‘A priest is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’
Old saying
Poets and demons, fathers and sons. The story of my existence, and I don’t know if I believed in either. I was coming down Dominic Street, a miserable half-hearted rain beginning, couldn’t make up its mind whether to piss heavy or dribble on. There was a time I read Louis McNeice and I knew Autumn Journal by heart . . . lines coming to me, like . . . bullets from a forgotten war. Something about haunted faces and the description surly.
For a long time, I’d thought surly was hurley . . . which in light of my recent activities was a whole other weapon. I muttered the lines as I limped along . . . some more exploding in my mind . . . rotten guts . . . I know those words were in there.
Then Cody appeared from the canal side. There’s a huge sign saying,
The Samaritans, we’re here for you
planted right by the water, so if they couldn’t help you, was the river the next stop?
‘Can I speak to you?’
I looked at him, let my body go slack then put out my hand, said,
‘I was out of order and I want to . . . apologize.’
His face lit up and he protested I’d nothing to be sorry for, weren’t we mates and partners? I was already sorry I’d apologized. He said,
‘Jack, she’s back.’
He took a deep breath then launched,
‘The guy you asked me to look for, Jeff? The wino . . . I mean . . . am . . . your friend. His wife – Cathy? – is back from London, in the Rosin most nights. She gets very drunk, says she’s here to shoot you, and she’s saying now that you have a son, she can even the tally. What’s that about? Do you have a son?’
I ducked the son question and to cover I laughed out loud, said,
‘Tell her to join the fucking queue. I already ran into her and it was not . . . conciliatory.’
His mobile rang and he looked sheepish. I said,
‘Go ahead, I’ll give you a ring later.’
I heard him go,
‘Mary a gra (love),’ and envied him.
I was so glad he was back in my life. I’d nearly said,
‘Take care, son.’
Where you turn for O’Brien’s Bridge, there’s a travel agent’s on the corner. I looked in the window: specials to the Canaries, to Barbados, to anywhere. I had to fight down the impulse not to shoot in, book the first available flight to a warm climate and get the fuck out. Pledged to head for America when this whole situation was resolved. I had the money, now all I had to find was the energy.
Tired, a ferocious weariness creeping over me, I headed for my apartment to get some shut eye, try to momentarily forget priests and killers and nuns and ice cream. Gave one of those out-loud laughs that scared the bejaysus out of me as I realized I’d the makings of a country song – to the air of ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’ . . .
Had a shower when I got home, made a sandwich of fried rashers, tomato, mayo, built it fat and thick, like the country, and got about as much pleasure from it as the nation was receiving from the numerous tribunals.
Before climbing into bed, I rang Malachy. The phone rang for ages till finally,
‘What?’
Gruff, unfriendly, hostile. I asked,
‘Is that the way you talk to parishioners?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Jack Taylor.’
Not happy to hear me. Quelle surprise.
‘What do you want?’
Him I could deal with. I said,
‘You’d a different tone when your ass was on fire and you wanted a case solved.’
He grunted a bit, then accused,
‘You weren’t at the Mass.’
‘What?’
‘I told you I was saying Mass for that poor man who hurt Father Joyce.’
I could hardly believe it, said,
‘Hurt? He fucking beheaded him.’
Heard an intake of breath, then,
‘Don’t use obscenities on the phone.’
This was pointless. I could exchange unpleasantries all day and he’d never tire of it. The clergy have special training for that, they call it theology. I decided to cut to the chase, said,
‘I need a favour.’
His tone became heavy with spite, sarcasm.
‘By the Holy, the great Jack Taylor wants a favour. I thought you asked no man for quarter?’
Boy, was he being a prick or what? I reined in, asked,
‘Could you arrange for me to meet a nun?’
He laughed out loud, went,
‘A nun won’t save you, boyo.’
If I could have got hold of him . . . Tried,
‘Sister Mary Joseph, do you know her?’
‘Of course I know her, I’m a priest. How big do you think the town is? This isn’t New York yet, we still know our people.’
‘Would you arrange a meeting for me?’
I could hear the suspicion in the drawn breath. He snapped,
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know much about Father Joyce, I want to get a fuller picture.’
He snorted. I’m not kidding. I thought that was solely an expression, that only horses actually made that sound, but no, he actually made that awful snnnnn . . . Then he said,
‘You said the case was closed. The fella confessed, it’s over. What are you stirring up trouble for?’
I counted to ten, then,
‘If you don’t arrange a meeting, I’ll kick up such a shit storm, the papers will hear you know the killer and that you . . . what will I say? . . . Yeah, you said a Mass for him. See how the bishop likes to read about you over his poached eggs of a morning.’
I could hear him light a cig. His rage was palpable. He said,
‘After the ten o’clock Mass tomorrow morning, I’ll bring you to her. And listen, laddie, you better watch your step with her. If I hear you upset her . . .’
Now I laughed, said,
‘You have an uncanny resemblance to Clancy, the head honcho of the Guards.’
Malachy changed pitch, said,
‘A lovely man. Pity you wouldn’t take a page out of his book.’
‘Gee, why am I not surprised you and he are buddies?’
He digested that, then took his shot, said,
‘Tell your wino buddies to stay out of my church. It’s not a doss house.’
Got me. I didn’t have a clue what he meant, but I had a bad feeling I wasn’t going to like it, asked,
‘What are you on about?’
‘Ha, that fellow with the ponytail you used to knock around with, married to an English wan, kipping down in the door of the church.’
Jeff.
Hit me like thunder. I could hear the tremble in my voice, asked,
‘Where did he go?’
Now he was triumphant, said,
‘How the devil would I know? I kicked his arse out of there, told him there was a perfectly decent poor house in the Fair Green.’
Click.
Hung up on me. I found the number of the Simon Community in the Fair Green, got through, asked if they had Jeff. They were very helpful, but so many men passed through, they didn’t know, and when I described him, they admitted that no, nobody like that had been recently. I rang the hospitals, other shelters – same result. Climbed into bed in black despair.
Up early next morning, got some coffee down, got the fire stoked, kick started the engine which was on very shaky legs. I hate sweet things, but sugar would give me a crank. Showered and assessed the beard progress, without seeing my eyes or most of my face. Required contortions of the frenzied variety. It was shaping up, which was more than I was doing.
Dress for a nun? I knew the key was not to intimidate, to look almost clerical with an air of accountancy. So, the black suit, whitish shirt and tie loosely fastened. I didn’t want to seem as if I was collecting for anything. That’s their territory. Black shoes that needed polish, so I used spit and a towel. Kind of worked. They weren’t great, but at least passable.
The caffeine kicked in. This was only my second day of being able to drink real coffee – the taste of that decaff is hell on wheels. And I was able to get out the door, the point of the exercise. Went to Roche’s, wandered the aisles till I found the ice cream. Shit, what a selection. I hate variety, it confuses me. When I was a child, there was precious little ice cream. Maybe on your First Communion. The choice was vanilla or vanilla. When they added a stick of flake to a cone, there was a huge buzz in the town. Woolworth’s had them on special display, titled ‘99’. I’d asked my father why they were called that and he said that because of the chocolate flake they weren’t 100 per cent ice cream. It is probably as good an explanation as any other.
It was all you knew of heaven. I remember pledging that when I grew up I’d live on french fries and 99s. We called fries chips – still do. Everything else is gone to hell in a basket.
As I pondered the dilemma, Liz Hackett came along, a stalwart of Roche’s. From Woodquay, she personified all that was best of Galway: friendly, warm, enquiring without being obtrusive. She said,
‘Jack Taylor, is it yourself?’
Questions don’t come any more Irish or welcoming. I agreed it was and she said,
‘I never had you down for an ice-cream lover.’
Which said what?
I nodded, then tried,
‘It’s not for me, it’s for a nun.’
If that sounded as odd to her as it did to me, she hid it well and I asked,
‘What flavour would a nun like?’
She looked at the display and asked,
‘What order is she?’
I had to check if she was kidding. She wasn’t, so I went,
‘What difference does that make?’
She adopted a patient tone, as if I wasn’t at fault for my ignorance, said,
‘Mercy nuns, they like plain. The Presentation ones, they like chocolate, and the enclosed orders, they’re not a bit fussy.’
I was staggered, asked,
‘How on earth do you know that?’
She gave a resigned smile, said,
‘If you’re in an enclosed order, ice cream is a very serious business.’
As I had no idea what order Sister Mary Joseph was, I was no more along. I glanced at the American brand, Ben and Jerry’s, said,
‘Something flashy.’
Liz wasn’t so sure, asked,
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
I wasn’t, but what the hell, what was she going to do . . . complain? And did I give a toss as to whether she enjoyed it or not? Get real.
After some more discussion, Liz said if it was for herself, she’d splurge on Häagen-Dazs, the Strawberry Shortcake, and before I could ask, she added,
‘The makers, they were trying to come up with an exotic name and settled on Häagen-Dazs. It doesn’t mean anything.’
I knew far too much about the whole enterprise and said thanks to Liz. She added,
‘Mind yourself, won’t you?’
God preserve her, the dote.