Ken Bruen - Priest

He stared at me and I said,

‘Gonna miss you, bro. Party animals are hard to find.’

Gave myself a new assignment: find Jeff, and maybe see if I could work up the courage to approach Cathy. It would occupy my mind. Then I rang Ridge and persuaded her to meet me for a coffee.

We met in Java’s, neutral territory. I was amazed at how well she looked, dressed in a navy tracksuit, her eyes and hair shining. I said,

‘Dia go glor (God be praised). . you look great.’

She smiled, said,

‘I met someone.’

She was delighted I was using Irish, her language of birth. She inspected me — when an Irish woman does that, you are thoroughly scanned — went,

‘You’re sober.’

‘Today, anyway.’

I was going to add the rider, One more attempt, one more failure, but it had a whine to it. We actually had a civilized chat, then she confessed,

‘I never thought I’d hook up with anyone again.’

I was glad, genuinely so. Her hard edges were almost smooth. She leaned forward, said,

‘I did some checking on the. . stalker. . He was once picked up for possession of a high-powered rifle, but the case got thrown out.’

I shrugged, said,

‘He’s gone. He got a serious wake-up call. The likes of him, they find a rock to hide under.’

She wasn’t entirely convinced, said in Irish,

‘Bhi curamach (be careful).’

Outside, we stood, surprised by the near intimacy we’d achieved. A cold wind was building. She commented,

‘Winter’s coming.’

I said,

‘No biggie.’

And she laughed. Then we almost hugged. I said,

‘Be seeing you, Ni Iomaire.’

She nodded, said,

‘That’d be good.’

I kept going, picking up the pace, leaving her behind. The eerie bit, in my head was a priest I once heard in Christchurch singing the Exsultet. . and a woman behind me going,

‘Jaysus, that’s only lovely.’

* * *

The next few days, I stayed home, unplugged the phone, didn’t watch the news or listen to the radio. I just wanted time to rest, try and get some energy back. Got deep into reading. David Goodis, of course. Among the batch I got from Vinny was Eugene Izzi, his Invasions crammed between Dark Passage and Cassidy’s Girl.

If ever a noir writer died a noir death, it was him. In Chicago, he was found dangling from the window of a fourteen-storey office block, wearing a bullet-proof vest. In his pockets were

Brass knuckles

Tear gas

Threatening letters from a militia group.

The doors to his apartment were locked and a loaded gun lay beside his desk. Almost like a cosy English novel, but there the resemblance ended.

I could identify with the paranoia.

In my hand was the tiny silver swan.

A Tuesday morning, the feast of St Anthony, a knock at my door. I considered ignoring it, but if it was Ridge. . well hell, I got up, opened the door. A guy, seriously winded, holding a parcel, wheezed,

‘Man, this sucker is heavy. . And them stairs?’

He paused, asked,

‘You Jack Taylor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank Christ. I’d hate to have to lug this another yard.’

He handed the parcel to me and he was right, it had weight. I put it down and he produced a form, asked,

‘Sign here.’

I did.

He mopped his brow and I offered him a drink, looking for my wallet to tip. He shrugged it off, said,

‘Naw, I’d be pissing for a week.’

Which was a little more than I needed to know. He wouldn’t take the tip either, said,

‘Give it to the Poor Clares.’

I was going to tell him they’d a website but he was already wheezing away. I closed the door, put the parcel on the table, got a knife, tore the packing away, stood back.

John Behan’s bronze bull.

Took me a moment before I saw the white card under the bull’s feet. Picked it up. The lettering was in gothic script, read,

NUN

BUT

THE BRAVE.

Malachy had come to my apartment, and to say I was stunned is putting it mildly. He said,

‘I heard you had a new place so I brought a St Bridget’s Cross to keep the home safe.’

I offered him tea and he snapped,

‘Tea, you call that hospitality? Didn’t you ever hear of whetting a man’s whistle?’

I glared at him, said,

‘There is no booze here.’

He lit up a cig, didn’t ask if it was OK, despite me still on the patches. Then his eyes locked on the tiny silver swan nestling on the bookcase. He went,

‘How on earth did you get that?’

I was confused, asked,

‘What. . why?’

He’d gone pale, no mean feat when you have red ruddy cheeks, said,

‘In Father Joyce’s hand, when they found his body, that. . yoke. . was clutched there.’

The room spun as the implications dawned. There had only been two, both owned by Kate. I had to sit down, take a deep breath, then asked,

‘The nun, Sister Mary Joseph, is she all right?’

He was angry, said,

‘Ya eejit, she was found drowned. Must have fallen in when she was feeding the swans.’

I went for broke, asked,

‘Michael Clare?’

‘Him. .’

His tone full of bile, he said,

‘Crashed his car into a brick wall. Good riddance.’

And in an instant, it was clear. Michael Clare did for the nun, but Kate. . Kate did for Father Joyce. She had the strength, and leaving the swan behind — a form of poetic justice? Her version of admission — not to the world, but to Michael. Or maybe she had been careless. You sever a person’s head off, clear thinking is not going to be your strong suit.

I said,

‘I’d like you to go now.’

‘What? I just got here. Don’t you want me to bless the rooms?’

I stood up, said,

‘Shove your blessing.’

He considered squaring up, but said,

‘You just don’t have it in you to be civil, do you?’

Evelyn Waugh once said,

‘You don’t know how much nastier I would be if I hadn’t become a Catholic’

What I went with was Orwell’s line,

‘One cannot really be a Catholic and grown up.’

Nobody gets shot in Galway, I mean it just doesn’t happen. Least not yet. We are supposedly getting Starbucks soon, so anything is possible, but gunplay, no. Give it a year and who knows?

We’re not too far from the border and of course, theoretically, you could imagine on a clear fine night you can hear the sound.

But that’s fanciful, and whatever else, we don’t do a lot of wishful thinking. Knowing Kate went hunting pheasant, that the stalker had been arrested once for possession of a high-powered rifle, or that Cathy was mouthing off in the pubs about killing me didn’t make me pause or check rooftops. I was so glad to be sober, to be out and not even smoking, guns were not on my agenda.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with them but I was certainly not in the region where guns are expected.

Ridge had recently blessed me with,

‘Bhi curamach.’

Means ‘be careful’. . I wish I’d listened to her.

I was out for an early-morning walk, early being ten thirty, working the limp out of my leg. Had strolled through the town and got a notion to see the ocean. Checked my watch and knew a bus was due to leave in the next ten minutes. I reached the top of Eyre Square when from nowhere Cody appeared, fell into step beside me on my left side, said, glancing at the leather jacket,

‘You’re the boss.’

I smiled and he added,

‘I have a great idea for us.’

I never got to hear it.