Ken Bruen - Priest

I said,

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella.’

I think I meant it, but good luck, you’re never sure if you’re not just the tiniest bit pissed that it ain’t you. He drank deep, belched, asked,

‘You OK for a few bob?’

Then laughed, said,

‘A few bob from Bobby, that’s rich — oops, another pun, two for one.’

I gave the polite laugh that suggests we move quickly on from this very unfunny line and said,

‘No, I’m good, thanks for asking.’

His face got grave and I wondered if I’d insulted him. He leaned close, said,

‘I don’t want those bowsies to hear, there’s a guy shouting the odds about doing you.’

I kept my alarm low and asked,

‘Who, why. . and especially where?’

I could smell his breath, the whiskey, the stout and. . cheese? He said,

‘Some Dublin git, he says he’s going to get a high-powered rifle and take you down.’

It sounded so American I laughed and said,

‘I know who it is, a pervert who was stalking a friend of mine. He’s all mouth, nothing to worry about.’

Bobby didn’t seem to agree, kept his concerned look, said,

‘Jesus, Jack, a fella is talking about rifles, you have to pay heed.’

I was truly amused and said,

‘Pub talk. I only worry about the guys who don’t talk about it and do get a rifle. Now that’s worth noting.’

Unbidden, the barman brought a fresh tray of drinks. When you win big, that’s the type of thing that happens, they know you’re good for it. Bobby changed tack, asked,

‘Want to know how much I won?’

Did I?

‘Only if you want to tell me.’

He did.

‘Three-quarters of a mil. .’

I whistled. He deserved it. Bobby was a guy who hadn’t had two pennies to jiggle on a tombstone, a life of scrimping and scraping, keeping the wolf from the door, dodging the rentman, putting everything on the slate and living from pillar to post.

I was glad for him.

He asked,

‘Guess how many millionaires the Lotto has made in Ireland?’

I had no idea, but he expected an answer, an attempt. He was paying the freight so I said,

‘Am. . a hundred?’

‘Eight hundred and fifty. Oh, fifty and three-quarters, if you include me.’

What do you say? I said the obvious,

‘Fuck.’

He was delighted, drank near half his fresh pint, said,

‘The newspaper did a survey on winners, and guess how many of them were happy, happy they won it?’

Tough question.

‘All of the lucky fuckers.’

He loved that, it was the right answer, in so far as it was the one he wanted. He exclaimed,

‘Almost none. Said it ruined their lives. Know why?’

This I knew.

‘Relatives.’

He was surprised, took a swig of Jameson to recoup, then,

‘You’re right. Caused ructions.’

So I had to ask,

‘And with you, did it cause. . ructions?’

His face fell and he looked on the verge of tears, said,

‘My wife got a heart attack two weeks after, isn’t that a whore of a thing?’

To put it mildly. I asked,

‘How is she now?’

‘Buried.’

Jesus.

He added,

‘In a very expensive casket, not that it matters a toss.’

We were silent then, staring at our drinks, pondering the vagaries of life, the sheer unfairness. Then he brightened, said,

‘I’m going to the Bahamas.’

‘Good for you.’

‘Want to come?’

Did I ever, said,

‘God, I’d love to, but I’m caught up in something here. Great offer, though.’

He looked into his empty glass, then,

‘I’ll probably never go. I’ve never been anywhere, what would I do?. . Drink. . I can do that here and at least I know the pint is solid.’

Words to mark the wisdom of the ages.

My cue to leave. The conversation was dipping into serious maudlin territory and wouldn’t improve so I stood, said,

‘Thanks a million. Oh, three-quarters anyway.’

He liked that a lot, actually shook hands with me, said,

‘I always liked you, Jack, even when you were a Guard.’

I looked at the untouched drink I was leaving behind. No doubt, I was seriously in need of treatment.

As I left, I saw a crowd of fellas saunter in, join him, telling him he was the best in the world.

As I headed across the Salmon Weir Bridge, I remembered the old name for it, the Bridge of Sighs, as it was the route from the courthouse to the old jail. I added my own small sigh to the generations that had gone before. Helped in no small measure by the tiny silver swan I could trace in the pocket of my jacket.

The next day I was hurting. You can’t be Irish and curse a nun and not hurt. And there was the ever-present rage for Michael Clare and his — what do the Americans call it? — dissing of me.

Still hoping to find Jeff, I was perched on a bench in Eyre Square, my leather creaking in its newness, the winos stirring to my right, a cluster preparing to swoop on some likely soft touch.

Eyre Square: my whole history and the history of the city enclosed here. In 1963, I was hoisted by my father to catch a glimpse of John F. Kennedy as he and Jackie passed in a motor parade. The very same car that in Dallas he would ride in for the last time. The Irish loved him. He seemed to shine, maybe he did, and no matter how his name was tarnished now, he was among our hierarchy. I’d once heard an old Claddagh woman say,

‘His halo still shines.’

Only Bill Clinton would grab the same slice of the Irish heart.

In the Middle Ages, this was a green just outside the main wall. The square was named for the mayor who in 1710 gave the land to the city. Now it contains Kennedy Park.

I stared at the rust-coloured fountain, built to celebrate the five-hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the city. It has sails to represent the Hooker ships that built the trade of the city. Always amuses Americans, who go,

‘Hookers!’

Add that we call cigarettes fags, and they are, dare I say, hooked. Behind me was Brown’s Doorway, from the seventeenth century, a reminder of the fourteen tribes that once ruled the town.

Maybe my favourite feature are the cannons from the Crimean War. They stand like UN observers, useless and obvious, serving nothing. The statue of our poet Padraig O’Conaire, a man fond of a bevy too, was about to be moved. The whole area was going to be revamped, Padraig consigned to a building site for eighteen months, alone and neglected, like the decent poets. He wrote in Irish, guaranteeing that he’d never be read. A woman with a young girl strolled by. The woman looked at me and I smiled. The little girl shouted at me,

‘Smile at your own wife.’

Even at that young age, Irish females are feisty, ready to bust your chops before you utter a word. They need to learn early to deal with the sulkiness of the male. I rubbed the patch on my arm, marvelling that with all the freight I’d been carrying, I hadn’t yet smoked. I’m loath to term it a miracle, but it was astonishing. A man was approaching, wearing a very battered leather coat. For one mad moment, I thought it might be the coat I’d brought back from London which had been stolen long ago. Shook my head, as if it was a mirage. The man recognized me and stopped.

Trade. The owner/barman from Coyle’s.

It was like seeing a vampire at noon. His face had the mottle of the habitual drinker. He was wearing a black tie, white shirt, black pants, looked almost respectable till you met the eyes and saw the faded life.

I asked,

‘How you doing?’

Sounding like Joey from Friends, which is not really to be recommended, if you’re Irish. He appraised me. If he saw something he liked, he wasn’t showing it. He asked,