Priest (13 page)

‘It's in the eyes, that haunted look – I've been there. Other places too, none I'd like to revisit.'

He shovelled instant into mugs, added the water, said,

‘We're out of milk, out of everything except demand for door personnel. That's bouncers to you and me.'

I was curious, asked,

‘How'd you get into it?'

He motioned for me to sit. I did and he took a chair opposite, said,

‘Much like you'd imagine. I was a bouncer, got tired of spit and worse in my face, figured I'd get into management. Seven years ago, when the town was seriously partying. If you were younger, I could have you working this evening.'

Not if Clancy got wind of it. I asked,

‘How come?'

He drank off his coffee, said,

‘You look thick.'

I let that lie, didn't want to explore what exactly he meant. I'd a fairly good idea it wasn't flattering. I said,

‘I've been asked to look into Father Joyce's death.'

The fleeting pain again. He stood up, went to the sink, washed his mug with energy, said,

‘So you come to the few people who'd the courage to speak out. Three of us who had the balls to talk, among the numerous others who were abused. Who's paying your freight? The Church? As they sure as hell ain't paying us. But they will. The Government's trying to shaft us too – I guess that's legal abuse. One sympathetic judge, Le Foy? They got her to resign.'

There was a ferocity in his words, a power that seemed to chill the air. In an attempt to diffuse it, I said,

‘You've overcome . . . am . . . your past. I mean, you're functioning, doing well.'

He slammed a fist on the washboard, asked,

‘How the fuck would you know? You see a wife here, kids, anything normal? I've been on every medication in the book, lost my hair when I was nineteen years old. You want to know what I do for recreation?'

He mouthed the word with every ounce of contempt he could summon, continued,

‘I walk the frigging prom, up and down. I talk to no one, not a single human being. I watch TV. Comedies –
Seinfeld, Friends, South Park, Family Guy
– and you know what? I never laugh, not even once. And
Father Ted,
I'll never watch that, priests are never going to be funny. I died years ago, but my body won't lie down – isn't that a pisser? And family – forget it. I always thought I'd have a son, and like now, he could inherit the business. But thanks to that Father, the pervert, I'll die alone, no issue. A man should have a son, 'tis a real sin what was robbed from me.'

I was lost for a reply, so he asked,

‘You want to know did I kill him . . . That's it, isn't it? You think a hundred other people don't want to ask me the very same thing? He buggered me ten times a week till I bled from me arse. I was nine years old when he started. When I told my mother, she leathered me till I couldn't walk.'

Sweat was pouring down his face, the pink T-shirt drenched. He continued,

‘Sometimes, for variety, he'd stick it in my mouth. So am I sorry he's dead? I tell you what I am sorry about – that it was the head got cut off. They got the wrong end.'

I stood up, asked,

‘Can I get you some water?'

He was spent, his whole body collapsed in on itself, shook his head, said,

‘You'll want to see Michael?'

‘Yes, I would.'

He gave a small twisted smile, said,

‘You'll like Michael, he's got his shit together.'

I wanted to reach out, touch his shoulder and say, what? That it would be all right. Whatever else, it was never going to be that. I said,

‘I appreciate your talking to me, the coffee . . .'

He seemed not to hear me. As I was heading out, he asked,

‘You familiar with the term “cold case”?'

When I nodded, he said,

‘That's what this is. Cold as granite.'

Then he added,

‘You ever catch the guy who did it, do me a favour?'

‘Yes?'

‘Shake his hand for me.'

 

Later that evening, by one of those bizarre coincidences,
Sky News
reported a drive-by shooting in a small hamlet in Suffolk, alleged to be connected to a dispute between bouncers. Drive-by . . . how American we were getting.

Switched to the local news. The Guards stopped a speeding car. The occupants, teenagers in balaclavas, had in their possession

Two swords

Six Stanley knives

Baseball bats

Can of petrol.

Trick or treat.

‘Diversion. Being unable to cure death, wretchedness and ignorance, men have decided, in order to be happy, not to think about such things.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
168

 

 

 

I'd my mobile phone and yes, Cody, it was switched on. Only two people had the number, Cody and Ridge.

So how busy was it going to be? Truth is, I kind of liked it. Small, silver, compact, seemed like a bullet casing. I was still wearing the patches but old compulsions go down reluctantly. I'd tap my pocket for the phone, think it was a pack of cigs. Cody suggested,

‘Get a ring tone.'

Sounded like a visit to a hooker. I asked,

‘Get what?'

‘Your own personalized ring sound. I've Franz Ferdinand but you could get, like, Beyonce or Black Eyed Peas.'

I didn't imagine Johnny Duhan was available, said,

‘I'll settle for the sound of it ringing.'

For the life of me, I couldn't grasp the concept. There were companies who'd sell you a tune? Between that and supplying bouncers, where was the country going? Jesus.

I visualized being in church, no one's bothered to switch off the phones and a whole orchestra of pop tunes clashes in unison. Who knows, maybe they could replace the choir.

Cody determined to drag me up to speed, asked,

‘You've web access, right?'

‘Take a wild fucking guess.'

After I left Tom Reed, I walked down to the canal, watched the ducks. And soon, of course, the darkness. Closed my eyes, imagined Jeff's body drifting by. Every night of the week, the Guards pulled someone from the water, mostly too late. The range covered the city's population. Into the water went

Students

Drunks

The demented

The lonely

Young girls

The sick

The healthy.

So sang the song of the canals: give me your poor and rejected.

No clergy.

Yet.

My phone rang, putting the heart crossways in me. I answered, heard Cody, asked,

‘What?'

‘Just checking in, hoss.'

Hoss.

I asked,

‘Any developments?'

‘No Sir, but I'm on top of it, got my eyes peeled.'

He sounded like he was enjoying himself, and in amazement I asked,

‘You're enjoying this?'

‘Man, it's a blast.'

Every time I thought I'd a handle on him, got him part way sussed, he reached new levels of cliche. I said,

‘Don't call me with hourly reports, got it?'

‘Radio silence unless there's a code red?'

‘Exactly.'

Was about to click off when he asked,

‘What do you think about Mary?'

‘Who?'

‘The landlady's daughter. A fox, right?'

I clicked off.

He deserved her.

Truth to tell, I was jealous.

 

Saturday morning, I rang Cody. Took ages before he answered, then,

‘Yeah . . .'

Sleep written all over it. I decided to crack the whip. I mean you're the boss, it's your moral duty. I snapped,

‘You're sleeping?'

Before he could answer, I heard laughter, a girl's, and he said,

‘Am, call you back . . .'

He didn't.

I was out, walking through the morning market. It was a bright day, the area thronged with people, few of them Irish, let alone Galwegians. A couple from Denmark were selling sausages roasting on an open grill – the aroma blanketed the crowd. I might have been tempted but a
line of people were waiting. Instead, I looked at some stained-glass reproductions of the Claddagh.

And the seller said,

‘Give you a good price, Guv.'

Guv!

Jesus, Camden Lock in the west of Ireland. I was intrigued, asked,

‘You a Londoner?'

‘A Geordie.'

‘Oh right.'

And for the life of me, I couldn't think of another word, another word that didn't involve shepherd's pie or some such supposedly Geordie cliche. He said,

‘I've been here five years.'

Got me vocal again, and with huge originality I asked,

‘Like it?'

He gave me a look of confusion, asked,

‘What's not to like? The pubs, the crack.'

I felt I should say something but my phone went and he said,

‘Saved by the bell.'

I answered, ready to light a fire under Cody, heard,

‘Jack?'

‘Ridge . . .'

She was crying, or as close to that as she'd ever come, said,

‘My car, it's contaminated.'

Instead of asking what the hell that meant, I asked,

‘Where are you?'

‘The cathedral car park.'

‘Stay there, I'm five minutes away.'

As I fought my way out of the market, I noticed a guy selling T-shirts that read,

Every dog has its day.
Don't plan on it being
anytime soon.

Amen to that.

As I hurried along Market Street, I noticed a headline on a newspaper:

Arnold had become Governor of California. The bottom part of the page related how the English team were threatening to strike, and if they refused to travel to Turkey, they were out of Euro 2004. Ireland had their crunch match due against Switzerland in a few days. I digested all that, thought, ‘I'm returning to life,' bizarre as it was. I crossed the Salmon Weir Bridge just as an angler was landing a fine fish. It pained me to see such a beautiful specimen have its head smashed against a rock. The sound like an omen.

Ridge was sitting on the low wall circling the car park. Mass was letting out and I saw people dip their fingers in the Holy Water font, bless themselves,
‘In anim an Athair
. . . In the Name of the Father.'

The English translation just didn't work, not for me, not in my heart where it mattered.

Ridge was smoking a cigarette.

I couldn't have been more surprised if she'd been toting a sawn-off or snorting coke. I thought, is she going to pick up my addictions, one by one? She was wearing a white sweatshirt, faded jeans and scuffed Reeboks. Her face was haggard. I asked,

‘You OK?'

How lame was that?

And got the prerequisite lash.

‘How the hell do you think I am?'

She pointed a finger, said,

‘It's there.'

She didn't look at the car, added,

‘The doors are open, the . . . item . . . is in the back seat.'

I approached cautiously, my nerves shot to ribbons. There was a note pinned to the steering wheel.

You hore of Babylon

Yer time is near.

A clue. He couldn't spell.

The church bells began to ring. Jeez, talk about timing.

Ask not . . .

I didn't.

What was beating in my mind, uncalled and certainly unwanted, was Warren Zevon, ‘Knocking On Heaven's Door'.

Especially the bit asking to take the badge offa me.

Oh yeah.

In the back seat was a pair of knickers. I got my pen,
used it to move them and could see the still-damp semen. The mind locks on a detail, some minute item to block the evidence. The knickers had tiny hearts embroidered on the front and that ripped through my guts like fucking acid. There was a Supermac's bag littering the floor. I got it and deposited the knickers in it, put the bag in my pocket. My phone rang. I answered with a terse,

‘Yeah?'

‘Jack, it's Cody. I've got great news.'

Could we get so lucky? I said,

‘Tell.'

He sounded breathless, said,

‘Mary and I are an item.'

I actually held the phone away from me, as if it was pulling a fast one, then I gritted,

‘You're fucking having me on?'

He read me wrong, thought I was pleased, gushed,

‘Isn't it unbelievable? She's such a catch.'

Ridge was staring at the pocket where I'd pushed the crumpled bag, then, as if in defiance, lit another cig, blew the smoke at me. I said to Cody,

‘I'll tell you what's unbelievable. While you're romancing your . . .'

Words failed me momentarily. Then I focused, white heat in my brain, said,

‘Fox. While you're at that, the stalker has defiled our lady's car.'

I could hear his intake of breath, then,

‘Defiled . . . what . . . I . . . ?'

‘You're fucking fired is what you are.'

And I hit the Off button.

Ridge gave what in other circumstances might have passed for a smile, asked,

‘You fired somebody – did I miss a chapter? When did you begin hiring people, never mind firing?'

I waved that away, asked,

‘How long was your car there?'

She stubbed the cigarette on the wall, short stabbing movements that reflected her state of mind, said,

‘I went to Mass.'

Paused.

Expecting what? Derision, surprise? I said nothing, had been a Mass attendee for a time there myself. She continued,

‘And when I came out, I found . . . the message . . . and in case you didn't detect it, he broke the side window.'

Yeah, I missed that.

She stared at my pocket, asked,

‘You're keeping the evidence for like . . . what, a DNA test?'