Priest (17 page)

Tentative.

I said,

‘It's Jack.'

No warm cry of welcome.

So I added,

‘You won't have any more trouble.'

Stunned.

‘You found him?'

‘Yes.'

‘And who . . . is he?'

‘Name of Sam White. You did him for public urination.'

I was happy with the turn of phrase, only slightly slurred on the Sam. The Ss are a bastard, get you every time when you're in such a state of agitation. I must have sounded like I was drunk.

She was rummaging in her memory, then,

‘Him! He's the one?'

‘Not any more.'

‘Did you hurt him?'

‘Yes.'

‘How badly?'

‘Biblical.'

I waited, wondering if she'd go nuts, accuse me of being a vigilante, ask me what I thought the Guards were for. She said,

‘Good.'

I expected a show of gratitude, at least some appreciation, but she went,

‘You sound odd.'

‘Yeah? Funny thing about violence, it puts your gift for small talk down the toilet.'

‘Were you hurt?'

‘Not any place that it shows.'

She savoured this, then,

‘What does that mean?'

I could have given her the talk on how violence takes a bit of your soul, that damaging another person diminishes your humanity, but there was no way of saying that without sounding like a prick, so I said,

‘You're smart, you'll figure it out.'

Steel in her voice, she said,

‘Don't take that tone with me.'

Crashed the phone down.

God does not help those who help the Guards.

In my head was the speech Clare had given me, the condescension he'd shown me, the names he called me, and I was forced to unclench my fingers where they'd burned into a tight fist. Last time I was that angry, I punched a hole in the wall and broke my wrist.

*   *   *

Noon the following day, I met Malachy in the Great Southern. He had a pot of coffee going, a cloud of nicotine over his head. He said,

‘Christ, you look rough.'

I'd needed a pot of coffee to get up and out, snapped,

‘What's it to you?'

He considered that. I took one of his cigarettes and he managed not to comment. I realized I still had the patch on so I put the cig back in the pack. Without preamble, I laid out the investigation as it happened, from meeting the bouncer guy to Michael Clare's admission of killing Father Joyce. I didn't say I didn't believe the story. Finished, I sat back, asked,

‘What are you going to do?'

‘Do?'

‘He murdered your friend, a priest . . . will you go to the Guards?'

He shook the coffee pot empty, said,

‘I'll say a Mass for him.'

I couldn't believe it, asked,

‘You're kidding, right?'

He was looking at his diary, making
hmmm
sounds, said,

‘The early-morning Mass, at seven. Will you come?'

I stood up, went,

‘So Clare walks, that it?'

He had an expression of what I can only describe as resigned tolerance, not one I'd ever seen him display. He said,

‘'Tis God's business now.'

I wanted to reach down, grab him by his clerical collar
and shake him till he rattled. I said,

‘Clare told me of an unholy trinity of the Church, the Guards and him. He should have added you – you don't seem to care if he's the guilty one or not, you just want to know if your arse is safe.'

He sighed.

‘Jack, those men, they have a vision of the future. Small people like you and me, we go along, they can see the bigger picture.'

I wanted to beat him senseless. I stood up, and for the first time in my life I wanted to spit on someone, bring up a ton of phlegm and gob it out on his tired suit. You're about to spit on a priest, you're so fucked, even the Devil is mildly taken aback. I managed to rein it in and said,

‘I'd say God forgive you, but I think even He would see that as a reach. You're one sad wanker, and you know what? I think you interfered with those boys too.'

And I was out of there. Jeff's pub, Nestor's, was only a few hundred yards away and it was so appealing to head there. I looked at Eyre Square, the winos congregating, whispered,

‘Where are you, buddy?'

 

I was nursing a diet coke in Feeney's when Cody arrived. I put my fingers to my lips, said,

‘No comment on the diet coke. You don't know me well enough to have an opinion, least not one that matters a shit to me.'

He took a deep breath, said,

‘My father always treated me like a retarded person, said
I'd never come to anything, that I was a fierce disappointment, and you know, you made me feel like I was
someone'

His voice faltered and I thought he was going to cry, but he bit down, held it together, sort of, continued,

‘This sounds stupid, and I know it's, like, weird, but I thought you were kind of like the father I'd have wanted.'

Before I could respond, he said in a rush,

‘But I can't stomach the rage, the ferocity you have, so I resign. I'm afraid I'll end up like you.'

I wanted to shout,

‘Resign?
Are you fucking kidding me?'

He stood up, said,

‘Goodbye, and . . . am, God bless.'

I watched him shuffle out, and I swear to God, it looked like he had a limp.

‘They throw earth over your head and it is finished for ever'

Pascal,
Pensées,
210

 

 

 

That night will remain as one of the strangest of my strange life. I made strong coffee, real bright idea if you want to sleep, and man, I wanted to sleep for ever. But the music, the mania of violence and remorse had gotten a hold, so I played every sad song I had, and I had a whole bunch. The caffeine fuelled my madness and I swear, I think the whole emotional storm, the barrage of pure feeling caused me to hallucinate.

I saw my father outside the window, holding Serena May in his arms.

Imagine how I'd have been if I'd drunk, if that was the reaction on just coffee, albeit gallons of it. Come five in the morning, my stomach roared
enough
and I threw up, then, knackered, fell on the bed and slept like a demented animal.

I came to in the morning, sick as a tinker in the belly of the beast. My clothes stank to high heaven and I'd that emotional hangover that recovering alcoholics discuss. One thing they got right, it's a bastard. Already I missed Cody. That kid – Jesus, I nearly said
my kid
– had got to me, and
I could at least attempt to put that right. But then and there, what I needed was a shower,
no coffee
and a lot of prayer.

I had entered a realm of pure madness. The place where you actually believe you are sane. There was a pounding on the door, not a polite knocking but a definite heavy banging. Man, I was ready to rumble unless it was the Guards. Pulled the door open.

When I first came to the building, one of the residents had stopped me, warned,

‘This is a quiet residence.'

I'd been enraged. Here he was again. About thirty, wearing a buttoned green cardigan, a shirt and tie, heavy dark pants and slippers, metal glasses that gave him a Nazi look. I said,

‘What?'

He took a step back. My appearance was not encouraging. The rumpled blazer, dirty pants, and no doubt eyes of lunacy. He put his hand to his tie for reassurance, said,

‘The level of noise from your apartment last night is not acceptable.'

I grabbed his tie, hauled him to me, snarled,

‘Who the fuck are you?'

Flecks of spittle landed on his cardigan. He was horrified, glanced at the phlegm on his shoulder, stammered,

‘I'm Tony Smith. I head up the Residents' Committee.'

Pricks like him had shadowed my whole life. Always they'd a committee or organization to hide behind. My breath was clouding his glasses. I hissed,

‘Get off my fucking back. Since the day I moved in, you've been reading me the riot act. Now here's a riot. I ever see
you again, I'll break every fucking bone in your body . . . and if you think of calling the Guards . . .'

I paused, not so much for effect – though it helped – but mainly to catch my breath, then,

‘I used to be a Guard and we watch out for our own.'

I released his tie and he staggered back. I said,

‘You ever pound on my door again, you better be carrying more than an attitude. Now piss off.'

Slammed the door in his miserable face, my chest heaving from adrenalin and palpitations. In the kitchen, I got a glass of water, drained half. I was way out on an avalanche of madness.

Why?

Because I'd gone certifiably insane. Because Michael Clare bothered me, bothered me a lot. If I'd been calmer, I'd have, as they say,
sucked it up
– swallowed the bile and moved on. Not now.

The phone rang. I picked up, went,

‘Yeah?'

‘Jack, it's Ridge.'

‘So?'

That was the spirit, take the war to her too. She was momentarily lost for a reply, then,

‘Are you all right?'

‘Never better. This might be the bloody best I've ever been.'

Outrage in her voice as she came back.

‘You're drinking. Oh Holy Mother of God, I can't believe it.'

‘Hey, God has nothing to do with it, this is purely a deal
with the Devil, and whether you believe it or not, I haven't been drinking. I was going to, came within a glass of it, but no, I didn't drink . . . Hurrah for me, eh?'

She gave a deep sigh then, almost resigned, said,

‘We'll have to get you some help.'

That inflamed me – not that it took a whole lot to fire me up. I echoed,

‘We! Who's
we
? You're the same as me, Ridge – we don't have anybody. But
you
can do something.'

‘Tell me.'

‘Mind your own business.'

And for once, I got to slam the phone down.

 

An alkie in full defiant flight is a wonder to behold. Like a victim of a car wreck who straight away runs out into traffic. The rage is usually short lived, and I'd been burning adrenalin and aggression for over an hour, full-tilt boogie. I suddenly collapsed and climbed into bed, torn blazer and all.

The next few days were nightmare in neon, highlit by dread, punctuated by pain. A blur of waking and sleeping, massive sweats, ice-cold shivers and the odd hallucination, but no booze. Weak as a kitten, I managed to wash, dress, gulp food down without even tasting it. Tacked the menu of bare survival on the back of the door: eat, drink gallons of water, wash, stay enraged.

More than anything else, it demonstrates a life of pure futility.

I'd like to say it worked, that I'd found a method to not drink and function.

I hadn't.

Living alone is a huge factor on the road to madness – who can disapprove? As long as I kept away from mirrors, I could move in a world of delusion. No easy task to shave with your eyes averted from your reflection.

So I packed that in.

I needed milk and went across the road to a small shop that was barely hanging in there, the developers squeezing tight on all sides. The guy behind the counter was wearing a turban. More and more, the Irish were sinking into the background. We didn't speak but eyed each other with a wary suspicion. I was going to ask,

‘Are the people treating you well?'

But I didn't want to know. We were treating our own like shite so why would we stretch for a non-national? In the hospitals, patients were lying for days on trolleys, and this at a time when we'd been declared the fourth-richest nation in the world. An elderly man came into the shop, bought one of the tabloids and nodded at me. I grunted, no encouragement given.

As I left the shop, he caught up with me, said,

‘You're the Taylor fella?'

I was primed for aggravation, asked,

‘So?'

If he detected my hostility, he wasn't fazed by it, said,

‘I saw you recently with that young man. Is he your son?'

Jesus.

And I said,

‘Yes, yes he is.'

He gave a huge smile, said,

‘Well, he's the spitting image of you.'

And was gone.

The weirdest thing of all – I felt delighted.

Go figure.

But back to the apartment and the continuing dementia.

Knew I looked like shit. Now I could look like shit with a beard.

At infrequent times, I'd let loose a cackle of demented laughter, and that scared the bejaysus out of me. When you frighten yourself, you've hit a planet of new darkness.

I took to muttering ‘Michael Clare', like a cursed mantra. It cranked me when the booze compulsion seemed overwhelming. Somewhere in my sick mind – and fevered it was – I equated his exposure with atonement for the death of the child. In jangled sleep, more than once Cathy and Jeff came to me, intoning, ‘Baby-killer.'

The destruction of Michael Clare wouldn't bring the little girl back or restore Jeff, but one area of darkness might, and I stress might, contain less shadows.

I began to research my quarry in the library, found old newspapers and, after hours of poring over them, found him featured many times. He was a patron of the Arts and seen often at charity functions. Most importantly, I discovered he had a sister, Cathleen, known as Kate. She was single, living in Salthill, apart from that I couldn't find a whole lot more about her. So I figured, cold call, why the hell not? Bought some clothes from Age Concern and I was ready to roll. A light-blue suit, white T-shirt and soft-soled shoes. My limp was acting up something ferocious. It had to be related to the anger, what wasn't? Had an energy
drink, some shite that promised to restore your spiritual and physical balance, and decided to walk out there. The sea air would do me some good and get some wind on my face. I took the Grattan Road route and a few people said hello, but I pretended not to hear them. I remembered the bouncer guy saying he walked the prom and never spoke to a single soul. I understood better now. Half expected to meet him, but it didn't happen.