Ken Bruen - Priest

No argument there, so I tried,

‘All I’ll do is watch. I get a lead on somebody, I tell you, you take it from there.’

‘You fucking bet I will.’

The ferocity stunned us both. Ridge, no stranger to temper, rarely resorted to obscenity and she put her hand to her mouth as if to staunch further outpourings, said,

‘I don’t like being scared.’

I nearly laughed but reined it in, asked,

‘Come on, Ridge, who does?’

She lifted the coffee pot, shook it, then poured some into a cup, swirled it round and put the cup back on the table.

‘You have any idea how it is for me, a woman in the Guards? They give out all this positive PR about us being an integral part. The truth is, they don’t ever see us bringing a hurley into a dark alley with a suspect, solving it “the old-fashioned way”.’

Having been both the recipient of the hurley and the one who wielded it, in alleys and elsewhere, I asked,

‘That it, what you want? Get some thug in a lane, give him the lesson of the hurley?’

She didn’t bother replying, continued,

‘And being gay, don’t even go there. I have to fight that discrimination every single day — the Ban Garda are worse than the men. But it’s who I am, what I want to do. If I’m scared from outside, I’ll never be able to continue.’

I didn’t feel a comment on her sexuality would be welcome, so asked,

‘What makes you so sure the threats come from outside?’

She looked at me with horror, said,

‘Oh no, I couldn’t deal with that. It has to be from outside the force, do you hear me? It can’t be a Guard.’

I let that go, said with a confidence I didn’t believe,

‘I’il sort it.’

When she jumped into agreeing with me, I added,

‘Anyway, who else have you got?’

Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to have a little reciprocation, I took out the sheet of paper with the three names Father Malachy had given me, laid it on the table, asked,

‘Can you do background on these guys for me?’

She picked up the list, disbelief on her face, went,

‘You can’t be — you’re working something.’

I kept my face neutral, insisted,

‘No, no, I promised a friend of mine I’d have them checked out, it’s an insurance gig.’

She wasn’t buying it, said,

‘You’re in no shape for this.’

I put out my hand for the list, snapped,

‘Fine, forget it.’

She folded the paper, said,

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

To get past the moment, I told her about Mrs Bailey, the legacy, the place on Merchant’s Road. She allowed herself a small smile, said,

‘You deserve some luck.’

Surprised me, it was as close to warmth as she’d ever come.

‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’

She was standing, ready to leave, and I felt our relationship might finally have inched forward. She said,

‘I didn’t say I was pleased, I said you deserved it. God knows, you never earned it.’

As I said. . inching forward.

Ridge had a house rented in Palmyra Park, en route to Salthill. I didn’t know how I could watch the house unobserved. If I sat in a car, sooner or later someone would call the Guards. Planting myself on the street was out of the question. There was a house directly opposite with a B amp;B sign. Decided to take a chance, rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was in her sixties, friendly and homely. I’d dressed to impress — blazer, white shirt, tie — said I’d be in town for a week, any vacancies?

She said,

‘God sent you.’

Which seemed an exaggeration, but definitely in my favour. I asked,

‘Busy?’

She raised her eyes to heaven, said,

‘Once the races are over, we’re in quare street.’

The Irish pronounce queer as quare and it’s not anything to do with Gay issues, it’s purely for the sound of the word, to give it a full and resounding flavour. We love to taste the vocabulary, swill it around the mouth, let it blossom out into full bloom.

I did the smart thing, got out my wallet, laid a wedge in her hands, said,

‘Would it be possible to have a room overlooking the street?’

She was staring at the money, said,

‘You can have any room you like, we haven’t had a sinner since Sunday.’

The tricky part. I tried,

‘I’ll be in my room a lot. I’m compiling a guide for the Tourist Board, so lots of paperwork. Some days I’ll be travelling and my assistant will be here, a young man, very presentable.’

She didn’t have a problem with this, asked about meals. I said a kettle would answer all our needs. Her name was Mrs Tyrell, she was a widow, and her daughter Mary helped with the B amp;B in addition to attending college. Then she rolled her eyes, said Mary was studying Arts, exclaimed,

‘Arts . . I wanted her to do Science, they’re crying out for them, but devil a bit of notice she pays. Fellas and pubs, that’s what she cares about. Pity they don’t give a degree in that.’

I smiled and she asked,

‘When can I expect you?’

‘Monday, how would that be?’

That would be fine, she agreed. We shook hands and I was out of there. I now found myself in the surreal position of having three homes, how mad does it get? Come out of the madhouse and live in three places — it made a kind of demented sense, didn’t it?

I walked towards the prom, easing the pain from my limp as I moved. Stopped for a moment, not crediting what I was seeing. Two Guards on mountain bikes! With safety helmets, leggings, the whole outdoor kit. An elderly woman had also stopped, said,

‘Will you look at the cut of them?’

She must have been seventy, with that permed hair they provide with your pension and wide blue eyes that age had deepened. Her accent was the pure Galwegian you rarely hear any more. A blend of sense and mischief, the hard edge loosened by the speed of the vowels, she made me yearn for a childhood I never had. I asked, keeping it local,

‘When did they start this crack?’

She watched them turn at Grattan Road, zip down towards Claddagh, said,

‘Ary, a few months ago. It was in the papers, how bikes would help them tackle crime better.’

‘You think it’s made any difference?’

It wasn’t a serious question, just the Irish oil to keep the conversation cooking. She looked at me as if I was stupid, said,

‘Can you see them chasing joyriders? A teenager, mad on cider, in a stolen car, going over a hundred and them bright sparks in pursuit. . on bikes?’

It was some picture. She added,

‘They don’t know their arse from their elbow.’

Which is as low as it gets. She was looking more closely at me, asked,

‘Do I know you?’

I put out my hand, said,

‘Jack Taylor.’

She took my hand in both of hers, asked,

‘Didn’t your mother just die?’

‘She did.’

‘Ah, God rest her, she was a saint.’

I tried not to curse. The saint label is usually trotted out when you’ve no idea who the person was. She muttered something I didn’t catch. For a dreadful moment, I thought she’d begun a decade of the Rosary, then,

‘She’s better off out of it.’

I nodded as I hadn’t a coherent reply. She said,

‘The town is gone to hell. That poor priest, they took the head off him.’

I said it was indeed awful, beyond belief, and trailed off in a cliche about God’s mysterious ways. That seemed to jolt her. She repeated,

‘Mystery. . There’s no mystery, I know who did it.’

Maybe I’d solve the case right there at a bus stop. I prompted,

‘You do?’

‘Them non-nationals, bringing voodoo and heathen rituals into a decent country.’