Sanctuary (11 page)

Well, I had iron in my pocket, a revolver, and was touching it right now.

He stood up, looked right at me, some of the Roman decency still lingering, and said, ‘You were brought up Catholic and you read all those books and you think you're so smart? So use your head, boyo. Where would a nun hide? She can't go home – the convent is out of bounds.'

And he headed off.

I shouted, ‘Where?'

‘Use your head, yah eejit.'

My head was full of cotton wool. I couldn't figure it out, and the Xanax whispered, ‘Why bother?'

But it was almost a Zen question and there was only one person who could help with that: Stewart.

So I called him, said, ‘I need your help.'

A pause. My requests tended to get people hurt and he had the sore head to prove it.

He said, ‘Jack, you're forgetting something.'

‘That you got hurt already?'

Almost a laugh, then, ‘No Jack, the item you're big on yourself – manners. Like,
please
.'

Jesus. I said, ‘Please?'

‘You sure hate that, Jack, don't you? Come round,
I'm near finished my meditation so I should be grounded enough, even for you.'

I clicked off. Was that insulting?

The Xanax answered, ‘Who gives a fuck?'

I liked that answer and I loved this drug.

 

 

 

 

I was due to meet with Stewart that evening and was amazed I didn't need a drink. The Xanax had me chilled. I had no illusions that it too would come with some major price tag. I'd seen photos of major stars heading for rehab after – what's the buzz word? – yeah,
dabbling
. They still looked better than me in all me years of no booze so I'd pay the chit, as I always did. But for now, it kept me off the booze and for that I was, if not grateful, at least relieved.

An added bonus: I could read again. The hangovers had been getting so bad, I was unable even to do that. So I took a trip down to Charly Byrnes. Jeez, how long since I'd seen Vinny? Too long.

He was behind the counter, long dark hair nigh
covering his face, as per usual, and telling an old lady, ‘You bring the books in, I'll look after you.'

You could tell she didn't give a toss about the books, but Vinny looking after her . . . he had the gift and the thing is, he meant it.

She floated out of the shop.

I said, ‘You never lost it.'

He turned. Took him a moment, then, ‘Jack! I thought you'd left us, gone to America?'

I went with the familiar. ‘Ah, you can't get rid of a bad thing.'

He nodded, a hundred things going on in that mind of his. ‘So they keep telling
me
. You up for a coffee?'

I was.

We headed for Quay Street, Vinny expertly sidestepping every

Howyah?

Can you spare us a few euro?

You owe me a pint

You owe me a moment

You look great.

The usual music of a Galway street. He responded to all with affection, never once giving offence, even stopping to put some notes in a busker's cap. The guy shouted, ‘I'll buy you a pint later, Vinny.'

He smiled, said to me, ‘And that will be the day.'

I envied him, the way he could manoeuvre all this street life and still be loved. Me, I'd have been getting the hurley to half of them.

We went into Café du Journal. How Irish is that? It was packed, but he found a table amid the chaos, said, ‘This will do grand.'

And before you could blink, the waitress, a gorgeous non-national, had put an expresso, a slice of Danish and – get this – a folded copy of
The Irish Times
in front of him. She said, ‘I'll be back for friend's order.'

He gave that smile that is the reason you get that kind of treatment.

Me, I get barred.

I mention meeting Vinny and this whole brief encounter as it was such an oasis of
normalcy
in my out-of-control life.

What is it they say? A trainwreck waiting to happen. Fuck, I was already flattened by the train and waiting for the express to finish me off.

I asked him, pun intended, I suppose, ‘Vinny, you ever get . . . you know . . . derailed?'

He put aside the paper and considered my question. One of the things I loved about him, he never took a query lightly. He sipped at his expresso, then said, ‘I watch the signals.'

Does it get any deeper?

And yet stays within the Irish male boundaries of never being too serious, least on the surface.

The waitress returned, again all smiles for Vinny, and asked what I would like. I said a latte would be just great.

Moving on from our moment of seriousness, I said, ‘I need to order some books, mate.'

He beamed. ‘Music to my ears. The usual blend of crime, poetry and philosophy?'

I said that would do the job and we chatted about nothing and everything, staying light, staying Irish.

He told me he'd been to a concert by Philip Fogarty and Anna Lardi in Saint Nicholas's Church and I feigned horror. ‘A Protestant Church? You're fucked.'

He laughed, a real deep-down-in-the-stomach, heart-warming one. ‘Well, I had me rosary beads with me.'

I smiled, a strange feeling, said, ‘Naw, you're screwed.'

We'd finished the coffee. Time to go.

Outside, he warded off the usual well-wishers and I said, ‘So the concert, you heathen, was it good?'

He gave a few euro to a wino. ‘It was brilliant. That Philip, he sure can work the crowd, and Anna . . . poetry in song.' Then he added, ‘If I say 'twas a guilty pleasure, will I earn back some points from the man above?'

I acted like I was thinking about it, then said, ‘Actually makes it worse. Better climb Croagh Patrick.'

‘Barefoot?'

‘Is there any other way?'

He laughed again and was gone.

The pilgrims climb Croagh Patrick in Mayo every year and it's a steep rocky haul. The rescue services always have to airlift some poor bastard who's had a heart attack, or suffered dehydration, and on top of the mountain is the Statue of Saint Patrick. I wondered whether, with all the snakes we had in our society at the moment, he was as alert as he once was. Losing his grip, like all the other icons, heroes we once adored.

They should get real honest and put the euro sign up there and then they wouldn't climb the mountain, they'd fucking gallop. Barefoot or not.

 

 

 

 

I was en route to meet Stewart when my mobile rang. I dreaded and hoped it might be the psycho nun.

I heard a cultured male voice. ‘Mr Taylor, I do pray I haven't caught you at a bad time?'

The Anglo-Irish prick. As I tried to resurrect his name, he supplied it: ‘Anthony Bradford-Hemple here. I trust you remember me?'

‘Sure, Hemple, I remember.'

A slight intake of breath at my obvious rudeness. What did he expect?
Mr? Sir?

He composed himself and said, ‘One tends to forget the somewhat acidic nature of your tongue, Mr Taylor. I have been rather remiss in not expressing my
gratitude for your colleague's splendid work on behalf of my daughter.'

Colleague?

Ridge.

I said, with the same edge in my voice, ‘Glad to be of help.'

‘I wanted to tell you how happy I am, and really, it's all down to you. I'd never have had the sheer audacity to hope again, and now with Cathleen I'm rather dizzy with delight.'

Who the fuck was Cathleen? Without thinking, I echoed meself with ‘Who the fuck is Cathleen?'

He gave what the Brits call a ‘hearty chuckle' and said, ‘Oh, do forgive me. She is probably more formal with you. I mean, of course, Ban Garda Ridge.'

What the hell was he talking about? Was he hitting the port big time? I asked, ‘What are you on about?

He gave a milder form of the previous chuckle, just as annoying. ‘Oh dear, I fear I may have jumped the gun. I presumed she'd have told you.'

‘Told me what?'

I swear, a triumphant note in his tone now. ‘I daresay I'd better let Cathleen spill the beans . . . Not really my place. Anyway, on Friday we're having a little soirée to celebrate at my modest pile and would dearly love to have you in attendance. Nothing too formal, tie and blazer would be more than adequate.'

And he hung up.

I was standing in the middle of Shop Street by this stage, buskers to the right of me, mimers to the left, and I felt I'd wandered into a circus. The phone rang again. I was ready for him this time and was about to launch when I heard a woman's voice.

‘You were so kind to give me the feather.'

I was too stunned to answer.

She continued, ‘I have the child and soon it will be your turn, Mr Taylor – or should I call you Jack?'

There was no malice or rage in her voice, which made it all the more chilling. More like she was telling me the shopping list was nigh done.

I said, ‘You psycho bitch, I'll get you if it's the last thing I do.'

She made a sound – a laugh, a sigh, I don't know. ‘No truer words, Mr Taylor. It will be the last thing you do. Alas, I had to smite my sinner brother for yet one more betrayal. It's on your head, Mr Taylor, as is so much. But you have so very little time left in which to be a plague on what was once holy ground.'

And she was gone.

What the hell did she mean?

I felt a shock of fear to my whole system. She had taken a child. Which child? Jesus, I had to find out and quickly. Which meant I needed to get round to see her brother without delay.

 

 

 

 

As I ran to meet Stewart, the skies darkened. Who was it – Eliot? – who wrote something about what the thunder said. In Galway it said, ‘You're fucked.'

Stewart was all settled in for a chat and tea. I grabbed his arm. ‘We have to move and fast.'

Probably didn't fit in with his Zen gig but I wasn't in the mood for any laid-back bullshit and as I steered him towards Ben's house – I couldn't call him Benedict – I told him all the stuff that had gone down. Meeting with the psycho nun's brother, then her giving me the feather, her call . . . and her ominous final warning about what had happened to her brother for his ‘betrayal'.

We'd reached the Fair Green by now, not a spit
away from the church where the priest had been decapitated. This had been the case where Father Malachy had enlisted my help to try and find whoever had killed the priest. I'd like to say it had turned out well. It hadn't.

Stewart stopped. ‘Phew, slow down. Let me digest some of this.'

Digest?

I said, ‘We're not having fucking lunch, we're trying to see if a poor bastard needs help.'

He still wasn't moving. I wanted to wallop him, hard.

He asked in that ultra-cool tone, ‘So why didn't you call Ridge? You want her back in action.'

I said through gritted teeth, ‘Because it looks like she's making marriage plans.'

That finally got a stir out of him. He nearly gasped. ‘Wow! Who's the lucky woman?'

How much had we changed in our society that he naturally presumed it was a woman. I know he knew Ridge was gay, but the ease with which he asked was still startling.

I said, ‘Look, can we do all this shite later?'

He finally moved, said, ‘Jack, don't you ever wish for a more . . . uneventful life?'

I could have gone deep and said,
I wish for some peace
. Like that was going to happen. I went with ‘I wish you'd shut the fuck up.'

He did.

We got to the house and the door opened at our touch.

I said, ‘I'll go first.'

He nearly smiled. ‘That's why we pay you the big bucks.'

 

We found him upstairs in bed. He looked terrible.

He said, ‘Jack, my constant visitor, you've arrived with little time to spare. My sister was here and persuaded me to have a drink.'

His smile was almost beatific in its glow. He continued, ‘I'm always up for a drink – I'm sure you can empathize. But she had laced it with some kind of poison, not too painful but deadly . . . I can feel my life pouring away and it seems sort of fitting that you should be the witness to my demise.'

‘I'll call an ambulance.'

He shook his head. ‘Have one for the road with me, Jack. A drink, that is, not an ambulance.'

He gave a small laugh at his wit and it caused a horrendous bout of coughing. He managed to gasp, ‘God in heaven, I'm glad I never smoked.'

I had, alas, seen enough men die to know he was right. Already that waxen pallor had circled his face.

There was a bottle of Bushmills on the dresser and some glasses. I poured two large ones, handed one to him.

He studied the glass as if it might tell him something.

‘What shall we drink to, Jack?'

Jesus wept.

Long life?

He said, ‘Let's toast the friendship we might have had.'

We clinked glasses and drank deep.

I felt such a wave of affection for this man. I didn't try to figure why, it was just instinct.

We heard Stewart climbing the stairs.

Stewart, on seeing the colour of the man, looked like he was going to throw up. So much for fucking Zen.

Benedict said, ‘There's some nice iced water in the fridge downstairs if you feel faint.'

Jesus, I couldn't help but like this poor sad bastard. He was unable to move because of his sheer girth and he still had fucking manners. That killed me, and I swore an oath, an unholy one, that I'd make that bitch suffer as I killed her.

He said, ‘Jack, it's OK, I don't mind shuffling off this mortal coil, if you'll excuse my showing off my little learning. And as they say in the Claddagh, “Death was a blessed relief.”'