Ken Bruen - Priest

I looked across the desk. She added,

‘You were going into pubs, ordering shots of whiskey, pints of Guinness, arranging them neatly and simply staring at the glasses.’

She paused, to let the fact that I hadn’t actually drank sink in, then,

‘Your Ban Garda brought you here.’

She waited, so I said,

‘Fierce waste of drink.’

No laughter, not even a smile. She asked,

‘What is the nature of your. . friendship? With her.’

I nearly laughed, wanted to say confron-fucking-tational. But not an easy word to get your tongue round. When I said nothing, she said,

‘You’re leaving us tomorrow. Garda Ni Iomaire is coming to collect you. Do you feel you’re ready to leave?’

Did I?

I stubbed out the cigarette in a brass ashtray. It had a hurler in the centre, the words

G.A.A. ANNUAL CONVENTION.

I said,

‘I’m ready.’

She gauged me, then,

‘I’m going to give you my phone number and a prescription for some mild tranquillizers, to help you through the first few days. Don’t underestimate the difficulty of returning to the world.’

‘I won’t.’

She fiddled with her ring, said,

‘You should attend AA.’

‘Right.’

‘And stay out of pubs.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

A small smile. She stood, reached out her hand, said,

‘Good luck, Jack.’

I took her hand, said,

‘Thank you.’

I was at the door when she added,

‘I’m a Liverpool supporter.’

I nearly smiled.

That evening, I had my first real meal with the general population. The atmosphere in the canteen was muted, almost religious. Long tables with near a hundred patients gathered. The joys of medication. I got a plate of sausages, mashed spuds and black pudding. I could taste the food, nearly enjoy it, till the TV was turned on. It stood above the room, attached to steel girders, locked down. What? Someone was going to steal it? The opening ceremony of Ireland’s hosting of the Special Olympics. A wave of dizziness hit as the face of a special-needs child filled the screen. The reason I was here. Moving back from the table, I stood up. A woman with tangled black hair, nails bitten till blood had come, asked,

‘Can I have your grub?’

Palpitations in my chest. A line of sweat coursed down my back, drenching my shirt. Serena May, the only light in an increasingly darkening life.

Dead.

Three years of age and gone because I lost my grip, wasn’t paying attention. As I bolted from the refectory, a patient shouted,

‘Yo, chow down.’

In my terror, I thought he said, ‘Child down.’

Next morning I was packed, ready to leave. My holdall held trousers, one shirt and rosary beads.

The Irish survival kit.

Oh, and Pascal.

I went to find the black man, thank him for his help. I’d a pack of twenty cigs to give him. The doctor had included them with my tranquillizers. The black man was standing in the day room, staring at a newspaper. I mean staring as opposed to reading because the paper was upside-down. I’d learned his name was Solomon, went,

‘Solomon.’

No reply.

I hunkered down, tried again. He had slid down along the wall. Slowly, his eyes reached up and he asked,

‘I know you?’

‘Yes, you pulled me back, remember?’

I offered the cigs and he gave me a petulant look, said,

‘Don’t smoke, boss.’

I wanted to touch his hand, but he suddenly emitted a piercing scream, then said,

‘Fuck off, whitey.’

Later, months on, I rang the hospital to ask if maybe I might visit him, was told his deportation orders came through — the government was deporting eighty non-nationals a day. Using two wet sheets, freshly starched that morning, he hung himself in the laundry.

The new Ireland.

1953. The rectory of a Catholic church in Galway.

The priest was removing his vestments, the altar boy assisting him. The priest lifted the glass of wine, said,

‘Try this, you’ve been a good boy.’

The boy, seven years old, was afraid to refuse. It tasted sweet but put a warm glow in his stomach.

His bum hurt and the priest had given him half a crown. Later, leaving the church, the priest whispered,

‘Remember now, it’s our little secret.’

The nun was gathering up the song sheets. She loved this time of the morning, the sun streaming through the stained glass. Her habit felt heavy but she offered it for the souls in Purgatory. She found a ten-euro note in the end pew, was tempted to pocket it, buy a feast of ice cream. But blessing herself, she shoved it in the poor box. It slid in easily as the box was empty — who gave alms any more?

She noticed the door to the confessional ajar. Tut-tutting, she felt a tremor of annoyance. Father Joyce would have a fit if he saw that. He was a holy terror for order, ran the church like an army, God’s army. Moving quickly, she gently pulled the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Getting seriously irritated, she scuttled round to the other door and peered through the grille. Her scream could be heard all the way to Eyre Square.

Father Joyce’s severed head was placed on the floor of the confessional.

The land of saints and scholars was long gone. In an era of fading prosperity, the mugging of priests, rape of nuns was no longer a national horror. It was on the increase. The deluge of scandal enveloping the Church had caused the people to lose faith in the one institution that had seemed invulnerable.

But the decapitation of Father Joyce brought a gasp from the most hardened cynics. The Irish Tunes editorial began with,

‘We have been plunged into darkness.’

A leading Dublin drug lord offered a bounty for the capture of the killer. The Taoiseach gave a press conference asking for calm and understanding.

As if. .

Ridge arrived in a yellow Datsun. Seeing my expression, she went,

‘What?’

And we were back to our usual antagonistic relationship. The rare moments of warmth between us could be counted on the fingers of one hand, yet we continued to be joined together, our fates inexplicably bound despite our personal feelings. I smiled, wondering what had happened to basic civility, to a simple How you doing? gig. I said,

‘The car. . is it new?’

She was wearing tiny pearl earrings, a feature of Ban Gardai. Her face up close was plain but the vivacity of her eyes lent an allure. As usual, she was dressed a step above trailer trash, a small step. Penny’s most loyal customer. White cotton jeans and a red T-shirt, the number 7 above the left breast. I wondered briefly if it was a sign, a sign to back one number in the lottery. Usually you got 5:1 on a single number. Dismissed it — superstition, the curse of my race.

You will never, and I mean never, catch an Irish person walking under a ladder or not crossing their fingers during a hurling match. Doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s as genetic, as casual as the use of the Lord’s name. Sure it’s bollocks but it’s inevitable. She was instantly angry, shot back,

‘Is that a dig?’

Meaning her sexual orientation. She was gay. I sighed, put my holdall on my shoulder, said,

‘Fuck it, I’ll hitch.’

‘Don’t you curse at me, Jack Taylor. Now get in the car.’

I did.

We drove in silence for almost ten minutes. She ground through the gear changes with ferocity, then,

‘I’ve been wondering. . After the. . events. . am, you went to the pub. .?’

She paused as she let a trailer enter a side road, continued,