Ken Bruen - Green Hell

“The Father is in the sacristy.”

I tried,

“I don’t wish to disturb him.”

In a surprisingly terse tone, she snapped,

“Ary, he’s been disturbed for years.”

Then declared,

“You’re a Yank!”

“Um. . yes.”

“I have a sister in San Francisco, with the Sisters of the Pure of Heart.”

Wow, so many ways to play with that line. But she asked,

“Did you bring something?”

. . Just an attitude. .

I said,

“No, should I have?”

“And they say Yanks are flaithiúil (generous).”

I headed down the aisle and she fired,

“You’re already on the wrong foot.”

Every day is a gift. .

but does it have to be a

pair of socks?

(Tony Soprano)

Father Malachy was almost invisible behind a cloud. The effect was startling, as if a Stephen King fog or mist had enshrouded him. Then the stale fetid smell of nicotine hit like a hammer. He was in his late fifties, with a face mottled by rosacea, broken veins, and what I guess can only be described as lumps. He was dressed in clerical black, dandruff like a shroud on his shoulders. And I have to be mistaken, but the magazine he wiped off the cluttered desk seemed a lot like the National Enquirer .

Surely not?

He peered at me, rheumy-like, and, with not one hint of compassion, he snapped,

“What’d you want?”

I said,

“I’m Boru Kennedy and wonder if I might have a. .”

He barked,

“What the shite kind of name is that? Are ya a Yank?”

I’d seen The Quiet Man and Darby O’Gill and the Little People , but any Hollywood image of the jovial Irish priest bore no relation to this ogre. Luckily, I had been cautioned to bring a bottle. To, as Aine suggested, “wet his whistle.”

Not sure why I told the nun I had nothing but Jack had advised me once. . Lie always to the clergy, it is their stock-in-trade.

I handed over the bottle.

Jameson, of course.

I was a dude who learned.

If he was grateful, he gave no sign. He growled,

“I’ve a cousin in the Bronx. He works for the Sanitation Department.”

Then he laughed,

“The bollix is down the toilet.”

Pause, another cig, then,

“What do you want?”

I took a deep breath, lied,

“I’m doing a profile of. . um. . colorful Galway personalities and I wonder if you might, please, have some thoughts on the ex-policeman Jack Taylor?”

I waited for an explosion, a torrent of abuse, but a sly grin danced along his lips, he asked,

“How much are you paying?”

Of course.

In my time in Ireland, I’d learned a few moves for dealing with the locals:

(1) Never. . ever, pump yourself up.

(2) Adopt a nigh manic love of hurling. You didn’t have to actually learn the game, just mutter “Ah, will we ever see the likes of D.J. Carey again?”

(3) Make almost undetected snide comments on nonnationals, sliding in mention of the Holy Grail, i.e., medical cards.

(4) Constantly refer to the weather as simply fierce.

(5) Buy the first round but especially the last.

(6) Rile a priest to get him going.

I went with number 6, said,

“They say Jack saved your life.”

Phew!

Fireworks.

He was on his feet, cigarette smoke nigh blinding him, spittle leaking from his mouth. He shouted,

“That whore’s ghost of a bollix! He killed a child and don’t even get me started on how he drove his saint of a mother into an early grave.”

He blessed himself, adding,

“May she rest in the arms of Jesus, the Bed of Heaven to her.”

Lest he launch into a full-blown rosary, I tried,

“I was told the child’s death was an accident.”

He made his hmph sound, underwrit with indignation, said,

“Ask her parents, yeah, ask them if it was an accident.”

He was eyeing the bottle, could only be moments before he climbed in and that was an event I wished to bear witness to. But he changed tack, said,

“Our new pope, supposedly he’s embracing the simple life. No Gucci slippers for him.”

He fumed on that a bit, then conceded,

“Least he sacked that bishop who just built a thirty-one-million place.”

Threw his arms out to embrace his run of his home, said,

“And they expect me to live on the charity of the parish! You know how much they put in the basket at Mass last Sunday?”

I was guessing, not a lot.

“Twenty-four euros, two buttons, and a scratch card.”

The urge to ask if he won. On the card.

I stood up to take my leave, said, offering my hand,

“Thank you so much for your time.”

But he was still in hate-Taylor mode, didn’t quite know how to turn it off. He asked,

“You heard about him and the nun?”

Sounded like the title of a very crude joke. I tried,

“I do know he’s close to Sister Marie.”

He shot me a look of contemptible pity, spat,

“Not that wannabe Mother Teresa. Years ago he was working on a case involving a murdered priest and an old frail nun had been working with the poor murdered fellah. Taylor said to her. .”

Pause.

“I hope you burn in hell.”

I had an ace, played,

“Wasn’t that the time Jack saved you from serious child abuse allegations?”

We were done.

On his feet, he snarled,

“Get out of my office. . ya. .”

He searched for the most withering insult and as I reached the door, he trumpeted,

“Yah Protestant.”

That evening I had dinner with Aine and related the encounter with the priest. She said,

“There was a time, you know, priests ruled the roost here.”

I thought how far they’d tumbled, said,

“Seems like they’re reduced to scraping the bottom of the Irish barrel.”

She laughed, said,

“More like these days, it’s shooting clerical fish in the barrel.”

I’d been spending more and more time with her and, I don’t know about love, but it had certainly moved into an area of need. We had grappa with the after-dinner coffee and she smiled, said,

“Lucky you.”

Being with her, having found her, I felt way more than lucky but I asked,

“Why?”

That malicious twinkle in her eye, she said,

“I know for a fact you’re getting laid.”

Notes from Boru’s Papers

The days slipped by,

the hate remains.

(Jens Lapidus,

Easy Money)

Amen

To that, Jack thought.

He had spoken again to Sister Maeve. One of the girls allegedly attacked by de Burgo had killed herself. Left a note for Sister Maeve.

It read:

I feel so dirty, so defiled.

My priest says I am a liar.

Please pray for my tainted soul.

Like a haiku of bitter acid. Etched in utter despair.

Jack pledged,

“If it’s my last act, I’ll make that bastard burn.”

Took me a time to track down Ann Henderson. She was, according to most sources, the “love of Jack’s life.”

She had some colorful, varied history her ownself. After Jack, she had married a Guard. This same individual for various motives decided Jack needed

“the lesson of the hurly.”

A very Galway practice. Involving three ingredients:

(1) A knee

(2) A hurly

(3) Rage

Took out Jack in one lethal swoosh, leaving him with a permanent limp. As stories go, this would be sufficiently dark, adequately noir for the most jaded palate. But in Taylorland, half measures availed them nothing. A vigilante group, named the Pikemen, in a misguided attempt to recruit Jack, took out the hurler.

Ann blamed Jack.

It wasn’t then that they had simply history, it was open brutal wafare.