Priest (18 page)

Kate lived in a new apartment block beside the Blackrock Tower. The building looked flash, expensive, a list of names beside the intercom. There she was: K. Clare. It was too dangerous now to use a woman's Christian name on such a list. Sign of the disintegrating times. I rang the bell and after a moment heard a woman's voice.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm sorry to bother you, but I'd like to talk to you about your brother Michael. If you give Tom Reed a call, he'll vouch for me. My name is Jack Taylor.'

Silence, and I thought, nope, not going to work. Then,

‘Are you the man who saved the swans?'

Jesus, that was a time ago. My picture had been in the paper and I got an award for my valour. It was most embarrassing and hugely unwarranted. I said,

‘Am, yeah.'

The intercom buzzed and the door opened. Her apartment was on the second floor and she was waiting at the door, a smile in place. Tall, she was in the late-forties zone that in some light passes for mid-thirties, mainly due to grooming, care and cash.

The very first thing I noticed was her hands, unnaturally
large for a woman and rough, like she'd been washing dishes all her life, which I seriously doubted. She caught my look, said,

‘I'm ashamed of them, but as I work with horses they have their use. You need to have very strong hands to hold a horse that does not want to be held.'

Later, I read all sorts of meaning into that. Then, I let it slide.

Black hair to her shoulders, a navy dress that hugged her frame in the best way and a face that was just an inch away from ordinary. She extended her hand, said,

‘I'm glad to meet the saviour of the swans.'

I took her hand, felt the strength and decided to let her believe I was heroic. She waved me inside, and the first thing I saw were framed photos of the swans in the Claddagh Basin, shot from every angle. One in particular was highly effective, at dusk, the swans taking on an almost mystical quality. I said,

‘Wow.'

She laughed, agreed,

‘Beautiful creatures.'

The apartment was simply but elegantly furnished, taste and money giving a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere. She indicated an armchair and I sat. She was nervous and I realized how long it had been since I'd found any woman even vaguely appealing. I had totally shut down that part of my life, never expecting to even miss those feelings. On a small table near me was a tiny silver swan, exquisitely made, every feature outlined. It seemed almost real. She said,

‘One of a pair.'

She gazed at it, then,

‘I had it made by a craftsman in Quay Street. Actually, I had a pair done. Did you know swans mate for life, are inseparable?'

The obvious question of why this one was alone was on my lips, but she got there before me, said,

‘I gave the other to . . . Well, I gave it away. A mistake, I now realize, but at the time it seemed . . . appropriate.'

She asked,

‘Can I get you a drink?'

Making it easy for me. So I said,

‘Perhaps a glass of water.'

She said she might have a little touch of whiskey and sparkling water, that normally she didn't much care for alcohol. I had to stifle the scream that went,
Shut the fuck up! Drink it, don't drink it, but for Chrissakes stop talking about it.
I gave a polite smile – the one that says, ‘Oh, we all have our little vices.'

She held up a bottle of Black Bushmills and I nearly caved. Christ, the cream of booze, goes down like a dream. She said,

‘Michael would kill me for even suggesting I put water in. He says women don't know how to treat fine whiskey.'

The words
Michael
and
kill
in the same sentence pulled me back to why I was there, and I felt a wave of depression hover. She handed me a heavy Waterford tumbler with my water. I raised my glass and said,

‘Slainte.'

Got a small smile in return, then she asked,

‘About Michael?'

I considered various evasive tactics, but she didn't seem the type to shoot a line to so I said,

‘He's been mentioned in connection with the murder of Father Joyce.'

If she was shocked, she hid it well. Her expression didn't change. She placed her glass on a small table, asked,

‘And your interest, Mr Taylor? You're not here in any official capacity, I think.'

Her voice was like Michael's, a touch of English accent but a more cultured sound. I said,

‘My role is to eliminate Tom Reed and Michael from the inquiry.'

Her eyes held mine and she said,

‘Are you employed by someone?'

Now I had to lie, went,

‘The Church is anxious to get former altar boys cleared so as not to sully their already tarnished image in the eyes of the public'

I thought it sounded pretty plausible. Her eyes stayed on mine, which I was finding disconcerting. She asked,

‘Have you met with Michael?'

I said I had and that he had been most cooperative. She stood up, sighed, said,

‘I doubt that very much, Mr Taylor.'

Caught me off balance, and before I could respond she added,

‘Michael is . . . troubled. I think it's the oldest story in the book – fathers and sons. He wanted so much to impress my father, but alas, he never did, and the tragedy is, he's still trying. He believes if he drags this city into massive
prosperity, my father will finally approve. My father has been dead for twenty years.'

I raised my glass to buy time, took a decent wallop and felt the sheer smoothness rush down my throat, said,

‘Do you have contact with him?'

She ran her hand through her hair, looked out the window, which had a fine view of the bay, said,

‘We lost Michael when he was ten years old, when . . . that . . . priest destroyed him. To our shame, we never believed him. My mother actually beat him ferociously for telling the truth – we're as guilty as that . . .
cleric . . .
for what he's become. Michael and I were joined at the hip almost as children, went everywhere together, did everything together, but our big treat was to feed the swans. We'd spend hours there, fascinated by those wondrous creatures.'

Then she sat, said,

‘I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe because you saved the swans or maybe I just needed to say it. Those silver swans, I had them made for Michael's twenty-first, a last desperate effort to connect with him. He returned them to me, said he hated those bloody things.'

A thought struck and I said,

‘But he has his office overlooking the Claddagh Basin. If he hates them, surely that's the last place he'd set up?'

She sighed, then,

‘He bought out his partner who was originally established there. It made good commercial sense to remain. Anyway, Michael doesn't see them. Since he was ten years old, he sees different things to you and I.'

I had to ask, so plunged.

‘What do you think he sees?'

She considered.

‘I think he sees our father, the stern look. My father hated priests, he strongly objected to Michael being an altar boy, but it was my mother's wish. Irish women and priests . . .'

She let that trail off and I could have said,

‘Fucking tell me about it. My own mother and that scumbag Malachy.'

Instead I visualized Michael.

I recalled the time I visited him, and him standing at the window as I left, his eyes like panes of glass, looking inwards.

Her glass was empty and I asked if she'd like me to get her another. She said,

‘No, it's no solution.'

I could have told her a few stories from that war zone to reinforce her comment. I decided to tell her the truth, said,

‘Michael told me he killed Father Joyce.'

Her eyes were back on mine and full of such sorrow that I wanted to hold her, but of course I just sat there and she said,

‘You want me to confirm if it could be true, am I right, Mr Taylor? That's why you're here.'

I wanted to scream that yes, that's what brought me, but fuck Michael, fuck them all. I wanted to give up the fight, they were too powerful. Her voice almost a whisper, so I had to lean forward to hear her, she said,

‘Let me tell you a story, Mr Taylor. Three boys, molested
by a priest, become adults, and together they get the strength to accuse this man, this religious icon, of abusing them. Then Michael becomes this high-powered businessman, a vital figure in the community, and golfs with the leaders of society. He has to change his image, at least outwardly.'

She stopped, looked up for a moment as if she was hearing something, perhaps the voice of a ten-year-old boy, then added,

‘But no matter how much you seem to change, I don't imagine you can ever quite escape the past.'

Nothing further. I asked,

‘You think Michael

She cut me off, said,

‘Our family were great hunters. Do you shoot, Mr Taylor?'

Of all the questions I was expecting, that one was not on the list. What do you say to it? That when you're raised in poverty, the only shooting you get to do is the penny arcade. I was going to suggest she maybe could give Cathy some lessons, help her get that aim up, show her how to shoot high, but instead went with,

‘No, it's not one of my accomplishments.'

Let a little bitterness leak over the words and she caught it. Her eyes did a little dance, then she said,

‘I shoot, Mr Taylor, and at competition level. If anyone were to hurt my Michael, I wouldn't hesitate to hunt them down, like the vermin I'd consider them.'

I nearly laughed. Was she threatening me? Then she let out a small sigh, said,

‘I think you should go, Mr Taylor. I'm tired.'

A small fire was glowing in the grate. It lent an air of cosiness to the room that was definitely bogus. I clocked neat piles of cut logs beside the fire, and a small axe. I was going to ask if she cut the wood herself. She moved to the flames, added a log, and while she was doing so, I don't know why, I swiped the swan. Call it an act of defiance, a moment of sheer impetuousness, or maybe just theft.

At the door, I tried to find words to defer the departure, but nothing came. I was going to go bold, ask,

‘Michael ever borrow your little axe?'

But I was in the corridor and she closed the door.

Very quietly.

‘Expectation is one of the great sources of suffering.'

Buddhist saying

 

 

 

Found a new pub. From necessity, it would have to be one that existed below the radar. I'd often heard about Coyle's, at the arse end of Dominic Street. It was almost an urban myth, had a rep. beyond salvage. The rumour was, it never closed, merely shut the doors come midnight, kept the bodies on an even keel. Come early morning, the doors opened and a dawn batch of the living dead entered. The only requirement was money. Fights, brawls, derangement were accepted. What wasn't accepted was civility or citizenship, in the sense of being a pillar of the community or belonging to the community in any fashion.

It was the last port of call before the street or the grave.

When I washed up there, no one objected. An empty stool at the counter with, if not my name on it, then certainly my condition.

Welcome to hell.

My first session there, I recognized a few faces, the faces of the disappeared. Guys I knew at school, guys I'd grown up with and presumed dead. In a way they were. As I ordered a large whiskey, a few of them waved, if weakly.
I heard
Jack . . . Taylor,
and perhaps imagined,
What kept you?
The barman/owner, called Trade, had been a boxer and looked like he lost each and every fight. The nickname was due to his trading anything, anyone, anytime, for money. He wasn't in business to make friends, be popular, his sole concern was money.

Bald, big, with dead yellow eyes, he looked at me, said,

‘We have one brand of whiskey, a house brand. You OK with that?'

House translates as no brand, to rot gut. I nodded, laid some bills on the counter and he poured, put it in front of me. I had a shake in my hand but that was mandatory. I knew if I took a slug it would catapult me off the stool, 100 per cent proof and tasting like turpentine. He asked,

‘That to your liking?'

The sheer proximity of the alcohol had momentarily robbed me of speech and he said,

‘Like you give a shit about taste.'

I swear he chuckled as he moved off. It was said poteen was added to the mix and I was a believer. A dense cloud of smoke hovered above and the walls were yellow from nicotine. The new anti-smoking ban in pubs etc. wouldn't be having a whole lot of impact here. I chanced a look around, saw an ex-Guard, but he wasn't seeing anything, he had the punched-out expression of one who is not responding to any count. Moved from the stool. A chair was vacant beside a beat-up table and I took that. Seemed to me that the atmosphere was similar to the asylum, the same sense of blunted despair. A guy across from me asked,

‘How you doing?'

His tone had a hint of challenge. I looked at him, taking my time, not doing anything too quickly. He could have been twenty or sixty, his eyes were out of focus. I said,

‘Not bad.'

Seemed to take that as an invitation, rolled up a chair and joined me, said,

‘I've a gambling problem.'

I nearly laughed but held it back, nodded solemnly. He indicated a man in the corner, asked,

‘See him?'

I thought of the REM song.

I warranted I did and, still staring at the man, he said,

‘Used to be a priest.'

I nearly asked,

‘What happened?'

But if ever a question was redundant. The guy laughed, a high-pitched titter, not quite hysteria but as close as you'd get without howling, said,

‘Used to be . . . that's what you get here.'

No fighting that. He stared at me, an edge creeping into his voice, asked,