Priest (16 page)

The classic procedure of tailing he'd picked up from cop shows. Did I tell him he'd done well?

No.

He glanced at the holdall and I said,

‘It's a persuader.'

Waited for him to ask what that meant, but he went with,

‘This Sam White, he's stalked women before, was even in court, but the woman withdrew the charges.'

I nodded and he asked,

‘Are we going to report him?'

I nearly laughed, said,

‘We had this conversation before, remember? I asked you if you were up to doing what had to be done.'

He was fading by the minute. Whatever resolve had gotten him this far was leaking fast. He tried,

‘But maybe the Guards . . . ?'

‘Maybe bollocks.'

More fiercely than I intended and I could see I scared him. I eased, not much but a little, said,

‘The Guards might, I emphasize
might,
caution him. Then guess what? He'll up the ante, he'll do real damage.'

He went for broke.

‘What are you going to do with . . . to . . . him?'

I began walking, said,

‘Caution him, but with conviction.'

St Patrick's Avenue used to consist of a small lane connecting the church to Eyre Square, compact homes that
housed a batch of true Galwegians. Like everything else, those people are scattered and gone. I could have named the members of each household. Who'd want to hear them?

Now they're townhouses.

Jesus.

You're sitting in a flash hotel, some asshole in a flashier suit is telling a babe,

‘For weekends, I've a little pad in St Patrick's Avenue.'

I want to jump up, grab him by his Armani tie, roar,

‘You know what happened to the people who lived there?'

And if I beat him from then till Christmas, he'd never know what I was on about. Or care.

Sam White's house was midway up the avenue, a light in the front window. I said,

‘He's home.'

Cody looked like he might bolt. I asked,

‘You want to take off?'

The idea heavily appealed but he tugged at his hair, went,

‘No, it's, am . . . we'll be restrained, won't we?'

Lovely word. I tasted it, let it roll between my teeth, then,

‘When he jerked off into her knickers, threw them on the back seat of her car while she was at church, at Mass, for Chrissakes . . .'

I had to take a deep breath, then,

‘You think he showed restraint there, eh? That what you'd call it, is it?'

He shook his head, the picture of misery.

I knocked on the door, heard a TV being turned down. The door opened. He was in his late twenties, aiming at thirty. Tall, with a shaved head, wearing a singlet and
tracksuit bottoms, bare feet, his toenails needed clipping. He was built like an athlete, worked out. Even features marred by a bad nose, light-blue eyes with a faint bloodshot tint. He asked,

‘Help you?'

Dublin accent, not the north side but the more affluent belt, south of the Liffey – Dublin four, I'd guess. I said,

‘May we see your TV licence?'

He was instantly angry, said,

‘I'm unemployed.'

I gave Cody a long-suffering look, like we'd heard this a hundred times, asked,

‘Did I ask you about your working status?'

‘No . . . but . . .'

‘So let's see some documentation – your social-security book. Maybe you're entitled to a free licence.'

Gave him my affable expression. Us blue-collar guys, in this together. Suggested I might be about to cut him some slack. His anger eased, if not a lot. He was a guy who liked to keep it simmering, figured his temper helped him blast his way through most situations. He asked,

‘Couldn't it wait till, like, another time?
Top of The Pops
is on.'

I glanced at Cody, then, my voice full of enthusiasm,

‘Hey, I want to see that. What do you think, Missy Elliott get to Number One? That Riverdance piece she uses, got black kids learning Irish dance, how cool is that?'

He was thrown. To him I was old, but hip? Before he could do the maths, I stepped inside, said,

‘You get the papers, we'll keep an eye on the telly.'

He was moving down the hall, not sure how he'd been outdanced but going with it. Cody closed the door, looked at me, mouthed,
Missy Elliott?
I turned into the living room. Single guy's pad, a recliner seat like Chandler and Joey have on
Friends,
a can of Bud on the arm, tabloids scattered on the table, the Dublin Gaelic football team framed on the wall. Bookshelves crammed with videos, CDs and car magazines but no books.

The TV was one of those widescreen jobs, cost an arm and a leg. I unzipped the bag, Cody behind me, fretting, took out the hurley, got a firm grip. I was mid swing, the swoosh beginning its song, as Sam came into the room. It hit the screen with a massive bang, shattering it. Sam's jaw dropped. I said,

‘We'll have to wait till next week to see what's Number One.'

Then pivoted and with a second swing took his feet from under him. Cody had his hand up. I ignored him. Sam on the floor, moaning, managed,

‘For a TV licence?'

I nearly laughed. Instead, I swung my boot, broke his nose, let him feel that. Then I pulled him up, shoved him into the recliner. Blood was pouring into his mouth. I snapped at Cody,

‘Get a cloth, for fuck's sake.'

He headed for the kitchen. I hunkered down, said,

‘You can tell I'm a fairly intense guy, so when I ask you a question, bear that in mind.'

I reached in the holdall, got out the can, doused him with
petrol, then took a disposable lighter. His eyes went huge. I said,

‘You lie to me once, you're toast, got it?'

He nodded. I asked,

‘Why are you terrorizing Guard Ridge?'

I gave the lighter an experimental flick and a bright flame leaped out. His body shaking, he said,

‘She arrested me for pissing on the street. In court, it sounded like I'd exposed myself. Got a five-hundred-euro fine and the label “sex offender”.'

I stared at him, said,

‘You go near her again, I'll kill you . . . believe me?'

He nodded. I slapped him open-handed on the face, twice, hard, said,

‘Let me hear you.'

‘I swear, Jesus, I'll never go near her.'

I stood, put the hurley and can in the holdall, tapped his bald head, said,

‘Get a TV licence.'

As I turned I near collided with Cody, who had a wad of tissues in his hand. I said,

‘He won't be needing them, we're done.'

Cody glanced towards the figure slumped in the recliner, then followed me out.

I closed the front door quietly and walked quickly down the lane, my limp not bothering me at all. Cody, catching up, asked,

‘Did you kill him?'

‘There is no doctrine better suited to man than that which teaches him his dual capacity for receiving and losing grace.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
524

 

 

 

AA members would understand my behaviour, I'd be no mystery at all. No drink and no programme. I was doing what they call
white-knuckled sobriety.
Further, a dry drunk.

How did I remember this shit?

How could I not?

Near my new home, on the corner where Eyre Square hits Merchant's Road, is a new off-licence. I'd told Cody to go home, we'd speak soon. I walked straight into the bottle shop. A non-national was arguing with the assistant, claiming that he'd given a fifty-euro note, not a ten. I stared at the top shelf, the labels singing to me. The argument at the counter seemed in no danger of ending, so I said to the non-national,

‘You want to move it along, pal?'

He spun round, prepared for fight, got a look at my face, opted for flight.

The assistant watched him go, muttered,

‘Fucker.'

Then to me,

‘Thanks for helping out.'

He was young, twenty maybe, and already steeped in bitterness. I nodded, said,

‘Give me a bottle of Early Times, a dozen cans of Guinness.'

He had to reach for the bourbon, got it down, stared at the label, said,

‘I never tasted that.'

Was he going to start now?

When I didn't reply, he went,

‘Right, and a dozen Guinness?'

Got them packed in a plastic bag and said,

‘You get a free T-shirt, any purchases over forty euro – you're entitled.'

Seeing I wasn't delirious at my luck, he jammed the shirt into the bag, said,

‘I guess large.'

I paid him, asked,

‘This your full-time job?'

‘Jaysus no, I'm doing Accountancy.'

I took the bag, said,

‘You've all the qualities.'

I was outside when I heard him add,

‘I didn't charge you for the plastic bag.'

In the two years since the levy was imposed on them, the litter problem in the country had been halved. I muttered,

‘Way to go.'

A guy leaning against a doorway asked,

‘Help another human being?'

I gave him the T-shirt.

Then Jeff's face loomed large and I turned back, said to the guy,

‘God just smiled on you.'

Handed him the whole batch of booze . . . I was half a street away when I heard him shout,

‘More like the devil.'

Argue with that?

I didn't.

 

I had been pacing the floor of my apartment. I was still on high dough. The adrenalin surge hadn't abated and the ever-present rage wasn't sated. I shucked off my coat, put a CD on.

Arranged the props and the lights.

If I couldn't listen to music sober then I'd have to start to learn.

I fucking would now.

Be it maudlin, artificial, guilt-induced . . . grieve I would. You listen to Johnny Cash and it doesn't move you, you're already in rigor mortis. Turned the music up – Johnny in full gravel. I surveyed my apartment. The new music centre, when did I get that? Or where? The bookshelves lined with volumes, courtesy of Vinny . . . how'd that happen?

You can operate in a blackout and be sober, the legacy of the years of waste. You can stop drinking but never get clear. As I assessed my domain, I mouthed aloud,

‘Adds up to what?'

The Dandy Warhols, why did they pop into my head? The adrenalin was cruising, opening the Information Highway in my mind. A deluge of useless data came flooding
out – a passage I'd memorized during my training at Templemore:

On 17 August 1922, a contingent of the Civic Guard under the command of Chief Superintendent Mattias McCarthy, having occupied Dublin Castle, lined up in the lower castle yard for inspection by Eamonn Duggan TD, Minister for Home Affairs.

The
Irish Times
the next day reported,

‘Yesterday's little ceremony removes the last trace of the old regime . . . Ireland's destinies are in Irish hands. If the new Ireland is served by a force which will uphold the best traditions of the Royal Irish Constabulary she will be fortunate indeed.'

My early days of training, I'd memorized those words as a source of pride. They bore witness to the career I was going to honour and bring credit to. I remember having the
Irish Times
piece on the wall of my room. It lightened my heart every time I read it, made me feel I was part of the country, a tangible power for the betterment of the nation.

Jesus.

The CD finished.

Shook my head, knew if I looked in the mirror I would see tombstones in my eyes. Was listening to music to bring oblivion and what I got was the dead. All my own people, and for some reason those I'd never even known. James Furlong, the Sky war correspondent, filed one bogus report after a lifetime of real dangerous reporting and couldn't live with the shame. That his Down Syndrome daughter found him hanging tore me to shreds. I asked God,

‘Where's the fucking joy You promise? Where's the happy times I've been obsessing about?'

The list of deceased continued. A Righteous Brother, June Carter and David Hemmings, who'd been in Galway in the late sixties to star in
Alfred the Great,
fresh from his triumph in
Blow-Up
and then the sexiest man on the planet. The movie was described as the greatest turkey of its time, but was welcome in the city due to the income it generated.

Stood, willing myself to shed the shadows, selected REM . . .
Best of
compilation, track six, ‘Losing My Religion', about him being in the corner.

I was moving, doing Stipe's routine. How sad is that? A man in his fifties, the debris of a ruined life dogging his memory, dancing on the top floor of an apartment over Galway Bay, knowing every word of the song, thinking,

Boilermaker.

Bourbon with a beer chaser, living some distorted idea of the American dream.

Another gulp of self pity, another disc.

Springsteen with ‘Thunder Road'. Nick Hornby estimated he played the song 1,500 times.

What . . . he was counting?

Shouted the refrain, something about no free ride.

Like I didn't know.

Then, like a classic crime story, ‘Meeting Across The River', the line in there about carrying a gun as if it was a friend.

Then I sat in the chair, surveyed the empty apartment, the ghosts of all I'd ever known. Jeez, was suicide such a bad idea?

Getting there.

Bruce finished with the Tom Waits song ‘Jersey Girl' and I sang along, quieter now, near weeping for a Jersey girl I'd never encountered and never would, not ever. And did the thing drunks always regret, swear they will never do, but it's, like, compulsory. Picked up the phone, some soul loneliness begging for a human voice, rapped in the digits, heard Ridge go,

‘Yes?'