Ken Bruen - Priest

A fella passing quipped,

‘Don’t do it, tomorrow’s another day.’

I thought I’d need that in writing.

Everyone’s a comic, and in Galway, more comics than most anywhere. I sighed. I lit a cig from a box of safety matches, flicked the match over and watched it drift towards the water. I could see three fine salmon, their gills moving easily. Pollution was killing more and more of them.

Two men approached, weaving slightly. I recognized them from Jeff’s pub. I’d usually nod, say hello, nothing too personal. The rules of pub behaviour — you could see a guy for twenty years thus and never trade more than a handful of sentences.

The rules were off.

Because they were drunk. The other side of a feed of Guinness, Jameson chasers, how I drank myself. The first, in a grubby Aran sweater, was your good-natured drunk — a few pints, everyone was his mate. The second, a different animal. Wearing a Mayo football shirt, he was mean and primed. Booze only justified a rage that he wore always. Aran said,

‘Taylor! I thought you’d left the country.’

The other glared. I said,

‘Keeping a low profile.’

Mayo looked like he was going to spit, had hawked a mouthful of phlegm, was swirling it, said,

‘Hiding out, more like.’

I knew what was coming, turned round to face him, asked,

‘What’s that mean?’

He spat close to my shoe, looked at Aran, decided it was safe, said,

‘You killed a kid, hadn’t the balls to face people.’

I hit him high on the chest, above the heart. Taught to me on the streets of Armagh by a Sinn Fein activist, it’s a sucker punch. Bring the strength from your feet, brace your toes and use an easy flow to let it travel almost lazily with maximum impact. His mouth opened in a slight ‘O’ and he sank to his knees, a dull sheen to his eyes. I had to forcibly restrain my shoe from connecting with his head. Christ, I so wanted to finish the job.

Aran was stunned, muttered,

‘Jesus, Jack.’

My first name now? Violence begets respect.

I flicked my cig high above the bridge, cool or what? I put a man down but never dropped the cig, surely that impresses someone? I turned and walked away. The violence began to leak, seep from my pores. At Eyre Square, I had to sit down, as the inevitable shakes and drained vibe hit. Across the square, I could see the Skeff, like a beacon. I could make it over, hammer in a large Paddy, chill on easy. I nearly smiled. I’d just hammered a small Paddy.

Next morning I woke, amazed to be sober. Oh, I’d wanted to drink, and so badly, to submerge in Jameson for ever. Got out of bed and tried to figure out what the hell the noise was, surrounding me. Then I realized — the water, like a train heard in the distance. I’d been reared in Galway, between canals, close to the ocean, but had never consciously heard it. The old mill and the proximity intensified the sound. It was comforting, like a prayer you know is about to be answered. I showered, shaved, put on a clean white shirt, newish jeans I couldn’t recall buying, and brewed up a steam of coffee. Took the mug to the table, sat. If I’d gone to the window, I knew I was likely to spend hours staring at the bay. The view had a soporific, mesmerizing effect, not too distant from healing, a visual therapy.

I thought of the incident the night before and resolved to curb my rage, if I could. Else I’d spend my time beating on people. How to re-enter life and act as if I wanted that? My previous years I’d spent as a half-assed private investi-gator, finding people, solutions, mostly fuelled on alcohol. Time after time, I’d been plunged into horror, disaster, and lost everyone I cared about. The list of my dead would cover a wall. Entertained that mad notion, get a red marker, list them all. The very idea gave me a shudder and I was up, pushing them away.

I turned the radio on, in time for the news. The top story was George Best. Only months since he received a new liver and he was drinking again. The operation had lasted thirteen hours and needed forty pints of blood. There’d been violent opposition to an alcoholic receiving the transplant. There were so many more deserving cases. An old debate, always volatile. . Why help an alkie when he’ll only drink again?

Various experts were giving their views/opinions on why he’d do such an insane thing. The whole report contained an air of bafflement as to his behaviour. I shouted,

‘What’s the matter with ye? He’s an alcoholic, what’s the bloody mystery?’

Realized I was dangerously angry. In the hospital, there’d been compulsory AA meetings. Catatonic as I was, they wheeled me along. I remembered the admonition — don’t get too angry, too lonely, too tired.

Switched the radio off, took a few deep breaths then got a pen, some paper and outlined my finances. Figured I’d enough to last a few weeks if I didn’t eat, so conclusion,

Get a job.

Then added

Get a life.

Could picture placing an ad in the paper, to go

Drunkard

Early fifties

Recently released from mental asylum

Seeks gainful employment.

Yeah, that’d work.

I got item 8234, my all-weather Garda coat, and headed out. I had no plan, which in itself was a whole new country. A slight drizzle was starting and I turned up my collar, my knee wasn’t aching so the limp was less apparent. Still, I took it slow and went over the canal, hit Quay Street from the wild end. Wild in the sense of it being where most revellers collapsed. Outside Jury’s, I recognized a tinker who’d recently settled. Moved from a caravan to a house. He was wearing a shiny black leather jacket and his black hair was awash with gel. These jackets were everywhere, a family of Romanians having snuck them into the country. His face was deep brown, lined from the elements and cigs. He fell into step beside me, muttered the Irish benediction,

‘Sorry for your trouble.’

A whole selection right there. Could be my mother’s death, the mental hospital, the tragedy of Jeff and Cathy’s child or my damn sorry existence. I played it vague, said,

‘Thanks, Mick.’

He had his hands buried in his pockets, said,

‘Isn’t it a hoor?’

I needed a little more to work on, so asked,

‘What’s that?’

‘We were beaten again, by one lousy point.’

Hurling.

I hadn’t even known Galway were playing, how removed was I? The sports channel doesn’t get a lot of viewers in the asylum — the big favourite are the soaps. Proves the patients need their meds upped. I did the Irish dance, asked,

‘And you’re keeping well?’

This neatly encapsulates

Family

Employment

Health.

He wheezed as if requested, took his right hand out of his pocket, reached to touch a Miraculous medal round his neck, said,

‘’Tis my chest, the fags have me killed.’

‘Did you try the patches?’

He shrugged off this nonsense, said,

‘They should bring out a patch for the drink.’

I thought Antabuse was much the same deal, but said,

‘Not a bad idea.’

He stopped, creased his eyes, said,

‘Man, if you had one, say of whiskey, you could just tap it — you’d have a drink without having to buy a bottle.’

I smiled and he said,

‘A fella could make a fortune.’

When brewers were already targeting teens with alcoholflavoured water and sundry varieties of ‘attractive’ liquor, I felt the country had enough methods of downing booze, but said nothing. In Ireland, no reply is taken for agreement. He asked,

‘You’ll have heard about Father Joyce?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cut the head off him, the poor bastard.’

I hadn’t a whole lot to add, so did the required, said,