Priest (12 page)

With all me cynicism, all the lies and treachery I'd encountered, this onslaught caught me blindside. The casual ferocity, the simple dismissal of a whole nation, and hey, this was my gig, I was the one who was bitter. I protested,

‘That's a little harsh, don't you think?'

He was laughing full now.

‘We're fucked, Jack. We talk like quasi-Americans, we're eating ourselves into obesity, drinking our lights out and abusing our children left, right and centre. The only religion now is
Feather thy own nest,
so if you want to know can you trust some kid, let me put it this way – let him do the donkey work and if he's shite, fire his arse. It's the new dynamic, and lemme go American too . . . Get with the game, buddy.'

He took a deep breath then fired his final salvo right at my most vulnerable spot.

‘What's your beef? It's not like he's
your
son.'

Then he hung up – no goodbye or take care or the old Irish-ism,
Mind how you go.

I guess it was the new dynamic.

I didn't know if this helped or not. Did it? Opted for the cynicism on Cody. Decided I'd let him run another mile or
so. I could always fire his arse, or should that be
ass
?

Yet another bad decision on my part.

 

I began the stake-out on Ridge's home on Monday. Days of numbing boredom. At first, the landlady kept checking on me. A knock at the door, did I need anything – tea, coffee, the paper?

After the third time, I answered with an abrupt,

‘What?'

She let me be. The daughter, Mary, the student, was introduced on Tuesday. A looker, with long auburn hair, she had all the confidence of the new Ireland, 100 per cent assurance and little ability. She asked,

‘And you're doing exactly what?'

She could have a fine career in the Guards. I gave her the lame story. She didn't believe a word of it, said,

‘Sounds very odd to me.'

But her mother intervened, mindful of the week's money she'd had up front, said,

‘Now, Mary, leave Mr Taylor alone.'

Reluctantly she did, but giving me a look which warned,

‘I'll be watching you.'

I was tempted to mention Sting, but let it slide. I'd been to Charly Byrnes, reconnected with Vinny and bought six books. They stood unread on the table, the light from the window throwing a shadow across the covers. You figure with a watching gig, you'll have tons of time to read. Never opened a single volume. The art of sitting still I'd near perfected in the hospital. After the morgue and my relief that it wasn't Jeff, I felt I owed God. My prayer had been
answered so the barter system kicked in. I couldn't swear off drink as I hadn't had one in months. So I went to the chemist, bought a pack of nicotine patches. This was my third day, and though I was in withdrawal, it wasn't as bad as I anticipated. The last remaining cigarettes in the packet, I put under the mattress. If the craving got unbearable, I'd have a crushed, crumpled solution. Listened to Warren Zevon – well, to one track. He knew he was dying and I was conscious of that, heard ‘Knocking On Heaven's Door' as if I'd never heard the song before. It tore me apart and I knew I'd never be able to play it again.

Tried Emmylou. The title of the album,
Stumbling Into Grace,
seemed appropriate. No way I was going into grace other than like that. The second track, ‘I Will Dream', had more than a touch of Irish influence, and not just the lyrics – a sadness of centuries. The fourth, ‘Time In Babylon', seemed to be a statement on the current American psyche, but maybe I was just thinking too much. Then ‘Strong Hand', a track for June Carter, came as close to saccharine as it gets, yet was uplifting in a melancholy style.

Perhaps it was the music, the isolation, the long empty hours, but try as I might, I couldn't blot out Serena May, Jeff's daughter. I'd loved her as much as I was ever going to be able to love anyone. I'd been minding her, but was unfocused, and she climbed out the window. Three years of age. My mind locked down, refused to play the chaos after.

I thought about Mrs Bailey, the times we talked. Never, not even once, had she lost faith in me. God knows, I've lost faith myself, climbing in and out of a bottle, receiving
bad beatings, destroying everything I touched. Had never been able to get her to use my Christian name. I grieved for her.

With horror, I realized I cared for more people in the graveyard than in life, which means you've lived too long or God has a serious vendetta going, with no sign of Him letting up in the foreseeable future. What all this transmuted into was rage, a blinding, encompassing, white rawness of fury. When I hit the guy on the bridge, the truth was I felt near released. Only massive control prevented me finishing him off, and man, I wanted to – still did. The classic definition of depression is rage turned inward, so the way I figured it, I was born depressed. No fucking more. I wasn't going under that dank water which is depression, where your best daily moment is climbing into bed. Of course, the very worst is when you wake, the black cloud waiting, and you go ‘Not this shit again.'

I was the cauldron waiting for the match. I bloody prayed for it. Deep down, I knew I was focusing on this stalker, glad he'd come along. The more I thought about him harassing Ridge, the more I simmered. I wanted to catch him, not for her but as a release for the tornado inside. Too, I fucking hate intimidation. Some asshole who crept around in the dark, preying unseen on a woman – oh man, I wanted him bad.

I was well aware I'd put Father Malachy on the back burner, tried to rationalize that I'd been en route to talk to one of Father Joyce's victims when the cops whisked me away to meet Clancy. Resolved to get right on it when Cody relieved me midweek.

Meanwhile, the time edged by and I was going nuts.

I wanted to lash out, to put my fist through the window. No sign of a stalker. I saw Ridge leave for work, then return at the end of her shift. What she looked was tired and even hungover – I know the signs.

Wednesday finally came and Cody appeared with a ruck-sack and a breezy attitude. I introduced him to the landlady and he charmed her completely. Produced an apple tart from Griffin's Bakery, so fresh that the aroma filled the house. The landlady was thrilled.

‘Oh, I love apple tart.'

He took out a carton of cream and she was full won over. He said,

‘You gotta have cream, am I right?'

She blushed, I swear she did, went,

‘I shouldn't. I mean, a girl has to watch her figure.'

When I dragged him away, she was still cooing. He said to me, all business now,

‘We're going to nail this guy, right?'

‘I hope so.'

‘Jack, come on, what's with the negative waves. Practise saying “I can and I will.”

He couldn't be bloody serious. I asked,

‘Are you serious?'

‘It's an affirmation, Jack. I say every morning, “Every day, in every way, I'm getting better—” '

I put up my hand, went,

‘Jesus, enough, I get the picture.'

Knocked him back, but he was a trier, said,

‘Works for me.'

He looked round the room, saw the CDs, asked,

‘What's the sounds?'

‘Emmylou Harris, Warren Zevon.'

‘Who?'

I didn't have the patience or the inclination to tell him, so began to take my leave. He produced a small box, gift wrapped, handed it over. I asked,

‘What's this?'

‘A present to mark our bonding.'

Took the paper off and there was a mobile phone. He said,

‘It's charged, with credit and ready to rock ‘n' roll.'

I mumbled some lines of thanks and he said,

‘No biggie.'

I looked at him, the eager beaver, full of ideals and spunk, asked,

‘How far are you ready to go?'

‘Go?'

‘If we catch this guy, how far are you prepared to go, out on a limb?'

He was unsure, wanted to get it right, said,

‘We'll, am, hand him over.'

My voice was scathing.

‘To, like . . . the Guards – that your thinking?'

‘Am, I guess.'

I shook my head and he asked, a hint of desperation now,

‘What do you think, Jack? You're the pro.'

I wanted to fuck with him. Hell, I just wanted to fuck with anyone, said,

‘Let me give you a clue, yeah?'

He waited. All the vim he'd garnered by buttering the landlady was leaking away and he nodded, anxiety plastered on his face. I said,

‘I'll be getting a hurley, putting the steel rims on the end, ensuring it has that necessary
swoosh.
You catch my drift?'

He did, but didn't believe it, said,

‘You mean, like a beating?'

I waited, then said,

‘Think of it more as an affirmation.'

As I was leaving, the landlady stepped into the hall, cooed,

‘What a lovely boy, is he your son?'

I denied him.

 

Walking towards town, I felt like I'd been released from prison. My limp wasn't bothering me, due in part to all the pacing I'd done the past few days. A guy, the worse for wear, fell in step beside me, asked,

‘Remember me, Jack?'

I was all bummed out on civility, said,

‘No.'

He stopped, let me examine him. About five eight, balding rapidly, watery eyes and a drinker's ruined face. Wearing a grey cardigan buttoned to the neck, shiny pants that gleamed from constant wear, slip-on grey shoes, a hole on the side of the left, he said,

‘Minty . . . Minty Grey.'

Like a reject from Pop Idol, then I did remember – from schooldays, his nickname from the sweets he chewed on a regular basis. Two of his front teeth were black – not
just decayed, coal black. As if reading my mind, he said,

‘I haven't had a mint in years.'

I said,

‘Good to see you.'

Couldn't bring myself to use his nickname. The years bring, if not maturity, then a heightened sense of ridiculousness. He said,

‘Did you hear about the Poor Clares?'

I hoped they hadn't been burned out or worse. These days, anything seemed possible. An enclosed order, they existed on donations. The terrible times of the fifties, they'd ring the bell when they were hungry, the sound of that tolling telling all that was horrible and shameful about poverty. Who could have forecast the Celtic Tiger? Gone were the days when priests went door to door, asking for dues, and people turned out the lights in the vain hope the priest would think no one was home. And I wondered why I had such rage. He said,

‘They've gone online.'

Thought I misheard. Did he mean line dancing? Nuns drove cars, appeared on TV . . .

Then he added,

‘They've got a website.'

‘You're kidding – the Poor Clares?'

‘Honest to God, it was on the news.'

I shook my head, asked,

‘How do you . . . I mean . . . give alms?'

He gave a mega grin, black teeth prominent, said,

‘They accept all the major credit cards.'

He stopped at the Bal, said,

‘I'm going in here.'

I reached for some change and he said,

‘No need, Jack, it's dole day. But thanks.'

He'd unnerved me, shook up the few illusions I'd kept. He laughed, said,

‘If I'd a website, you could send me a few bob, use your credit card.'

I laughed unconvincingly, admitted,

‘I don't have one.'

He gave me a thumbs up, said,

‘But you've a good heart, best credit there is.'

Bank that.

 

On impulse, I headed for Shantalla to suss out Tom Reed, the guy who provided bouncers. I wondered if there was a vocation for that – you wake up one morning knowing with certainty your mission is to supply bouncers to the world. I found his house without any trouble, a two-storey with a well-tended garden. I took a deep breath, knocked at the door.

Showtime.

Always the moment I loved and loathed, never quite sure how I was going to broach the subject, the flat-out ‘Are you a killer?'

A woman answered. She was in her twenties, looked harried, asked,

‘Yes?'

‘Is Tom around?'

She roared over her shoulder,

‘Tom!'

And went back inside.

I could hear phones ringing – business was brisk. A short man, bald, with a barrel chest, jog pants and, I kid you not, a pink T-shirt with the logo WE BOUNCE appeared, went,

‘Yeah?'

I put out my hand, said,

‘I'm Jack Taylor. I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time?'

‘You selling something?'

Go for broke. I said,

‘It's about Father Joyce.'

A look of sheer agony crossed his face – raw, naked hurt, followed by a weariness. He sighed.

‘This shit again.'

I tried to look sympathetic – not one of my strong suits, I come on like a chancer – said,

‘I realize this must be difficult.'

He gave me a long look, asked,

‘You a survivor?'

I knew he meant of child abuse, said,

‘No.'

He put his head to the side, said,

‘So you realize nothing.'

He considered, then,

‘OK, I'll give you five minutes. The girl, she's my secretary, up to her arse in sales.'

I stepped in and pulled the door closed. He led the way to a kitchen, files and papers everywhere. I asked,

‘Business good?'

‘Yeah, a madhouse. I keep planning on renting office space, but Galway – who can afford it? Get you some coffee? We only got instant.'

‘What I drink.'

While the kettle boiled, he asked,

‘You a boozer?'

A statement more than a question. I tried for indignation and he said,