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

“I think you’ve forgotten something, Father.”

“Like what?”

“RESPECT... there is a proper form of address to your Bishop. I’ll thank you to use it. Now, who’s this Kate person... and what is the nature of your relationship?”

“She’s a journalist... and she’s a friend.”

The Bishop opened the file, extracted the Sellotaped card. Perusing it, his nostrils twitched as if smelling something very unpleasant.

“The tone of this would suggest otherwise.”

Morgan felt a rage begin.

“That’s private... the bloody cheek of you... yer Grace.”

Uncertainty flicked across his Grace’s face.

“There have also been stories of your drinking. All in all, I regret to say that we’ll have to take steps to replace you.”

“Steps... steps by God” and Morgan stepped forward. He snatched the card from the Bishop’s hands, roaring,

“Gimme that.”

“Control yourself, Father. This isn’t helping your case.”

Morgan took a deep breath, reached for a cigarette. The Bishop jumped up.

“There’ll be no smoking in here.”

The cigarette was slowly lit and followed by a loud exhalation of breath. Morgan said,

“You think you can fire me... you’ve treated me like dirt. You jumped-up guttersnipe, I know a few strokes you pulled when you were over at Kennington. You fire me and I’ll give the newspaper such a story that you won’t be allowed to serve mass. I’ll say you arranged the incidents at the church to drum up attendance. Now, how so you like them potatoes, your Worshipful?”

The Bishop was dumbfounded... He sat back down and said,

“You wouldn’t dare... no one would believe it.”

“But they’d print it... you go after me, laddybuck, and I’ll bring you down into the sewer with me. You’re nothing but a thug in robes. Don’t ever threaten me again... here, hold this.”

Morgan put the half-smoked cigarette on the file and walked out. The secretary was hovering near the door.

“Get an earful, did you... yah, Judas, if I ever see you near my parish, I’ll break yer friggin’ neck... now get out of my way.”

The secretary jumped back and the nuns had stopped their shining. Pausing at the door, Morgan turned and said,

“Ladies, I bid ye adieu.”

Giggles of delight rose from them as the secretary rushed to the Bishop. His eminence was caught having a fitful pull of the cigarette.

“Shut the door, you imbecile!”

The nuns hadn’t felt such excitement since Sister Mary had the big win. This was almost as rewarding.

That evening Morgan had two stiff belts of Jameson. He had asked Sera to meet him when she’d finished her work. All he knew was he was getting rid of her. No evidence of wrongdoing existed, but he knew with certainty she was malevolence. A hammering in his heart he called nicotine. He could be afraid of her... could he?

A slip of a girl...

A light tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Sera was again in black. A dress above the knee and black tights. The blonde hair shone like expectation. He tried to remember what it was the Buddhists said on that...

“Expectation

Is one of the great sources

Of suffering.”

She never made any noise, he realised. As if she glided. Passion tried to rise in him again, but he was determined to suppress it. A slight smile hovered as always on her lips.

“Sit down, please. Would you like a drink?”

The rustle of nylon as she crossed her legs.

“I’d like whatever you have, Father.”

He got another glass and poured her an Irish measure, i.e. generous. He started,

“I’ve no complaints about your work, and of course, I’ll give you great references, but... you don’t belong here... you’ll get severance pay, of course.”

Sera raised her glass, ran her tongue along the rim... and sipped.

“Strong,” she said.

He didn’t know if she meant the drink, what he’d said... or worse, him. He said lamely,

“I know it’s a shock, but really, a nice lady like yerself, you don’t want to waste yer life around a bunch of middle-aged clerics. There’s a good girl, finish up yer drink, and I’ll see you out.”

He took a hefty swig of his drink. All in all, he felt it had gone quite well.

Much better really than he’d reckoned. Firmness, he thought... that’s the key... but fair, too.

Sera’s smile didn’t change. A wave of patchouli oil slowly reached him. She said,

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’re what...!”

“With child.”

“Do I know the father?”

“But of course... you’re the father, Father.”

Her eyes burned, the smile now spread more as a grimace. Morgan’s head reeled, he said,

“Sure what nonsense is this, girl... I think you need some serious help.”

“Treachery, thy name is man... you took your pleasure, priest, now is the time to take your name.”

“Ah, for the love of God, come on... clear out of here... you’re stone mad.”

He reached out his hand to take her. Sera grabbed the hand and sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of the palm and chomped down. Visions of pit bulls danced before him and the pain shot to his brain.

“Ah, Jaysus,” he gasped, and swung his other hand in a side arc. The blow slammed against the side of her head and knocked her to the floor. The bite had gone almost clean through. She sprang to her knees and spat.

“Priest... you belong to me... the Jezebel shall not seduce you from me... The Whore of Babylon will not be triumphant.”

A string of obscenities, mixed with Latin, followed, the likes of which he’d never heard.

The door opened and Conor stood there. Walter followed behind in black overalls. Conor said,

“What in the name of God...”

Sera sprang at Morgan and tore her fingers down his face, missing his left eye by a fraction. The man grabbed her and tried to hold her. She broke free and ran to the door... turning, she said,

“And a fearful vengeance shall be visited upon ye all.”

And she fled.

Three deep gouges were imprinted on the left side of Morgan’s face. He said to Conor,

“Call a taxi. I’d better get to the hospital.”

Walter said, “If that’s the result of chastity, I may have to re-examine my options. Does this go on at The Church of England?”

At the hospital, the same Irish nurse was in attendance. She said,

“By the hokey, you have some effect on women, Father.”

“Stay out of my face,” he said.

“Tis a bit late for that, by the looks of you... what you do at weekends I can’t even begin to imagine.”

Conor, still in shock, laid his arm on Morgan’s shoulder. He said,

“In all me born days, I never saw such ferocity. That woman was like a demon.”

Morgan groaned.

A fragile feeling clung to him over the next few days. Nothing was heard of Sera, but he lived in dread of an appearance. Conor said only,

“I know how much you like quotations, so maybe Leo F. Buscaglia is appropriate.”

Morgan had never heard of him.

“I never heard of him. What had he to say for himself?”

“That when we cling to pain, we end up punishing ourselves.”

“Oh, very deep, Conor... stick to limericks, they’re more in your line.”

He rang Kate, and she arrived with a bottle of bourbon.

“Let’s go American,” she said.

“You betcha.”

They talked about everything save Sera. The level of the bourbon sank. Kate asked if she might use the phone to call a cab.

“Use the one in the hall.”

Morgan was feeling the drink, and as he reached to put the glass on the table, he staggered, knocking Kate’s large handbag. It hit the floor and spilled open.

“Aw, shit,” he said.