Ken Bruen - Priest

‘Oh.’

A bus was approaching and she flagged it, said,

‘Mark my words, you’ll find a black fella did it.’

As she got on the bus, she added,

‘I’ll say a prayer for your mother, the poor creature. None of us safe in our beds. .’

Guards on bikes. When I was a child, Galway was more a village than a town. Certainly in its mentality. There was a Guard, Hannon, who’d patrol our area, he had a bike with an actual basket. He’d do his shopping, then spin around the streets, stop, have a chat with somebody. He’d be perched on the bike, one leg on the path as ballast, clips to the ends of his pants to prevent them from catching. Crime was very low key — a murder would get national headlines for weeks. Now they can’t keep pace with the numbers.

The priest also had a bike, he’d use it when collecting the parish dues. His word was law, he’d more power than any Guard. Who could have foretold the massive fall from grace?

I walked on to Salthill, the heat increasing. Europe was suffering from impossibly high temperatures and we were getting the tail end of it. Passed a young woman dressed in shorts and singlet. Her skin was red as a lobster, I could already see blisters forming. I wanted to suggest she cover up but she caught my look, glared at me. I said nothing.

Salthill was packed, ice-cream vendors making a huge profit. A and E departments were urging people to be careful and staff were already overrun with cases of sunstroke. Telling people in Ireland to be wary of the sun was as alien as bacon without cabbage. Lots of men in the Irish fashion for hot weather: baggy shorts, white legs and sandals. Worse, if such were possible, sandals with thick woollen socks.

Standing over the beach, I saw acres of white and whiter flesh, skin that seemed never to have experienced the sun. I was seized with the compulsion to drink a cold pint of lager, beads of moisture clinging to the rim, bubbles dancing along the side. Two, three, I’d hammer them and the following ten minutes would be relief beyond understanding. I turned and headed back to town, sweat drenching my shirt.

The rest of the day I spent in a frenzy of activity. Bought chairs, table, bookcase, electric kettle, blankets, sheets, and had them delivered. Arranged for a phone and electricity. Met one of the neighbours, who asked,

‘Are you moving in?’

He looked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. I said,

‘Yes.’

He took a deep and yes, angry, breath, said,

‘This is a quiet house.’

And was gone before I could wallop him. What? I looked like a party animal? Fuck him.

Nine in the evening, I was near moved in. The phone was set, I had the furniture and, best of all, I didn’t have a drink. Rang Cody, arranged to meet him the next morning. I spent the night in the Granary, stayed away from the window — that view was lodged in my soul, I couldn’t bear to watch it for one last time. In bed at ten, knackered, and my dreams involved lager-swilling priests on bikes.

When I woke, I packed my few things, went out the door and, in true macho pose, didn’t look back, not once.

‘Jeff is gone.’

I was meeting with Cody in the new coffee bar at Jury’s. They’d a menu of designer blends on display. Cody was wearing a bright tan leather jacket with a T-shirt proclaiming

We rock.

His hair was awash with gel and his opening remark was the above. Before I could reply, he said,

‘He hasn’t been seen for five days. Though he was part of the drinking school, he didn’t really belong.’

I wanted to ask who did, but he continued,

‘I checked the Simon Community, the hospitals, even the morgue, but no trace of him. That pub he owned, Nestor’s, is up for sale. A guy working there hasn’t seen your friend for months.’

Your friend — that burned. Whatever else, I hadn’t been much of that. Cody added,

‘The wife, Cathy. . is in Galway. .’

He let that hang there to see how I’d respond, and when I didn’t, he continued,

‘I spread some money around the drinking school, left my phone number, said there’d be more if they had any news.’

He considered this, then,

‘But homeless people, drinkers, they’re not going to have a huge concentration span.’

I was impressed at his diligence, how he’d covered all the bases.

‘You’ve done good work.’

He gave a knowing smile, said,

‘I was born for this gig.’

The waitress asked what we’d have and Cody said,

‘Black coffee, a pot of the stuff, right Jack?’

‘Why not?’

He reached in his jacket, produced a business card, handed it to me.

Like this:

Taylor and Cody

Investigations

No divorce work.

And five — count them — phone numbers. On the top right-hand corner was what looked suspiciously like a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker. I hoped not. He was watching my face, couldn’t wait, blurted,

‘I put your name first, you being the senior operative, and see, the divorce stuff shows we’re serious, only primo gigs.’

I hadn’t words to match my astonishment.

‘You. . We. . have five numbers?’

He was shaking his head, going,

‘Naw, I only have my mobile, but it looks good and you, you have to get a mobile.’

I began to shove the card back to him. He said,

‘No, no, I’ve another five hundred. That’s for you, the very first off the press. This is the moment.’

I was afraid he was going to explain. He did.

‘The moment. . Jack. . when you stepped up to the base, when what you called finding became a pro outfit.’

The coffee came, thank Christ, deferring an opinion from me. Cody gave the girl a radiant smile. At least he hadn’t given her a card — not yet — said,

‘That’ll hit the spot.’

I produced an envelope, handed it over, said,

‘You’ve earned this.’

He took it, put it in his jacket, said,

‘I didn’t expect a salary yet.’

Yet?

He poured the coffee, raised his cup, toasted,

‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’

I tried to pretend he hadn’t, covered with,

‘We have a new case.’

Case.

There, it was out, was that so bad? Oh yeah. Before he could nauseate me with an even worse cliche, I outlined the stalking of Ridge, the B amp;B we’d be occupying next week. If he’d been glowing before, he was lit up now.

‘We’re going undercover, I love it! We’ll need a camera and, of course, junk food. Stake-outs are hell, man, you need to maintain a sugar rush.’

Sounding like he’d been on numerous ones. I was afraid to raise the issue, said instead I’d take Monday, Tuesday and he could do the next two days, then we’d review the situation. He was filling his cup again, more caffeine for his already racing system, said,

‘Aye aye, skipper.’

I stared at him.

‘Cody, you’ve got to promise me something.’

‘Name and claim it, skip.’

‘Don’t ever call me skipper or any derivative.’

The oddest thing — that night I dreamed that Cody was my son, and I was delighted. When I woke, I could recall the dream in its entirety. Shook me head, asking me own self,

‘What’s with you?’

Wish-fulfilment?

Not having children is a burden you don’t even know you carry. You shrug it off, go ‘I’d be a lousy parent,’ or mutter about loss of freedom. But somewhere deep in the treacherous human psyche is the ache of loss. The worst kind of pain, to miss something you never had, and worse, never will. The heart wants what it will never hold. Though I’d need a drink to admit it, a lot of drinks, my fear was to end up like the consul in Under the Volcano, Lowry’s searing depiction of alcoholism at its truest and most ferocious. That after they threw me in the hole, they’d throw a dead dog in after me. That imaginary dead dog had howled through many of my worst nightmares.