Priest (4 page)

As Father Joyce's
little temptations
grew uglier and more obscene, she had to bite her tongue and pray for guidance. She couldn't go up against a priest, it was unheard of, and so she stifled her conscience, turned a blind eye to the state of the altar boys. Now, with the murder of Father Joyce, she began to wonder if perhaps the madman might come after her. She took out her heavy rosary, stayed on her knees for hours, and still the fear and trepidation only increased. In bed that night, she cried for the boys, and for the loss of the ice cream too, melting away slowly beneath her bed. She could swear she heard it trickle.

 

I was standing at the Salmon Weir Bridge, seven in the evening. A late sun threw beams across the water. It made me yearn – for what I've never known, and probably never will.

Peace, perhaps.

You stand on that bridge and you get a sense of the sheer vibrancy of the city. When I grew up, it was a village – you knew everyone and, more important, they knew you. And as the saying goes in Ireland, they knew all belonging to you. If you had a brother in jail, they knew. If your sister
was a nurse in England, they knew. It was truly parochial, with all the baggage that entails, the good and the bad. You couldn't have a pee without your neighbour being aware of it. But it also lent a spirit of care. When a family had trouble, the neighbours rallied round. There were no nursing homes to stash sick, elderly relatives in. This industry was a growth area now.

Nowadays, I could walk down the main street and not know one person. What you did notice was the sea of non-nationals. As a child, I never saw a black face outside of
National Geographic.

More promising was the fact that a black woman, from Nigeria, was running for the city council. She hadn't a hope in hell, but give it time. I found that encouraging.

I saw a figure in black shuffling along like an injured crow, with smoke billowing behind. I wondered for a moment if I was hallucinating – they'd given me some pretty strong dope in the hospital and there were bound to be side effects, none of them good.

I wiped my eyes and realized it was a priest. Not just any priest but my nemesis, Father Malachy. I've hated few men as much as I hated him.

You're in some state, as a Catholic, when you hate a priest. They say there's a special place in Hell for priest-haters. The guy who took the head off the murdered priest, he was in for a real roasting. He'd be kebabbed.

My mother and I, we had a tortured relationship – she tortured me. And always in her miserable life there was Father Malachy, cooing and cajoling, leading her on to greater acts of piety. For piety, read interference in the lives
of others. That I was drunk and a failed Guard was fuel for her daily martyrdom. He encouraged her in the belief and we had some epic battles. He usually got the last word in, and it was nearly always,

‘God forgive you, because only God could.'

Nice, eh?

He looked like he usually did – as if he'd been pickled in nicotine. Last of the dedicated smokers, he lit one with another, and didn't even know he was smoking any more. It was as natural or unnatural as blinking. His face was deep lined, and his eyes were bloodshot. An air of desperation clung to him, or maybe I was just wishing that. He said,

‘By the holy, ‘tis the bold Taylor.'

And we were off.

I thought,

‘Who needs this shite?'

Said,

‘Fuck off.'

You use such words to a priest, you're already damned, but in my case, how much more damnation could they pile? The devil had me in hock to his arse as it was. I knew a little about philosophy, truth to tell I knew a little about most things. It was the bigger picture, as the Yanks say, that eluded me.

Sören Kierkegaard talked about man's condition on earth being
caught between insoluble tensions.

Fucker nailed me.

Malachy stared at me and I snapped,

‘What?'

‘I need your help.'

I laughed out loud – not a laugh that had the remotest connection to humour or warmth, but the one you heard in the mental asylum, bred from pure despair. I asked,

‘What, they caught you pilfering from the poor box?'

He leaned on the bridge, as if he needed physical support, said,

‘I'm serious. That poor man who was beheaded . . . ?' and trailed off.

I shook my head, said,

‘Don't tell me about it, pal, none of my business. You ask me, they're not beheading half enough of ye.'

He gathered himself, moved off, said,

‘I'll talk to you again when you're sober.'

I roared,

‘I'm not drinking.'

And wished I was.

He paused, then,

‘Why do you never address me correctly?'

‘What?'

‘I'm a priest, you should address me as Father.'

‘You're not my father. Christ on a bike, that you should be anyone's father. What a curse that would be.'

If he'd called me son, I'd have thrown him to the salmon. Little did I know my whole life was about to be immersed in the whole father-and-son dynamic of – should that read,
dysfunction
?

Remember Cat Stevens, a very successful singer-songwriter who returned to his Islamic roots and changed his name? They'd re-released his classic song, ‘Father And Son'.
The fates, you might say, were fucking with me big time, but was I listening? Was I fuck.

On the bridge, to my left, was the cathedral. Some irony that it had previously been the city jail. Further along was the university, and you could hear the high jinks of the students, carried along a stray breeze. Staring down into the water, you could see the salmon, swimming against the tide, like meself. Our new prosperity had added the obligatory pollutants and the fish were as diseased as my nature. It never ceased to lift my spirits a bit to watch those beautiful salmon, almost swaying against the current. Made you almost wish to be a poet.

 

A fella passing quipped,

‘Don't do it, tomorrow's another day.'

I thought I'd need that in writing.

Everyone's a comic, and in Galway, more comics than most anywhere. I sighed. I lit a cig from a box of safety matches, flicked the match over and watched it drift towards the water. I could see three fine salmon, their gills moving easily. Pollution was killing more and more of them.

Two men approached, weaving slightly. I recognized them from Jeff's pub. I'd usually nod, say hello, nothing too personal. The rules of pub behaviour – you could see a guy for twenty years thus and never trade more than a handful of sentences.

The rules were off.

Because they were drunk. The other side of a feed of Guinness, Jameson chasers, how I drank myself. The first, in a grubby Aran sweater, was your good-natured drunk – a
few pints, everyone was his mate. The second, a different animal. Wearing a Mayo football shirt, he was mean and primed. Booze only justified a rage that he wore always. Aran said,

‘Taylor! I thought you'd left the country.'

The other glared. I said,

‘Keeping a low profile.'

Mayo looked like he was going to spit, had hawked a mouthful of phlegm, was swirling it, said,

‘Hiding out, more like.'

I knew what was coming, turned round to face him, asked,

‘What's that mean?'

He spat close to my shoe, looked at Aran, decided it was safe, said,

‘You killed a kid, hadn't the balls to face people.'

I hit him high on the chest, above the heart. Taught to me on the streets of Armagh by a Sinn Fein activist, it's a sucker punch. Bring the strength from your feet, brace your toes and use an easy flow to let it travel almost lazily with maximum impact. His mouth opened in a slight ‘O' and he sank to his knees, a dull sheen to his eyes. I had to forcibly restrain my shoe from connecting with his head. Christ, I so wanted to finish the job.

Aran was stunned, muttered,

‘Jesus, Jack.'

My first name now? Violence begets respect.

I flicked my cig high above the bridge, cool or what? I put a man down but never dropped the cig, surely that impresses someone? I turned and walked away. The violence
began to leak, seep from my pores. At Eyre Square, I had to sit down, as the inevitable shakes and drained vibe hit. Across the square, I could see the Skeff, like a beacon. I could make it over, hammer in a large Paddy, chill on easy. I nearly smiled. I'd just hammered a small Paddy.

 

Next morning I woke, amazed to be sober. Oh, I'd wanted to drink, and so badly, to submerge in Jameson for ever. Got out of bed and tried to figure out what the hell the noise was, surrounding me. Then I realized – the water, like a train heard in the distance. I'd been reared in Galway, between canals, close to the ocean, but had never consciously heard it. The old mill and the proximity intensified the sound. It was comforting, like a prayer you know is about to be answered. I showered, shaved, put on a clean white shirt, newish jeans I couldn't recall buying, and brewed up a steam of coffee. Took the mug to the table, sat. If I'd gone to the window, I knew I was likely to spend hours staring at the bay. The view had a soporific, mesmerizing effect, not too distant from healing, a visual therapy.

I thought of the incident the night before and resolved to curb my rage, if I could. Else I'd spend my time beating on people. How to re-enter life and act as if I wanted that? My previous years I'd spent as a half-assed private investi-gator, finding people, solutions, mostly fuelled on alcohol. Time after time, I'd been plunged into horror, disaster, and lost everyone I cared about. The list of my dead would cover a wall. Entertained that mad notion, get a red marker, list them all. The very idea gave me a shudder and I was up, pushing them away.

I turned the radio on, in time for the news. The top story was George Best. Only months since he received a new liver and he was drinking again. The operation had lasted thirteen hours and needed forty pints of blood. There'd been violent opposition to an alcoholic receiving the transplant.
There were so many more deserving cases.
An old debate, always volatile . . .
Why help an alkie when he'll only drink again?

Various experts were giving their views/opinions on
why
he'd do such an insane thing. The whole report contained an air of bafflement as to his behaviour. I shouted,

‘What's the matter with ye? He's an alcoholic, what's the bloody mystery?'

Realized I was dangerously angry. In the hospital, there'd been compulsory AA meetings. Catatonic as I was, they wheeled me along. I remembered the admonition – don't get too angry, too lonely, too tired.

Switched the radio off, took a few deep breaths then got a pen, some paper and outlined my finances. Figured I'd enough to last a few weeks if I didn't eat, so conclusion,

Get a job.

Then added

Get a life.

Could picture placing an ad in the paper, to go

Drunkard

Early fifties

Recently released from mental asylum

Seeks gainful employment.

Yeah, that'd work.

I got item 8234, my all-weather Garda coat, and headed
out. I had no plan, which in itself was a whole new country. A slight drizzle was starting and I turned up my collar, my knee wasn't aching so the limp was less apparent. Still, I took it slow and went over the canal, hit Quay Street from the wild end. Wild in the sense of it being where most revellers collapsed. Outside Jury's, I recognized a tinker who'd recently
settled.
Moved from a caravan to a house. He was wearing a shiny black leather jacket and his black hair was awash with gel. These jackets were everywhere, a family of Romanians having snuck them into the country. His face was deep brown, lined from the elements and cigs. He fell into step beside me, muttered the Irish benediction,

‘Sorry for your trouble.'

A whole selection right there. Could be my mother's death, the mental hospital, the tragedy of Jeff and Cathy's child or my damn sorry existence. I played it vague, said,

‘Thanks, Mick.'

He had his hands buried in his pockets, said,

‘Isn't it a hoor?'

I needed a little more to work on, so asked,

‘What's that?'

‘We were beaten again, by one lousy point.'

Hurling.

I hadn't even known Galway were playing, how removed was I? The sports channel doesn't get a lot of viewers in the asylum – the big favourite are the soaps. Proves the patients need their meds upped. I did the Irish dance, asked,

‘And you're keeping well?'

This neatly encapsulates

Family

Employment

Health.

He wheezed as if requested, took his right hand out of his pocket, reached to touch a Miraculous medal round his neck, said,

‘'Tis my chest, the fags have me killed.'

‘Did you try the patches?'

He shrugged off this nonsense, said,

‘They should bring out a patch for the drink.'

I thought Antabuse was much the same deal, but said,

‘Not a bad idea.'

He stopped, creased his eyes, said,

‘Man, if you had one, say of whiskey, you could just tap it – you'd have a drink without having to buy a bottle.'

I smiled and he said,

‘A fella could make a fortune.'

When brewers were already targeting teens with alcoholflavoured water and sundry varieties of ‘attractive' liquor, I felt the country had enough methods of downing booze, but said nothing. In Ireland, no reply is taken for agreement. He asked,

‘You'll have heard about Father Joyce?'

‘Yes.'

‘Cut the head off him, the poor bastard.'

I hadn't a whole lot to add, so did the required, said,

‘May he rest in peace.'

Mick couldn't resist, said,

‘Or . . . pieces.'

Then, as if to take the harm out if it, added,