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Authors: Ken Bruen

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BOOK: Sanctuary
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Least not before she cut his throat.

 

 

24
Answers

 

 

A guard was killed in a ‘freak accident'. The brakes on his car failed and he hit a tree. He died on impact.

I crossed him off her list.

We were getting down to the wire.

In desperation, I decided to return to Sister Maeve. There had to be more I could learn. I dreaded going back; she had told me in no uncertain terms that she didn't wish to see me again, but I'd been told that by most everyone I knew.

I entered the Mercy School and I swear, my heart was pounding. The girl who'd been at reception the last time had been so warm and friendly. I expected her to call the guards this time.

She didn't.

‘Mr Taylor, terrific. Sister Maeve has been trying to find a way to contact you.'

What do you know?

She picked up the phone, had a brief conversation, then put it down and said, ‘Sister will see you now. Her office is on the first floor.'

Office?

I climbed the flight and my limp objected, but not too much. The door to her office was open and she rose from behind a cluttered desk to greet me. ‘Mr Taylor, please close the door.'

I did.

She indicated the hard chair opposite her desk and she looked seriously worried. I felt like an errant student facing the principal. She no longer had the twinkle in her eye and she actually wrung her hands. ‘I don't know how to begin.' She sighed then said, ‘I've met with Jo.'

I was going to shout, ‘Did you call the Guards?' But I went with, ‘When?'

She was now in deep distress. ‘A few days ago, she told me she had a confession to make and as she no longer trusted the Church, she had chosen me to hear it. Not for absolution, she said, but to set the record straight.'

She paused to let me digest this, see if I had any comment.

I didn't.

She continued, ‘Jo told me that she had been with a man before she joined the convent. In fact, because of that, she joined. She had . . .
lain
with him and then found herself pregnant. Back then, it was difficult to be an unmarried mother. She went to England.'

That could mean only one thing: abortion. No wonder the poor woman was unhinged.

‘Did she try approaching the man?'

Her hands were now twisted round each other. She wouldn't look at me.

Took me a moment and then it all came together. I blurted, ‘
Me?
Ah, for Jesus's sake, you think I wouldn't remember that?'

Maeve gave me the first direct look since I'd sat down. ‘She said you were an alcoholic even then and suffered blackouts. You had no memory of the event.'

Oh God Almighty, this was true. Harsh, bitter truth. From almost the beginning of my drinking, I had always been subject to blackouts. Then an even more horrendous realization struck me and I asked, ‘I could have had a child?'

Weeping, she nodded. Then she whispered, ‘It gets worse.'

She was fucking kidding. What could be worse? All those years of yearning for a child, I'd actually done the deed and the . . .

I wanted to smash something, to drink the Corrib dry, to be numb.

Sister Maeve's voice softened. ‘Siobhans's suicide and the abortion . . . it was like they merged, became one part of a mosaic of horror and loss. And Jo was truly lost. Then she read or heard about the death of Serena May – is that the little girl's name?'

I nodded.

‘It was as if that became the catalyst, the fusion of all the trauma, all the terrible events, and gave her a focus. Now she could, as it were, lay it all on one single act. I'm not suggesting this was rational but she was in such a horrendous state of mind, she would have locked on to anything to escape the terror of her own thoughts.'

‘Where is she?'

Maeve seemed to have retreated into herself. The awful anguish of what had happened had finally caught up with her and she could no longer even think about it. She stared down at her hands, and I noticed the nails had dug into the palms, drawing blood.

 

 

25
Country of the Blind

 

 

The country went Lotto mad. A rollover brought it up to sixteen million and tickets were selling at the rate of twenty thousand a minute.

Summer was coming in Irish fashion – teeming rain and lashing storms. By a supreme effort of will, I reined my drinking way in. But I needed help lest I go on a bender again. Next time, I didn't think I'd wake by the canal but in it.

You want to score dope, it's beyond simplicity. Go and sit on Eyre Square, wrestle a bench from a wino or backpacker and wait. Course, you'll also be offered everything else that a city drunk on new money has to offer the not-so-discerning buyer.

My first day, I struck out but did manage to part
with some euros to a drinking school who blessed me with ‘
Bheannacht leat
', ‘Blessings on you'.

Benediction indeed.

I was sitting on the bench the second day, listening to Johnny Duhan's album
Just Another Town
. Been a while since I listened to J.D. as his music reminded me too much of harsher times – the horrendous killing-of-the-tinkers episode and the tragic conclusions I'd reached. Track three kicked in and I nearly jumped; it was titled, ‘Benediction'.

How the fuck did I forget that?

Before I could get to listen to the lyrics, a guy in his twenties, with long dank hair, combat trousers and a sweatshirt asked, ‘Where were you when John died?'

I looked at him. ‘I was in a pub in Donegal, drinking poteen.'

‘What?'

Obviously the question had been rhetorical.

He said, ‘You looking for something?'

I cut through the shite. ‘What have you got?'

He got suspicious, asked, ‘You a cop?'

I turned away.

He moved a little closer, went all hippy. ‘Hey man, no offence, but like, I gotta watch my back, you hear what I'm saying?'

I was going to snap, ‘I'm not deaf.' But I was certainly heading that way.

He said, ‘I see you got you a limp there, dude. The citizens putting it to you right?'

I gave him my granite look and he went into the rap. Uppers. Downers. Beauties. Ice. Weed, Colombian Gold.

I put up my hand, said, ‘Xanax.'

He let out a long breath. ‘Got me some Valium, 10mg . . . chill you right out.'

I gritted my teeth, said, ‘If I wanted fucking Valium, you think I wouldn't have said?'

He smiled like a rodent with a plan. ‘Heavy vibe, dude. But yeah, I can get you those bad babes. Gonna take like an hour, and gonna cost. You down with that?'

All the Irish youth talked like this now. What a fucking tragedy.

I told him I was indeed
down
with that and told him how many I wanted.

His eyes widened. He stood up and asked, ‘You be mellow, I'll be back in, like, warp speed. Anything else you need?'

‘Just that you don't call me fucking dude.'

He was striding off and I had to ask, though I doubt he was even born, ‘Where were you when John died?'

He looked confused.

‘John who?'

Such times, I love the sheer lunacy of my country.

 

 

26
Watch the World Slide By

 

 

I watched the crowds passing, bemused – not one Galway accent to be heard. It had been on the news that we were the second richest nation behind Japan. There were, at the last count, nearly four thousand millionaires in the state, and yeah, the poor were getting seriously poorer.

A woman, dressed in a shawl, cautiously approached. She was an indeterminate fifty, had the Romanian look, all bangles and rings. The government had recently chartered a flight, made a pre-dawn swoop and gathered up nearly a hundred of these people who were camping on the M1.

Oh yeah, we were rich and getting real ruthless.

A cycling team from Latvia, due to take part in the
Round Ireland Race, had if not legged it, certainly disappeared. I couldn't help wondering what they did with the bikes.

She asked in a clipped Brit voice, ‘Is this seat free?' That way the Brits have of making everything sound imperious and commanding.

I looked round – lots of vacant benches – but said, ‘It's vacant. Very little is free here any more.' Even the public toilets were pay-as-you-go.

She eyed me warily, wondering if she was making a terrible mistake, then sat cautiously down, keeping a safe distance between us. She took out a paper bag jammed with breadcrumbs and I thought,
Uh-oh
. Said, ‘If you're going to feed the pigeons, you might want to bear something in mind.'

She paused – mid-crumb, so to speak – and I said, ‘Apart from the fact that they are flying rodents, you're just fattening them up. Come evening, the New Age travellers net them and roast them over their campfires down near the pier.'

In that precise, clipped tone she said, ‘Surely you jest?'

I turned to face her. ‘Jest? Lady I've done lots of stuff in my life, but jesting hasn't yet been one of them.'

Then lo and behold, a perfect single white feather came floating on the slight breeze and landed at our feet.

She was delighted, clapped her hands in joy, asked, ‘Do you know what that means?'

Many replies suggested themselves, all sarcastic, e.g.
A bird doesn't fly on one wing
. But I went with ‘No.'

I picked it up and it was pristine, almost like the quills the monks used.

She said, ‘When a feather floats by, it means your angel is close by.'

Right.

I handed it to her.

She protested, ‘Oh no, I couldn't.'

‘I insist.'

She took it gently, like a baby, put it delicately in her bag, then took out a card and said, ‘This is for you.'

I saw my drug-dealer approach. She stood and said, ‘My angel thanks you.'

And in then the brief moment when I should have been paying attention, which of course I wasn't, she added, ‘Brian will love that.'

And she was gone.

 

The guy sat, looked round carefully, then laid an envelope on the bench. I palmed him the money and he said, ‘You need a refill, come back to this bench anytime.'

As he stood up I said, ‘My angel thanks you.'

He stared at me. ‘What?'

I shook my head, said, ‘I jest.'

I took the envelope, slipped it casually in my pocket, then remembered the card the pigeon lady had given me. It had a picture of a dark angel with a sword, slashing the bejaysus out of a serpent. I turned it over, and the print on the back said:

 

In benedictus

Requiescat in pace
.

 

Holy fuck. It was her.

I jumped up, but she was long gone.

Despite the warming sun, I felt a chill run down my spine. Ice cold, like evil has reached out and touched you with its malevolence.

I opened the envelope, took out one of the pills, swallowed it and hoped to Christ they were as good as the character in John Straley's novels claimed. He had described the effect as like being wrapped in cotton wool, a warm woozy feeling.

I stayed sitting, chilled to the depths of my very soul.

I felt powerless, wondering if she was watching me – not a feeling I'm used to. I've always been able to take action – usually of the worst kind, but able to function. This feeling was not only new but scary.

A familiar figure came shambling across the square, enveloped in nicotine. Father Malachy. He looked as he always did: angry, shabby, about to explode. Then his eyes lit on me and he approached.

No warm greeting, just straight in. ‘Too drunk to move, Taylor?'

Nice.

I gave him a bitter smile. ‘Actually I'm dealing drugs.'

He sat down, wheezing deeply. ‘That wouldn't surprise me at all.'

He indicated the drinking school, who knew better than to approach him. ‘That's the crowd you belong with and I don't doubt you're soon to join them.'

I asked, ‘Do you believe in angels?'

He looked at me, suspicion writ huge. ‘Why?'

I could feel a warm mellowness beginning to take hold. God bless pharmaceuticals.

‘Well, you're a priest, sort of, and angels and all that stuff is your . . . How should I put it? Your merchandise.'

I saw a slow cunning light his eyes and knew he was ready to retaliate.

He said, ‘Your mother was an angel.'

I let him savour that for a bit then said, ‘So was Lucifer.'

He blessed himself – not easy with a cigarette in his hand, and ash dribbled on to his black jacket. He said, ‘In the name of all that's holy, may God forgive you for that blasphemy.'

He sat in seething silence and I asked, ‘If a nun had to hide out, away from the convent, where would she go?'

He was startled. ‘What kind of eejit question is that? All I know about nuns is they are great shiners. Nobody can polish a floor like a nun.'

The pill was kicking in big time and I felt almost warm towards it. Jesus, now that is one dynamite medication. I said, ‘Useful as that gem of information is, should I just go check out shining floors and follow the trail?'

He was getting fidgety – must be out of cigarettes, though I didn't know how he could afford them now they were over seven euro a pack. But then money was never a problem for the clergy.

He asked, ‘Why on God's earth would you want to find a nun?'

I told him the truth. ‘Because she's killing people.'

He shook his head – more of my paranoid nonsense. But instead of attacking me he said, ‘I did my novitiate in Rome. Ah Lord God, 'twas heaven. Sun, wine . . .' And for a moment, his face relaxed.

I caught a glimpse of a young man, a decent one, who once used to laugh, and not from bitterness.

He shook himself out of the reverie, said, ‘The Italians had a saying: “If you ever walk past a nun, touch a piece of iron and say, ‘Your nun' to a passerby – passing any bad luck to them.”'

BOOK: Sanctuary
12.57Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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