Ken Bruen - Priest

‘May he rest in peace.’

Mick couldn’t resist, said,

‘Or. . pieces.’

Then, as if to take the harm out if it, added,

‘God forgive me.’

We’d reached Kenny’s Bookshop, a display of Irish literature in the window. I hadn’t read in months — maybe I’d be able to do so now. Mick said,

‘The fella who strangled the old nun, remember, two years ago?’

Not an event easily forgotten. I nodded and he said,

‘He got life. I saw him on TV yesterday — he didn’t look a bit sorry.’

Ireland had changed irrevocably. In my youth, the clergy had been bulletproof. Now it seemed to be open season. I asked,

‘Is that weather guy on TV3. . he still around?’

A forecaster who managed the impossible, made Irish weather seem decent.

Mick was delighted. I’d hit a home run, asked,

‘Do you like him? Isn’t he fucking gifted.’

The ultimate Irish accolade, bestowed rarely. The weather man had a cheesy American style of delivery, humanized the forecast. Sure, it was going to lash down but it wasn’t malicious, not like England. But hey, what could the weather do? It had to rain, it was Ireland, our birthright, kept the grass green and ensured we’d always have a grievance.

I asked Mick if he was all right for a few bob and he assured me he was good, but then in a serious vein went,

‘’Tis none of my business, but your poor mother’s grave, it’s in a shocking state.’

I didn’t want to go there, said,

‘Oh.’

He was being as careful as he could, but some issues had to be addressed. He continued,

‘I know you. . haven’t been. . well. . But you know, people talk.’

Like I gave a fuck. I said,

‘I appreciate your concern.’

I didn’t.

He wasn’t quite finished, said,

‘My cousin Tomas, he does graves, does a lovely job. I could have a word.’

I agreed, reached for my wallet. He blew it off, said,

‘Settle up another time. You have always been a friend to our people.’

Which might be the best epitaph I can get.

A week later, I went for a job interview, as a security guard. I knew how ridiculous this was — I was applying to mind buildings and I couldn’t mind myself. As my mother had been fond of saying, after I became a Guard,

‘Him! A Guard! He couldn’t mind mice at a crossroad.’

I have to admit that particular image always made me smile, not what she intended. In Ireland, possibly the greatest sin is to have ideas above your station. Notions, they’re called, to ‘lose the run of yourself, as they say. She ensured I never did.

The security office was located at the rear of the Augustinian church, close to Galway’s only sex shop. Tempting to say, keep your vices close. Yeah, we had our first sex emporium. They follow in the wake of the big boys: McDonald’s, River Island, Gap. I’m not sure of the implications, other than money, but they are the bottom feeders.

The sun was splitting the rocks. Europe was being blasted by a heatwave, England baking in the high thirties, Tony Blair feeling heat of a different kind as he clung to his ‘We’ll find weapons of mass destruction’ dogma. In Ireland, we had our own weapon of mass destruction.

Alcoholism.

I was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, a dark-blue tie, loosely fastened — that careless-swagger touch, black pressed pants, sensible black slip-on shoes. All purchased from the Vincent de Paul shop, cost me all of nine euro. The woman behind the counter held up the shirt to the light, looked at me, assessing, said,

‘That’ll be lovely on you.’

Well, it fit.

The shoes were too tight but a daily level of discomfort

Physical

Mental

And/or

Spiritual

was habitual.

Time was, when I read Thomas Merton, found uplift there. Not no more. A corrosive despair rendered him obsolete. What the shoes did was emphasize my limp. Perhaps I’d get the sympathy vote, be employed on a variation of the disabledvet syndrome. What I knew of security firms I’d mostly gleaned from my dead friend Brendan Cross. He’d once told me,

‘If you can stand up, you can be a security guard.’

I’d asked,

‘That’s it?’

‘Helps if you’re under seventy.’

The guy who interviewed me was definitely sixty. He’d obviously watched a lot of bad B movies, as a cigar stub, unlit, was lodged in the corner of his mouth. He rotated it slowly as he spoke, said,

‘I see from your application you were a Guard.’

I nodded, not volunteering further. That I’d been bounced wasn’t a selling point.

He made various grunts, whether of approval or not I couldn’t tell. To say my papers were sketchy was putting it mildly. He sighed, asked,

‘When can you start?’

‘Am. .’

‘You free today?’

I was free every day, but fuck, I hadn’t got my head ready to jump so fast. I said,

‘I’m moving house, could I start next week?’

He finally looked at me. I hoped the white shirt was strutting its stuff and I said,

‘Give you time to check my references.’

My referees were Ridge and a doctor who’d once set my broken fingers. The guy said,

‘Whatever.’

I realized the interview was over, stood, said,

‘Thank you for your time.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

I left, thinking,

‘I’m employed, just like that?’

Decided to go to the Augustinian, light a candle for all my dead. I used to bring my business to the Abbey but they’d priced themselves out of the market. Their rates for Mass Card signings had gone way up. At the church, I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water font, blessed myself, intoned . . In ainm an Athair. . the Lord’s Prayer in Irish. Mass was just concluding and there was a sizeable crowd. I went to St Jude’s shrine at the back and put some money in the box. I was sad to see the candles were now automated. You pressed a button and a light came on. What a shame. The whole deal of actually selecting a candle, lighting it, had been a ritual of comfort, as old as poverty. What next? Internet access, sit at home, light a candle on a website. I chose a position on the top right, hit the button, didn’t work. Tried three more. Nope. Hoped it wasn’t an omen, knelt and said,

‘For the repose of the souls of the dearly departed.’

Felt like a hypocrite. An old woman came in, put her coins in the box, hit a button and the whole top row lit up. She seemed delighted. I wanted a refund. Maybe I hadn’t put the right money in, was it exact fare only or was there a special offer, ten lights for only €;9.99? It was too complicated. I got out of there, a sense of unfulfilment in my heart.

Stood on the steps, the sun on my face, heard,

‘Mr Taylor? Mother of God, is it yourself?’

Janet, the chambermaid/pot walloper/all-round staff at Bailey’s Hotel. She had always looked as old as Mrs Bailey, got to be hitting late eighties. Wearing a Connemara shawl, she looked frail. Those shawls were made by hand, handed down from mother to daughter, a slice of living history. I said,

‘Janet.’

And she moved, gave me a full hug, said,

‘We heard you were in the madhouse.’

Paused, blushed, tried,

‘Oh heavens, I mean the hospital.’

I hugged her back, said,

‘I was but I’m OK now.’

She released me, uttered the closest thing to an Irish benediction.

‘Let me have a look at you.’

Centuries of care in that. And look they do, but with tenderness, concern. She said,

‘You need fattening up.’