Priest (5 page)

‘God forgive me.'

We'd reached Kenny's Bookshop, a display of Irish literature in the window. I hadn't read in months – maybe I'd be able to do so now. Mick said,

‘The fella who strangled the old nun, remember, two years ago?'

Not an event easily forgotten. I nodded and he said,

‘He got life. I saw him on TV yesterday – he didn't look a bit sorry.'

Ireland had changed irrevocably. In my youth, the clergy had been bulletproof. Now it seemed to be open season. I asked,

‘Is that weather guy on TV3 . . . he still around?'

A forecaster who managed the impossible, made Irish weather seem decent.

Mick was delighted. I'd hit a home run, asked,

‘Do you like him? Isn't he fucking gifted.'

The ultimate Irish accolade, bestowed rarely. The weather man had a cheesy American style of delivery, humanized the forecast. Sure, it was going to lash down but it wasn't malicious, not like England. But hey, what could the weather do? It had to rain, it was Ireland, our birthright, kept the grass green and ensured we'd always have a grievance.

I asked Mick if he was all right for a few bob and he assured me he was good, but then in a serious vein went,

‘'Tis none of my business, but your poor mother's grave, it's in a shocking state.'

I didn't want to go there, said,

‘Oh.'

He was being as careful as he could, but some issues had to be addressed. He continued,

‘I know you . . . haven't been . . . well . . . But you know, people talk.'

Like I gave a fuck. I said,

‘I appreciate your concern.'

I didn't.

He wasn't quite finished, said,

‘My cousin Tomas, he does graves, does a lovely job. I could have a word.'

I agreed, reached for my wallet. He blew it off, said,

‘Settle up another time. You have always been a friend to our people.'

Which might be the best epitaph I can get.

‘Cause and effect. One must have deeper motives and judge accordingly, but go talking like an ordinary person'

Pascal,
Pensées,
336

 

 

 

A week later, I went for a job interview, as a security guard. I knew how ridiculous this was – I was applying to mind buildings and I couldn't mind myself. As my mother had been fond of saying, after I became a Guard,

‘Him! A Guard! He couldn't mind mice at a crossroad.'

I have to admit that particular image always made me smile, not what she intended. In Ireland, possibly the greatest sin is to have ideas above your station. Notions, they're called, to ‘lose the run of yourself, as they say. She ensured I never did.

The security office was located at the rear of the Augustinian church, close to Galway's only sex shop. Tempting to say, keep your vices close. Yeah, we had our first sex emporium. They follow in the wake of the big boys: McDonald's, River Island, Gap. I'm not sure of the implications, other than money, but they are the bottom feeders.

The sun was splitting the rocks. Europe was being blasted by a heatwave, England baking in the high thirties, Tony Blair feeling heat of a different kind as he clung to his ‘We'll
find weapons of mass destruction' dogma. In Ireland, we had our own weapon of mass destruction.

Alcoholism.

I was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, a dark-blue tie, loosely fastened – that careless-swagger touch, black pressed pants, sensible black slip-on shoes. All purchased from the Vincent de Paul shop, cost me all of nine euro. The woman behind the counter held up the shirt to the light, looked at me, assessing, said,

‘That'll be lovely on you.'

Well, it fit.

The shoes were too tight but a daily level of discomfort

Physical

Mental

And/or

Spiritual

was habitual.

Time was, when I read Thomas Merton, found uplift there. Not no more. A corrosive despair rendered him obsolete. What the shoes did was emphasize my limp. Perhaps I'd get the sympathy vote, be employed on a variation of the disabledvet syndrome. What I knew of security firms I'd mostly gleaned from my dead friend Brendan Cross. He'd once told me,

‘If you can stand up, you can be a security guard.'

I'd asked,

‘That's it?'

‘Helps if you're under seventy.'

 

The guy who interviewed me was definitely sixty. He'd obviously watched a lot of bad B movies, as a cigar stub, unlit,
was lodged in the corner of his mouth. He rotated it slowly as he spoke, said,

‘I see from your application you were a Guard.'

I nodded, not volunteering further. That I'd been bounced wasn't a selling point.

He made various grunts, whether of approval or not I couldn't tell. To say my papers were sketchy was putting it mildly. He sighed, asked,

‘When can you start?'

‘Am . . .'

‘You free today?'

I was free every day, but fuck, I hadn't got my head ready to jump so fast. I said,

‘I'm moving house, could I start next week?'

He finally looked at me. I hoped the white shirt was strutting its stuff and I said,

‘Give you time to check my references.'

My referees were Ridge and a doctor who'd once set my broken fingers. The guy said,

‘Whatever.'

I realized the interview was over, stood, said,

‘Thank you for your time.'

‘Yeah, yeah.'

I left, thinking,

‘I'm employed, just like that?'

Decided to go to the Augustinian, light a candle for all my dead. I used to bring my business to the Abbey but they'd priced themselves out of the market. Their rates for Mass Card signings had gone way up. At the church, I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water font, blessed myself,
intoned
. . . In ainm an Athair . . .
the Lord's Prayer in Irish. Mass was just concluding and there was a sizeable crowd. I went to St Jude's shrine at the back and put some money in the box. I was sad to see the candles were now automated. You pressed a button and a light came on. What a shame. The whole deal of actually selecting a candle, lighting it, had been a ritual of comfort, as old as poverty. What next? Internet access, sit at home, light a candle on a website. I chose a position on the top right, hit the button, didn't work. Tried three more. Nope. Hoped it wasn't an omen, knelt and said,

‘For the repose of the souls of the dearly departed.'

Felt like a hypocrite. An old woman came in, put her coins in the box, hit a button and the whole top row lit up. She seemed delighted. I wanted a refund. Maybe I hadn't put the right money in, was it
exact fare only
or was there a special offer, ten lights for only €;9.99? It was too complicated. I got out of there, a sense of unfulfilment in my heart.

Stood on the steps, the sun on my face, heard,

‘Mr Taylor? Mother of God, is it yourself?'

Janet, the chambermaid/pot walloper/all-round staff at Bailey's Hotel. She had always looked as old as Mrs Bailey, got to be hitting late eighties. Wearing a Connemara shawl, she looked frail. Those shawls were made by hand, handed down from mother to daughter, a slice of living history. I said,

‘Janet.'

And she moved, gave me a full hug, said,

‘We heard you were in the madhouse.'

Paused, blushed, tried,

‘Oh heavens, I mean the hospital.'

I hugged her back, said,

‘I was but I'm OK now.'

She released me, uttered the closest thing to an Irish benediction.

‘Let me have a look at you.'

Centuries of care in that. And
look
they do, but with tenderness, concern. She said,

‘You need fattening up.'

I smiled, asked,

‘How are you?'

Her face lit up, much like the top row of candles. Excitement in her eyes, she exclaimed,

‘Isn't it great?'

What?

I was lost, went,

‘I'm lost.'

She moved in close, as if eavesdroppers were everywhere, which in Ireland they probably were, near whispered,

‘About our legacy.'

My face was showing my confusion and she said,

‘Mrs Bailey had no children, no close ties. So she left me money and before she died, may she rest in peace, she told me she was leaving you a small flat and money.'

I was stunned, lost for words. Janet rooted in a brand-new leather handbag – the result of the legacy, I suspected – found a business card, handed it over, said,

‘That's the solicitor, he's anxious to hear from you.'

I read the name:

Terence Brown

Family solicitor

 

with four phone lines.

I said,

‘I'll call him.'

Janet was smiling, but with a sadness in her eyes said,

‘Mrs Bailey said you'd been a great help to her, and she worried about you having a home.'

I had to ask,

‘Where is she buried?'

‘Fort Hill, beside her husband.'

There are three cemeteries in Galway: Bohermore, Rahoon and Fort Hill. I had friends and family in the first two. Few people were buried in the third any more, you had to be very old Galway. Even in death, there are categories. Janet checked a new gold watch, said,

‘I'll have to go, Mr Taylor, get my husband's dinner.'

I'd never met him but asked,

‘How is he keeping?'

Her reply contained all the casual warmth and affection of a lost era, almost thrown away in its simplicity.

‘Sure what would be wrong with him? We have Sky Sports, there's not a brack on him.'

Another hug and she was gone. I hadn't said we'd be seeing each other – our relationship didn't entail commitment. I shook myself, amazed at how my day was shaping. Not yet noon and I'd a job, perhaps a home and even the prospect of money. What it did was make me want to
celebrate, and I'd only ever known one way to do that.

Drink.

I walked up to Eyre Square, took a seat near the fountain, let the sun wash over me, wondered to whom should I say thanks.

 

The Square was hopping.

Backpackers

Office workers

Children

Apprentice hooligans

Winos

The homeless.

Time was, Buckfast was the very bottom of the booze chain. Regarded as but a notch above meths, known as the Wino's choice . . . cheap and potent. Lately, teenagers had discovered if you mixed it with Red Bull and a shot of cider, you got wasted. This new popularity had caused a price hike. Under my bench, I counted four empty bottles. Had I ever drunk it?

Undoubtedly.

Near the pay-toilets, a drinking school was huddled. A bunch of men and women, ragged, dirty, subdued. At intervals, they'd send forth an emissary to perform the ‘beg'. The rules of the school were simple: don't return empty handed. On a bench beside them, one of their number sat alone, his head down. A tremor discernible across the distance. He shook his head and something in the movement chilled my heart. I got up, began to approach. The school, seeing me, sent a scout who went,

‘Spare change for a cup of tea, Sir?'

I waved him off and he veered to my left, targeted a German couple scanning a map.

I stood over the man, went,

‘Jeff?'

No answer, then slowly his head came up, the once fine long hair now knotted, dirty. Sores lined his mouth, a fading bruise covered his left eye. An odour rose from his body, a mix of urine, damp and decay. He focused, croaked,

‘Jack?'

I wanted to embrace him, get him a bath, fresh clothes. I asked,

‘What can I do, buddy?'

I didn't hear his reply and leaned closer. His breath smelled like a dead horse. He muttered,

‘Go fuck yourself, Jack Taylor.'

I reeled back and he tried to straighten, then spat near my foot, said,

‘Killed my golden child.'

‘Between us and heaven or hell there is only life halfway.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
213

 

 

 

The weirdest thing had happened. The night before, I'd dreamed of Ridge, and though it kills me to say it, in a, Jesus, romantic way. How fucked is that?

In the dream, she was in my arms and I was holding her as tight as a rosary. She turned her face for me to kiss her and then . . . Oh God, I woke up, feeling guilty, exhilarated, confused, angry – the usual morning baggage. Worse, I could still sense her touch in my arms and missed it. There's no fool like an old sodden one. I think my face reddened as I realized I'd been happy.

Of all the screwed-up notions to get, this was among the worst. I was what? Going to fall in love with the one woman who was totally unavailable to me on every level. I hated meself more in those few moments than usual, and I had a very full quota of self-loathing. I resolved to bite down on whatever crazy impulse this was and to extinguish it at every possible moment. If I was ever insane enough to share this mad dream with her, I could just picture her face, full of pity and disgust. That picture will wipe out love fairly fast.

It unnerved me and that's the holy all of it.

I got hold of the dictionary, looked up the word I needed and yeah, it fit.

Armed thus, I used it aloud, muttered,

‘'Twas nothing but an aberration.'

Did that help?

Yeah, right.

There is one cure for most ailments, a sure-fire method to jolt you back to reality, and it's so Irish, it's like a cliche, or worse, an Irish joke.

It's the graveyard.

 

Fort Hill is close to the docks. You look north and the Radisson Hotel looms close. Lough Atalia spreads out before the entrance to the graveyard. I'd bought a bunch of flowers – red and white roses – and, self-conscious, crammed them into a holdall. It was another fine day. At this rate, we might have the makings of a half-assed summer. Course, the rain is never far behind, but it lures you into a false sense of security. Buy new summer gear and presto, winter arrives in the middle of June. We do get all the seasons in Ireland, it's just they all arrive on the same day.