Sanctuary (7 page)

‘You heard me.'

He gazed in dismay at the soggy biscuit skimming the surface, then said, ‘It's a blessing and also evening devotions, not that anyone goes any more. If you're looking for a blessing, you'd better ask someone else. You'll get none from me.'

I raised my glass of Jay. ‘Glad to see you've mellowed in your old age. But why would, say, someone call themselves Benedictus?'

He pushed the whole ruined tea business aside and said, ‘Because they're a lunatic.'

I had to agree he was probably right about that.

He stood up. ‘I'm going for a fag.'

Any Americans within earshot would have been taken aback to hear that, though with all the clerical scandals, maybe not.

I said, ‘You're forgetting something.'

He looked round and I added, ‘Paying. Even priests have to pay now. You had it free long enough.'

He moved to the counter, gave the bar guy a bollocking about the tea and then came back. ‘No wonder there's no one here, the prices they charge.'

I drained my drink and followed him outside.

He lit up, coughed and I asked, ‘Give me one.'

He considered, then said, ‘Buy your own.' And stomped off in a haze of self-satisfied smoke, like a fuming devil.

 

 

 

 

I'd been listening to Billy Joe Shaver. His legendary album
Restless Wind
was on the track called ‘Fit To Kill And Going Out In Style' when my mobile rang. It was Stewart. He sounded almost excited, if a Zen devotee could ever rise to that.

He said, ‘I've some news.'

‘Yeah?'

‘We need to meet. I'm in the Meyrick, I'll buy you a coffee.'

Coffee. Like fuck

I asked, ‘Where the hell is the Merrick?' Not even knowing I was spelling it wrong.

He laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that old Galway gig of yours. It used to be the Great Southern Hotel.'

‘Then why the hell didn't you say so? See you there in ten minutes.'

 

A few days had gone by since my visit to Gary Blake and there had been no reports of gay-bashing.

I'd found a temporary way to avoid complete alcoholic meltdown: an eye-opener at noon, then four pints and shorts in the evening. Ten drinks a day. It was holding, barely. I was never completely out of the game, but never quite with it, either. The time was coming when I'd lose count, literally, and just not give a fuck. Then watch out. I'd even gone to Jeff's pub a few times, looking for what – confrontation, affirmation, forgiveness? But no Jeff so far.

I put on my all-weather Garda coat, item 8234. They still wanted it back. Dream on. I wore a black sweatshirt for that rugged look and black jeans; the Doc Martens, of course.

Did I look dangerous? Yeah, if an old guy with a hearing aid and a limp scares you. I had great teeth, mind you. Not my own, but at least they shone. Something needed to.

The Meyrick looked the same as the old Southern. Stewart was sitting in a plush leather armchair, glancing at
The Irish Times
. The headlines screamed about a coming election and the Taoiseach's money problems. The previous September he had come clean in a moving TV interview about, yes, getting a digout
from friends when he was hurting financially, and the confession, instead of bringing him down, had led to a soar in popularity and the term
digout
had become local lore. These fresh allegations were proving harder to shake.

Stewart put the paper aside, hailed a passing waiter, ordered herbal tea for himself and looked to me.

I said, ‘Pint and a Jameson, no ice.'

Stewart raised an eyebrow and I warned, ‘Don't start.'

He didn't.

I sat down and looked at him. He was the picture of tranquillity – expensive suit, knotted silk tie, shoes of the softest leather I'd ever seen. I asked, derision in my voice, ‘Tell me again what it is you actually do, now that you're out of the drug business?'

A slight frown creased his eyes, then he let his face relax. The dope reference reminded him naturally of his six years' jail time, but I guess the Zen kicked in and he smiled. ‘I trade information, nothing more valuable. It's not what you know but knowing what it is that is where the information lies.'

Jesus.

The drinks came and Stewart said, ‘Put it on my account.'

His account
.

I refrained from rising to the bait, took a hefty wallop of the Jay, sat back and waited for it to jolt. It
always did, so far. I asked, ‘What's the news, or do I have to pay for the information?'

He was bulletproof now, knew my moves too well. He made a grand show of fussing with the tea, then poured. It smelt like dandelions. Maybe it was.

He said, ‘I've spent two weeks researching our Benedictus.'

Our?

He continued, ‘You have to look behind the actions to discover the motivation, and there is always, no matter how obscure or twisted, a reason. Now we have a guard, a judge and a nun. Two elements stand out – revenge or punishment, or indeed both – so you dig a little deeper to see how these three people are connected, random though they appear, and lo and behold, a person begins to emerge, very slowly, out of the shadows. You go back into court records, newspapers, and the puzzle starts to take shape.' He stopped.

I drank some of the Guinness – it tasted real fine on the back of the Jay – and asked, ‘So who is he?'

That irritating smile again. ‘Wrong question.'

Maybe if I leaned over, gave him a slap in the mouth, he'd tell me the right one.

I said, ‘I give up. Tell me.'

‘Not he. She.'

Took me a moment to grasp. ‘You're sure?'

He sipped at the wretched tea – no one is ever going to convince me they like that crap.

Then he said, ‘Here's a scenario: a young girl is viciously raped, goes before the courts, and two guards testify. The judge throws out the case, due to lack of evidence. The girl throws herself in the Corrib a week later. Now here is the interesting part. Her sister, a nun, leaves the convent. There is a suggestion she was asked to go due to the scandal involving her sister, and the nun's name in Holy Orders . . . yeah, you guessed it, Sister Benedictus.'

I muttered, ‘Jesus.'

Stewart looked quietly pleased with himself. ‘Her real name is Josephine Lally, known as Jo. The smart one in the whole sordid case was the rapist. He took off for parts unknown and can't be found, so I guess that's why he's not on the list.'

It made total sense.

He watched me, then said, ‘And before you ask, I spoke to the Mother Superior – she didn't outright admit that the nun was fired or whatever they do with nuns – I suppose defrock would hardly be right. I asked her where Jo was now and gee, no idea.'

I had to know. ‘How did you get to see the Mother Superior?'

He smiled. ‘I posed as a priest, and I had the air of quietness and humility that nuns think priests should have. I was very convincing, and all you need to know is, nuns love priests.'

I could see him in the role; he had all the moves and
with the Zen gig, he was a natural. I was impressed. I didn't say so, he was impressed enough with himself. I said, ‘So all we have to do is find her.'

He was shaking his head.

I snapped, ‘What?'

‘We have to prove it.'

It was my turn to smile, the booze giving me a swagger I hadn't felt in a long time. ‘We find her, I'll prove it.'

He stood up, said, ‘Jack, the way you're drinking, I'd be surprised if you could find your way out of the hotel.'

And he was gone.

 

 

 

 

I met up with Ridge that evening. She was surprised when I suggested Garavan's, one of the unchanged pubs in the heart of the city, and she went, ‘Jack, I'm not drinking.'

I said, ‘Who was talking about you?' And hung up.

Walking down Shop Street, a busker was playing ‘Carrickfergus'. I was only a few yards from the pub but I stopped and listened to my heritage, my past, calling and cajoling through the ferocious sadness of that song. I put ten euro in the guy's cap and he winked, said, ‘God and His family bless you.'

I was early for Ridge, to get a few in before she could lecture me. I was working on me third pint
when she arrived. She looked well: white jeans, black T-shirt and black short jacket; her hair was shining and her eyes were clear as water. Well, not Galway water. I'd grabbed one of the snugs, little alcoves where you have privacy.

She stared at my pint for a full minute, then asked, ‘When did this nonsense begin again?'

The earlier pints had me in gear and I said, ‘A week ago you were sucking out of a bottle first thing in the morning. You couldn't tell your arse from your elbow, so don't lecture me, girl.'

She sat and I toned it down a bit. ‘Get you anything?' I asked.

Got the glare, which I took as a no.

‘So, report,' I said.

She seemed like she might actually strike me and she was well capable. ‘Report . . . are you codding me? I don't report to you. I did you a favour, that's all. I don't work for you.'

I raised my glass. ‘Cheers, then.'

Was I deliberately antagonizing her? You betcha.

We sat in grim silence till she said, ‘I went out there. Lovely people and the young girl was a delight. She told me one of the stable hands had been fired a month ago, so I checked him out – and guess what? He recently bought a supply of hay and horse feed.'

I was delighted. Jesus, two cases cracked in one day
– this called for celebration. I stood up. ‘Terrific, let me get you something, you did great.'

She didn't answer so I went to the bar and got a large Jay. A guy at the counter said, ‘That's a nice young wan you got there.'

I paid for the drink, said, ‘Trust me, nice she isn't.'

As I got back to Ridge, she was preparing to leave. I asked, ‘So when do we go get this stable hand?'

She gave me a look of contempt. ‘I called the Guards. They arrested him an hour ago and recovered the pony.'

I nearly dropped the drink. ‘You let the fecking Guards take the credit?'

Now she smiled, with no trace of warmth or humour. ‘That's their job, and it doesn't hurt my chances of returning to the force.'

I was raging. ‘We could have spun it out, made a nice few bob from that Anglo-Irish guy – he's loaded.'

She glanced at my double Jay and said, ‘And so are you.'

 

 

 

 

I lost two weeks.

My last conscious memory is being in the pub where Jeff worked, and finally we got to meet. I was well en route to oblivion, skipping the Guinness, just nose into the Jameson when he appeared. He was dressed much as he always had been: the black 501s, granddad shirt and the waistcoat – what the Americans call a vest – and the long grey hair tied in a ponytail. Our previous encounters, I'd been totally contrite, taken whatever lashing he had to give and he'd had plenty.

Not any more.

Not only did I have the back-up of most of a litre of booze in my gut, but I also had the knowledge that
I wasn't responsible for the death of his child. Lethal combination.

He said, ‘Jack, I heard you'd been in.'

Jesus, was that an almost friendly tone? For one brief moment, I remembered the warm, close friendship we'd had. But the madness that was building overrode the memory and I said, ‘I was beginning to think you were a rumour paraded as a fact.'

He smiled. ‘Always the way with a turn of phrase.'

I asked, ‘How's the missus?'

Like a punch in the face and I knew he knew. Pain leaked from his eyes, cancelling the brief smile. He asked, ‘Got a minute to talk? Over in the corner there, bit of quiet.'

I said, ‘Always got time for an old friend, right? Why don't you do some bar stuff, like get me a jar, and I'll get us some seats. How would that be, old buddy?'

I cringe now at the recollection and I'd love to plead I didn't mean it.

Sure I did.

He nodded and headed behind the bar. I grabbed some seats, feeling the very worst thing a person can feel and certainly the most dangerous – feeling self-righteous.

I'd say
God forgive me
but it seems pointless when I can't forgive myself.

Jeff returned with a Jameson and a mug of coffee, a
logo on the side proclaiming,
Is bheannacht an obair
(blessed is the work).

Whatever you might say about God, he sure likes a good laugh.

I wondered if the murderous ex-nun out there would appreciate the irony. Jeff sat and put the drink before me, refraining from commenting about my drinking. He said, ‘So, you've heard the story about Cathy and – ' He had to gulp, as if his air was cut off before he could say the name of his child, ‘ – Serena May.'

I knew it wasn't his fault, what had happened, but no way, no fucking way was I cutting him any slack. The years of guilt and grief I'd endured and he was there, in front of me.

I asked venomously, ‘And when were you planning on letting me know that I wasn't responsible? All the fucking times you threatened me – remember those, buddy?' I had to pause to catch my breath, I was so enraged. ‘When exactly were you going to say, “Gee, sorry, pal, I was wrong”? Or were you hoping I wouldn't hear? That we could just forget about it and, what's the buzz word? fucking
move on
? Just one of those things that happens, but what the hell, time healeth all and let's, what, count the fucking days to Christmas?'

He hung his head and muttered, ‘Jack, when I heard, it nearly killed me. I still can't grasp it. I—'

I stood up and asked, ‘Where's the murderous bitch now?'