Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

I was listening to Jimmy Norman’s show. He plays the best music for rock heads. News on top of the hour revealed that

1,487

Bodies of children were now believed to be in the septic tank in Tuam.

1,487. Jesus indeed wept.

The nuns named in the allegations, Bon Secours, whose very name implied

Help and succor, were hiding behind a PR lady who told a newspaper,

“You’ll find nothing in the tank but old bones from the famine. ”

She had since remained incommunicado.

The night before, reeling from Irish horrors, a search-and-rescue helicopter rushing to the aid of a Russian seaman was lost off the Mayo coast, with all four crew missing.

Desperate for mind distraction,

I binged on

Suburra

Spotless

Gomorrah.

Then found a small gem of a Western,

Bone Tomahawk.

With Kurt Russell and Patrick Wilson.

I made a double espresso, black, bitter like the very air of the present, heard

Marc Roberts on his show give a shout-out to Johnny Duhan’s Winter.

The doorbell chimed and I swore, muttered,

“Better be bloody good.”

Opened it to a stranger.

A man in a very fine long suede jacket, dark cords, and what seemed to be white

Converse. He was tall, in that vague fiftyish bracket, buzz-cut black hair, a hawk nose, and eyes that the romantic novelists might call burning.

He had that Russell Crowe gig of quiet smoldering going on. I snapped,

“Yeah?”

He put out his hand, a rough callused one, said,

“They call me Tevis.”

I had no clue, said,

“I have no clue.”

He gave a wide grin, the kind of shit-eating one that Trump would like, said,

“You saved my life. From drowning.”

I wittily said,

“Oh.”

He asked,

“Might I come in?”

Why not.

He took a brief scan of the living room, checked the panorama of the bay, said,

“Fantastic view.”

I offered,

“Something to drink?”

He seemed to like that, said,

“I could go a stiff one.”

Somehow, in that Brit fashion, investing it with a vague lewdness. Caught that his own self, added,

“I’m a bit nervous. I mean, how often do you get to thank your savior?”

I detected a hint of sarcasm, so went with,

“If you’re Catholic, just about every day, they recommend.”

He smiled, great capped teeth, no National Health dance there. He said,

“They told me you were a hoot.”

“They?”

“Don’t be coy, Jack. May I call you Jack? The dogs in the street tell tales about you, man! You’re a goddamn genuine legend,”

Suddenly, I was tired.

He smiled, asked,

“Where are we on that drink?”

I said,

“Bar’s closed. It’s Good Friday.”

He did a mock emo face, then put his hand in his jacket. I shot out, grabbed his wrist, said,

“You best just have attitude in there.”

Raised his eyebrows, said,

“Bit jumpy, fella, maybe cut back on the caffeine.”

Then handed me a small marble figurine.

“As my thanks to you, Jack, I am going to teach you some first-rate chess.”

The figure was heavy in my hand and beautifully carved, I said,

“It’s a knight.”

He gave a short hand clap, said,

“See? You’re learning already.”

When I finally persuaded him that he had to actually leave, he said,

“A man of books like your good self will know what the Chinese say.”

I sighed, sounding horrendously like my mother, who could have sighed for Ireland and did,

Often.

I asked,

“Do tell?”

“You save a man’s life, you are thus responsible for that life.”

“Like fuck,”

I answered.

He headed for the door, said,

“You and me, buddy, now we are joined at the hip.”

I watched him from the bay window. He stood on the promenade, gazing at the water. I could hope he might be reassessing that body of water for another go.

He turned, gave what can only be described as a cheery wave.

I poured a large Jay, the bishop lined up alongside. The glass hit against it, knocked it to the ground. I bent, picked it up, noticed letters on the base.

Peered close, read,

2

 4

  J

Peter Boyne was a pedophile

And

Proud.

No fake remorse, no contrite wailing.

He had been a priest for years but even the Church couldn’t cover for him and booted him. He even looked like the notorious Brendan Smith. Soft build, weak face, and bulging eyes.

“I’m an ugly cunt,”

He told a victim.

But never charged.

Never.

The luck of the very wicked devil.

He gazed at the mound of trophies on his bed.

Red baby socks.

A small Lakers T-shirt.

Tiny hurdle.

Barney the dinosaur.

Teletubbies; he could name them all.

Laa-Laa, Dipsy, and had a way to incorporate then into a song, right before he used the chloroform.

And photos.

Hundreds.

He swooned with the joy of vivid remembrance.

Now.

He had his sights fixed on a new boy.

He’d learned his name, of course, and toned that with an orgasmic slowness:

J-o-f-f-r-e-y.

I don’t know what love is.

I hated my mother so not a great beginning.

I cared for my little dog as if my life depended on it and in a bizarre way it did.

I think I loved my dead friends.

Ridge,

Stewart.

But I certainly never showed it to them.

Not so they’d notice.

And a woman named Ann Henderson; I was truly obsessed with her. She did the big thing and, in Galway, by that we mean

Suicide.

Not a great record then.

Along came Marion.

Phew-oh.

She looked like Kate Mara, whose part in House of Cards was compelling. She was the sister of the more glamorous, successful Romola Garai. In common with the actress, Marion combined that blend of sheer spirit with vulnerability.

I’m a sucker for that shit.

Let me digress as a Booker novelist might do.

Eamon Casey, our former bishop, died.

In the same time frame as

Chuck Berry

Jimmy Breslin

Martin McGuinness. (Norman Tebbit said he hoped McGuinness would rot in hell for all eternity, adding he was a coward.)

Nice.

Eamon had been our most popular cleric, and if the Church ever seemed to be part of the people it was due to the likes of him.

Until,

Like the fallible human being he was, he fell in love.

No harm there.

But

He covered it up — and the birth of a child.

Until

The dame went on The Late Late Show and blew him out of the ecclesial water.

He resigned, despite the pope asking him not to.

He went into exile in South America and eventually came home to live a life of quiet desperation. Much like De Niro’s priest in True Confessions.

Marion went to his funeral and, in a bizarre move, the Church that had effectively banished him declared he would be buried in the crypt under Galway Cathedral.

Marion attended the funeral Mass in the cathedral. It was officiated by the archbishop. Eamon Casey had stood up to gun-wielding thugs when Archbishop Romero was assassinated.

As a young priest in London he had performed Trojan work among the poor.

So

What did the arch say in his speech on Eamon?

You guessed it.

Focused only on the sin.

Yup, lambasted the poor man, and spoke about how he had humiliated the people closest to him.

No fragging mention of the Church’s own record on child abuse.

Marion was spitting iron. Very nearly stood up and shouted at the arch.