Priest (3 page)

‘Jeez, when crack arrives, the country is gone.'

Some irony for a nation that had given the word
crack
to the world – we now had crack of a whole more sinister hue.

She seemed not to have heard, then,

‘Galway is as bad.'

‘As if I didn't know.'

She was fiddling with a silver ring on her right hand, appeared nervous, asked,

‘Did you hear about the priest?'

The question hung there, like an omen.

Like a sign of the times.

Ireland is a land of questions and very, very few answers. We're notorious for replying to a direct question with a question. It's like an inbred caution: never commit yourself. And it buys you time, lets you consider the implications of the query.

We may have got rich, but we never got impulsive. Questions are always suspect. The years of British rule, the years of
yes,
questions usually posed by a soldier with a weapon in your face, led to a certain wariness. If the truth be told, and sometimes it is, we really want to hit back with two other questions.

First,
Why d'you want to know?

Second, and maybe more essential,
How is it any of your business?

When I see a map of the island and they're promoting the country, like, say, for the tourist trade, they'll have a giant leprechaun or a harp, slap bang in the middle. I feel they should get honest and put a big question mark, let the folk know what they're letting themselves in for.

The classic Irish questions, of course, are the one to the returned emigrant,
When are you going back?
And the near daily one,
Do you know who's dead?

Naturally, I didn't reply immediately to Ridge's question. Especially in the current climate. You hear about priests now, it ain't going to be good, it's not going to be a heart-warming tale about some poor dedicated soul who spent fifty years among some remote tribe and then they ate him. No, it's going to be bad, and scandalous. Every day, new
revelations about clerical abuse. I can't say we'd become immune to that. The clergy will always hold a special place in our psyche, it's pure history, but their unassailable position of trust, respect and yes, fear, was over. Man, they'd had their day, and as the Americans might put it,
That is so, like, over.

Was it ever.

‘Of true justice. We no longer have any. If we had, we should accept it as a rule of justice that one should follow the customs of one's country.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
297

 

 

 

We were on that stretch of road that leads into Galway. You could see the ocean on the left and, as always, it made me yearn – for what, I've never known. The silence in the car was oppressive and Ridge, in a very aggressive movement, flicked on the radio.

Jimmy Norman, Ollie Jennings were doing their two-hander on

Sport

Politics

Music

Craic.

I was homeward bound.

Jimmy said,

‘Here's my favourite record.'

And Shania Twain launched with ‘Forever And For Always'. I liked the line about never letting you go down. There wasn't a single human being I could think of who felt that way about me.

Years ago, watching Bruce Springsteen on video, Patti Scialfa had her eyes locked on him, a mix of adoration and
ownership, centred on love. I knew, in a horrible moment of clarity, no one had ever gazed upon me so. I'd muttered,
‘The awful knowledge of the wrath of God.'
Back in the pub, I had to shake myself physically, rid my mind of the demons. Must have shown in my face as Ridge's eyes softened, a rare occurrence. She asked,

‘Jack, you OK?'

Jack!

A rib broke in the devil. I didn't answer and for one mad moment it seemed like she might reach out and touch me. Then she said,

‘Jack, there've been some changes in Galway.'

I snapped out of the maudlin mode, said,

‘Yeah?'

Like I gave a fuck.

She took a breath, then,

‘Your friends, Jack and Cathy – she's gone back to London and he . . . Well . . . he's drinking.'

The parents of the dead child – my friends. Jeff had the alcohol deal, as I did. I could have asked about them, the fine hard details, but he was drinking, there was only one reply. So I let it slide, asked,

‘How's Mrs Bailey?'

The owner of the hotel I'd been living in. Over eighty, she was a woman of true stature.

Ridge paused, then,

‘The hotel was sold . . . And she . . . died a month ago.'

Sucker punch.

Like a blade in my gut. Once I muttered, a long time
ago, as I emerged from the DTs,
Everybody's dead, of fucking note perhaps.

Ridge moved on, said,

‘A friend of mine, she rented an apartment in the Granary, know it?'

Sure. I was a Galwegian, course I knew. The old Bridge Mills, like everything else, had been converted. Into luxury apartments. Looked out over the Claddagh Basin, view of the bay. What I mainly knew was they cost an arm and a leg. I asked,

‘And this of interest, how?'

Couldn't keep the bitterness out of my tone: Mrs Bailey had been a bulwark in my life. Ridge was almost animated.

‘She only stayed a week as her mother got sick and she had to go to Dublin.'

I lit another cig, blew the smoke through my nostrils, said,

‘Fascinating as that is, it would probably be more gripping if I knew her. Thing is, is there a point to this?'

The anger crossed her face. She didn't fight it, replied,

‘You're as insufferable as ever.'

 

I don't know who said it but it sure seemed now to fit.

‘If a person is put in his place often enough, he becomes the place.'

I stretched and she went,

‘Wait . . . okay?'

I did.

She continued,

‘I'm trying to do you a favour here.'

I couldn't resist, snapped,

‘And like, I asked you for a favour?'

The guy behind the bar was eyeing us warily. The vibe of hostility had obviously reached him. Ridge stood and we left. Outside, she handed me a key ring, two brass keys and a silver relic of St Therese. I smiled, couldn't help it. Other nations reach for weapons, we reach for relics. She smiled too.

‘I got it at the Novena.'

I juggled the keys, said,

‘To the Kingdom, I'd say.'

‘Not exactly . . . for the Furbo Suite, my friend's apartment in the Granary. You have three weeks, get you sorted.'

‘I've been months in a mental hospital. How much more sorted can I be?'

She'd no answer.

 

The fear hit the moment we reached Bohermore, the grave-yard on my left. I kept my eyes averted. Tom Waits' ‘Tom Traubert's Blues' began to unravel in my head . . . wasted and wounded.

Jesus.

I'd been married to a German, albeit briefly. She'd Rilke on the wall of her London apartment.

‘Do not return. If you bear to, stay
dead with the dead. The dead have their tasks.'

I'd thought ruefully many times, yeah, their task is to haunt me.

The poem is ‘Requiem for a Friend'.

Ridge said,

‘Galway has changed even in the short time you've been away.'

It looked like it usually did – unwelcoming. I said,

‘Changed, not to be confused with improved.'

As if to mock my words, the sun appeared as we reached Eyre Square. It lit up the whole area – the crowds in the park, even the winos were animated. As we paused at the pedestrian crossing, streams of backpackers passed. Ridge was not impressed.

‘We've just been voted the dirtiest city in Ireland.'

As a native, I wasn't surprised – the scarce litter bins seemed to function purely as urinals – but I didn't like the rest of the country to be in on the fact. Rough as my history in the town had been, it was the only town I had. Johnny Duhan's ‘Just Another Town' captured the contradictions best. I answered,

‘Dirtiest? And I don't suppose they meant the litter.'

She ignored that.

‘A priest was beheaded.'

I couldn't resist, went,

‘Not before time.'

Some years before, students had beheaded the statue of Padraig O'Conaire. Maybe it was contagious. We moved along past the newly refurbished Great Southern Hotel, turned right and up by the Skeffington Arms – it too had a facelift. Only the natives remained with the old faces. My flippant remark rattled her and she hit low, said,

‘I knew him.'

What else could I do? I mumbled a lame apology but it cut no ice. She snapped,

‘Sorry! Good God, you're always sorry, but are you repentant?'

Was I?

I considered a cig, but she was riled enough. Down past Moons, then a detour to drive the long route past the university, and again I averted my eyes. More bad history. Like Bono, I'd need permanent shades. Alas, they'd only dim the light, not the memory. We arrived in Dominic Street and she pointed to an alley beside Aran Travel, said,

‘Go through there and the Granary is on the left. The Furbo Suite, your apartment, is on the top floor. No elevator, I'm afraid.'

I'd taken a heavy beating which involved my knee being hammered by a hurley. It left me with a limp, which wasn't as pronounced now but still noticeable. I turned to her.

‘I'm very grateful, but I have to ask, why? Why are you helping me?'

She bit her lower lip.

‘I might need a favour, and soon. And the apartment is vacant. It helps my friend and you need a place – it's not complicated.'

Of all the things I was sure of, that this would be complicated was one of them. So I asked,

‘What's the favour you need?'

She was already putting the car in gear, snapped,

‘Not now.'

I stood on the street as forlorn as I'd ever felt, the holdall
at my feet, and watched her turn at the canal, disappear towards the west. She hadn't looked back.

Why would she?

 

The Furbo Suite amazed me. Contrary as I was, I'd resolved to be unimpressed. What was it, after all? Just another temporary shelter.

Got that wrong.

It was sensational. Decorated in pine, huge ceilings and truly luxurious. Beams criss-crossed the roof that had a comforting feel. There was a staircase. I'd of course anticipated one level. The bedrooms – yes, plural – were on the first level, then up the stairs to a wide open sitting room, surrounded by large windows. I gasped, went,

‘Fuck.'

Best of all was the view. Out across the Claddagh, over the swans and the whole of Galway Bay in all its splendour. I loved it. Everything was provided: towels, iron, video, crockery, and a notice said the garbage was collected daily. I opened the fridge: milk, butter, a chicken, two steaks, chops.

Ridge, I figured.

I made some coffee and moved to a heavy oak armchair in front of the largest window, eased into it and stared at the view. I felt a hint of relaxation and slowly let out my breath. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding it. A phone on a small table nearby, and if I'd anybody to call, I'd have done so.

‘We do not choose as captain of a ship the most highly born of those aboard.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
320

 

 

 

Priests in a scandal-hit diocese have been warned to avoid contact with children while in public view. A code of conduct from the Ferns Diocese states clergy and volunteers should not be alone in a car, building or closed room with a young person.

The
Daily Mirror,
26 June 2003

 

The priest case was heavy on my mind and I asked myself,

‘What do I care?'

Priests and I hadn't exactly a good history, but you grow up Catholic, they have you. Deny all you like, they own your arse, and maybe my interest in this was because of my father. He always had respect for the clergy. He didn't like them – who did? But he used to say,

‘Their job isn't easy and
our
job is to support them.'

I didn't believe that any more, but I still believed in him so I decided to have a look at the case. Just maybe, I could achieve one thing he might be proud of.

Was I deluding myself? You betcha. But it's what I do best, and who knew? I might even gouge back some iota of respect for my own self.

I scoured the libraries, collected all the back story I could. I read till my eyes hurt and I got what the Guards had gotten.

Nothing.

Did that deter me?

Did it fuck.

If it had been easy, I'd have left it there. I determined to stick with it. If I'd known then where this initial resolution would take me – into the heart of the Irish soul – would I have turned away?

Probably not.

I never did before.

That pain-in-the-arse adage about those who ignore the past being doomed to repeat it – they wrote that for me. If I'd known all the torments of the past, the lost love, the humiliation, shame and the oddest friendship on the face of God's earth that awaited me, would I have acted differently?

With knowledge aforethought, would I have said,

‘Nope, not for me, thanks, I'll preserve what little sanity I have.'

Alas, I'd have still walked that road of unhappy destiny.

Why?

Because I'm an eejit and, worse, a stubborn one.

 

Sister Mary Joseph was wringing her hands. It was her birthday, she was seventy years old, and though she never
told anyone when the date fell, offering it up for the souls in Purgatory, she did allow for one treat each year – Häagen-Dazs, strawberry shortcake, large tub – and ate the whole shebang in one fell swoop. This year, she was too worried to eat. She was, in fact, worried sick. She'd known about Father Joyce's little temptations and had seen the altar boys crying, in obvious distress, but she had never told a soul. She was a nun, it wasn't her place.