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

“Reverse what,” he thought.

Just before sleep overcame him, he thought and dismissed it,

SERA

   ARES

Malachy made a guest appearance in his dreams. He carried a slim volume of Longfellow’s poems. Next to money, he’d liked few things with such intensity as this poetry. Malachy opened the book and read,

“Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care

And come

Like the BENEDICTION

That follows

After prayer.”

As in all dreams, events were jangled and confused. Malachy was dressed in Walter’s dungarees and spoke like the Bishop. Sera appeared and screamed at Malachy,

“What warehouse of the soul awaits you now?”

Morgan felt his shoulder grabbed and came awake to find Conor at his bedside. He said,

“Good God, Morgan, you were wailing like the Banshee... you woke the whole parish.”

“Jaysus... where am I?... I’d a nightmare that Tobe Hooper would be afraid to film.”

“Who?”

“Tobe Hooper... The Texas Chainsaw Massacre ... do you know anything?... yah ignoramus. I suppose the bloody Bishop will hear of this.”

A highly offended Conor shot back as he departed,

“At the volume you were roaring, I’d say he’s already heard.”

Morgan spent the day on conscious low profile. His face said, “Not available and that means you.” A purposeful stride suggested industry and kept him moving. Late in the afternoon he took a stroll in the gardens.

Walter, in bright green overalls, was berating a middle-aged parishioner. The man, a shopkeeper, was a heavy contributor to church funds. Walter was saying,

“Listen, mate, the last time you got it up, the bow and arrow was a secret weapon.”

On Morgan’s arrival, the man beat a hasty retreat.

“Walter, what on earth were you saying to that poor devil... Good grief, what are you wearing?”

The overalls had stenciled in big black letters,

OFFICIAL CARETAKER, T. P.

Removals done at Competitive Rates.

“My uniform. You have to let people know what’s what... Joe Public respects the uniform.”

“What does the T.P. stand for?”

“I should have thought that obvious to a man of your hearing, Reverend. It’s ‘Trainee Priest’.”

“You’re testing me to the limit, bobo. Keep it up, and you’ll rue the day you were born. What do you think this is, an employment incentive scheme? This is a bloody Church.”

Walter tut-tutted.

“Tut-tut... less of the obscenities, your Worship... I have a query of ecclesiastical significance.”

“Out with it.”

“Who’s Harold?”

“Harold?”

“Yea... I’ve been wrestling with the prayers your crowd use. One goes, ‘Our father Harold is yer name...’”

Morgan took a deep breath.

“Get outa my sight, you lud-ri-mawn.”

“I’m history...”

This was said in wise-ass American and would have guaranteed a shoe in the arse if he’d been moving any slower.

The late post brought a Thank You card from Kate. She quoted Margaret MacDonald,

“To dream what one dreams is neither wise

Nor foolish, successful nor unsuccessful

No precautions can be taken

Against it, except perhaps

That of remaining

Permanently awake.”

He stood and read the card a number of times. Then he said,

“If I understood this, I’d probably be greatly disturbed.”

Then he tore it and dropped it in the waste paper basket. A little later, Sera retrieved the pieces and went in search of Sellotape. A grim smile touched her mouth but never reached her eyes.

Morgan met Sister Ben near the altar, she was polishing the brass rails and whistling, “Love Story.”

“How’s it going, Ben?”

“Your ladyship rang twice but I couldn’t find you.”

“Not to worry, I got her card.”

Sister Ben stood, hands on her plump hips.

“She told me, Father Morgan cooks great stew.”

“Am... oh dear, a slight misunderstanding.”

“Mrs. Fleming will love to hear you’re now a cook.”

“Sister Ben... I trust you’ll keep this under your... cowl.”

“With my plenary indulgences, I suppose.”

Morgan knew defeat... he reached for his wallet.

“And how much are those lotto cards?”

“Well, if you buy ten at one pound a time, you’re bound to win. That’s how Sister Mary scored big.”

Another week of calm followed, Morgan again believed “All was well” and life had returned to dull routine. Was he ever in love with dullness now. Monday morning, the phone rang. The Bishop’s secretary, he was to meet His Eminence at two that afternoon. Morgan asked,

“Is anything wrong?”

“No... no, just an informal chat.”

Very bad, that was prelude to execution. He knew he was for the high jump. Conor... get hold of him.

Conor was instructing trainee/altar boys. They had the surly look so essential to urban life.

“Conor. A moment of your time...”

“Can it wait?”

“No, it can’t, do you think I’d ask you now if it could wait... do you?”

The altar boys were delighted. The priests went to the kitchen. Morgan began to look for cups. He asked,

“Coffee?”

“Is there any de-caff?”

“For God’s sake, man, have something real in yer life... jaysus... de-caff... Plu-eeze.”

He made the strongest brew he could. Then ladled sugar on top. Conor grimaced on tasting it. Morgan began,

“The Bishop wants to see me... any clues you might provide?”

“I can’t help you there, alas.”

“I tell you, Conor, he’s a vicious bastard.”

“Morgan, one, that’s a sin.”

“Cop on to yerself. I think it was H. L. Mencken who said,

‘It’s a sin to believe evil

of others, it is seldom

a mistake.’”

“You’re fond of the quotations.”

“As long as the Bishop doesn’t know I’m fonder of the drink.”

“I’d better attend to the education of the altar boys.”

“Do that, Conor. Here’s another quotation for you... from the oul man himself.”

“You mean the devil?”

“No, George Bernard Shaw, but he’d have been flattered at the comparison. He said, ‘Education in the ways of the world was a series of humiliations.’ Good luck to yah.”

The Bishop’s residence was secluded from the street. Muggers weren’t likely to make house calls in this area. Inside, a battalion of nuns were polishing as if their lives depended on it. Fr. Coleman, the Bishop’s secretary, kept Morgan waiting for half an hour. He looked round, not an ashtray to be seen. Just a sea of black shining nuns. He decided to risk a cigarette. The first drag was as sweet as temptation. Fr. Coleman glided over.

“Please don’t smoke here.”

“Where will I put it?”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea... please don’t use the floor... it’s being polished.”

“Oh... I thought them nuns was searching for money.”

The summons came. Behind a massive, black mahogany desk sat the Bishop. In his fifties, he was bald and spotless. Hooded eyes overlooked a grim mouth. If anything had ever amused him, he’d managed to put it behind him. The desk was bare save for one lone file. Nothing was said for a few minutes. Finally, he said,

“You’re a smoker, Morgan.”

To Morgan, it sounded like “joker” and he replied,

“I like a bit of a laugh, sure enough.”

“You’ll find very little mirth here.”

As Morgan watched him, he began to fully appreciate the meaning of PRIG. The Bishop had long bony fingers. One of these tapped the file. No chair was offered. He said,

“These... ‘occurrences’... Any explanation to offer me?”

“I haven’t a clue.”