Priest (23 page)

‘It is, but you know us, we like a challenge.'

‘That's great, I'll be in.'

‘Don't sweat it, I'll put them aside for you.'

A dark coincidence, in that time of shadows, that those books should come along. I was too far out on the edge to read, or to read anything significant into this happening. My existence had become so haphazard, the odd had become the norm.

*   *   *

In 1953, at the age of thirty-three, following a prolific New York career as a pulp writer, David Goodis returned home to live with his parents in Philadelphia. He became a virtual recluse.

His lifestyle was beyond strange. In California, he rented a sofa in a friend's house for four dollars a month and would crash there intermittently, when he was on the prowl. Prowling for the fat black hookers he paid to humiliate him. Wore suits till they were threadbare, then dyed them blue and went right on wearing them. Recycling before his time.

A habit he had, taking the red cellophane from cigarette packets, shoving it up his nose, pretending to have nose-bleeds. How fucking weird is that? Then he'd howl from pain. Thing is, he'd have slotted right into Coyle's.

This was a writer with a six-year contract from Warner Brothers, published his first novel at twenty-one, and at twenty-eight years of age his most famous book,
Dark Passage,
was sold as a Bogart/Bacall vehicle.

After the death of his father, Goodis began to lose it, big time. When his mother died, he was truly gone, lost. He sued the producers of
The Fugitive,
believing they had stolen his work. He ended up in the asylum, and at the age of forty-nine he was dead.

‘Christianity is strange;
it bids man to recognize he is vile
and even abominable.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
537

 

 

 

Every day, I tried to listen to the news, to keep some anchor on reality, reasoning if I knew what was going on then I wasn't entirely gone.

Ireland prided itself on being

Confident

Aware

Modern.

Our image abroad was that of hip coolness. We were, in the words of the culture, a
happening
place. Imagining we'd moved far from the provincial, closed, parochial society of the bad years, events were occurring to remind us we hadn't moved as far or as fast as we thought.

A story that beggared belief that day.

Health workers, checking on a house, found a woman dead in her bed. Not only had she been dead a year, but her sister slept in the same bed! Said she never realized, thought her sister was just ill. A brother, living in the same tiny abode, said,

‘I thought she was pretending.'

A photo of the poor bastard in all the papers showed a
face of ancient bewilderment, not unlike the faces of the hordes who sailed to America in the coffin ships during the famine.

My beard was coming in, if not my ship. Coming in grey and wretched. Told myself I looked like an artist and muttered,

‘Piss artist.'

For the meeting with Michael Clare, I wore the new jacket from Cody, a white shirt and a tie, loosely knotted to convey nonchalance, and cleanish white cords. All I needed was a yacht and I'd be the total asshole, glass of Pimm's in my hand to complete the portrait. The pants were slightly short so I wore boots, hoped to offset the discrepancy.

Didn't.

Splashed on the Polo aftershave and was, if not presentable, at least aromatic. Asked myself why I was meeting him a second time. He'd already confessed, albeit solely to me. What I wanted was for him to confess publicly. That way, I'd be spitting in the eyes of the unholy trinity, sticking it to Clancy, the Church, Malachy. My weapon was Kate. If he thought I'd float the story about his sister being a suspect, he might come forward to save her. The bouncer guy had said he'd do anything for her. I didn't think for a moment the nun would go public on a woman being capable of the decapitation. I only needed Clare to think she might.

On my way, I met a Romanian named Caz. We had a fractured relationship. The odd times we met, I'd give him a few euro, till, as he said, he
got his shit together.
He was fond of this phrase and used it as often as he could. I ran into him outside the Quays, music coming loud from there.
Sounded like a punk version of ‘Galway Bay', which is a step beyond articulation. He greeted me with energy.

‘Jack, great to see you.'

Hard to say if he was entering or exiting the pub. He'd been in Galway five years and mastered a form of Irish-English that wasn't always easy to follow. I said,

‘Caz.'

For a horrible moment, I thought he was going to hug me, which would suggest he was exiting the pub or simply being European. So I quickly palmed him a few notes. He said, as he put them away,

‘Ah Jack, you're mighty, you know I'm good for it.'

Yeah.

Then he leaned close, said,

‘I hear you're on the piss.'

He wouldn't have mentioned that before I parted with the cash, but he'd nothing to lose or gain now. I asked,

‘Has anybody seen me put a glass to my lips?'

That was way too intense, too intellectual a question, so he ignored it. As I mentioned, he'd been in Ireland for five years so knew how to play the verbal combat. He looked back at the Quays, asked,

‘You want one now, my shout?'

Which it would be. He'd shout for the drinks then go to the toilet as payment loomed. I said,

‘I'd love to but I've got to meet someone.'

He didn't believe a word, looked down the street towards Spanish Arch, said,

‘They say you're drinking in Coyle's.'

I didn't deny or confirm. He touched my shoulder, went,

‘You be careful, my friend, it's a bad place.'

He was quiet, then,

‘What's this about you having a son?'

I shrugged, said,

‘People blowing smoke.'

He digested that, then asked if I knew they'd deported eighty-eight non-nationals and more were to follow.

I said I hadn't heard, asked,

‘And you, are you on the list?'

He shrugged, said,

‘We're all on a list.'

This was a little too deep for me so I probed,

‘Are you legal?'

He got angry, almost petulant, replied,

‘I'm getting my shit together.'

 

I like Brennan's Yard. It has an air of class without notions and you can always get a seat. It used to be literally a yard. For bizarre reasons, when they built the hotel, they kept the name. At first it confused people, but had now been assimilated into the life of the city.

Michael Clare was at a table near the door, dressed in another impressive suit, and was if possible even better looking. I rubbed my scraggy beard and felt shabby. He had his legs stretched out, seemed to be totally at ease. I approached, asked,

‘Waiting long?'

He indicated his glass, it had some sort of pink liquid, said,

‘Haven't touched my Campari and soda.'

I guess a pint of Guinness would have clashed with his suit. I got a diet coke and joined him. The surroundings were some contrast to Coyle's, but I didn't share that. He examined me, my beard, tired eyes, said,

‘Been having some late nights, huh?'

What do you do, plead guilty? I said nothing and he asked,

‘How is the new apartment?'

Got me.

Before I could form a reply, a family came in, took the table directly in our line of vision. Young parents with two boys aged around ten. He took a sip of his mouthwash, his eyes riveted on the family. I was at a loss. Where to begin?

My plan had seemed fine in my head. All I had to do was threaten him with my continued harassment of him and his sister and hey presto, he'd agree to come forth, tell the world he was the priest killer. Now it seemed to be the height of folly.

Sitting with this confident, urbane man, my resolve faltered. One of the boys produced a bar of chocolate, began to shove chunks into his mouth. Clare fixed on him, seemed mesmerized by the action. A sheen of perspiration popped out on his brow and the blood, literally, left his face. I asked,

‘You OK?'

He emitted a small whimper, a sound I'll never forget. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. It was so sudden, dramatic, that I sat immobile till I realized he'd passed out. I leaned over, loosened his tie, began to tap his face. He groaned, and in the voice of a young child muttered,

‘My bum hurts.'

I said,

‘Stay there.'

Went and got a brandy, brought it back, held his head, got the glass to his blue lips, slurped it in. The family were staring open-mouthed. The woman whispered to the husband and they stood, got the hell out. The brandy began to restore colour to his face and he sat upright. I said,

‘Maybe put your head between your knees.'

He waved that away, said,

‘I'm coming out of it. In a minute I'll be OK. You can't drag my sister into this, I'll do anything to keep her sheltered.'

He was coming out of it.

He took another taste of the brandy, nodded.

I was seriously confused. If he could have such a reaction in public, what must he suffer in private? My conscience pleaded,

‘He's suffered enough – is suffering. Leave him the fuck be.'

Whatever justice I'd envisaged being dealt out to him, how could it offset the price he'd already paid? His composure was near full restored. He asked,

‘So, Jack, what is it you wanted to see me about?'

I shook my head, said,

‘It doesn't matter now.'

He raised an eyebrow, said,

‘You're a strange man, Jack. I thought you were going to pressurize me, to attempt to get me to . . . how shall I phrase it . . . go public? There isn't anything I wouldn't do for her. I'd give my own life to safeguard her.'

My glass was empty, echoing my heart. I was toying with heading to the counter for another. He smiled and I asked,

‘How did you know where I live?'

He gave a brief smile, no warmth, said,

‘You check up on me, visit my sister for Chrissakes, you don't think I'd do the same?'

The nun's words were ringing in my head. The old people used to say
the devil was in me,
and the only exorcist I knew was dead, so I blurted,

‘Would your sister kill for you?'

He gave a long sigh, shook his head, then said,

‘I think so, but she didn't kill the priest. She is strong enough, but you know that, you've seen her hands. She might go after the nun. I always kind of thought she would, but only if she could use her beloved rifle . . . Now me, if I harboured any such thoughts towards the merciless nun, I'd drown the bitch.'

The words were chilling in their low tone.

I got a longing for Coyle's. Brennan's Yard was not my place. He asked,

‘You wired, Jack? Got a tape on me?'

My turn to smile, if of the bitter variety, said,

‘Only in the movies. But I'm wired all right, though not in the sense you mean.'

I was about to get up, order another coke, when he said,

‘The nun?'

I pretended not to hear, stalling for time, went,

‘What?'

‘The priest, Joyce, he was the boss, but she . . . she ran everything, took care of the sacristy, knew how things worked. Shit, made them work.'

Took me a moment to see where this was going, then I asked,

‘She knew what was going on?'

He nodded, a picture of resigned acceptance, said,

‘Sister Mary Joseph – she loved ice cream. I went to her for help, can you believe it?'

He wasn't expecting an answer and I didn't attempt one. He continued,

‘Like she was going to betray her idol. She boxed my ears. Ice cream, she got off on it. I guess if you forsake all other pleasures, what remains contains the heat of all the others.'

Who was I to argue? He asked,

‘Do you remember your description of
brave
. . . the time you were in my office, you were describing the bronze bull?'

I nodded, seeing John Behan's beautiful craft. He asked,

‘You think there's any bravery any more?'

I didn't, but for something to say, said,

‘Yeah, maybe. When you do the one thing you don't want to do, that you should have done a long time ago.'

He was considering something. Then,

‘I had this vision, this grand city on the Corrib, the city of the tribes that would be the equal of anywhere on earth. My father would have been proud, but you know what, Jack?'

I didn't, so didn't say anything. He continued,

‘Every great vision requires a great sacrifice, and to see your vision fulfilled, to burn so that it can be realized, that might be worth a man's life. Do you think that is possible? And if you save your sister too – that's worth a life, you
think? If that nun makes those allegations, my sister would be destroyed. My father never liked me, but on his deathbed he made me promise, no matter what the cost, I was to mind her.'

I wish now I'd said anything else, but oh God, here is what I said.

‘Your father is dead.'

He may have added,

‘Not to me.'

But that's probably fanciful. I only know his speech would burn my soul.

I stood, time to head, and he stared at me, then,

‘You think, Jack, given a different set of circumstances, we might have been friends?'

I told the truth, fuck it. ‘No.'

He held out his hand, more in hope than anticipation, said,

‘Good luck, Jack.'

Then,

‘I like the jacket. Hugo Boss, is it?'

I took his hand, felt the wetness from anxiety, said,

‘Good luck to you, too.'

His face spread in a wide grin.

‘I think it's a little late for me, but thanks for the sentiment.'