Ken Bruen - Priest

The words were chilling in their low tone.

I got a longing for Coyle’s. Brennan’s Yard was not my place. He asked,

‘You wired, Jack? Got a tape on me?’

My turn to smile, if of the bitter variety, said,

‘Only in the movies. But I’m wired all right, though not in the sense you mean.’

I was about to get up, order another coke, when he said,

‘The nun?’

I pretended not to hear, stalling for time, went,

‘What?’

‘The priest, Joyce, he was the boss, but she. . she ran everything, took care of the sacristy, knew how things worked. Shit, made them work.’

Took me a moment to see where this was going, then I asked,

‘She knew what was going on?’

He nodded, a picture of resigned acceptance, said,

‘Sister Mary Joseph — she loved ice cream. I went to her for help, can you believe it?’

He wasn’t expecting an answer and I didn’t attempt one. He continued,

‘Like she was going to betray her idol. She boxed my ears. Ice cream, she got off on it. I guess if you forsake all other pleasures, what remains contains the heat of all the others.’

Who was I to argue? He asked,

‘Do you remember your description of brave . . the time you were in my office, you were describing the bronze bull?’

I nodded, seeing John Behan’s beautiful craft. He asked,

‘You think there’s any bravery any more?’

I didn’t, but for something to say, said,

‘Yeah, maybe. When you do the one thing you don’t want to do, that you should have done a long time ago.’

He was considering something. Then,

‘I had this vision, this grand city on the Corrib, the city of the tribes that would be the equal of anywhere on earth. My father would have been proud, but you know what, Jack?’

I didn’t, so didn’t say anything. He continued,

‘Every great vision requires a great sacrifice, and to see your vision fulfilled, to burn so that it can be realized, that might be worth a man’s life. Do you think that is possible? And if you save your sister too — that’s worth a life, you think? If that nun makes those allegations, my sister would be destroyed. My father never liked me, but on his deathbed he made me promise, no matter what the cost, I was to mind her.’

I wish now I’d said anything else, but oh God, here is what I said.

‘Your father is dead.’

He may have added,

‘Not to me.’

But that’s probably fanciful. I only know his speech would burn my soul.

I stood, time to head, and he stared at me, then,

‘You think, Jack, given a different set of circumstances, we might have been friends?’

I told the truth, fuck it. ‘No.’

He held out his hand, more in hope than anticipation, said,

‘Good luck, Jack.’

Then,

‘I like the jacket. Hugo Boss, is it?’

I took his hand, felt the wetness from anxiety, said,

‘Good luck to you, too.’

His face spread in a wide grin.

‘I think it’s a little late for me, but thanks for the sentiment.’

The man had lured the nun with the promise of money for the Church. He strangled her in the car — it didn’t take long, she seemed to almost accept it with resignation, no struggle, as if it was the penance she’d been waiting for.

He muttered,

‘You had to mention my sister, didn’t you? You crowd, you think you can destroy anyone you like.’

In the early hours of the morning, he’d taken her body to Spanish Arch. It was quiet then, nobody around, all the action across the water in Quay Street. Only the swans paid attention, as if he’d come to feed them. In a way he had.

He let her slide into the water and four swans swam over to investigate. He watched for a moment as she slipped beneath the water, a swan dipping its beak with short furious movements at the nun’s habit.

Then he turned quickly, got in his car, headed out of the city.

There was a granite wall past Spiddal, built in penal times and still as solid as hatred. He accelerated as he approached, not seeing the wall but a grand city, his city, perhaps a bronze statue by John Behan commemorating the man who’d brought it about, a veritable emperor, who’d given his life for it, the shining light in the darkness of Europe. He screamed,

‘The Emperor of Ice Cream.’

The car hit the wall at over a hundred miles an hour, the impact waking people from miles around.

I riffled through the books Vinny had given me. It was a long time before I’d examined the full range of titles Vinny had provided, and nigh lost among the mysteries was this: Blake Morrison’s And When Did You Last See Your Father?

I selected some poetry and tried to read, but what poet, what lines? I can’t recall. I do remember believing I’d found the answer to anxiety. Gave the credit to literature and didn’t acknowledge the dual longing in my heart for a child and yes, whisper it. . Ridge. Still having dreams of her. I thought those dreams were the reason I was feeling feverish, worn out, wheezy. Got some Night Nurse, the pharmacist cautioning,

‘Don’t mix alcohol with that.’

Oh gee, really?

Doesn’t get any more Irish than that.

I caught a bad bout of flu. I’m not saying it was connected to reading poetry, but books are dangerous, ask any redneck.

I’d no idea where my investigation had been going to take me, save the docks. I went into a sort of emotional meltdown, as if I was behind glass. Nothing really registering, like I was a spectator at events that were unfolding and I was powerless to prevent.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Once I heard a woman in Claddagh roar,

‘Can I just have one lousy blessing that’s not in disguise?’

What saved me from total fade was Cody. He arrived at my apartment, waving tickets.

‘I’ve got us the stand for the match.’

The match.

The much-heralded hurling game. I didn’t want to go, but Cody said,

‘I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t know much about hurling. Will you explain it?’

So I went, and had a great day.

Great days and me are not often in the same sentence, much less the same neighbourhood. The day was one of those gorgeous crisp fresh ones, the type of day when you think that everything is going to be OK, not wonderful but in the zone. The match was a cracker. We roared like mad fellas, bought scarves and wore them with pride, had a fryup in the Galleon, one of the last real cafes in the country.

When I was heading home, Cody saying he’d had a brilliant day, that it was gifted, mighty, I very nearly gave him a hug. I realized the fog had lifted. The psychic shutters that had been blinding me were up and light was streaming in.

What I remember about that day is seeing fathers with their sons at the game and feeling part of that. It was, I hate to say it, downright intoxicating.

Back at my apartment, I met removal men and then the tenant who busted my balls. He tried to duck me. I asked,

‘What’s happening, bro?’

The bro was purely the bad drop in me. He tried to stand with his shoulders erect, but his face betrayed him, a blend of fear and trepidation. He said,

‘I’m moving.’

So I went for it.

‘Why?’

He nearly rose to indignation but flunked it, said,

‘This neighbourhood is no longer what it was.’

I offered to take the box he was carrying but he held it like a rosary at a wake. Near hysterical, he shouted,

‘I don’t think your help is what I need.’

I smiled, kept moving, added,

‘Drop a card when you land.’