Priest (11 page)

Taylor and Cody
Investigations
No divorce work.

He asked,

‘Is that a joke?'

‘Not to Cody.'

‘You set up in business, you better get a licence.'

‘Yes Sir.'

He lifted the coffee pot, poured a cup, added cream, sugar, took a sip, went,

‘Ah . . . lovely.'

Then,

‘I'm surprised they let you out of the madhouse. Thought we were rid of you.'

I let him have that one. If he wanted to fire the cheap shot, I'd let him blaze. Someone shouted to him from the corridor, ready to tee off. I said,

‘Don't let me keep you from your game.'

He prepared to stand, said,

‘The priest who was murdered – don't even think of going near that.'

I put up my hands, said,

‘Why would I?'

He let out a deep belch, said,

‘Listen to me, Taylor, listen good. I know all about you. That lunatic Father Malachy, who was probably shagging your oul wan, they say he's going to enlist your help.'

I wanted to wallop the smug smile off his face, ask him was it true his mother was the town ride? I said,

‘If you know so much, how come you don't know Malachy and I have bad history? Not as bad as you and I, but you get the drift.'

He leaned over, a smell of mint on his breath, said,

‘As for your security job, you can scratch that. I told them you were a bad risk.'

Watching me to see how that landed, he administered his coup de grâce, the one he'd been holding.

‘If your
firm
want to investigate something, put your detection skills to the test, I might have something for you.'

This was going to be bad, but I asked,

‘Yeah, what would that be?'

He pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back – he'd practised this in front of the mirror – said,

‘They pulled a wino out of the canal. All we can tell is he was in his fifties. Ring any bells? Maybe you could solve it for us, clear our books, eh?'

My heart pounded. I thought,

‘Jeff.'

I tried to keep my voice neutral, asked,

‘How do you know he was a wino?'

He took a long moment, then,

‘The stench of him.'

 

Outside, as the Americans say, my ride had gone. I walked down the drive, my head in turmoil, going,

‘Oh God, if God there be, let it not be Jeff.'

Spent the rest of the morning trying to find where the body was. Tedious, frustrating, but primarily terrorizing. At four thirty I was in the city morgue, finally allowed to view the corpse. I stood before a metal table, a sheet covering the body, enclosed by the institution-green colour on the walls, dizzy from smells, real and imagined. The attendant, impatient, asked,

‘You ready yet?'

A whine in there, but I couldn't really start beating on
him, tempting though it was. I nodded and, like some second-grade magician, with a flourish he whipped off the sheet – this was his party piece.

Closed my eyes real tight and begged, did the old Catholic barter, whispered,

‘God, if You let this not be Jeff, I won't smoke again. I give You my word.'

What else did I have? And that item was shaky, suspect, at the best of times. As a child, you wanted something – something impossible, like civility from your mother – you went to the Abbey, lit a candle and did the trade-off. Telling the Sacred Heart, ‘If Mum is nice to me, I won't hate people.'

Shit like that.

Never worked. She was hostile till she drew her last bitter breath, which is some achievement. I thought of Jeff, his love of that child, the way his eyes lit up when she smiled. Thought too of his face when he realized the broken tiny body on the footpath was his daughter. And she was lying there, her head twisted to the side, a small pool of blood under her ear, because his best friend, me, wasn't paying attention.

The very first time I met him, the signs in his pub read, NO BUD LIGHT. He was my age, and always wore a waist-coat, black 501s like Springsteen and his long grey hair was tied in a ponytail. I'd been a Guard – it was my training to kick the crap out of men with ponytails. It said so in the manual, under
Section
#
791: beat on hippies, students, leftwingers.

He had effortless cool, the real kind, none of that poised shite. I introduced him to Cathy Bellingham, an ex-punk
from London who'd washed up in Galway while kicking a heroin habit. Such was the nature of our cosmopolitan city these days. Who could have foreseen it. She married him, like some Jane Austen novel written by Hunter S. Thompson.

Against all the odds, it worked, and they had the little girl. I loved them and deeply envied them. They had what I could only ever dimly imagine, and I was the one who smashed it to smithereens. Jeff wasn't just my best mate, he was probably my only one.

My hands were clenched tight. I broke the skin on my palm with my nails, and welcomed the tiny throb of pain. The attendant was out of patience, snapped,

‘Know him?'

He was chewing a Juicy Fruit, the aroma sickening in its strength. I looked down, took an unsteady breath, must have been silent for nearly five minutes as my mind whirled, then,

I said,

‘No. No, I don't.'

He wrapped the gum around his front teeth, said,

‘No one ever knows the winos, they're truly the cast away.'

‘What happens to him?'

Snapped the gum with a long tongue, said,

‘We burn ‘em.'

Jesus.

‘It used to be a pauper's grave, but the city is running out of land.'

I was seriously angry, said,

‘People are so inconsiderate.'

He looked at me with vague interest, asked,

‘How's that?'

‘Dying . . . using up valuable land.'

He gave a throaty swallow, went,

‘That's sarcasm, right?'

‘Or something close.'

‘No biggie, I get it a lot, it's an outlet for rage.'

I turned to stare at him, asked,

‘What, you took psychology?'

He gave a superior grin, said,

‘I know people.'

‘Well, you sure know dead ones.'

He shrugged, said,

‘It's a job, right?'

I made to leave, said,

‘Thing is, you're wasted. Guy like you, the caring professions are crying out for you.'

As I was leaving, he shouted,

‘Have one for me.'

‘What?'

‘You're going for a drink, right?'

Before I could answer, he said,

‘The pub across the road? Saddest freaking place in the country. It's where the relatives go . . . Man, not a whole lot of music there, you need a lively joint.'

‘And why would I need that?'

He gave me the look, the silent
duh,
then,

‘You lucked out. The stiff – you didn't know him.'

Stiff.

I seriously wanted to pound on this guy, to quote my mother:
You'd never tire beating him.
I said,

‘You call that lucking out?'

He shrugged. I'm never taken by that gesture, convinced they rehearse it, get the lift exactly so. He said,

‘You're a funny guy.'

I couldn't resist, said,

‘You should catch me on a good day.'

 

Outside, my whole body sagged. I hadn't realized how tight I'd been wound. That pub was almost directly across. I hoped I'd never discover which arrived first, the morgue or the pub. A whole slice of the Irish psyche in the answer. I'd made me deal with God and He'd delivered, so I couldn't have a drink, not yet . . . Jesus, not now.

I moved on, trying not to look over my shoulder. Passed the Age Concern shop and, to distract myself, went in. Almost in a trance, I picked up a Discman. I'd come late to CDs and iPods were forever to be a mystery. Bought it and the girl said,

‘Don't forget the headphones.'

‘Oh, right.'

She couldn't have been twenty years old, yet she had natural compassion, an openness that stabbed at my heart. Then, to add to my consternation, she said,

‘I'll bet you haven't batteries. You get home and isn't it a devil, none.'

She glanced round at the customers, then slipped two batteries across the counter. I'd swear she winked, but I think I only hoped so. I said,

‘You've a lovely nature.'

She wasn't buying, said,

‘Get away our that. You should see me at home, I'm a holy terror.'

Do such brief encounters balance the daily awfulness of life? That's too tough a measure, maybe, but for the fleeting moment you have the spur to continue.

I hadn't listened to music in a long, long time. You need a soul for that. Mine withered when the child went out the window. Jeff's too, it seemed. I walked up to Shop Street, went into Zhivago. Declan McEntee was still there, went,

‘Good God, it's the resurrection.'

Like I was in the mood for this. He read my expression, said,

‘You'll want Johnny Duhan as usual?'

‘I have all of his.'

I looked round, saw new releases, and there . . . Emmylou Harris, Warren Zevon. Took both.

Declan said, tapping the Zevon,

‘Died two weeks ago.'

‘What?'

‘Yes, recorded this album knowing he'd only a brief time. Makes it real hard to listen to.'

As he wrapped them, he said,

‘Johnny Cash's gone too.'

Christ, I'd have to catch up, start reading the papers or watching the news or something.

Declan gave me the change, asked,

‘You all right? You're very quiet.'

And I said,

‘At home, I'm a holy terror.'

Robert Palmer died the next day – they were dropping like flies. He didn't have a new album. If I wanted to seriously burn, I could always listen to Johnny Cash with ‘Hurt'.

I was burning out.

‘We run heedlessly into the abyss, after putting something in front of us to prevent us seeing it.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
183

 

 

 

‘If he did fire 1,000 bullets at a cost of around fifty cents each, it was a small price to pay for a man who has put so much into the force.'

A colleague of departing Garda Commissioner Pat Byrne, who celebrated his retirement on the Phoenix Park indoor firing range.

 

Sister Mary Joseph was finally beginning to relax. No one had been apprehended for the murder of Father Joyce and no one had come to ask her any questions . . . she dared to hope that her prayers had been answered. It looked like whoever had murdered the poor man was not coming after her. Anyway, she told herself over and over, she had done nothing wrong, but in her heart she knew she had allowed those boys to continue being abused. No matter how many rosaries she said, and no matter how many rationalizations she made, the voice in her head refused to cease its refrain . . .
You knew, you knew those poor creatures were being
horribly abused and you did nothing. It's a sin of omission, you are as guilty as Father Joyce is.

But most days, she took shameful comfort in the fact that she hadn't been found out, no one was accusing her of anything. One boy had begged her, tears streaming down his face, for help. First she had tried to bribe him with chocolate, but he had had an extreme reaction on seeing it, went deathly pale, looked like he was about to faint, and she had read him the riot act, and, God forgive her, she had boxed his ears. She could still see his little face and hear the awful words,
My bum is bleeding.

Out loud she intoned, ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God, deliver me from this torment.' The boy had begun to inhabit her dreams, except now his tears were tears of blood.

Her hair had begun to fall out and she was hoping that this might be penance enough. Apart from Jesus, the only love of her life had been her father and she dreaded to think he'd be ashamed of her. She fell to her knees, began
Ar nathair . . .
(Our Father . . .)

 

I rang Joe Ryan, a guy I knew from my days as a Guard. He worked as a journalist and, while we were cordial when we met, we weren't friends or anything in the vicinity. He answered on the second ring and I went through the usual semi-cordial shite till he cut to the chase, went,

‘So, what do you want?'

I faked some offence and he said,

‘Cut the bollocks, what do you want?'

I sighed, asked,

‘You know of a kid named Cody? In his twenties, has a quasi-American accent and—'

He cut me off. If you lived in Galway and had been here any length of time, Joe knew you. He said,

‘All the kids have those accents and yeah, I know him, he's Liam Farraher's son. Why?'

He was a journalist so I decided to confuse him with the truth, said,

‘He wants to be my partner in the – are you ready for this? – the private-eye game.'

I could hear him laughing, then he said,

‘That's Liam's kid, all right. He's not a bad lad, but – what's the current buzz word? – finding himself.'

I let the obvious pun of finding hang there a bit, and then asked,

‘Is he OK? I mean, apart from deluded.'

More laughter, then,

‘He worked in computers and was pretty damn good, from what I hear, but he obviously wants to lead an exciting life and so has hooked up with you.'

I let that slide and finally asked,

‘I don't need to worry about him then, he's not a nutter or anything?'

He waited a time, then,

‘Way I see it, they're in their twenties, they're all deranged.'

What I really wanted to ask was, could I trust him? I went,

‘Can I trust him?'

He laughed again, said,

‘Jeez, Jack, you have a way of putting things, you know that? Take a look round you. This is the new Ireland, no one believes in the Government or the Clergy, and as for the banks, forget it, they're robbing us blind and admitting it. The only item people trust is money – greed is the new spirituality. You want someone to trust, find yourself a nice puppy and beat the bejaysus out of him. He won't like you, but you'll certainly be able to trust him.'