Ken Bruen - Priest

‘Have you the names of the accusers?’

He reached in his pocket, took out a sheet of paper, laid it on the table, said,

‘I knew you’d help, Jack.’

I snapped,

‘Didn’t say I would.’

I thought I detected a rare smile, but it was gone before I could react. I took the paper, three names and addresses, asked,

‘Supposing, just supposing, I find the man, can even prove it. Then what?’

Malachy was standing.

‘We’ll hand him over to the authorities.’

Nothing in his eyes led me to believe there was a scrap of truth in that.

We went outside and the sun was still high in the sky. I turned to him, said,

‘You’re a bad liar.’

‘What?’

His face already confirming my intuition, I said,

‘This is nothing to do with the Archdiocese, that doesn’t make sense. It’s to do with you.’

He stared at his shoes, then,

‘I’m afraid.’

‘Why?’

It seemed he was close to hyperventilating.

‘I was accused. . Two years ago. . The same awful thing.’

Sweat popped out on his forehead, began to pool, then slowly ran in thin streams down his face, like the beads on a rosary and twice as significant. He was shaking.

‘Being a priest is like being crucified without a cross, you know that — raked with such longings. .’

The word longings carried such heavy sexual connotations that I moved back a step, my mind grappling with him doing. . stuff to boys.

He rushed on, desperate to get it out.

‘And sure, sometimes you’ll see a boy. . the innocence, they look like angels. . But I swear to Christ, on the grave of me dead mother, that I never touched one, not even to tousle his hair. You see a father with his son, he tosses his kid’s hair and ‘tis no big deal, but for us, to once. . to reach out your hand, to let your fingers caress him for just a moment, oh sweet Jaysus, you can’t. You do it once, you might never stop.’

A sob escaped him and I wondered if he had, maybe once, done just that. Steel in my voice, I accused him.

‘You pig, you did, didn’t you? You touched some boy, didn’t you?’

Grief racked his frame. The cig tumbled from his mouth, he turned to me, hell in his very eyes, and reached out his hand. I snapped,

‘Don’t ever think about it. I’ll take it off from the elbow — I’m not some altar boy.’

His face was all I’ve ever seen of pure and total suffering, and God knows I’ve seen it in most guises. He said, no, pleaded,

‘Jack, by all that’s holy, I might have thought about it, but I never — may I rot in damnation for all eternity if I speak a word of a lie — I never did.’

Now I lit a cig, didn’t offer him, kept steel in my voice, asked,

‘And?’

‘I was cleared. The boy withdrew the allegation, but mud sticks. If the killer is after priests who. . you know?’

It had to be said, so I said it.

‘If he’s after paedophiles.’

His head pulled back, as if I’d slapped him, then,

‘Yes.’

I began to walk away. He called,

‘Will you help, Jack?’

I didn’t know.

I didn’t even know if I believed him.

The altar boy had hidden the priest’s ten shillings under his mattress. His mother found it, accused him of stealing. He told her, tried to tell her about what the priest had done. She’d gotten the switch, a long cane cut at the end, and beaten him mercilessly, screaming,

‘You ever repeat that, I’ll take the head off you, do you hear me?’

Terence Brown, solicitor.

He looked like a ferret with anorexia.

He seemed aware of this and to be daring you to mention it.

I didn’t.

His office was situated on Long Walk and you could see the Atlantic from his window. The shriek of seagulls was clearly audible — always makes me want to cry or travel or both. He sat across a large desk from me and I looked round the room, my eyes resting on a wondrous sculpture of a bronze army. It was awesome in its starkness and majesty. He said,

‘John Behan.’

I nodded in appreciation. I’ve never craved material goods. You spend your life as a drunk, cash is the only goal and the real hangover cure. He shuffled some papers on his desk, said,

‘We were beginning to think you’d never show.’

I gave him my best smile — it had worked at the security gig.

‘I was otherwise detained.’

He leaned back and his leather chair creaked. Least I think it was the chair — if it was his back, he was seriously fucked. He made a tent of his fingers and added mmmmph sounds to the gesture. I’m intrigued by that, do they teach it in law school? It’s popular with

Bank Managers

Psychiatrists

Garda superintendents.

I’d witnessed it from psychopaths on two occasions. Cleared his throat, said,

‘Well, you’ll want to know your situation?’

‘That’d be great.’

Not the answer he expected but his agenda wasn’t high on my list of priorities. He began,

‘Mrs Bailey was an extremely shrewd woman. Oddly, she’d no living relatives.’

Permitted himself a small smile, displaying yellow teeth, the gums in galloping recession. It didn’t enhance his appeal. Then,

‘I suppose she outlived them all. Apart from small legacies to charity, there wasn’t any next of kin to give her estate to. This, of course, made probate fairly straightforward.’

I waited, if not patiently, at least with the appearance of it. He said,

‘In addition to a sizeable sum of money, she left you a small apartment in Merchant’s Road. It’s a top-floor unit, very basic, but need I say, a much-sought-after one, in terms of location. If you wish to sell, I can recommend a good firm.’

I stared at him, said,

‘I won’t be selling.’

Solicitors aren’t fond of snap decisions — where’s the fee in that? He gave me the tolerant legal smile, said,

‘You haven’t seen it yet.’

I enjoyed pissing him off, said,

‘Give me the keys, I’ll rectify that.’

I thought rectify might fly his kite. It didn’t. He sighed, passed over a set of keys, the address on a large label, asked,

‘If you give me your banking details, I’ll arrange for the funds to be transferred.’

Pause.

‘I take it you do have an account?’

You had to love this sanctimonious prick. I gave him the details. He said,

‘The property will be put in your name. If you can stop by next week, if your schedule allows, I’ll have the paper-work for you to sign.’

That was it.

I knew he took a dim view of me, but hell, what was new in that? We didn’t shake hands on my departure. I headed for Mocha Beans, figured I’d have a large cappuccino to celebrate. Maybe order a cherry muffin, shoot, the works. Got in there and yeah, it was jammed. I had to share a table with a middle-aged woman who was engrossed in the Irish Times. The headline screamed about more scandal in the Church. Five priests in Dublin were being investigated over allegations of abuse. Every day, new disclosures. The waitress came over, asked in an American accent,

‘And how are you doing today, Sir?’

Jesus, beyond cheerful. She’d a name tag: Debbie. I didn’t think I’d be using it, decided to forgo the muffin, said,

‘Large cappuccino please, no chocolate sprinkle.’

She seemed delighted with my choice, asked,

‘Something to go with that? A slice of Danish, fresh from the oven?’

The woman with the paper smiled and I said,

‘No, but thanks for the suggestion.’