Ken Bruen - Priest

He got it.

Sitting up straight, he wiped his mouth, went,

‘OK. I’m like you, Jack. A younger version, but definitely you. I grew up a few streets from where you were raised and in the same shitty poverty. The best cutlery is the only cutlery, am I right?’

I was still chewing on younger. You hit your fifties, your bad fifties, and someone brings up age you brace yourself for the onslaught. Whatever they have to say, you know from gut level, complimentary it won’t be.

He continued,

‘And see, like you, I love books, man. I read all the time — crime, right? I have two hundred books on crime and I’m going to read them all. And oh, yeah, I feed the swans. I applied to be a Guard and they turned me down.’

His face dissolved into misery. I snapped,

‘Why?’

‘Why do I feed the swans?’

Fuck, this was like pulling teeth, very stubborn teeth. I sighed, said,

‘No, why did they turn you down for the Guards?’

His face lit up again. He said,

‘I have a bad leg, me left one, hurt it playing sport, and isn’t that weird, you got your. . am. .’

‘Limp.’

‘Am, right, your. . injury from a hurley. Isn’t that serendipity?’

It was shite is what I thought. He went on,

‘I didn’t do very well at school. I don’t do authority, and your dad, he knew mine, they were on the Church Sodality together.’

Now I had him, said,

‘Wrong guy, buddy. My father, he never served on committees, especially Church ones. If you’d said my mother, you’d have been nearer the mark — she lived in the bloody place, should have been a nun.’

I could feel the old bitterness, the old resentment of her, like bile in my throat. He digested this, then continued,

‘I think he knew him, anyway. So with all we have in common, I think we should work together.’

‘And this would work, how?’

He was on his feet, pacing, excitement in his whole body.

‘I’d handle the field work and you could, like. .’

He tried to find the right word so I prompted,

‘Sleuth?’

‘What?’

‘To sleuth: to search for clues.’

He suspected I was mocking him, but went with it, uncertainty in his eyes.

‘Am, yes, the strategy and stuff. I’m, as you’ve seen, a hands-on kind of guy.’

He was so earnest I decided not to sling his ass out, said,

‘Why not?’

He couldn’t believe it, was actually lost for words. I said,

‘I’m going to be moving into a new. . pad. . in Merchant’s Road — you can report to me there. Meanwhile, here’s your. . am. . assignment.’

He looked round the place, asked,

‘You’re letting this go?’

‘Too conspicuous. Don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves.’

He loved that ourselves, went,

‘Gotcha.’

Then, as if he’d rehearsed, plunged,

‘I won’t need paying right off. Like, I’ll do it. .’

‘Pro bono.’

‘Pro what?’

My leg was aching, I wanted to lie down. ‘Here’s what I want you to do.’

He was all attention, his forehead scrunched.

‘There’s a group of winos at the Square, they’re based near the automatic toilets. .’

He leaped in,

‘I know them. You want me to go undercover, infiltrate them. I won’t shave, I’ll-’

‘Shut up.’

Like hitting a puppy. He looked so wounded, I said,

‘The first thing you got to do is learn to listen. Are you listening?’

He nodded miserably. Where did I get this shit? I continued,

‘There’s a guy — long grey hair in a ponytail, name of Jeff — he sits a little apart from the main cluster. I want you to find out how he’s doing and — here’s the tricky bit — to see how you can get him off the street.’

He wanted to ask a ton of questions, but I was in, asked,

‘You think you can handle that?’

‘Yeah, boss.’

‘OK, you got a phone number?’

He had a mobile and a land line. Cautioned about the land line as it was his parents’ home. I was afraid to ask if he still lived there. At least he didn’t have a business card, but it could only be a matter of time. As he prepared to leave, he suddenly hugged me. Truly, I was losing my grip, never anticipated it. He said,

‘We’re going to make some team.’

I didn’t doubt that for a minute.

My dreams were vivid, a macabre blend of kebabs, headless priests, a church without candles and a cemetery with pints of Guinness on the graves. I came to, gasping, covered in sweat, muttered,

‘Jesus.’

And dragged myself to the shower. Got it scalding, as if steam could erase the memories. I had no appetite but forced down some dry toast, got some coffee brewing. I didn’t want a cig but lit one anyway. Addiction wakes before you do, impatiently waiting, going ‘I’ve torture on hold for you.’

I had some serious thinking to do. The whole Cody deal stank to high heaven. As I replayed it, the thought struck me,

‘What if. . Jesus, what if he set up the muggers, the whole scene was planned, he’s in cahoots with the Guards?’

Then of course I’d be grateful, as I had been, and would agree to most anything he asked, like him being my partner. I’d never done the buddy gig. Lone wolf was my calling. And I had to ask meself, why did I agree?. . apart from gratitude. Was it boredom? Just not giving a toss?. . I truly didn’t know.

I did know he wasn’t what he seemed, the act of naive kid didn’t play. But I decided to let it run, else how would I discover his agenda? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer still, wasn’t that the line? He wasn’t my friend, that was for sure. If he was an enemy, I’d know soon enough.

Then I figured, what the hell? If nothing else, it was going to be interesting.

That figuring would very nearly be the death of me.

Turned on the radio, blast the silence. The news. A Vatican document was discovered by a Texan lawyer. Published in Latin, he called it a blueprint for deception and concealment. Sixty-nine pages, with the seal of Pope John XXIII, in 1962 it was sent to every bishop in the world.

Some postage.

It contained guidelines for bishops to deal discreetly with victims of abuse. Irish bishops were told to follow a policy of strictest secrecy. Excommunication was threatened if they spoke out. Victims, after making a complaint, were to take an oath of secrecy.

I got dressed, went out. My limp was pronounced — going down three flights of stairs didn’t help. At a shop across the street, I bought the papers and the woman said,

‘Nice morning for it.’

I hadn’t the energy to ask what, lest she tell me. Back up the stairs, I settled in the chair by the window and began to read. The Vatican revelations were front-page news. The Vatican document, called Crimine Solicitationes — instructions on proceeding in cases of solicitation — dealt with sexual abuse between a priest and a member of his congregation in the confessional.

I stopped reading, went and brewed some fresh coffee, thinking how Father Joyce had been beheaded in the confessional. The rage it required to sever the head would have to be ferocious. A shudder passed through me.

I returned reluctantly to the papers.

The document also covered ‘the worst crime of all’, which it described as an obscene act by a cleric with ‘youths of either sex’.

Was the killer out there, reading this?

The description youths tore at my guts, but worse was to follow. The next few words made me retch.

‘. . or with brute animals (Bestiality).’