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

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m a priest.”

“And it must be said, a pretty naïve one. I’ll pick you up at 7. Meanwhile, do keep it in your pants.”

Flabbergasted, he watched her leave. What had happened to the world? In his youth, you’d never dare talk like that to a priest. Never... never were sex and the clergy linked, at least never verbally. An old word surfaced and he uttered it with grim satisfaction,

“Hussy.”

Thing was, he wasn’t altogether clear as to which of the women it applied. A blast of fatigue hit him and he resolved on a few hours kip that afternoon.

Once, reading Saul Alinsky, he’d underlined a line which he hadn’t comprehended. It read,

“He who fears corruption fears life.”

Where on earth this left him now was up for grabs.

He looked onto the vestry. An altar boy had a bottle of wine and was clugging like an old hand.

“Yah pup, yah,” roared Morgan.

The boy fled, droppin’ the wine. Morgan managed a brief, powerful kick to the boy’s behind and heard him howl. Morgan said,

“I’ll skin yah alive if I catch yah at that again.”

The boy turned, defiance writ large on his face.

“My dad says you’re an oul souse!”

It stopped Morgan cold... souse!.. Where they find them.

Round three, he could postpone a nap no longer. Entering his room, his heart lurched anew, a body was outlined beneath the blankets.

“God in Heaven, what now?” he asked.

Tiptoeing over, he grabbed the top blanket and pulled. Walter leapt up, startled, and then leapt at Morgan. They wrestled for a furious moment before recognition lit the wino’s eyes.

“The priest.”

“Get off me... you reprobate... who the hell were you expecting?”

“Be fair, mate... I thought it was the old bill... the coppers, you know... the filth.”

“You’re wearing my pyjamas... how dare you.”

“But don’t you Catholics share all?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“What about the Francis guy?”

“A Franciscan... a queer set of semi-hippies at the best of times.”

“Are you going to call the rozzers?”

“Who?”

“The police, don’t you speak any modern English or is it all Latin... eh?”

“Clear off before I do something drastic.”

“I have a confession to make.”

“Yea, well, Saturdays, from 9 to 12.”

“I used your toothbrush.”

Walter gathered his belongings and humming “Ave Maria” he left... in the pyjamas.

Morgan was too tired to clean up or change the sheets. He lay on the tousled bed and slept immediately.

In his dreams, Sera came and made sensual love to him. She brought him to a peak of passionate climax that hurled him gasping to consciousness.

“Good Lord,” he gasped.

He lit a cigarette and the irony of this escaped him. How to face her. Surely his face would betray the contents of his dreams. A vague trace of perfume lingered in the room. Unless he was mistaken, it was patchouli oil. It hardly belonged to Walter. At the seminary, in the late ’60s, the fragrance was associated with the hippies. It always appealed to him.

“Ary, I dunno what to think,” he said.

A hot shower and shave banished all analysis. He selected a grey suit and just a hint of the dog collar. The look was sufficiently priestly without being pious. Just the thing for a charity event. Get their money with subliminals. Nothing pushy, but effective. He whistled a bar of “Ave Maria.”

He remembered a passage from his reading. It went,

Q: Why have you come my son?

A: To seek truth

To seek salvation

But mainly to have a good laugh.

A copy of Ulysses was quarter read. Someday, he’d give it his full attention. The profile of Joyce he knew best was

“Only a Catholic

Irishman, loaded with daring

And cunning

And soaked in the liturgy

Of the Church

Could produce the incredible

Mixture

That is Ulysses .”

Kate was waiting in the car, the engine of the Rover quietly humming. She was wearing a tan suit with a very short skirt. The skirt had risen very close to her hips. He didn’t know where to look. She said,

“I finally identified it.”

“What... whatever happened to hello?”

“That, too... when I met your little friend Sera. I knew I recognised something.”

“So... is it a secret or do you want to tell me.”

“Her scent, it’s patchouli oil.”

He fumbled for a cigarette.

“Please don’t smoke in the car.”

“Let me out so.”

“Don’t be childish, surely you can do without one for ten minutes.”

He lit the cigarette. Kate opened the window. There wasn’t a whole lot of further conversation on the journey.

On arrival she said,

“I do hope your behaviour will improve.”

“Have you any children?”

“No.”

“No wonder.”

Her face looked slapped... and hard. He was too shaken to apologize. The expression on her face changed to one of indifference.

“Shall we go in, Father .”

They did.

For Morgan, the fund-raiser was not a success. The only beverage served was white wine and he drank far too much. Kate circulated widely and avoided him easily. Money was raised and spirits lowered. Morgan was cornered by a fervent man with a ponytail. In his thirties, he was very bald on top and he had the eyes of a zealot.

“You’re the priest?”

“I am.”

“I’m Jeff. Tell me about yourself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you a man of the people?”

“Well, I’m one of them.”

“Semantics, verbal escapism.”

Morgan looked a little more closely at him. What he’d have liked was to give the ponytail a good and hard yank. “Some more wine and I might,” he thought.

Jeff persisted.

“Where do you stand on homosexuals?”

“Well clear.”

“How facetious... do I detect a trace of an Irish accent?”

“You might.”

“Would you like me to tell you the trouble with the Irish?”

“Listen, Jude, why you don’t take a flying leap is what’s the real trouble.”

“It’s Jeff, actually... I see you came with Kate... the old protective cover, eh! How would you like to slip off somewhere for the old mano el man.”

To Morgan’s astonishment, the guy winked. The wine was roaring in his head and he was a bit dizzy from the nicotine.

“Ary, fuck off,” he said.

He headed for the door and ignored the polite greetings from various people. On the street, he looked in vain for a taxi. North of the river was about all he knew of his location. Bound to be a tube station and he trudged hopefully down the street. It was residential with front gardens. The lighting was poor and he began to fret. An urge to relieve himself built from deep within. Looking round furtively, he hopped energetically over a small gate. The garden had a large tree and he trotted over.

A low growl was the only warning before half a ton of Rottweiler attacked. It knocked him flat and then sunk its jaws in his thigh.

“Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he screamed.

Was it trying to sever his leg? He grabbed its huge head and with ferocity, sank his teeth into its neck. A howl of agony from the dog.

“How do you like it, you bastard?”

Releasing its grip, the animal backed away. A near-full insane Morgan roared,

“Want a piece of me, do you... you mangy cur, I’ll tear the bloody bollocks off you, yah bloody mongrel.”

Rising shakily to his feet, Morgan backed towards the fence. They watched each other warily... A truce understood. The priest looked down at his mangled thigh. A blast of pain near blacked him out. He was trying to light a cigarette when the Rover came by. Kate rolled down the window.