Priest (7 page)

‘We were beginning to think you'd never show.'

I gave him my best smile – it had worked at the security gig.

‘I was otherwise detained.'

He leaned back and his leather chair creaked. Least I think it was the chair – if it was his back, he was seriously fucked. He made a tent of his fingers and added
mmmmph
sounds to the gesture. I'm intrigued by that, do they teach it in law school? It's popular with

Bank Managers

Psychiatrists

Garda superintendents.

I'd witnessed it from psychopaths on two occasions. Cleared his throat, said,

‘Well, you'll want to know your situation?'

‘That'd be great.'

Not the answer he expected but his agenda wasn't high on my list of priorities. He began,

‘Mrs Bailey was an extremely shrewd woman. Oddly, she'd no living relatives.'

Permitted himself a small smile, displaying yellow teeth, the gums in galloping recession. It didn't enhance his appeal. Then,

‘I suppose she outlived them all. Apart from small legacies to charity, there wasn't any next of kin to give her
estate to. This, of course, made probate fairly straightforward.'

I waited, if not patiently, at least with the appearance of it. He said,

‘In addition to a sizeable sum of money, she left you a small apartment in Merchant's Road. It's a top-floor unit, very basic, but need I say, a much-sought-after one, in terms of location. If you wish to sell, I can recommend a good firm.'

I stared at him, said,

‘I won't be selling.'

Solicitors aren't fond of snap decisions – where's the fee in that? He gave me the tolerant legal smile, said,

‘You haven't seen it yet.'

I enjoyed pissing him off, said,

‘Give me the keys, I'll rectify that.'

I thought
rectify
might fly his kite. It didn't. He sighed, passed over a set of keys, the address on a large label, asked,

‘If you give me your banking details, I'll arrange for the funds to be transferred.'

Pause.

‘I take it you
do
have an account?'

You had to love this sanctimonious prick. I gave him the details. He said,

‘The property will be put in your name. If you can stop by next week, if your schedule allows, I'll have the paper-work for you to sign.'

That was it.

I knew he took a dim view of me, but hell, what was new in that? We didn't shake hands on my departure. I
headed for Mocha Beans, figured I'd have a large cappuccino to celebrate. Maybe order a cherry muffin, shoot, the works. Got in there and yeah, it was jammed. I had to share a table with a middle-aged woman who was engrossed in the
Irish Times.
The headline screamed about more scandal in the Church. Five priests in Dublin were being investigated over allegations of abuse. Every day, new disclosures. The waitress came over, asked in an American accent,

‘And how are you doing today, Sir?'

Jesus, beyond cheerful. She'd a name tag: Debbie. I didn't think I'd be using it, decided to forgo the muffin, said,

‘Large cappuccino please, no chocolate sprinkle.'

She seemed delighted with my choice, asked,

‘Something to go with that? A slice of Danish, fresh from the oven?'

The woman with the paper smiled and I said,

‘No, but thanks for the suggestion.'

I thought about Malachy, about the price I'd paid for previous investigations. Did I have what it required to return? I didn't know. A feeling was building in my system and I realized it was shock.

Shock at the prospect of getting back into the game. The adrenalin rush was massive.

The woman put her paper aside, asked,

‘Are you on holiday?'

‘No, I'm from Galway.'

She thought about that, then,

‘A real native, somewhat of a rare species.'

We had indeed become a city where being a native was unusual. My coffee came and I sipped it, wondering if I
suddenly told this stranger I was fresh out of the laughing academy how cordial she would be. She stood, said,

‘You have a good day.'

And was gone.

Should I have made a move on her? The old question, and the answer was, too late.

Later, I went to Merchant's Road to see my new home. The building appealed immediately. Granite front, windows opening out to small balconies. I went in, climbed the stairs and found my door, my place! It consisted of bedroom, sitting room, kitchen, all on the small scale. High ceiling, which adds the illusion of space. There was furniture, old but solid, a bed, and in the presses, crockery. It felt like it had never been inhabited, as if it was simply waiting. I opened the windows and gave silent benediction to Mrs Bailey.

 

I had been to the cinema to see
Goodbye, Berlin,
got a takeaway kebab and had turned into the alleyway leading to the Granary. My mind was see-sawing twixt joy from the magical movie and the loneliness of buying one ticket. Few things emphasize aloneness like the cinema. It's designed for company – they even have
love seats . . .
fuck.

The cashier had asked,

‘How many?'

The sad refrain,

‘One.'

My answer seemed to echo in the foyer, bounce against the coming attractions and highlight the groups of people in animated conversation. At the next desk, the assistant
was selling tickets as fast as he could punch them.
Terminator 3 . . .
maybe Arnie's declaration that he'd run for Governor of California was swelling the appeal. The refreshment kiosk was jammed – mega buckets of popcorn and huge cokes. I walked by.

So when the guy came out of the darkened doorway of my apartment, I nearly dropped my kebab. He said,

‘Gimme money.'

I muttered,

‘Sure.'

Moved the kebab to my left hand, shot out with the right. The second guy would have taken me easily – I'd never considered two. Before he could strike, someone came running down the alley, hit him with a shoulder. I turned, trying to get a handle on what the hell was happening. A man in his early twenties, dressed in a tracksuit, stood over the guy he'd knocked down. He asked,

‘Should I kick him in the gut?'

‘I would.'

He did.

I asked,

‘Who the blazes are you?'

The would-be muggers were moaning and I suddenly noticed their shoes – the heavy black jobs. Only one gang in the world wore those. The Guards. The man said,

‘I'm Cody.'

I shook my head. This was supposed to mean something? I asked,

‘Want to share a kebab?'

His smile revealed glittering white teeth as he said,

‘Man, I love to eat.'

And all the time, I was asking meself,

‘Why would the Guards want to rough me up except to warn me off?'

 

When we got to the flat, he whistled in appreciation, said,

‘What a pad.'

He had an American accent, but I'm Irish, I could hear the lilt beneath. His delivery was good but bogus. I got some plates, cut the kebab in two, asked,

‘What to drink?'

He was standing at the window, staring at that view, went,

‘Bourbon, rocks, beer chaser.'

I smiled, he sounded so close to the real thing. I said,

‘I've got tea, water, coffee.'

‘Tea's cool.'

While the kettle boiled, I appraised him. Tall with an athlete's build. When he turned towards me his face was solid: brown eyes, straight nose, but the mouth let the picture sag. Thin lips that seemed like an afterthought. Blond hair in the mocked style of the eighties known as a Mullet. He obviously hadn't heard the jokes and derision, or maybe he had, didn't care. I put the plates down and he sat, went,

‘You handle yourself well for an old guy.'

I let that slide. What was I going to do, argue the toss? What it did, apart from depress the shit out of me, was make me conscious of my limp. The guy probably figured I had a walking stick, but he'd saved my ass, no question
- the second mugger I'd never even considered. He'd have had me, as the English say, ‘Bang to rights.' I owed him, said,

‘I owe you.'

He grabbed his portion of the kebab, took a hefty bite, chewed with his mouth open – not a pretty sight but, like I said, I was in his debt. He waved his hand, answered,

‘No biggie, dude.'

Dude . . . Jesus.

I sat opposite him, felt a tremor along my spine, knew my hands would shake. He noticed, said,

‘All shook up, yeah?'

I didn't think it required a reply. He nodded, said,

‘A shot of something, get you squared away.'

It would certainly get me put away. Man, I'd have sold my soul for a Bushmills, Jameson, get that fake warmth to light my guts. He added,

‘You can't, huh?'

The old anger surfaced. I went,

‘What's that mean?'

He was unfazed, still chewing, raised his left hand in the drinking motion then rolled his eyes, said,

‘One's not enough, eh . . . is that how it goes?'

The sheer insanity of alcoholism. If there'd been a bottle in the apartment, I'd have had a large one then put him through the window. I reined in, tried,

‘Lucky for me you were passing.'

He raised his eyebrows, echoed,

‘Lucky? Luck had nothing to do with it.'

I didn't understand, said,

‘I don't understand.'

‘I was following you, Jack.'

My name. Did I give it? No, definitely not. He indicated my half of the kebab, asked,

‘You gonna chow down? . . . like, I'd hate to see it go begging.'

I stood, pushed the food to him, asked,

‘You skip breakfast, that it?'

Then aiming for calm, keeping it low, asked,

‘Why are you following me?'

He'd launched into the food and, startling us both, I shouted,

‘Leave the fucking food alone.'

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, said,

‘Whoah! Take it easy, big guy, take a chill pill. You don't want to get a heart attack. Jeez, bring it down a notch.'

While he was saying this, I considered launching myself across the table, ramming the bloody kebab down his throat. I leaned on the table, said,

‘Cody or whatever the hell your name is, listen up. Who the hell are you, why are you following me and how do you know my name? Think you can answer those?'

My cigs were on the table. He flipped open the pack, took out a Zippo, fired up, said,

‘I'm trying to cut back, but after vittles you just gotta have that nicotine buzz.'

Saw my expression, grinned, went,

‘Okey dokey, 'fess-up time. Hombre, I'm your biggest fan, been reading up on you.' Paused, as if searching for the right words. ‘How does it go . . . “I like the cut of your gib”?
In other words, Jack, I want to be a private eye. I want to be your partner. What do you say, want to buddy up?'

I stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Cody didn't like being laughed at, protested,

‘I'm serious, dude. I've been following your career. We hook up, we'd clean up.'

Nice pithy slogan, we could put it on a T-shirt. I asked,

‘Tell me who you are, and tell me now.'

My tone implied the violence that lingered barely under the surface of every waking hour.

He got it.

Sitting up straight, he wiped his mouth, went,

‘OK. I'm like you, Jack. A younger version, but definitely you. I grew up a few streets from where you were raised and in the same shitty poverty. The best cutlery is the only cutlery, am I right?'

I was still chewing on
younger.
You hit your fifties, your bad fifties, and someone brings up age you brace yourself for the onslaught. Whatever they have to say, you know from gut level, complimentary it won't be.

He continued,

‘And see, like you, I love books, man. I read all the time – crime, right? I have two hundred books on crime and I'm going to read them all. And oh, yeah, I feed the swans. I applied to be a Guard and they turned me down.'

His face dissolved into misery. I snapped,

‘Why?'

‘Why do I feed the swans?'

Fuck, this was like pulling teeth, very stubborn teeth. I sighed, said,

‘No, why did they turn you down for the Guards?'

His face lit up again. He said,

‘I have a bad leg, me left one, hurt it playing sport, and isn't that weird, you got your . . . am . . .'

‘Limp.'

‘Am, right, your . . . injury from a hurley. Isn't that serendipity?'

It was shite is what I thought. He went on,

‘I didn't do very well at school. I don't do authority, and your dad, he knew mine, they were on the Church Sodality together.'

Now I had him, said,

‘Wrong guy, buddy. My father, he never served on committees, especially Church ones. If you'd said my mother, you'd have been nearer the mark – she lived in the bloody place, should have been a nun.'

I could feel the old bitterness, the old resentment of her, like bile in my throat. He digested this, then continued,

‘I think he knew him, anyway. So with all we have in common, I think we should work together.'

‘And this would work, how?'

He was on his feet, pacing, excitement in his whole body.

‘I'd handle the field work and you could, like . . .'

He tried to find the right word so I prompted,

‘Sleuth?'

‘What?'

‘To sleuth: to search for clues.'

He suspected I was mocking him, but went with it, uncertainty in his eyes.

‘Am, yes, the strategy and stuff. I'm, as you've seen, a hands-on kind of guy.'

He was so earnest I decided not to sling his ass out, said,

‘Why not?'

He couldn't believe it, was actually lost for words. I said,