Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

Morgan fled to his room. It used to be Malachy’s. A large mahogany writing desk usually gave him fierce bursts of pride. Not today. The bed was just a wish short of being double, you climbed in you didn’t ever want to emerge. An urge to check for the cat’s head was nigh ferocious.

“Enough already,” he muttered, “time to stop this paranoia.”

He lit a cigarette and was drawing deep when the phone rang. It put his heart sideways.

“Hello.”

“Fr. Morgan... am I speaking to Fr. Morgan?”

“Yes, you are... state your business.”

Cold... formal... sure, but he was all through with pleasantries for this day... he’d left them at the altar.

“I’m Kate Delaney and...”

“The journalist?”

“Yes... you’ve heard of me?”

“The radical feminist... you wrote a series of articles called ‘Men and other Garbage’.”

“Guilty as charged...”

“What do you want?”

“The incidents at your Church, I’d like to talk about them.”

“Would you now... Miss... or Mzzzz or what Mmm is current. Well, the integrity of woman isn’t threatened so you can go claw some other tree.”

“Claw... very apt, Fr... Very catty, in fact. You’re a feisty old devil, aren’t you?”

“Good day to you, Ma’am,” and he hung up.

There’s a terrible power in this. You just shut them down. Feeling like a wicked child, he glared at the phone. It rang.

She pestered him through three more calls, and more to get away from the Church, he agreed to meet at Charing Cross. He looked forward to trimming her sails.

The rendezvous was at a small Italian coffee shop where The Strand meets Charing Cross. As he entered, a woman rose from a table.

“You’re Fr. Morgan, I presume.”

“And you’re an awful nuisance.”

She was tall, almost 5’10”, and with a full figure. A navy blue suit showed the curves discreetly. Jet black hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes were dark brown and her nose was finely finished. Full lips revealed strong white teeth. The overall effect made him feel shabby. They sat.

“Would you like to eat something, Father.”

“I’d like to get this over with.”

“Testy!!..”

The waiter, a true Italian, was in heaven. A woman and a priest. Twin gods to be servile before.

“Buongiorno.”

“For God’s sake,” said Morgan.

“S’cuzi?”

“Cappuccino... yes, two.”

“Bene...”

Kate looked at the priest and said,

“You’d need to lighten up there, padre.”

“Look... call me Morgan, it’s my name, I’m not your father and I very much doubt you’re Catholic. What am I to call you?”

“Kate, it’s my name... and I am... or was Catholic.”

“Worse, the lapsed ones are the worst. Neither fowl nor beast.”

The waiter brought the coffees amid a flourish of flattery and servility not heard since Popes went to Ireland.

Kate took a sip, smiled, and said,

“It’s my birthday.”

“What age are you, or is that a huge chauvinist crime?”

“Forty.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Well... Morgan, as Gloria Steinheim said, ‘this is what forty looks like.’”

“That... another neurotic.”

“Tut tut, I do believe you’re attempting to wind me up. Relax... I won’t bite, you know.”

The waiter slid over and hovered.

“What... what is it?” asked Morgan.

“Telefono, Monsignor... you are the Padre Morgan?”

“Telephone... for me?... here, but it can’t be.”

Kate said,

“Did the caller give a name?”

“Ah, si... he said he be ‘Father Malachy.’”

Blood drained from Morgan’s face. Kate stood and said,

“I’ll go... just wait here.”

He couldn’t have moved anyway. Icicles ran down his spine and he actually felt the hairs bristle at the neck base. He didn’t think that was ever anything but a figure of speech.

Kate returned.

“The line was dead.”

Her figure of speech nigh finished him off.

“What’s going on, Morgan?... you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Or heard from one.”

He resolved that, whatever else, he wouldn’t tell her. No matter how strong the urge, she’d get nothing. Then he told her.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Look at me... do I look like I’m kidding... do I?”

“Valium... do you have any valium?”

“I wouldn’t take those!”

“Not for you, for me. Jeez, I thought you guys had stuff for all emergencies.”

“That’s social workers, pills and patronisation.”

“Whew. Rough... if I write this, they’ll shoot me.”

“Graham Greene, are you familiar with him?”

“You think he’d written it?”

“I was about to say that he remarked how priests and writers found success unavailable.”

“Speak for yourself, fella. I’ll get the check.”

She had a car, a beat up Rover, and on seeing his expression, said,

“Pretty macho, eh?”

He was too spooked to wise-ass, thought he wanted to... instead he took the lift back to the Church. Her driving was strong and careful... like real Irish tea. Practised and sure. At the Church she said,

“Well be seeing each other, Father Morgan, you can count on that.”

As she drove off, she thanked some God that the remark on the tip of her tongue had stayed there: “Cat got your tongue, then?”

Someone had the cat’s head and the priest’s attention. Attracted to him, too, she knew that from the moment she saw him. That he was a priest didn’t make him untouchable... just difficult.

Entering the Church, the first thing he heard was whistling, and if he wasn’t much mistaken, it had the air of “The Kerry Dances.” Sister Benedventura. Her whistlin’ was on a par with her shining. If it moved, polish and then spit shine. Malachy had said “she’d shine the head of a pin”... and God, he sure didn’t want to think about him. What he wanted... and fast, was a big drink.

Sister Ben said,

“There’s someone here for the post of secretary.”

“Ary, God. Blast it... sorry, Ben... sorry... look, gimme five minutes and I’ll see her in the Rectory.”

“She’s been waiting an hour already.”

“Well, she won’t mind a few more minutes. Give her tea or somethin’...”

“Tea.”

“Yes... tea... or sherry... just stop giving me grief.”

“Well, I’m sorry I spoke, your Reverence.”

“Get on with it.”

As he stopped off, he distinctly heard the whistle turn into to “Colonel Bogie.” He felt like a prisoner of war himself and heavily tortured. In his room, he opened a bottle of Jameson. A deliberate choice. Reading Graham Greene, he’d learned a large glass of this looked like a very watered drink. In company, you could appear pious and get absolutely pissed. Such is the learning of literature. He poured a single... considered... then shrugged and built an Irish double. Clug... wait and wham-oh. Wallop! The eyes nigh jumped out of his head. A few seconds later, a sense of well-being flooded his system. He said aloud,

“Aw, Jaysus... isn’t that only might. The Holy Name be glorified.”

Chance another, better not... so he did regardless. An urge to sign nigh overwhelmed him. As he went to interview the woman, he glanced around the room and went... pss... pss... nice cat... pss... pss. Ah, wasn’t life on an upsurge. Entering the Rectory, a slight jauntiness lit his step. A woman rose to her feet. Early thirties, blonde streaked hair and the face of an angel. She was about 5’2” and a figure that screamed to be hugged. The eyes were oval-shaped and intelligence-blazed. Her hand was extended.

“I’m Sera Blake.”

“Sarah... is it?”