Ken Bruen - Priest

I was thinking of my father, a time when my mother had been up to her usual shenanigans, causing havoc over the rent or some related issue. My father had whispered to me,

‘She means well.’

Never ceases to amaze me how we excuse the most despicable behaviour with that lie, and I have never believed for one friggin’ second that the mean-spirited mean well. But they do rely heavily on us excusing them and thus they have a mandate to continue their cycle of disguised malevolence. Cody, assuming I wasn’t paying attention, moved to my right side, blocking the sun.

I heard a crack, like the proverbial car backfiring.

Someone screamed,

‘Jesus, there’s a sniper. .’

The very spot I’d been in, where Cody now stood, that’s where the bullet hit. Took him in the chest. A second shot, tearing a hole an inch further up, and I remembered Cathy, her words,

‘Can’t seem to get that head shot, my aim is low.’

How fitting, I thought, that I was in Kennedy Park. A man was shouting,

‘Call an ambulance!’

Blood splatters were strewn on my shiny jacket.

Then another voice, concerned, knowing, going,

‘No, call. . a. . priest.’

There’s irony for you. If I could have laughed, I would, but my throat was choked. I’d wanted to say,

‘Well, this day is shot to hell.’

I knelt by Cody, his blood oozing through my hands. A woman behind me was keening, Oh, Sweet Jesus. She began to massage my shoulder — it annoyed me, a lot. There was slight pressure from Cody’s hand, he was trying to squeeze mine but it was fading.

My eyes were wet. I thought first it was blood then realized it was tears. The woman was massaging my shoulder still and I heard her say to someone, I think I heard her say, It’s his son. I do know she continued to knead my shoulder.