Ken Bruen - Priest

It was all you knew of heaven. I remember pledging that when I grew up I’d live on french fries and 99s. We called fries chips — still do. Everything else is gone to hell in a basket.

As I pondered the dilemma, Liz Hackett came along, a stalwart of Roche’s. From Woodquay, she personified all that was best of Galway: friendly, warm, enquiring without being obtrusive. She said,

‘Jack Taylor, is it yourself?’

Questions don’t come any more Irish or welcoming. I agreed it was and she said,

‘I never had you down for an ice-cream lover.’

Which said what?

I nodded, then tried,

‘It’s not for me, it’s for a nun.’

If that sounded as odd to her as it did to me, she hid it well and I asked,

‘What flavour would a nun like?’

She looked at the display and asked,

‘What order is she?’

I had to check if she was kidding. She wasn’t, so I went,

‘What difference does that make?’

She adopted a patient tone, as if I wasn’t at fault for my ignorance, said,

‘Mercy nuns, they like plain. The Presentation ones, they like chocolate, and the enclosed orders, they’re not a bit fussy.’

I was staggered, asked,

‘How on earth do you know that?’

She gave a resigned smile, said,

‘If you’re in an enclosed order, ice cream is a very serious business.’

As I had no idea what order Sister Mary Joseph was, I was no more along. I glanced at the American brand, Ben and Jerry’s, said,

‘Something flashy.’

Liz wasn’t so sure, asked,

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

I wasn’t, but what the hell, what was she going to do. . complain? And did I give a toss as to whether she enjoyed it or not? Get real.

After some more discussion, Liz said if it was for herself, she’d splurge on Häagen-Dazs, the Strawberry Shortcake, and before I could ask, she added,

‘The makers, they were trying to come up with an exotic name and settled on Häagen-Dazs. It doesn’t mean anything.’

I knew far too much about the whole enterprise and said thanks to Liz. She added,

‘Mind yourself, won’t you?’

God preserve her, the dote.

I walked up St Patrick’s Avenue with a certain amount of trepidation, passing the stalker’s house, half expecting him to rush out. But all was quiet, if not on the Western Front, then in the avenue. At the church, I checked my watch — ten twenty-five — and noticed a guy sitting against the wall. Malachy wouldn’t be pleased to see him there. The sun was shining but a cold drop was in the air. The guy, dressed in denim, with a red kerchief round his neck which said he was French or affected, was reading a book and glanced up at my approach, said,

‘G’day mate.’

Australian.

I nodded and he held up the book, Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl, said,

‘Hell of a book.’

I asked,

‘Aren’t you cold there?’

Not that I gave a toss. He stretched, said,

‘Me? Don’t feel the cold. Ireland doesn’t really do cold, does it?’

Did my bit for the tourist board, said,

‘Not with any intent.’

He put the book away, said,

‘Got to get me some tucker. Recommend any place?’

‘The Puckan, on Forster Street, they do huge fry-ups.’

He licked his lips, rubbed his palms together, said,

‘Beauty, that’ll do me. See you, mate.’

And he was gone, his kerchief blowing in the wind, which reminded me of the rumour that Bob Dylan was coming to Galway next summer. Him I’d pay serious cash to see. I liked him because he was older than me. As long as Bob stayed ahead in age, I wasn’t yet due for the knacker’s yard. Mass let out and a trickle began to emerge, mainly old people, not looking very uplifted. I guess Malachy wasn’t the most charismatic of preachers. Ten minutes passed and I began to fret about the ice cream melting. Malachy appeared in a cloud of smoke and gruff ness, breezed past me and, when I didn’t follow, turned and barked,

‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Don’t we do hellos, a pretence of civility?’

He threw his cigarette away and immediately lit another, said,

‘I’m not feeling very civil.’

‘Gee, that’s new.’

I fell into step beside him and we headed for College Road. He glanced at the Roche’s bag, said,

‘That better not be alcohol.’

‘It’s ice cream, not that it’s any of your business.’

He stared at me, said,

‘It’s ten thirty in the morning, who eats it at that hour?’

I wanted to bash his ears, said,

‘I heard she likes a treat.’

He didn’t answer. We stopped at a house halfway up the hill and he asked,

‘Why don’t you drop this whole thing?’

I told him the truth. As Sean Connery said, you do that, then it’s their problem.

‘I can’t.’

He put a key in the door, said,

‘Well, I’ll be present during. . the. . interrogation. Bear in mind the poor woman is over seventy.’

I caught his wrist, didn’t dilute the anger in my voice, said,

‘You bear in mind a priest was beheaded and she knew the carry on of him. And no, you won’t be present. Do I have to threaten you again with the newspapers?’

We entered a small lounge with a huge picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall. The wooden floor was spotless, shining even. He roared,

‘Sister, we’re here.’

Cautioned me,

‘Mind your manners.’

I heard quiet footsteps and the nun came in. She was so nunnish, it was like a caricature. Wearing a heavy habit, with large silver crucifix adorning the front, the figure on the cross in ferocious agony. The habit was all the way to her shoes, those tiny black patent ones, not unlike the dancers in Riverdance. Her face was lineless, a beautiful complexion and blue troubled eyes. She was slightly stooped and gave a tiny smile, fear definitely in there. Malachy said,

‘Good morning, Sister. This is Jack Taylor, he just wants a few minutes of your time.’

I was amazed at his voice, not pleading but gentle, as if he was speaking to a backward, shy child. She looked at us, then asked,

‘Would ye like some tea? There’s a pot made and some soda bread, fresh from the oven.’

To rile Malachy, I nearly asked for a large Jameson, but he said,

‘I’ll be in the next room. You call, Sister, when you’re ready.’

Alarm hit her face as she realized she was going to be alone with me. He glared in my direction, patted her hand and left. I waited a moment then offered the soggy bag, said,

‘I was told you have a taste for this.’

She took the bag, didn’t look in it, said,

‘You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble, but God bless you, please take a seat.’

I did. She remained standing, poised for flight. I asked,

‘You knew Father Joyce, knew him well?’

No point in fucking around, I was on the clock and Malachy could pull the plug any minute. She winced, agreed she did. She wouldn’t meet my eyes and that irritated me, so I decided to focus her fast, rasped,

‘You were aware of what he was doing to those boys, the altar lads?’

Do nuns lie? I don’t see why not, but they probably don’t have a whole lot of opportunity. She gave a deep sigh, nodded. I had expected excuses. She was obviously using Sean Connery’s dictum too. I added some steel to my tone, said,

‘And you did nothing. You let him destroy those young people and you, what, watched?’

More harsh than I intended. Her face near crumpled and I saw tears in the corner of her eyes, but that wasn’t going to cut it. I added,