Sanctuary (8 page)

His head came up, the eyes momentarily flashed, and I thought,
You poor bastard, you still love her
.

Then he said, ‘She's in treatment. They say it will take a long time.'

I picked up the glass, the amber liquid catching the light from the street, like a moment's sad grace. I said, ‘Thank God, she's been taken care of. You tell her I wish her a speedy fucking recovery and I look forward to seeing her. And this . . .' I indicated the glass, poured the whiskey slowly on the floor, letting each drop lash his heart, ‘This you can shove up yer arse.'

 

 

 

 

I came to – or rather, was kicked to – by the side of the canal. I opened my eyes to see three teenagers in hoods standing over me, one going, ‘Get up, yah old wino.'

Jesus, I was sick. If they ever have an Olympic event for hangovers, I'm gold. This was a beauty.

The second hoodie was lighting matches, flicking them at me. I touched my ear – the hearing aid was gone, but I could hear this little bastard. The third leant over, said, ‘Fucker smells like piss.'

They were having a high old time. When they decided to throw me in the water, it would have been a relief. But I reached out, grabbed one of them by his foot, got up on one knee, and in pure
sickness and rage, lifted him up and threw him in the canal.

The other two stared in stunned silence.

I croaked, ‘Who's next?'

Before they could take off, I grabbed the second, spasms of nausea doubling me, and managed to shake the bollocks. Out of his pockets fell my wallet, keys and hearing aid.

The other one was pleading, ‘We was only messing, mister.'

The one in the water was clinging on to a piece of driftwood. I kicked the remaining kid in the balls, went through his pockets, had to stop mid search, vomited all over him, got his wallet and finally straightened up. My body was in total agony but the rush of violence had energized me. I leaned over the first one and growled, ‘Where's my watch?

On his wrist.

I broke two of his fingers out of pure vindictiveness.

My limp was acting up, and as I began to hobble away, I saw an old-age pensioner leaning against a wall, smoking a pipe, the picture of contentment. He said, ‘I've waited a long time to see something as mighty as that.'

I looked back. The one in the water was struggling now and I asked the old guy, ‘You think he's drowning?'

He took a long pleasurable pull at the pipe and said, ‘Please God.'

I made my shaky way along the end of the canal and turned on to what passes in that area for the main street. I stopped at an off-licence, ignored the guy holding his nose and got a half pint of Jay. I said, ‘Looks like rain, you think?'

He didn't think anything, least not with me.

I had to stop halfway up the street as another spasm gripped my stomach. I gritted my teeth and got home. Once inside, I collapsed, sweat coursing down me and the smell of my own body turning my stomach even more. Lying doubled up on the floor, I managed to pry the top off the bottle and gulp some whiskey down.

I waited for it to kick in and when it did, was able to open my eyes. There on the table was my mobile phone. I could see the message light blinking even though the battery had worn down. I did a hasty check: nineteen messages.

I crawled to the shower, tore off my reeking clothes and scalded myself for ten minutes, then took another belt of the Jay. Needed to before I checked the mirror.

Christ, it was bad: a shaggy beard, cuts and bruises all down my cheeks, a black eye that had turned yellowish blue.

I put the clothes in the bin, went to my underwear
drawer and, God be praised, found three sleeping pills. I took them all with one more gulp of the whiskey and climbed, shivering, into bed. With any luck, I'd never wake up.

This hangover I was going to sleep through, come hell or high water or both. This hangover was going to be biblical.

It lasted ten days, but who's counting?

Days of nightmare, sweats and horror. I'd not so much wake as come to, drenched in perspiration, seeing rats gnawing at my feet, screaming, ‘They're not there.' Didn't stop me from trying to beat them off with the handle of a brush, all the while whimpering and crying like a lost angel. Serena May came too, heading the line of the dead, all accusing, all reaching out with wasted limbs, reaching to bring me with them, and me howling, ‘I'm already there.'

And behind the procession of the departed, always, a shadowy nun, singing like a nursery rhyme,
Catch me if you can
.

There were odd moments, days, I don't know, of partial lucidity, when I'd stagger out, needing a tiny drop of whiskey just to get dressed and buy food, knowing I had to have something in my system. Most of it came back up. Still, I persisted.

The day I got by on one mouthful of booze, I knew the worst was over. Physically, anyway. The guilt, the
mental torture, I was too fucked to be able to recoil under its lash. It could wait; it usually did.

 

Noon, how many days later I had no idea, I opened my eyes, sheets twisted round my neck like a shroud, and felt better. I moved off the bed, which reeked to high heaven of – well, you can imagine. My legs were shaky and for a moment I thought,
I'm not able to walk
, but then they began to steady and I got to the bathroom. And there I was. A full grey beard had grown. My eyes, though shadowed, were clearing, the awful sickness had left them. I got into the shower and for over half an hour I scrubbed like a demented thing. Finally, I emerged, scaled to the core but clean. I shaved off the beard and my hand had only had the vaguest tremble. The lone whiskey bottle had maybe two inches left but I ignored it.

I made some tea, scrambled some eggs, added burnt toast and got most of it down. I gathered up my ruined clothes, put them in the washer and found, as Kristofferson sang, my cleanest dirty shirt, and a pair of jeans I'd never worn as they'd been too tight. Now they hung off me like an abandoned prayer. I had to tie my belt twice round to hold them up.

I charged the phone and found one of Stewart's pills, which I took, not knowing what the hell it was. Twenty minutes later, I was mellowing out.

When the phone was ready, I took a deep breath
and clicked on the messages. Six from Ridge – where the hell was I? – and eight from Stewart, insisting I call him. His last call said, ‘I've found her.'

The ex-nun?

Then a voice I didn't recognize came on. There must have been a handkerchief over the mouthpiece to disguise the voice, but it was definitely a woman.

‘Ah Jack, you have been a biblical disappointment. You sank into the pit and so are no longer a worthy adversary. May the Lord leave you in the inferno of your own making. Your friend, ah, he was so clever and I very nearly underestimated him, but his own ingenuity led by pride caused, shall we say, his loss of focus. I got your number from him, albeit unwillingly. God spoke, as I prepared to send him to his Maker I heard the Word, and so he was spared. God's ways are not ours, he should have died, And he will, if he continues to meddle.
Salve et genuflectis
. I have his phone, I have your number,
sea secundis mea
. Benedictus.'

Jesus, chilled me to the bone.

I rang Stewart's number. No dial tone, nothing.

I grabbed my coat, got moving.

 

Stewart lived in a small terraced house near Cooke's corner. I rang the doorbell for five minutes. Finally a man looked out of the house next door and said, ‘That young lad just went to the shops.'

I waited and finally here he was, dressed in a fine suit as usual, but with a fading bruise on his forehead.

He smiled, said, ‘Ah, Maigret shows up, if a little late.'

I didn't know what to say.

‘How are you?'

Seemed so inadequate.

He said, his voice strangled, ‘I found our nun, but in retrospect, I think she found me.'

He took out his keys and we went in. His house reeked of patchouli.

He said, ‘I'm going to make some tea, and if you really need a drink, there's a bottle of gin in the cupboard.'

Jesus, I needed it, but I said, ‘Some bottled water might be good.'

He brought that, had a mug of some herbal stuff for himself and without preamble launched in. ‘She has a brother, and on a hunch – isn't that what you
detectives
call them? – I went to his home, rang the bell and heard a woman say, “Come on in, the door is open.” It was. The same voice said, “I'm upstairs.” I was halfway up when out of nowhere she hit me with something – a hurley, do nuns play hurling? Maybe a hockey stick. Hurt though.'

I had no comment so he continued in almost a bantering tone, ‘I did what you do, I fell down the
stairs. I couldn't see, but I could sense her standing over me, and then she sprinkled what she said was holy water over me, to cleanse me. Oh, she had a knife – lethal-looking thing – and looked like she was about to – how should I put it? – finish the job, when her head turned, as if she was listening to someone. Then she said, “Your time has not yet come.” And she blessed me in Latin – that really helped. I tell you, Jack, whoever spoke to her, God freaking bless 'em.'

He let me digest that and then added, ‘I had me one serious headache for a few days. Oh . . . and she stole my phone. Isn't that, like, against nuns' rules?'

‘I'm so sorry.'

He gave what could have been a laugh and said, ‘Odd, she said the same thing – that she was sorry.'

‘What can I do?'

He seemed to be checking the various permutations of that, then said, ‘Go find her.'

I stood up, tried again. ‘It's my fault, Stewart.'

I was at the door before he said, ‘Isn't it always?'

 

 

 

 

I finally kicked into gear. It was like I was so caught up in so many mind storms, any instincts I ever had were closed down. But now a thought hit me. I rang Stewart and he answered with, ‘Already?

He sounded testy, the Zen not up to its usual standard or more than likely, me.

I said, ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, but when you went to see the Mother Superior, did she mention our psycho friend being close to any other nun in the convent?'

‘I did take some notes after. Give me a moment.'

I tried to curb my impatience and then he was back. ‘Good thinking, Jack. She was tight with a Sister Maeve, though I don't know, can you say nuns are
tight
?'

Tight
is frequently used in Ireland to describe someone who's either mean or drunk, sometimes both. Few things worse, I suppose, than a tight drunk.

I said, ‘Depends whether they were drinking buddies.'

He ignored that, said, ‘Sister Maeve teaches in the Mercy Primary School and that's located—'

I cut him off, snapped, ‘I know where the fucking school is.'

There was an intake of breath and then he said, ‘Real pleasure to help you, Jack, you're so grateful.'

And he rung off.

 

 

 

 

I headed for the Mercy.

And I know,
mercy
seemed to be a scarce commodity, like clean water.

Nuns as teachers were becoming a rarity – most of the schools used lay people now. I headed for the admin office and a very friendly young lady behind a desk gave me a nice smile and asked, ‘Might I help you?'

Niceness confuses me. I'm so accustomed to barbed banter that genuine warmth throws me. I gave her my best smile back, hoped it didn't look too much like a grimace, and asked, ‘Would it be possible to see Sister Maeve?'

She picked up the phone. ‘Might I ask what it's in connection with?'

‘We're having a fundraiser and her name came up as someone who might suggest the most deserving charitable causes.'

Another lovely smile. ‘Oh, she's the best fundraiser. Everyone consults with Sister Maeve.'

My turn to try another smile. It was making my jaw ache. I said, ‘I've come to the right place, then.'

She spoke on the phone, then put it down and said, ‘Your lucky day – she's free for the next hour. Home Ec was cancelled.'

‘Home Ec?'

She laughed as if I was just a fun guy. ‘Home Economics. The girls learn to cook and run a home.'

I was going to add that the fast-food joints littering the town might be the reason for the absence of skills, but didn't want to push my luck.

The girl said, ‘She'll be down in a moment. She's just fixing her make-up.'

Was she kidding?

Nuns . . . make-up?

She added, ‘You'll love Sister Maeve. Everybody does.'

I tried to contain my excitement.

The girl was in the mood to chat and asked, ‘When is the fundraiser?'

I was saved from yet another lie by the appearance of the nun.

I don't know what I was expecting – at the very
least a habit, cowl, etc. Nope. She was dressed in a smart jumper and skirt and low-heeled patent shoes, and looked all of twenty. What is it with nuns? They never seem to age. Not a line on her face. She had one of those open Irish faces – no guile or subterfuge had inhabited it. She was almost pretty, if lively eyes and a mischievous smile count.

She extended her hand and I saw the wedding band. I'd forgotten they're married to God. She said, ‘I'm Maeve.'

A little bewildered, I asked, ‘I don't call you Sister?'

Her eyes twinkled and she said, ‘Not unless it's absolutely necessary.'

I said, ‘I'm Jack Taylor.'

Her grip was warm and strong as she asked, ‘You drink coffee, Mr Taylor?'

Jesus, I nearly quipped,
Does a bear shit in the woods?
Said, ‘Yes, and please, it's Jack.'

She turned to the girl, said, ‘I'll back in an hour. If anyone asks, I'm gone on a date.'