Priest (10 page)

‘We're going undercover, I love it! We'll need a camera
and, of course, junk food. Stake-outs are hell, man, you need to maintain a sugar rush.'

Sounding like he'd been on numerous ones. I was afraid to raise the issue, said instead I'd take Monday, Tuesday and he could do the next two days, then we'd review the situation. He was filling his cup again, more caffeine for his already racing system, said,

‘Aye aye, skipper.'

I stared at him.

‘Cody, you've got to promise me something.'

‘Name and claim it, skip.'

‘Don't ever call me skipper or any derivative.'

 

The oddest thing – that night I dreamed that Cody was my son, and I was delighted. When I woke, I could recall the dream in its entirety. Shook me head, asking me own self,

‘What's with you?'

Wish-fulfilment?

Not having children is a burden you don't even know you carry. You shrug it off, go ‘I'd be a lousy parent,' or mutter about loss of freedom. But somewhere deep in the treacherous human psyche is the ache of loss. The worst kind of pain, to miss something you never had, and worse, never will. The heart wants what it will never hold. Though I'd need a drink to admit it, a lot of drinks, my fear was to end up like the consul in
Under the Volcano,
Lowry's searing depiction of alcoholism at its truest and most ferocious. That after they threw me in the hole, they'd throw a dead dog in after me. That imaginary dead dog had howled through many of my worst nightmares.

Early morning is the time for cold truth and I realized that yes, I saw Cody as a surrogate son, and for that reason alone I was harsh on him. Would never dare let him get close.

The ones I let get close get annihilated.

I recalled Cody asking,

‘This woman, Ridge, right? She your main squeeze?'

Oh God, I thought he'd peaked but he seemed to be just warming up. I shook my head, said,

‘Not likely.'

He was nodding.

‘I'm with you, Jack. We're on the same page, singing from the same hymn sheet.'

Enough already. I snapped,

‘What does that mean?'

He raised his right hand, made a gun of his thumb and index finger, dropped the hammer, said,

‘You and me, Jack, we're not the tied-down type. I'm not saying we're commitment phobics, but there's a big sea out there, we're going to cast our rods more than once.'

Rods.

I'd have to shoot him. He was a blend of Oprah and Jerry Springer – is there a more awesome hybrid? I reached for the bill, just couldn't take another moment, but he was quick, grabbed it and winked. If I was ever mad enough to go on a
stake-out
with him, I'd swing for him. I decided to act on my instinct, leaned in, asked,

‘How do you feel about stalkers?'

If he was guilty, he sure hid it well. He was taken aback though, then sneered,

‘The scum of the earth.'

I jabbed a finger in his chest, said,

‘You remember you said that.'

Outside, I shook myself, to rid myself physically of the whole meeting. My worst dread was that it might be contagious and I'd begin to talk in a similar fashion. American television had given our young people a bastardized language that dredged up Homer Simpson, Eminem and MTV.
Fear Factor
was one of the most popular programmes in the country, not to mention the rip-offs such as
joe Millionaire.
The result was a language that primarily set your teeth on edge. Perhaps that was the whole point.

The rest of the day I spent organizing my home. At intervals, it dawned on me I actually owned it. I was finally in the realm, if not of stability, at least of security. I wanted to ring the solicitor, check there hadn't been a mistake, that nothing could go wrong. I rang Ridge, asked,

‘Are you at work?'

‘Day off.'

She sounded listless so I said,

‘Hey, you want some lunch?'

‘I'm not hungry.'

Then before I could respond, she said,

‘Those three names?'

‘Yes?'

‘I have some information.'

‘Terrific, so . . . you want to have coffee or something?'

No answer, then,

‘I'll come to the Granary.'

Whoops.

‘Am, I moved.'

More animation in her voice, sarcasm too.

‘It wasn't good enough, that it?'

Phew-oh. She was one hard lady to like. When they threw around the description
ball-buster,
I think they'd her in mind. I said,

‘I told you I came into some good luck, remember?'

I could hear the sigh in her voice, then,

‘Whatever.'

Fuck this, I thought, near shouted,

‘You meeting me or what?'

‘McSwiggan's, eight o'clock, be on time.'

Click.

My apartment was taking shape. It had the essentials – the only thing missing was books. No matter what I lost, and God knows, I'd lost so much, I somehow always held on to a library of sorts. With my Garda all-weather coat, they were part of my territory, part of who I was.

Or not?

Bookless in Galway.

I hadn't opened a volume in months. The death of the child rendered everything obsolete. For a moment, I felt despair like I seldom ever did, a bleak bone-chilling voice that cajoled,

‘Why bother with any of it?'

Got moving, turned on the new TV and wouldn't you know, an ad for Guinness, the pint near perfect in its blackness, a creamy head of incitement and allure. Two guys at a bar, waffling, the drinks untouched before them. What
the hell was the matter with them? Talking . . . when they could be drinking. I was almost shouting, going,

‘Drink the bloody stuff.'

And caught myself, said,

‘Jeez, get a grip.'

Showered, with the water scalding, to burn the obsession away. As if you could.

 

Ridge was already in McSwiggan's when I got there. One of those miniature bottles of red wine in front of her. You get exactly a glass and a quarter from it – I know, I measured. Alkies always know the amount a bottle holds – never enough. Like a snooker player, the focus is always on the one to come. What's in front of you is a done deal. I got a coke, sat opposite her, asked,

‘Waiting long?'

‘Do you care?'

Barbed or what? Jeez, here we went already. I wanted to shout, No, I don't care, but chose to forgo the kick of that, poured half the coke into my glass, tried,

‘Slainte.'

‘Yeah, yeah.'

She put a sheet of paper on the table. Two names on it.

Tom Reed
4, Shantalla Place
Galway

and

Michael Clare
56,
Long Walk
Galway

I asked,

‘Where's the third guy?'

She looked at me, said,

‘He died five years ago. The remaining two – one supplies bouncers to nightclubs and the other, Michael Clare, he's an engineer. Why are you interested in them? They've no history of crime, appear to be upright citizens. But I don't know, is it coincidence, both single and in their early forties?'

I couldn't resist, went,

‘It's Ireland, bachelors are part of the landscape.'

She grimaced, said,

‘And usually living with their mothers.'

She had finished the wine. I'd never known her to finish a drink. Usually it was just something to have on the table. I asked,

‘Another?'

She jumped up, said,

‘I'll get my own.'

And did. Returning, she poured it straight away, took a hefty slug. Before I could stop myself, I said,

‘You need to be careful with that stuff.'

She seemed like she might strike me, gathered herself, said,

‘This, from you? That's rich. I think I have a distance to travel before I sink to your level.'

Touché!

But I didn't want to let it go, said,

‘I'm probably the best person to know. You want to avoid hell, check out the territory with an inmate.'

She raised her glass, defiance writ large, said,

‘Cheers.'

I let it slide, said,

‘I've put some things in place, to see if we can catch your stalker.'

Enraged, she spat,

‘Don't call him that.'

‘A stalker? What? Come on, is there some pc term we're supposed to use now?'

She stood up, said,

‘My
stalker. Don't you ever, like ever, call him
mine
. . .'

And she stormed off. I wanted to shout,

‘Drink all you like, it's never going to give you a personality.'

There was some wine in the second bottle that would maybe cover the bottom of the glass, give me that tiny lift I craved with all my being. A barmaid, wiping tables, approached, asked,

‘These done?'

‘Oh yeah.'

‘And I go on contradicting him until he understands that he is a monster that passes all understanding.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
420

 

 

 

I decided to go and see Tom Reed first – he was the one who supplied bouncers to nightclubs. Another indication of how Ireland had changed. In my youth, I don't think there was a single bouncer in the country. Now, almost every pub, club, hotel had them. They even had a school. I'm not kidding. Ludicrous as it sounds, there was a year-long course in it. Among the subjects were crowd control and the art of defusing situations. I guess, if all else failed, you could return to basics and kick the living shit out of people. Lest you be confused and believed it was simply an extension of the security business, it was listed under the heading ‘Entertainment Enterprises'. When Jan 1st rolled round with the proposed ban on smoking in pubs, clubs, prisons, hospitals, the bouncers were going to need a little more under their jackets than people skills.

I was heading along Mary Street when a Daimler pulled up beside me. I'd been limping along, preparing my approach to Reed. I'd more or less decided not to begin with ‘Let's cut the shit, did you behead Father Joyce?'

The front and back doors opened, two very large men got out, blocked my path. I thought,

‘Uh-oh.'

Their shoes . . . Guards. You can always tell. Heavy black jobs with the thick soles. Few items as good for the solid kicking. Tried and tested and yet to be found wanting. The first one said,

‘Taylor.'

Not a question. The second one glared at me, not liking much what he saw, said,

‘Get in the car.'

I looked round, didn't see any likely citizen about to protest. The first one added,

‘The superintendent wants a word.'

The devil was in me, urging to ask,

‘No chance it might be a civil one?'

Went with,

‘It's not real convenient right now.'

The second one smiled, said,

‘We won't take much of your precious time.'

Translation: Get in the fucking car.

I did.

The second piled into the back beside me and the driver clocked the mirror, eased out into traffic. The guy beside me was wearing aftershave, a bucket of it. Took me a moment to identify the name . . . then . . . Brut. Jeez, I didn't even know they still made it. Maybe he'd stockpiled it, cornering the market. The early seventies, it was the scent of choice. Came in that distinctive green bottle with a silver medallion and guys lashed it on like a blessing. Women
have a hard life but that mass era of Brut must have been among the blackest spots. Then it disappeared.

I looked at his left hand. Wedding band. Perhaps his wife figured it ensured he wouldn't play around. We passed Mill Street and I asked,

‘We're not going to the station?'

And no one answered. If they were going to drop me in the Bay, it'd be a relief to escape the Brut. We cruised through Salthill, past Blackrock and turned into the golf club. Pulled to a stop and the guy in the front said,

‘Get out.'

I did and the driver said,

‘He's waiting in the bar.'

I looked at the guy in the rear, then back to the driver, asked,

‘You get hazardous pay?'

A flicker of a smile, then the window rolled up. As a child, I'd been here a few times, searching for golf balls. Usually got chased off. I didn't belong and didn't think I ever would. Went in, past lots of guys in bright sweaters talking loud and saying,
birdy . . . four-ball . . . eagle,
as if the words carried weight. Found the bar, and at a large window table was Clancy. Dressed in a diamond-patterned sweater and, I swear, cravat. Nobody – and I mean nobody – other than Roger Moore and the stray mason wears them. Even Edward Heath had managed to forgo them. John Major had wanted to wear them but lacked the balls.

Clancy had golf pants, those shiny affairs that chafe your thighs and make a swishing noise when you walk. Slip-on cordovans on his feet. His face was ruddy, stout, well fed.
His once full head of hair was now a sweepover, drawing notice to his accelerating baldness. A pot of coffee, one cup before him.

I walked over, feeling like the poor relation whose sole mission is to beg. He stared at me, said,

‘Sit down.'

I did.

We had a moment of eyeballing, the macho stuff. Hard to credit we'd been great friends, back in my days as a Guard. I got bounced and he got promoted. An inversion of ‘Amazing Grace' unfolded in my head. ‘Was found but now am lost.'

Oh yeah.

He said,

‘The limp hasn't improved.'

I smiled, thinking,

‘Game on.'

Answered,

‘Least mine is visible.'

A waiter appeared, asked if the Super required fresh coffee, then looked at me. Clancy said,

‘He's not a member.'

They both got a kick out of that. I waited and he reached in his pocket, flicked a card on the table. I could see,