Priest

Malachy had come to my apartment, and to say I was stunned is putting it mildly. He said,

‘I heard you had a new place so I brought a St Bridget’s Cross to keep the home safe.’

I offered him tea and he snapped,

‘Tea, you call that hospitality? Didn’t you ever hear of whetting a man’s whistle?’

I glared at him, said,

‘There is no booze here.’

He lit up a cig, didn’t ask if it was OK, despite me still on the patches. Then his eyes locked on the tiny silver swan nestling on the bookcase. He went,

‘How on earth did you get that?’

I was confused, asked,

‘What . . . why?’

He’d gone pale, no mean feat when you have red ruddy cheeks, said,

‘In Father Joyce’s hand, when they found his body, that . . . yoke . . . was clutched there.’

The room spun as the implications dawned. There had only been two, both owned by Kate. I had to sit down, take a deep breath, then asked,

‘The nun, Sister Mary Joseph, is she all right?’

He was angry, said,

‘Ya eejit, she was found drowned. Must have fallen in when she was feeding the swans.’

I went for broke, asked,

‘Michael Clare?’

‘Him . . .’

His tone full of bile, he said,

‘Crashed his car into a brick wall. Good riddance.’

And in an instant, it was clear. Michael Clare did for the nun, but Kate . . . Kate did for Father Joyce. She had the strength, and leaving the swan behind – a form of poetic justice? Her version of admission – not to the world, but to Michael. Or maybe she had been careless. You sever a person’s head off, clear thinking is not going to be your strong suit.

I said,

‘I’d like you to go now.’

‘What? I just got here. Don’t you want me to bless the rooms?’

I stood up, said,

‘Shove your blessing.’

He considered squaring up, but said,

‘You just don’t have it in you to be civil, do you?’

Evelyn Waugh once said,

‘You don’t know how much nastier I would be if I hadn’t become a Catholic’

What I went with was Orwell’s line,

‘One cannot really be a Catholic and grown up.’

* * *

Nobody gets shot in Galway, I mean it just doesn’t happen. Least not yet. We are supposedly getting Starbucks soon, so anything is possible, but gunplay, no. Give it a year and who knows?

We’re not too far from the border and of course, theoretically, you could imagine on a clear fine night you can hear the sound.

But that’s fanciful, and whatever else, we don’t do a lot of wishful thinking. Knowing Kate went hunting pheasant, that the stalker had been arrested once for possession of a high-powered rifle, or that Cathy was mouthing off in the pubs about killing me didn’t make me pause or check rooftops. I was so glad to be sober, to be out and not even smoking, guns were not on my agenda.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with them but I was certainly not in the region where guns are expected.

Ridge had recently blessed me with,

‘Bhi curamach.’

Means ‘be careful’ . . . I wish I’d listened to her.

I was out for an early-morning walk, early being ten thirty, working the limp out of my leg. Had strolled through the town and got a notion to see the ocean. Checked my watch and knew a bus was due to leave in the next ten minutes. I reached the top of Eyre Square when from nowhere Cody appeared, fell into step beside me on my left side, said, glancing at the leather jacket,

‘You’re the boss.’

I smiled and he added,

‘I have a great idea for us.’

I never got to hear it.

I was thinking of my father, a time when my mother had been up to her usual shenanigans, causing havoc over the rent or some related issue. My father had whispered to me,

‘She means well.’

Never ceases to amaze me how we excuse the most despicable behaviour with that lie, and I have never believed for one friggin’ second that the mean-spirited mean well. But they do rely heavily on us excusing them and thus they have a mandate to continue their cycle of disguised malevolence. Cody, assuming I wasn’t paying attention, moved to my right side, blocking the sun.

I heard a crack, like the proverbial car backfiring.

Someone screamed,

‘Jesus, there’s a sniper . . .’

The very spot I’d been in, where Cody now stood, that’s where the bullet hit. Took him in the chest. A second shot, tearing a hole an inch further up, and I remembered Cathy, her words,

‘Can’t seem to get that head shot, my aim is low.’

How fitting, I thought, that I was in Kennedy Park. A man was shouting,

‘Call an ambulance!’

Blood splatters were strewn on my shiny jacket.

Then another voice, concerned, knowing, going,

‘No, call . . . a . . . priest.’

There’s irony for you. If I could have laughed, I would, but my throat was choked. I’d wanted to say,

‘Well, this day is shot to hell.’

I knelt by Cody, his blood oozing through my hands. A woman behind me was keening, Oh, Sweet Jesus. She began to massage my shoulder – it annoyed me, a lot. There was slight pressure from Cody’s hand, he was trying to squeeze mine but it was fading.

My eyes were wet. I thought first it was blood then realized it was tears. The woman was massaging my shoulder still and I heard her say to someone, I think I heard her say, It’s his son. I do know she continued to knead my shoulder.

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