Ken Bruen - Priest

‘Who are the tears for, yourself or the piece of garbage who called himself a priest?’

Now she looked at me and with a hint of anger in those blue eyes said,

‘It was different then, you have to understand. .’

I snapped,

‘Whoah, Sister, don’t tell me what I have to do. It’s a little late in the day for you to be decisive.’

She recoiled, my anger like something she had to physically move away from. The Lord knows, I’ve acted from rage far too often and the consequences have been ferocious. Spitting anger has informed most of my life, but the white-hot aggression I felt towards this old woman was new to me and I couldn’t rein it in. I wanted to make a dent in her ecclesiastical armour, force her to acknowledge her complicity.

I deliberately lowered my voice lest Malachy came charging in. I wasn’t finished with the poor creature yet, no way. I near spat,

‘When the Guards were investigating the murder, didn’t you feel compelled to contact them?’

She blessed herself, as if the ritual would protect her, muttered in Irish, Mathair an Iosa. . Mother of Jesus. She answered,

‘It wasn’t my place.’

I let her see the disgust in my face, asked,

‘And when the boys, the men, took action against the priest, when they made their claims of abuse, didn’t you feel you could speak then, or was it still not your place?’

She was in agony. I couldn’t care less, continued,

‘One of the boys, the one who loved to feed the swans, didn’t you think you could at least comfort him?’

Her eyes were weeping, her body giving silent shudders, and she said,

‘The poor lad, he was so small. I offered him chocolate.’

I exploded.

‘Chocolate! God Almighty, how magnificent of you! And that helped, did it? I’d say it really made everything OK. The next time the priest buggered him, he could think of chocolate, that it?’

The B-word near unravelled her and she got a look of total terror, as if she was reliving that moment, as if she could still see it. Maybe she could. She said,

‘He had a reaction, as if he was going to faint. His whole body shook, his eyes sunk in his head. .’

I cut her off, asked,

‘But you were able to ignore that, just carry on, business as usual, get those floors polished, arrange the flowers on the altar, really vital shit?’

I could hear Malachy coming — time up. She said,

‘I see that boy every day of my life.’

Then, as if she was gripped by prophecy, her eyes rolled in her head, like the visionaries do or the Ulster politicians in full flight, incanted,

‘A beheading. . look to the Bible. . Salome, the woman. . the woman it is you want.’

I turned away from her, muttered,

‘Blast you to hell.’

She had her head bowed, indicated the now sodden Roche’s bag, said,

‘Thank you for that.’

As Malachy hit the threshold, I said low enough for her, just her,

‘I hope it chokes you.’

Outside, Malachy asked,

‘Well, did you get what you came for?’

I felt soiled, quipped,

‘I think it went rather well.’

He lit a cigarette, stared at me, then,

‘I’ve never held a high opinion of you, but I never had you as a cleric-hater.’

To which I had no answer, asked,

‘You ever know a Father Gerald?’ and described him.

He waved his hand in dismissal.

‘Ah, a dipsomaniac, a rummy, a soak — like you, actually.’

When I didn’t rise to the bait, he added,

‘The man was brilliant, you know. Had a posting in the Vatican, could have gone all the way — the red hat, even. But something happened. There was talk of an exorcism, but I don’t put any stock in that. Like you, he was just feckless, pissed it all away. Alkies, you can’t save them, they’re the Devil’s own.’

I was too tired to go the distance and asked,

‘You ever listen to Steve Earle?’

‘When the missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land. They said “Let us pray.” We closed our eyes. When we opened them, we had the Bible and they had the land.’

This was said by Archbishop Tutu on a little historical irony in his country. I wish I’d remembered it when Malachy accused me of anti-clericalism.

There was a time, I’d been involved with the girls of the Magdalen Laundry. I’d been almost a regular Mass-goer, and if I remember, I wasn’t drinking or smoking. . Christ, what happened to me? The Mass had been a feature of regular comfort, a routine so alien I’d derived an almost peace. In Ireland, when an event of astonishing proportion occurs, we say, There must be a rib broke in the Devil.

His ribs seemed to be restored. The nun had mentioned the Bible — well, darkness was certainly stalking the land and a plague was upon our house.

Going after the nun, and going after her hard, made me feel cranked, but the downside comes and I had to ask,

‘You beat up on an old nun, what the hell is that about?’

The answer is/was. . rage.

Give me a few more minutes and I’d have been lashing out at her with fists. God Almighty, how far had I fallen? What next, mug old folk in their lonely homes? I needed a drink and badly. Heard my name called and here was Cody, carrying a large paper bag with the Brown Thomas logo on the front. What this said was ‘money’.

He had that bashful look and near stammered,

‘I hope I’m not out of line, but there was a sale in BTs and I had a few bob. I got this for you.’

He seemed mortified, pushed the bag at me and said,

‘Don’t be mad.’

And legged it.

It was a brown, three-quarter-length leather jacket, loads of pockets and on the front it said. . Boss.

I came as close to weeping in the street as I’ve ever been. You do that in Ireland and they think,

‘He started early.’

The hell with the shitty timetable, this was an emergency. I headed for Coyle’s but got sidetracked — met Bobby, a man I’d helped out a long time ago. I couldn’t recall what exactly I did but he seemed eternally grateful, grabbed my arm, said,

‘You’ve got to come for a jar.’

We chanced O’Neachtain’s, not a pub I’d frequent. Nothing wrong with it, in fact it has a lot going for it — old, has character — the problem is I know too many of the regulars, not a good idea for an alkie. Anonymity, even in your home town, has to be nourished, any small pocket you can carve, you do. Barely in the door and a near chorus of Hiya Jack began. Bobby ordered two pints of stout, Jameson chasers, and I decided to let the day go to ruin. We moved to a snug that shielded us from sight and we clinked glasses. I, yet again, didn’t touch the booze, just stared at it. Bobby, already two sheets to the ferocious wind, didn’t notice. He said,

‘I had a win on the Lotto.’

He was my age, well shattered from poteen, betting offices and a wife with a motor mouth. A cast in his right eye gave you the impression he was constantly winking, and it was disconcerting at the best of times. A few drinks, you winked back.

I didn’t know how much Bobby had won on the Lotto, but I guessed a bundle as various people made a point of sticking their heads over the partition and asking,

‘How you doing, Bobby? Want a pint, want crisps, peanuts?’

And he had the scent of money, that intangible aura of a winner, and if you could get close to him, have him know you, it might rub off.

He gave me a radiant smile, white smudge on his lip from the Guinness. He knew I understood, said,

‘Wankers, wouldn’t give me the time of day before.’