Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

Not doing so was one of the great regrets of her life.

So she wrote to him.

Like this:

“Dear Reverence / Irreverence,

I have been a regular attendant at Mass all my life.

I raised my son Catholic.

I pay my tithes.

I do the Nine Friday novenas.

I went to the funeral Mass of our beloved Bishop Eamon Casey.

You may have disbarred him but he will always be Our Bishop.

I was not expecting you to actually praise the man.

God forbid the Church would ever demonstrate such grace.

But

to castigate him,

Literally denounce him

All over again,

To the exclusion of the other shining deeds of his life, before his assembled family.

How dare you.

In our cathedral?

Yes, our money, alms, built it.

Shame on you.

The young people of Ireland don’t even know who you are. But to us who do, you owed at the very least a tiny hint of balance.

I know you won’t have the grit to answer me unless some lackey sends me the standard corn.

... your comments have been noted etc.

I expect you will do what the Church has excelled in:

Nothing.

God mind you better than you minded your brave bishop.

Yours in disappointment,

Marion R. Coyle.”

The Church did as she predicted.

Nothing.

The first outing I took Joffrey on left a lot to be desired.

I tried not to stare at his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit.

I mean, fuck, really?

White pants, navy blue shirt, and, I kid thee not, a knitted wool tie, with a blazer, complete with crest.

I was wearing battered 501s, scuffed Doc Martens, my way beat-up leather jacket. I was determined to try and bond with this little gobshite, but seriously?

I said,

“We’re not planning on the opera, are we?”

He sneered, turned his mean little mouth down.

“I doubt you’d be too familiar with that scenario.”

Scenario.

I was determined to be upbeat, began,

“Thought we’d swing by Supermac’s, grab us some bad boy burgers.”

He stopped, literally in his tracks, asked,

“You are serious?”

Okay, now we were cruising.

I said with gusto,

“Oh, yeah, and you can add curried chips if the fancy takes you.”

He said with venom,

“I don’t do carbs.”

Oh.

I hung on to the fading gusto, asked,

“What would you like? Italian, Cajun?”

He seemed to actually focus. Then,

“They have any sushi bars in this burg?”

His accent was a horror blend of clipped Brit with sprinkled American. I echoed,

“Raw fish? You want raw fish?”

I’ll admit my energy was flagging but, fuck, I persisted.

Said,

“Kid like you, you need to get some spuds, bacon, and cabbage in you.”

He put two fingers to his mouth, made the gagging sound.

I sighed, said,

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He began to stare at his phone, as the whole nation currently does.

I’d have sold his miserable hide for one shot of Jameson.

I said,

“We can swing by my flat, I’ll rustle up something and, hey...”

My voice had risen in nigh panic .

“I have some games there.”

He lit up, asked,

“You’re a gamer?”

Modesty be damned, I said,

“It has been suggested in the not so recent past that I do indeed have game. ”

He gave me a blank look, which did not add to his overall charm, shook his head as if it clear it of nonsense, asked,

“Whatcha got? Like Assassins Creed, Warcraft Three, Mafiosi Four?”

I was lost, tried,

“I’ve got Monopoly and, well, that’s it.”

He mimicked spitting, said,

“Board games.” (His voice rising on the end bit.) “You can’t be serious, I mean it’s so...”

Searched for a word to convey utter contempt, got

“Retro.”

Sharp as a whip, I snapped,

“Retro is the new cool. Get with, dare I say, the game ?”

While this brisk exchange batted back and forth, an overweight guy in a T-shirt with the logo

SIN AN SCEAL (That’s the story)

actually drooled as he eyed Joffrey. His hands in his dirty sweatpants, he actually groaned, muttered,

“Soon my love.”

You’d know the very last thing to do with the child of the woman in your life is to bring him to a pub.

Right.

I know that.

Brought him to the pub.

Sat him at a table in the back, him going,

“Mother won’t be pleased.”

Gee, you think?

I didn’t ask him what he wanted. I was all through with that gig. The bar guy peered over at him, asked,

“Your boy?”

Like fuck.

I said,

“Whatever else, mine he isn’t.”

A wag along the bar said,

“The clergy got in trouble for that kind of thing.”

I gave him the look.

Asked the bar guy for

Double Jay,

Pint back,

Bag of whatever flavor crisps,

Large Coke.

Guy asked,

“He want ice in that?”

“Shovel it in.”

I sank the Jay there and then, tasted like vague hope. Over to the kid with my goodies, said,

“Here you go.”

He pushed the Coke aside, said,

“That is equal to nine full spoons of sugar.”

I wanted so badly to wallop him.

I asked,

“And your point is?”

He sighed as in... Lord grant me patience with fools .

Said,

“My mother didn’t pay top dollar for dental work for some nincompoop to force pure sugar down my throat.”

Force?

Nincompoop?

The kid was like an escapee from a poor-rate Evelyn Waugh. In desperation I reached in my pocket and found the chess piece that Tevis gave me.

Joffrey’s eyes lit up, asked,

“A chess piece?”

I put it on the table and he picked it up, examined the writing on the base, the

 2

  4

   J

I said,

“I dunno what that means.”

He scoffed, said,

“It’s obvious.”

Fuck.

Okay. Asked,

“What?”

“Two for Justice.”

I mulled that over, figuring, Some form of vigilante? Next time I saw Tevis, we’d have us a chat.

So I tried to cut some slack for the kid, asked,

“What would you like to drink?”

“Still water with a slice of lemon. Ballygowan or Evian at a pinch.”

I went to the counter, said to the bar guy,

“Glass of tap water, shove some lemon in it.”

He seemed puzzled, said,

“We have all the top brands.”

I stared at him, asked,

“You hard of hearing?”

Got what was not the cleanest glass and very wilted lemon, which, to no great surprise, the kid pushed aside, said,

“I called my mother.”

Oh, fuck.

I whined,

“Oh, no, c’mon.”

He smiled with devilish glee, said,

“You’re for the high jump.”

I leaned right into him, snarled,

“What is your fucking problem, son?”

He pulled back, said,

“I don’t like you.”

I smiled, threatened,

“Get used to it, punk. I’m here for the long haul.”

He stood up, said,

“I very much doubt that, mister.”

As I followed him out, I asked,

“Apart from the water, do you think it went pretty good otherwise?”

I followed him as he walked at a brisk pace toward the square. I wondered what he’d pull next.

A taxi .

I kid thee not. And he turned as he got in, gave me the finger.

I watched the cab head toward the docks.

Hate to admit it but I had a sort of sneaking admiration for the little bastard.