Priest

I walked up St Patrick’s Avenue with a certain amount of trepidation, passing the stalker’s house, half expecting him to rush out. But all was quiet, if not on the Western Front, then in the avenue. At the church, I checked my watch – ten twenty-five – and noticed a guy sitting against the wall. Malachy wouldn’t be pleased to see him there. The sun was shining but a cold drop was in the air. The guy, dressed in denim, with a red kerchief round his neck which said he was French or affected, was reading a book and glanced up at my approach, said,

‘G’day mate.’

Australian.

I nodded and he held up the book, Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl, said,

‘Hell of a book.’

I asked,

‘Aren’t you cold there?’

Not that I gave a toss. He stretched, said,

‘Me? Don’t feel the cold. Ireland doesn’t really do cold, does it?’

Did my bit for the tourist board, said,

‘Not with any intent.’

He put the book away, said,

‘Got to get me some tucker. Recommend any place?’

‘The Puckan, on Forster Street, they do huge fry-ups.’

He licked his lips, rubbed his palms together, said,

‘Beauty, that’ll do me. See you, mate.’

And he was gone, his kerchief blowing in the wind, which reminded me of the rumour that Bob Dylan was coming to Galway next summer. Him I’d pay serious cash to see. I liked him because he was older than me. As long as Bob stayed ahead in age, I wasn’t yet due for the knacker’s yard. Mass let out and a trickle began to emerge, mainly old people, not looking very uplifted. I guess Malachy wasn’t the most charismatic of preachers. Ten minutes passed and I began to fret about the ice cream melting. Malachy appeared in a cloud of smoke and gruff ness, breezed past me and, when I didn’t follow, turned and barked,

‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Don’t we do hellos, a pretence of civility?’

He threw his cigarette away and immediately lit another, said,

‘I’m not feeling very civil.’

‘Gee, that’s new.’

I fell into step beside him and we headed for College Road. He glanced at the Roche’s bag, said,

‘That better not be alcohol.’

‘It’s ice cream, not that it’s any of your business.’

He stared at me, said,

‘It’s ten thirty in the morning, who eats it at that hour?’

I wanted to bash his ears, said,

‘I heard she likes a treat.’

He didn’t answer. We stopped at a house halfway up the hill and he asked,

‘Why don’t you drop this whole thing?’

I told him the truth. As Sean Connery said, you do that, then it’s their problem.

‘I can’t.’

He put a key in the door, said,

‘Well, I’ll be present during . . . the . . . interrogation. Bear in mind the poor woman is over seventy.’

I caught his wrist, didn’t dilute the anger in my voice, said,

‘You bear in mind a priest was beheaded and she knew the carry on of him. And no, you won’t be present. Do I have to threaten you again with the newspapers?’

We entered a small lounge with a huge picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall. The wooden floor was spotless, shining even. He roared,

‘Sister, we’re here.’

Cautioned me,

‘Mind your manners.’

I heard quiet footsteps and the nun came in. She was so nunnish, it was like a caricature. Wearing a heavy habit, with large silver crucifix adorning the front, the figure on the cross in ferocious agony. The habit was all the way to her shoes, those tiny black patent ones, not unlike the dancers in Riverdance. Her face was lineless, a beautiful complexion and blue troubled eyes. She was slightly stooped and gave a tiny smile, fear definitely in there. Malachy said,

‘Good morning, Sister. This is Jack Taylor, he just wants a few minutes of your time.’

I was amazed at his voice, not pleading but gentle, as if he was speaking to a backward, shy child. She looked at us, then asked,

‘Would ye like some tea? There’s a pot made and some soda bread, fresh from the oven.’

To rile Malachy, I nearly asked for a large Jameson, but he said,

‘I’ll be in the next room. You call, Sister, when you’re ready.’

Alarm hit her face as she realized she was going to be alone with me. He glared in my direction, patted her hand and left. I waited a moment then offered the soggy bag, said,

‘I was told you have a taste for this.’

She took the bag, didn’t look in it, said,

‘You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble, but God bless you, please take a seat.’

I did. She remained standing, poised for flight. I asked,

‘You knew Father Joyce, knew him well?’

No point in fucking around, I was on the clock and Malachy could pull the plug any minute. She winced, agreed she did. She wouldn’t meet my eyes and that irritated me, so I decided to focus her fast, rasped,

‘You were aware of what he was doing to those boys, the altar lads?’

Do nuns lie? I don’t see why not, but they probably don’t have a whole lot of opportunity. She gave a deep sigh, nodded. I had expected excuses. She was obviously using Sean Connery’s dictum too. I added some steel to my tone, said,

‘And you did nothing. You let him destroy those young people and you, what, watched?’

More harsh than I intended. Her face near crumpled and I saw tears in the corner of her eyes, but that wasn’t going to cut it. I added,

‘Who are the tears for, yourself or the piece of garbage who called himself a priest?’

Now she looked at me and with a hint of anger in those blue eyes said,

‘It was different then, you have to understand . . .’

I snapped,

‘Whoah, Sister, don’t tell me what I have to do. It’s a little late in the day for you to be decisive.’

She recoiled, my anger like something she had to physically move away from. The Lord knows, I’ve acted from rage far too often and the consequences have been ferocious. Spitting anger has informed most of my life, but the white-hot aggression I felt towards this old woman was new to me and I couldn’t rein it in. I wanted to make a dent in her ecclesiastical armour, force her to acknowledge her complicity.

I deliberately lowered my voice lest Malachy came charging in. I wasn’t finished with the poor creature yet, no way. I near spat,

‘When the Guards were investigating the murder, didn’t you feel compelled to contact them?’

She blessed herself, as if the ritual would protect her, muttered in Irish, Mathair an Iosa . . . Mother of Jesus. She answered,

‘It wasn’t my place.’

I let her see the disgust in my face, asked,

‘And when the boys, the men, took action against the priest, when they made their claims of abuse, didn’t you feel you could speak then, or was it still not your place?’

She was in agony. I couldn’t care less, continued,

‘One of the boys, the one who loved to feed the swans, didn’t you think you could at least comfort him?’

Her eyes were weeping, her body giving silent shudders, and she said,

‘The poor lad, he was so small. I offered him chocolate.’

I exploded.

‘Chocolate! God Almighty, how magnificent of you! And that helped, did it? I’d say it really made everything OK. The next time the priest buggered him, he could think of chocolate, that it?’

The B-word near unravelled her and she got a look of total terror, as if she was reliving that moment, as if she could still see it. Maybe she could. She said,

‘He had a reaction, as if he was going to faint. His whole body shook, his eyes sunk in his head . . .’

I cut her off, asked,

‘But you were able to ignore that, just carry on, business as usual, get those floors polished, arrange the flowers on the altar, really vital shit?’

I could hear Malachy coming - time up. She said,

‘I see that boy every day of my life.’

Then, as if she was gripped by prophecy, her eyes rolled in her head, like the visionaries do or the Ulster politicians in full flight, incanted,

‘A beheading . . . look to the Bible . . . Salome, the woman . . . the woman it is you want.’

I turned away from her, muttered,

‘Blast you to hell.’

She had her head bowed, indicated the now sodden Roche’s bag, said,

‘Thank you for that.’

As Malachy hit the threshold, I said low enough for her, just her,

‘I hope it chokes you.’

Outside, Malachy asked,

‘Well, did you get what you came for?’

I felt soiled, quipped,

‘I think it went rather well.’

He lit a cigarette, stared at me, then,

‘I’ve never held a high opinion of you, but I never had you as a cleric-hater.’

To which I had no answer, asked,

‘You ever know a Father Gerald?’ and described him.

He waved his hand in dismissal.

‘Ah, a dipsomaniac, a rummy, a soak – like you, actually.’

When I didn’t rise to the bait, he added,

‘The man was brilliant, you know. Had a posting in the Vatican, could have gone all the way – the red hat, even. But something happened. There was talk of an exorcism, but I don’t put any stock in that. Like you, he was just feckless, pissed it all away. Alkies, you can’t save them, they’re the Devil’s own.’

I was too tired to go the distance and asked,

‘You ever listen to Steve Earle?’

21