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

“Morgan, what on earth happened?”

“I was mugged.”

“And the mugger tried to give you some sort of lethal blow job... better get you to the hospital.”

Slumped in the front seat, he thought,

“I’m in a Rover and ten minutes ago I was nearly in a Rottweiler.”

Hysteria blocked the agony.

Kate insisted on taking him to the hospital. An Irish nurse was on duty. She exclaimed, “By the holy, what sort of animal was at you at all, Father? Is nothing sacred?”

Morgan glared.

“Save me the leprechaun spiel, sister.”

“And a mouth on him... we’ll have to have a tetanus shot.”

“What, all of us?”

“Aren’t you the one... hold still... this won’t hurt.”

It did.

Kate drove him home. He felt bedraggled and old.

“I feel bedraggled and old, Kate.”

“God knows, you look it.”

At the Church, he got out then leant back in for a moment.

“Kate, what I said about the children, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did, but never mind, I like you anyway.”

He watched her drive off and regretted the pain he’d caused. The ache in his thigh was throbbing. Some years before, he’d watched a young mother and her little boy. The boy was eating chocolate, he’d broke off a bit and said,

“Mummy, would you like a taste of my chocolate?”

The boy had then gazed as his mother ate the chocolate. A look of adoration twixt wonder. Morgan had felt then a sadness of infinity. Such tenderness he’d never experience. The same feeling swept him now. What he most longed to do was sit on the kerb and weep. To have someone put an arm round him and say,

“Like a piece of my chocolate?”

But as he wept, he wasn’t altogether sure he’d ever stop.

“Do priests cry?” he asked. “Not in public,” answered the dregs of the white wine.

Sera was sitting in the kitchen. A cup of tea sat beside a fruit plant and her papers.

“Bit late, isn’t it?” he said.

“Oh, I’m nearly done. I just wanted to water the plant.”

“What is it?... that fruit looks almost like strawberries.”

“Yes, they do... don’t they? Try one.”

She broke off a piece and offered it to him. The fruit was a scarlet red, like her lips.

“Eve in the garden,” he thought, but what he said was,

“Not right now, thanks, it’s late. I’ll be getting along.”

“It’s deceptive.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It looks sweet, luscious even, and you can’t wait to sink your teeth in it... But it’s tasteless.”

A cold finger crept along his spine. Sera sank her even white teeth into the fruit and smiled.

“So few things are what they seem... are they, Father?”

Lust roared in his loins and the pain in his thigh only highlit that.

“Good night to you then.”

He’d almost reached the door when he heard her whisper,

“You need not be bereft of chocolate or comfort... ever.”

He kept going, perhaps he’d just imagined it.

“Yea, he muttered, “I’m highly wrought, that’s all.”

A bile taste in his mouth, he felt hairs in his teeth... using his fingers, he extracted the Rottweiler’s strands.

“Ah, Jay-sus,” he cried, “I’ve heard of the hair of the dog, but this is downright ridiculous.”

The dreams again were Sera and sensual. He came to with a feeling of guilt and delight. Sunday, the day of rest, not if you were a priest. The face in the mirror would give winos a bad name. A night on the tiles, in fact he looked like he’d tried to eat them.

He hadn’t prepared a sermon and reckoned he’d wing it. Who listened anyway? Could he remember a single sermon he’d ever heard? Not one... not even his own. Mrs. Fleming was busy with kitchen things, and he made a pot of strong black coffee. In last night’s turmoil he’d forgotten to get cigarettes.

“Mrs. Fleming? You... you wouldn’t know of any cigarettes hidden around?”

“I certainly would not... hmm, the very idea!”

References!.. “yea,” he promised... “I’m going to re-check those that Sera had provided.” What he could recall had been excellent. Malachy had said to him once,

“Beware the person with a perfect past.”

Mrs. Fleming began to sweep round him, then under his feet. It felt like McDonald’s.

The lack of cigarettes frayed his nerves.

“For God’s sake, will you let me have my coffee in peace.”

“My, my... aren’t we touchy this morning.”

While he was at it he fumed,

“I’ll check this biddy’s references, too.”

The Church was packed. As Morgan climbed the podium he recognized Kate, Sera and Walter.

He began,

“Sin is like a Rottweiler, it fastens itself to your thigh... I mean soul. It leads us into dark gardens of the night. Yet the very heart of man yearns for a cigarette... sorry, for salvation.”

The congregation shuffled nervously.

“We live in an age of AIDS and poll taxes. The cure for our afflictions lives in a bottle... I mean it doesn’t live in a bottle.”

Sweat ran along his forehead.

“Sex is the modern obsession. You cannot screw... I mean steal your way to salvation. He who lives by the dick... SWORD, shall die by the crowd... by the Sword.”

Isolated bursts of laughter began.

“I tell you, he who laughs last didn’t understand the joke. Is God the Tommy Cooper of today? To be switched off when we tire of his tricks. We are deceived by the appearance of things. What looks sweet and desirable is tasteless. Does God ask for references? When we despair, is He there with comfort and chocolate?” People were muttering. A desperate Morgan knew he’d have to go Biblical. Snow them with the ring of authenticity. The less comprehensible, the more ominous. “Verily I say to you... what is begun is begun. Jacob howled in the wilderness. The Lord God of Abraham smote the hordes of Babylon and the Citadel was built on sand. Hosannahs will be heard above the covenant and a mighty reckoning will occur. In vino veritas, secolo secularum. In Nomino Patre...”

The crowd tentatively took up the refrain. Morgan reckoned Millwall wouldn’t spit on this lot of a Saturday afternoon.

He raced through the remainder of the mass and hoped the Bishop didn’t get to hear of this. “A lack of nicotine, if only I’d got a few drags,” he thought. In the vestry, he sent an altar boy for cigarettes.

“Hurry up,” he said.

He wasn’t facing that lot smokeless. No way.

Morgan locked himself away for the remainder of the day. He left the phone off the hook. Towards evening Mrs. Fleming came banging on the door.

“Go away,” he said.

“I’ve left a tray here, you’ll have to eat something.”

“Clear off.”

“Father Conor is back, he says he’s coming up.”

Conor was second in command. Just recently ordained, he had the gung-ho of the truly native. He looked like an Irish choirboy and hailed from the West of Ireland. Tall and stringy, he was wildly enthusiastic about everything. For the past month, he’d been on a course in “Urban Psychology.” Morgan felt “Urban Terrorism” would have been more useful. It was said he had “the ear of the Bishop.”

“Aye,” thought Morgan, “and the heart of a snake.”

Sure enough, a while later, he knocked and came in.

“Why did you knock?” asked Morgan.

“Oh, I think it’s very important to knock before entering a room.”

“But you came in anyway.”

“Ah, Father Morgan, you’re teasing me.”

“Ary, catch yerself on, little girls get teased. I’m trying to get your attention.”

“I hear you’re not well.”

“From your lips to the Bishop’s ear.”

“Isn’t that to ‘God’s ear’?”