Ken Bruen - Priest

I smiled, asked,

‘How are you?’

Her face lit up, much like the top row of candles. Excitement in her eyes, she exclaimed,

‘Isn’t it great?’

What?

I was lost, went,

‘I’m lost.’

She moved in close, as if eavesdroppers were everywhere, which in Ireland they probably were, near whispered,

‘About our legacy.’

My face was showing my confusion and she said,

‘Mrs Bailey had no children, no close ties. So she left me money and before she died, may she rest in peace, she told me she was leaving you a small flat and money.’

I was stunned, lost for words. Janet rooted in a brand-new leather handbag — the result of the legacy, I suspected — found a business card, handed it over, said,

‘That’s the solicitor, he’s anxious to hear from you.’

I read the name:

Terence Brown

Family solicitor with four phone lines.

I said,

‘I’ll call him.’

Janet was smiling, but with a sadness in her eyes said,

‘Mrs Bailey said you’d been a great help to her, and she worried about you having a home.’

I had to ask,

‘Where is she buried?’

‘Fort Hill, beside her husband.’

There are three cemeteries in Galway: Bohermore, Rahoon and Fort Hill. I had friends and family in the first two. Few people were buried in the third any more, you had to be very old Galway. Even in death, there are categories. Janet checked a new gold watch, said,

‘I’ll have to go, Mr Taylor, get my husband’s dinner.’

I’d never met him but asked,

‘How is he keeping?’

Her reply contained all the casual warmth and affection of a lost era, almost thrown away in its simplicity.

‘Sure what would be wrong with him? We have Sky Sports, there’s not a brack on him.’

Another hug and she was gone. I hadn’t said we’d be seeing each other — our relationship didn’t entail commitment. I shook myself, amazed at how my day was shaping. Not yet noon and I’d a job, perhaps a home and even the prospect of money. What it did was make me want to celebrate, and I’d only ever known one way to do that.

Drink.

I walked up to Eyre Square, took a seat near the fountain, let the sun wash over me, wondered to whom should I say thanks.

The Square was hopping.

Backpackers

Office workers

Children

Apprentice hooligans

Winos

The homeless.

Time was, Buckfast was the very bottom of the booze chain. Regarded as but a notch above meths, known as the Wino’s choice. . cheap and potent. Lately, teenagers had discovered if you mixed it with Red Bull and a shot of cider, you got wasted. This new popularity had caused a price hike. Under my bench, I counted four empty bottles. Had I ever drunk it?

Undoubtedly.

Near the pay-toilets, a drinking school was huddled. A bunch of men and women, ragged, dirty, subdued. At intervals, they’d send forth an emissary to perform the ‘beg’. The rules of the school were simple: don’t return empty handed. On a bench beside them, one of their number sat alone, his head down. A tremor discernible across the distance. He shook his head and something in the movement chilled my heart. I got up, began to approach. The school, seeing me, sent a scout who went,

‘Spare change for a cup of tea, Sir?’

I waved him off and he veered to my left, targeted a German couple scanning a map.

I stood over the man, went,

‘Jeff?’

No answer, then slowly his head came up, the once fine long hair now knotted, dirty. Sores lined his mouth, a fading bruise covered his left eye. An odour rose from his body, a mix of urine, damp and decay. He focused, croaked,

‘Jack?’

I wanted to embrace him, get him a bath, fresh clothes. I asked,

‘What can I do, buddy?’

I didn’t hear his reply and leaned closer. His breath smelled like a dead horse. He muttered,

‘Go fuck yourself, Jack Taylor.’

I reeled back and he tried to straighten, then spat near my foot, said,

‘Killed my golden child.’

The weirdest thing had happened. The night before, I’d dreamed of Ridge, and though it kills me to say it, in a, Jesus, romantic way. How fucked is that?

In the dream, she was in my arms and I was holding her as tight as a rosary. She turned her face for me to kiss her and then. . Oh God, I woke up, feeling guilty, exhilarated, confused, angry — the usual morning baggage. Worse, I could still sense her touch in my arms and missed it. There’s no fool like an old sodden one. I think my face reddened as I realized I’d been happy.

Of all the screwed-up notions to get, this was among the worst. I was what? Going to fall in love with the one woman who was totally unavailable to me on every level. I hated meself more in those few moments than usual, and I had a very full quota of self-loathing. I resolved to bite down on whatever crazy impulse this was and to extinguish it at every possible moment. If I was ever insane enough to share this mad dream with her, I could just picture her face, full of pity and disgust. That picture will wipe out love fairly fast.

It unnerved me and that’s the holy all of it.

I got hold of the dictionary, looked up the word I needed and yeah, it fit.

Armed thus, I used it aloud, muttered,

‘’Twas nothing but an aberration.’

Did that help?

Yeah, right.

There is one cure for most ailments, a sure-fire method to jolt you back to reality, and it’s so Irish, it’s like a cliche, or worse, an Irish joke.

It’s the graveyard.

Fort Hill is close to the docks. You look north and the Radisson Hotel looms close. Lough Atalia spreads out before the entrance to the graveyard. I’d bought a bunch of flowers — red and white roses — and, self-conscious, crammed them into a holdall. It was another fine day. At this rate, we might have the makings of a half-assed summer. Course, the rain is never far behind, but it lures you into a false sense of security. Buy new summer gear and presto, winter arrives in the middle of June. We do get all the seasons in Ireland, it’s just they all arrive on the same day.

I moved among the graves till I found a small marker with

Mrs Bailey.

A headstone, if there was to be one, wouldn’t go up for a year. Withered wreaths lay in the area. I added my crushed roses — if nothing else, they brought a flash of colour. I never knew what to do at a graveside. Do you kneel or stand, look solemn. . what? I muttered,

‘You were a real lady of real class.’

Does that qualify as a prayer? It was at least the truth. I saw a figure in black approaching and said,

‘Priest at nine o’ clock.’

As he drew near, I saw him draw deep on a cig then flick the butt into a cluster of headstones. I’d wanted a cig badly but felt you didn’t smoke in a churchyard. I recognized him — Father Malachy, my mother’s constant companion.

In Ireland, there’s a curious. . what am I saying? The whole country is crammed with oddities. Among them is the single woman/priest phenomenon. Females of a certain age — over fifty, usually — adopt a priest, become his constant companion and no one seems to question it. Try adopting a nun. The assumption is made that it is above board. In truth, it rarely seems to be sexual, but how the hell would I know? What I do know is that it is accepted.

Some women get pets, others opt for tame clergy. Malachy belonged to my mother, as if they were joined at the hip. They certainly agreed on one thing, that I was a

Loser

Drunkard

Ne’er-do-well

Blackguard.

Friendships have flourished on less.