Ken Bruen - Priest

I hadn’t seen him since the night on the bridge and, to be honest, I don’t think he’d once crossed my mind. A big man, he was again enclosed in a haze of nicotine. I’ve never seen such a dedicated smoker. Not that they appeared to give him any pleasure. On the contrary, they acted like an accelerant on his already short fuse. Watching him suck a cig was horribly fascinating. He drew on it with ferocity, his cheekbones bulging, his eyes near sunk in his head. The anti-smoking lobby could put him on their posters, he’d be a powerful deterrent. He said,

‘Taylor.’

I decided to use his full title, let a little edge in it, went,

‘Father Malachy.’

Threw him. He was wearing the obligatory black, the dog collar visible above a heavy black sweater. Sweat was rolling off him. I said,

‘I didn’t know this was your patch.’

We were obviously going to act as if the incident on the bridge had never occurred. Fine by me, denial was my strong suit.

‘I saw you coming in.’

‘And what, you followed me? Being tracked by a priest, I’m not sure it’s a good thing, not to mention a little unusual.’

Whatever was going on with him, it was making him very nervous. He said,

‘I need your help.’

The exact same words as before.

The words near strangled him, he had to force them out between his teeth. I wasn’t about to assist, said nothing. Left, as the psychologists say, the black hole, let him fill it. A plain-clothes Garda had once told me that silence is the best interrogation tool. People can’t stand it, they have to fill that void.

He did.

Rooted for his cigs, fired one up, asked,

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

And saw my face. He — who’d castigated me for years on the booze — tried to recover, faltered, altered,

‘I mean, tea. . or coffee. We can go to the Radisson, ’tis a fine hotel.’

They also had a no-smoking edict. The Services Industry was currently locked in a bitter fight with the Government. From 1 January 2004, smoking would be prohibited in pubs, restaurants, public buildings. The ban in the first two would, the industry claimed, kill tourism dead, not to mention local trade. Smokers couldn’t imagine a visit to the pub without nicotine and vowed to stay home.

Malachy was still holding his cig as we sat in the pristine lounge. A waiter approached, glanced at the smoke, didn’t lay down the law. Priests still carried some clout. We ordered a pot of coffee. Malachy added,

‘Put some biscuits on a plate, take the bare look off it, that’s a good lad.’

The lad was at least thirty-five.

I’d never really looked at Malachy, I’d never thought about his age or his appearance. It’s an awesome thought to realize you’ve dismissed a person in his entirety because you loathe him. Now I’d guess his age at late fifties, and from the pallor in his face, the expression in his eyes, hard years, all of them. He had a full head of hair, streaked with grey, not recently washed. He had the hands of a navvy, like a character from a Patrick McGill book. Old Galwegians would have described him as a bacon-and-cabbage man, with a truck of spuds on the side, dripping with butter. He’d have followed that with a dish of stewed apple, gallon of thick custard. His type had built the roads of England.

The coffee came with a plate of Rich Tea biscuits. Malachy barked,

‘Hope they’re fresh.’

The waiter nodded, too dumbfounded to reply. Malachy grabbed the bill, examined it, went,

‘Jaysus.’

I went to reach for my wallet but he blew that off, produced a crumpled note, handed it over. The waiter looked at him expectantly but no tip was forthcoming. I poured the coffee, the aroma was good and strong. I asked,

‘Milk?’

Malachy was shovelling biscuits into his mouth, the cig still going. I wanted to ask,

‘Missed breakfast?’

But we’d enough friction going. He asked,

‘Did you hear about Father Joyce?’

The beheaded priest. I nodded and he said,

‘’Tis an awful business.’

Which was some understatement. He stared into space, then suddenly changed tack, asked,

‘What was it like in. . the, am. . hospital?’

I knew the term madhouse had been on the tip of his tongue. I said,

‘Quiet. It was surprisingly quiet.’

He risked a look at me, then another biscuit, said,

‘I was always afraid of those places, I thought there’d be fierce screaming.’

I thought about that, said,

‘Oh, there was screaming, but it was silent. The wonders of medication. And for me, they provided what I most wanted — numbness.’

And I realized that in the current jargon, I was sharing, with a man I despised. Not that I’d anyone else. The past few years had annihilated near all I’d known, friends and family. You need a whole new level of numbness to wipe that slate. To my own surprise, I asked,

‘Being a priest, how’s that?’

I don’t know if it’s pc, if you’re allowed to ask such a question, but we’d entered territory new to us both. He finished the biscuits, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, said,

‘It’s a job. Not one I’d have picked.’

So you have to ask, get it out there.

‘Doesn’t it work the other way? You’re the one who’s supposed to be. . as you put it, picked?’

Another cig going. I hadn’t wanted one since meeting him, he was more effective than the patch. He gave a laugh full of malice and anger, not an easy blend. He said,

‘My mother, Lord rest her, it was her fervent wish I be a priest. She thought it was a real blessing on the family.’

The expression black with rage had always seemed just that — an expression. I swear his face was slate in temper. I tried to change the subject, asked,

‘How can I help you?’

He pulled himself back from whatever abyss he’d seen, touched the empty plate like a blind man, looking for crumbs or hope, I don’t know. I recognized that huge hunger, the thirst that underlines the emptiness within. I’d used booze to fill mine — it hadn’t worked. Maybe nicotine was his method. He said,

‘The Archdiocese are very concerned about the ramifications of Father Joyce. There were rumours about. . abuse.’

I sighed. The country was still reeling from five years of horror at the number of clergy who’d been accused, arrested and convicted of the most shocking child abuse. Case after case, the level of suffering inflicted was almost beyond comprehension. The most notorious, Father Brendan Smith, who was convicted and died in prison, had, on his conviction, turned to the TV cameras and showed a face devoid of any remorse. They buried him at night, which is its own verdict. Another priest, also convicted, on being bundled into the police car gave the cameras the two-finger gesture. It didn’t take an expert to gauge the rage of the people.

I ran all that in my head, asked,

‘What on earth do you think I can do?’

He was nervous now, fidgeting in his seat.

‘You’ve had success before, cases that were closed. You found. . solutions.’

I’d just gotten a job, maybe a real place to live, an actual inheritance. I didn’t need this. I asked,

‘What about the Guards?’

He shook his head.

‘We need this to be discreet. The last thing we want is a high-profile investigation.’

‘But surely there’s already that.’

He turned to me, pleading.

‘Jack, Father Joyce was. . accused. . of molestation. . some years ago. We have to keep this in house.’

What a term. The Church had protected abusers before, abused the accusers and transferred the culprit to another parish. Reassigned a suspected monster to a new and unsuspecting populace. I asked,