’

He indicated the drinking school, who knew better than to approach him. ‘That’s the crowd you belong with and I don’t doubt you’re soon to join them.’

I asked, ‘Do you believe in angels?’

He looked at me, suspicion writ huge. ‘Why?’

I could feel a warm mellowness beginning to take hold. God bless pharmaceuticals.

‘Well, you’re a priest, sort of, and angels and all that stuff is your. . How should I put it? Your merchandise.’

I saw a slow cunning light his eyes and knew he was ready to retaliate.

He said, ‘Your mother was an angel.’

I let him savour that for a bit then said, ‘So was Lucifer.’

He blessed himself — not easy with a cigarette in his hand, and ash dribbled on to his black jacket. He said, ‘In the name of all that’s holy, may God forgive you for that blasphemy.’

He sat in seething silence and I asked, ‘If a nun had to hide out, away from the convent, where would she go?’

He was startled. ‘What kind of eejit question is that? All I know about nuns is they are great shiners. Nobody can polish a floor like a nun.’

The pill was kicking in big time and I felt almost warm towards it. Jesus, now that is one dynamite medication. I said, ‘Useful as that gem of information is, should I just go check out shining floors and follow the trail?’

He was getting fidgety — must be out of cigarettes, though I didn’t know how he could afford them now they were over seven euro a pack. But then money was never a problem for the clergy.

He asked, ‘Why on God’s earth would you want to find a nun?’

I told him the truth. ‘Because she’s killing people.’

He shook his head — more of my paranoid nonsense. But instead of attacking me he said, ‘I did my novitiate in Rome. Ah Lord God, ’twas heaven. Sun, wine. .’ And for a moment, his face relaxed.

I caught a glimpse of a young man, a decent one, who once used to laugh, and not from bitterness.

He shook himself out of the reverie, said, ‘The Italians had a saying: “If you ever walk past a nun, touch a piece of iron and say, ‘Your nun’ to a passerby — passing any bad luck to them.”’

Well, I had iron in my pocket, a revolver, and was touching it right now.

He stood up, looked right at me, some of the Roman decency still lingering, and said, ‘You were brought up Catholic and you read all those books and you think you’re so smart? So use your head, boyo. Where would a nun hide? She can’t go home — the convent is out of bounds.’

And he headed off.

I shouted, ‘Where?’

‘Use your head, yah eejit.’

My head was full of cotton wool. I couldn’t figure it out, and the Xanax whispered, ‘Why bother?’

But it was almost a Zen question and there was only one person who could help with that: Stewart.

So I called him, said, ‘I need your help.’

A pause. My requests tended to get people hurt and he had the sore head to prove it.

He said, ‘Jack, you’re forgetting something.’

‘That you got hurt already?’

Almost a laugh, then, ‘No Jack, the item you’re big on yourself — manners. Like, please .’

Jesus. I said, ‘Please?’

‘You sure hate that, Jack, don’t you? Come round, I’m near finished my meditation so I should be grounded enough, even for you.’

I clicked off. Was that insulting?

The Xanax answered, ‘Who gives a fuck?’

I liked that answer and I loved this drug.

I was due to meet with Stewart that evening and was amazed I didn’t need a drink. The Xanax had me chilled. I had no illusions that it too would come with some major price tag. I’d seen photos of major stars heading for rehab after — what’s the buzz word? — yeah, dabbling . They still looked better than me in all me years of no booze so I’d pay the chit, as I always did. But for now, it kept me off the booze and for that I was, if not grateful, at least relieved.

An added bonus: I could read again. The hangovers had been getting so bad, I was unable even to do that. So I took a trip down to Charly Byrnes. Jeez, how long since I’d seen Vinny? Too long.

He was behind the counter, long dark hair nigh covering his face, as per usual, and telling an old lady, ‘You bring the books in, I’ll look after you.’

You could tell she didn’t give a toss about the books, but Vinny looking after her. . he had the gift and the thing is, he meant it.

She floated out of the shop.

I said, ‘You never lost it.’

He turned. Took him a moment, then, ‘Jack! I thought you’d left us, gone to America?’

I went with the familiar. ‘Ah, you can’t get rid of a bad thing.’

He nodded, a hundred things going on in that mind of his. ‘So they keep telling me . You up for a coffee?’