Priest (8 page)

‘I'm going to be moving into a new . . . pad . . . in Merchant's Road – you can report to me there. Meanwhile, here's your . . . am . . . assignment.'

He looked round the place, asked,

‘You're letting this go?'

‘Too conspicuous. Don't want to draw too much attention to ourselves.'

He loved that
ourselves,
went,

‘Gotcha.'

Then, as if he'd rehearsed, plunged,

‘I won't need paying right off. Like, I'll do it . . .'

‘Pro bono.'

‘Pro what?'

My leg was aching, I wanted to lie down. ‘Here's what I want you to do.'

He was all attention, his forehead scrunched.

‘There's a group of winos at the Square, they're based near the automatic toilets . . .'

He leaped in,

‘I know them. You want me to go undercover, infiltrate them. I won't shave, I'll—'

‘Shut up.'

Like hitting a puppy. He looked so wounded, I said,

‘The first thing you got to do is learn to listen. Are you listening?'

He nodded miserably. Where did I get this shit? I continued,

‘There's a guy – long grey hair in a ponytail, name of Jeff – he sits a little apart from the main cluster. I want you to find out how he's doing and – here's the tricky bit – to see how you can get him off the street.'

He wanted to ask a ton of questions, but I was in, asked,

‘You think you can handle that?'

‘Yeah, boss.'

‘OK, you got a phone number?'

He had a mobile and a land line. Cautioned about the land line as it was his parents' home. I was afraid to ask if he still lived there. At least he didn't have a business card, but it could only be a matter of time. As he prepared to leave, he suddenly hugged me. Truly, I was losing my grip, never anticipated it. He said,

‘We're going to make some team.'

I didn't doubt that for a minute.

 

My dreams were vivid, a macabre blend of kebabs, headless priests, a church without candles and a cemetery with pints of Guinness on the graves. I came to, gasping, covered in sweat, muttered,

‘Jesus.'

And dragged myself to the shower. Got it scalding, as if steam could erase the memories. I had no appetite but forced down some dry toast, got some coffee brewing. I didn't want a cig but lit one anyway. Addiction wakes before you do, impatiently waiting, going ‘I've
torture
on hold for you.'

I had some serious thinking to do. The whole Cody deal
stank to high heaven. As I replayed it, the thought struck me,

‘What if . . . Jesus, what if he set up the muggers, the whole scene was planned, he's in cahoots with the Guards?'

Then of course I'd be grateful, as I had been, and would agree to most anything he asked, like him being my partner. I'd never done the buddy gig. Lone wolf was my calling. And I had to ask meself, why did I agree? . . . apart from gratitude. Was it boredom? Just not giving a toss? . . . I truly didn't know.

I did know he wasn't what he seemed, the act of naive kid didn't play. But I decided to let it run, else how would I discover his agenda? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer still, wasn't that the line? He wasn't my friend, that was for sure. If he was an enemy, I'd know soon enough.

Then I figured, what the hell? If nothing else, it was going to be interesting.

That figuring would very nearly be the death of me.

‘Fathers are afraid that their children's natural love may be eradicated.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
93

 

 

 

Turned on the radio, blast the silence. The news. A Vatican document was discovered by a Texan lawyer. Published in Latin, he called it a blueprint for deception and concealment. Sixty-nine pages, with the seal of Pope John XXIII, in 1962 it was sent to every bishop in the world.

Some postage.

It contained guidelines for bishops to deal discreetly with victims of abuse. Irish bishops were told to follow a policy of strictest secrecy. Excommunication was threatened if they spoke out. Victims, after making a complaint, were to take an oath of secrecy.

I got dressed, went out. My limp was pronounced – going down three flights of stairs didn't help. At a shop across the street, I bought the papers and the woman said,

‘Nice morning for it.'

I hadn't the energy to ask what, lest she tell me. Back up the stairs, I settled in the chair by the window and began to read. The Vatican revelations were front-page news. The Vatican document, called
Crimine Solicitationes
– instructions on proceeding in cases of solicitation – dealt with
sexual abuse between a priest and a member of his congregation in the confessional.

I stopped reading, went and brewed some fresh coffee, thinking how Father Joyce had been beheaded in the confessional. The rage it required to sever the head would have to be ferocious. A shudder passed through me.

I returned reluctantly to the papers.

The document also covered ‘the worst crime of all', which it described as an obscene act by a cleric with ‘youths of either sex'.

Was the killer out there, reading this?

The description
youths
tore at my guts, but worse was to follow. The next few words made me retch.

‘. . . or with brute animals (Bestiality).'

The bishops were instructed to pursue these cases in ‘the most sensitive way . . . restrained by a perpetual silence . . . And everyone is to observe the strictest secrecy which is commonly regarded as a secret of the Holy Office.'

In May 2001, the Vatican sent a letter to bishops, clearly stating that the 1962 instruction was still in force.

I put the papers aside, darkness all around me. The phone rang and I jumped. The heart sideways in me, I grabbed the receiver, went,

‘Yeah?'

‘Jack Taylor, it's Ni Iomaire.'

‘Ridge.'

I didn't hear her customary annoyance when I used the English version of her name. I asked,

‘What's up?'

‘Can we meet? I need to talk to you.'

‘Sure. You OK?'

‘I don't know.'

Then I recognized the tone in her voice, something I'd never heard in her – fear. I asked,

‘Did something happen?'

‘I'll be in the Southern at noon. Will you come?'

‘Sure, I—'

Click.

The Great Southern Hotel, situated at the bottom of Eyre Square, had been closed for six months' renovation. I'd known the doorman more years than either of us would admit. He had the red face, broken veins of the daily heavy drinker. But he managed to stay employed and that was a whole lot more than I'd ever achieved. He gave me the Galway greeting.

‘How's it going, Jack?'

In all our years, we'd never pinned down that elusive
it.
Perhaps it was all-encompassing. I did my part, said,

‘It's going good.'

He spread his arms out, indicating the changes, asked,

‘What do you think?'

I didn't think much, it looked exactly the same, said,

‘They did a great job.'

He beamed, as if he personally had overseen the work. In Ireland, we're never slow to take the credit where it isn't due. We call it honesty. Doormen, cab-drivers, barmen, they're the best source of information. I leaned close to get that conspiracy angle going, said,

‘Bad business about Father Joyce.'

His eyes lit up. Scandal . . . near as good as a hidden half of Jameson. He said,

‘He used to come here, you know.'

I kept my face grave, prompted,

‘You'd have known him then?'

About as dumb an observation as you can make, but it was the right track. Animated, he took my arm, moved me away from the door, said,

‘Every Friday, five o' clock, you could set your watch, he'd be in.'

He shot out his right hand, finger to the far corner.

‘Always the same table and a large Paddy, pint of Guinness. Some Americans were in his place once. I shunted them.'

He stared at me, awaiting the verdict on his action. I said,

‘Good one.'

I got a few notes, palmed them to him, asking,

‘Where did he go during the renovations?'

He looked at me as if I was mad, said,

‘How the hell would I know?'

And stomped off.

What had I learned? Precious little. Sat in the corner myself, wished I could have the Paddy and chaser. Ordered a pot of coffee and watched the door. Half an hour before Ridge appeared. She arrived, wearing a white T-shirt, tan jeans, sandals, the outfit declaring,

‘Hey, I'm cool, not a thing bothering me.'

Her face told a different tale – lines of worry along her forehead, her mouth a grim purse. I stood as she approached
but the gesture didn't impress her. She sat, said,

‘I got caught in traffic'

I indicated the coffee pot, said,

‘It's cold, I can order fresh . . .'

She shook her head, did what police do – checked the exits, windows, number of people. You do it automatically and it never goes away. She said,

‘I ever tell you I was thinking of being a nurse? I'd applied to the Guards, but if they turned me down, then nursing was my next choice.'

The way she said it, you'd think we had frequent intimate chats. We certainly had a lot of mileage, but never by choice. I said,

‘No, you didn't tell me.'

She was fiddling with the strap of her watch, the only sign of her agitation. She said,

‘As preparation, I was working as Care Assistant with old people. One old woman, lived in Rossaville, she was very wealthy but a cow, a walking bitch.'

The vehemence of her words was fevered. It was like Ridge was back there, with the woman. I wanted to shout,

‘Go for it, girl! Get it out, vent that fucker.'

She said,

‘The day I got accepted for the Guards and had a date to report for training, I went to tell the old biddy I wouldn't be seeing her any more. She wouldn't hear of it. You know what she said?'

I'd no idea and shook my head.

‘You're being paid to care for me.'

Ridge almost smiled at the memory, said,

‘I told her, the cheque's not been written that would make me care for you.'

I wondered how this related to what was spooking her. She said, as if reading my mind,

‘That's nothing to do with why I wanted to talk to you.'

I must have looked confused. I'd been trying for
attentive
and she added,

‘I wanted you to understand that being a Guard is what I do care about. Sometimes I think it's all I have.'

As if I needed that spelled out. The day I got kicked off the Force was among the darkest of my life. You hear people say, ‘What I do is not who I am.' They were never cops. The rate of suicide among retired cops is through the roof, because you can't stop being one. Everything for me related to my time as a Guard. I never recovered from losing it. All the disasters, one way or another, they'd their basis in that loss. I said,

‘I understand.'

I waited, figuring she'd get to it in her own time. Then,

‘I'm being stalked.'

I hadn't known what to expect, but this threw me. Took me a few minutes to get my head round it, then I said,

‘Tell me.'

Her face was scrunched, her eyes almost closed, the effort of articulating it requiring massive effort. She said,

‘The past few weeks, I'd the sense of being watched. Then late-night calls, no one there and when I hit 1471 got blocked call. My apartment – someone's been in there. Nothing taken, just a very subtle rearranging of things. Then yesterday, this came.'

She reached in her jeans, took out a folded envelope. I looked at it – it had her name and address on (in Irish), posted in Galway the day before. I took out a single sheet of paper, read

Say
Your
Prayers
Bitch.

Nothing else.

And the first thought that struck me was,

‘Cody?'

Would he be double fucking, me and Ridge?

‘Atheism indicates strength of mind, but only up to a certain point.'

Pascal,
Pensées, 225

 

 

 

It would be extremely foolish to deny that many priests, maybe even the majority of them, young and old, are greatly disturbed with regard to their position in the Church. The priest feels he is no longer in command. His one-time social pre-eminence among his flock has lost no small part of its sheen.

 

 

 

I peered closely at the envelope but it told me nothing. I asked,

‘Any idea who it could be?'

She shook her head. I was tempted to say,

‘I'll have my colleague look into it.'

But she was too rattled for levity. I didn't know what she thought an ex-drunk, fresh out of the loony bin, could do. I didn't say this either, went with,

‘How about if I keep an eye on your home for a few days, see who shows up?'

She turned to look at me, asked,

‘Are you up to that? It's like returning to your old job and that's caused you major trauma.'

No argument there, so I tried,

‘All I'll do is watch. I get a lead on somebody, I tell you, you take it from there.'

‘You fucking bet I will.'

The ferocity stunned us both. Ridge, no stranger to temper, rarely resorted to obscenity and she put her hand to her mouth as if to staunch further outpourings, said,

‘I don't like being scared.'

I nearly laughed but reined it in, asked,

‘Come on, Ridge, who does?'

She lifted the coffee pot, shook it, then poured some into a cup, swirled it round and put the cup back on the table.