Acclaim for Priest
‘Grim and elegiac by turns, Bruen is a distinctive
talent who has integrated his inner fury and American
noir influences to establish a powerful, original and
controversial presence’
Guardian
‘Bruen writes tight, urgent, powerful prose, his
dialogue is harsh and authentic and Jack Taylor
has become one of today’s most
interesting shamuses’
The Times
‘Ken Bruen’s novel takes us down some dark and
mysterious roads where Irish angst meets 21st-century
reality in a gripping story of guilt and
redemption’
Independent on Sunday
‘Tightly structured, compelling . . . You don’t
want to meet Jack Taylor in person, ever, but if
you’re a big crime fan, you do want to read
every book he features in’
Irish Times
‘Ken Bruen is finally getting his due . . . Priest is
grimy, brooding, pawkily funny and wholly
original. Great’
Observer
‘Priest has all the hallmarks of Ken Bruen’s writing; its
narrative style is crisp and minimalist, its social
commentary addresses aspects of modern Ireland . . .
And its portrait of a broken, defensive,
sensitive and compellingly human Jack Taylor
is superbly captured’
The Irish Book Review
www.booksattransworld.co.uk
Also by Ken Bruen
FUNERAL
SHADES OF GRACE
MARTYRS
RILKE ON BLACK
THE HACKMAN BLUES
HER LAST CALL TO LOUIS MACNIECE
A WHITE ARREST
TAMING THE ALIEN
THE MCDEAD
THE GUARDS
LONDON BOULEVARD
THE KILLING OF THE TINKERS
THE MAGDALEN MARTYRS
BLITZ
VIXEN
THE DRAMATIST
CROSS
For more information on Ken Bruen and his
books, see his website at www.kenbruen.com
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781409085461
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
For
Duane and Meredith Swierczynski, the
soul of Philadelphia,
and Tom and Des Kenny, the heart of the tribes.
An Sagart
. . . Priest
Those Blessed Hands
Anointed with the oil
Of final healing
The mystery of faith
Through decades now
Of pious full belief
Believed in you
Your fingers touching flesh
Of innocents
Who put their trust
In words no longer meaning anything but
rape
And sodomizing
Sermonizing
Far beyond the Mount
Of any kind of ritual
You preyed upon
The bodies of the yet
Unformed
To desecrate
The temples of the barely grown
A predator in piety
Defiler from
The cross
To the very flock
You tended
Unholy is the writ
You‘ve
Handed us in
Dust
The first initial of your name
Invokes the title of vocation
Torn in sacred text
Red blast across your mouth
To vomit
P . . . paedo—
‘What’s wasted
isn’t always
the worst
that’s left behind.’
KB
What I remember most about the mental hospital
The madhouse
The loony bin
The home for the bewildered
is a black man may have saved my life.
In Ireland? . . . A black saves your life, I how likely is that? Sign of the New Ireland and perhaps, just perhaps, indication of the death of the old Jack Taylor. As I’d been for five months, slumped in a chair, a rug over my knees, staring at the wall. Awaiting my medication, dead but for the formalities.
Gone but to wash me.
The black man leaned over me, tapped my head gently, asked,
‘Yo bro, anybody in there?’
I didn’t answer, as I hadn’t answered for the last months. He put his hand on my shoulder, whispered,
‘Nelson be in Galway this day, mon.’
Mon!
My mouth was dry, always, from the heavy dosage. I croaked,
‘Nelson who?’
He gave me a look, as if I was worse than he’d thought, answered,
‘Mandela, mon.’
I struggled to lift my mind from the pit of snakes I knew were waiting, tried,
‘Why should . . . I . . . give a shit?’
He lifted his T-shirt – it had the Cameroon team on it – and I recoiled, the first stab of reality, a reality I was fleeing. His chest was raw, ugly, with the angry welts of skin grafts. White, yes, white lacerations laced his torso. I gasped, making human contact in spite of myself. He smiled, said,
‘They was going to deport me, mon, so I set my own self on fire.’
He reached in his jeans, got out a ten-pack of Blue Silk Cut and a lighter, put a cig between my lips, fired me up, said,
‘Now you be smoking too, bro.’
Bro.
That reached in and touched me deeply. Began the process of coming back. He touched my shoulder, went,
‘You stay with me, mon, hear?’
I heard.
The tea trolley came and he got two cups, said,
‘I put in de heavy sugar, get you cranking, fire your mojo.’
I wrapped my hands round the cup, felt the dull warmth, risked a sip. It was good, sweet but comforting. He was eyeing me closely, asked,
‘You coming, bro? You coming on out of there?’
The nicotine was racing in my blood. I asked,
‘Why? Why should I?’
A huge smile, his teeth impossibly white against the black skin. He said,
‘Mon, you be sitting there, dat a slow burn.’
So it started.
I even went to the hospital library. It was tended by a man in his late sixties, wearing black pants and black sweatshirt. At first I thought the shirt had a white collar but to my horror saw it was dandruff. He had a clerical air, an expression of gravitas, as if he’d read the manual on librarians and went for the image. It was the one area in the whole place that was quiet, you couldn’t hear the quiet anguish so evident in the other rooms.
I thought he was a priest and he stared at me, said,
‘You think I’m a priest.’
He had a Dublin accent, which always has that tone of aggression, as if they can’t be bothered with culchies (country yokels) and are prepared to battle with any peasant who challenges them. A question to a Dublin person is always interpreted as a challenge. I still wasn’t used to speaking. You are silent for months, listening only to white noise, you have to struggle to actually make words. I wasn’t intimidated, though, after what I’d endured, I wasn’t about to allow some gobshite to bully me. Snapped,
‘Hey, I didn’t give you a whole lot of thought, fella.’
Let some Galway edge in there. What I wanted to say was, Jeez, get some anti-dandruff shampoo, but let it slide. He gave a cackle, like some muted banshee, said,
‘I’m a paranoid schizophrenic, but don’t worry, I’m taking my meds so you should be reasonably safe.’
The reasonably was a word to watch. He looked at his wrist, which was bare, and said,
‘Is it that time already? Got to go get my caffeine fix. Don’t steal anything – I’ll know, I’ve counted the books twice.’
Stealing a book was truly the last thing on my mind, but if a Dubliner threatens you? The books were a mix of Agatha Christie, Condensed Reader’s Digests, Sidney Sheldon and three Jackie Collins. A very old volume stood on its lonesome, like a boy who hasn’t been selected for the team. I picked it up. Pascal, Pensées.
Stole that.
Didn’t think I’d ever open it.
I was wrong.
I refused further medication, began to move around, my old limp hurting from the months of inactivity. I felt my eyes retreat from the nine-yard stare, move away from the dead place. After a few days, I was summoned to the psychiatrist’s office, a woman in her late fifties named Joan Murray. She was heavily built but able to carry it, her hands were raw boned. A Claddagh ring on her wedding finger, heart turned in. She said,
‘You’ve astounded me, Jack.’
I managed a tight smile, the one you attain when you first don the uniform of the Guards. It has no relation to humour or warmth but is connected to hostility. She leaned back, flexed her fingers, continued,
‘We don’t see many miracles here. Don’t quote me, but this is where miracles die. In all my years, I’ve never witnessed a restoration like yours. What happened?’
I didn’t want to share the truth, afraid if I articulated it, it might revert. Said,
‘They told me David Beckham was sold.’
She laughed out loud, said,
‘That would do it. I’ve contacted Ban Garda Ni Iomaire – she brought you here, has stayed in touch about your condition.’
Ni Iomaire. Or Ridge, to use the English form. Daughter of an old friend, we’d been unwilling allies on a number of cases. Our relationship was barbed, angry, confrontational but inexplicably lasting. Like marriage. We fought like trapped rats, always biting and snarling at each other. How to explain the dynamics or disfunction of our alliance? Perhaps her uncle, Brendan Smith, had something to do with it. He’d been my sometimes friend, definite source of information and one-time Guard. His suicide had rocked us both. Against her inclinations, she’d become the source now. I’d helped her look good to her superiors, and maybe my being in her life kept his spirit alive. She was a loner too, isolated by her sexual orientation and on the edge. Lacking others, we clung to each other, not the partnership either of us wanted. Or what the hell, could be we were both so odd, so different that no one else would suffer us.
The doctor asked,
‘Do you remember how you got here?’
I shook my head, asked,
‘Can I have a cigarette?’
She stood, moved to a cabinet, got a heavy key chain and opened it. You want to know the soundtrack of an asylum, it’s the sound of keys. That and a low-toned moaning of the human spirit in meltdown, punctuated with the sighs of the lost. She took out a pack of B ’n’ H, got the cellophane off, asked,
‘These OK?’
I’d a choice? Said,
‘They make you cough.’
And she laughed again. Took her a time to locate matches but she finally got me going, said,
‘You’re an alcoholic, Jack, and have been here before.’
I didn’t answer.
What is there to say? She nodded as if that was affirmation enough, continued,
‘But you didn’t drink this time. Surprised? According to Garda Ni lomaire, you’d been sober for some time. After the child’s death ...’
I bit down on the filter, froze her words.
After the child’s death.
I could see the scene in all its awful clarity. I was supposed to be minding Serena May, the Down Syndrome child of my friends Jeff and Cathy. That child, the only real value in my life. We’d become close; the little girl loved me to read to her. It was a sweltering hot day, I’d opened the window of the second-floor room we were in. I’d been brutalized by a recent case and my focus was all over the place. The child went out the window. Just a tiny cry and she was gone. My mind just shut down after that.
I looked across the desk. She added,
‘You were going into pubs, ordering shots of whiskey, pints of Guinness, arranging them neatly and simply staring at the glasses.’
She paused, to let the fact that I hadn’t actually drank sink in, then,
‘Your Ban Garda brought you here.’
She waited, so I said,
‘Fierce waste of drink.’
No laughter, not even a smile. She asked,
‘What is the nature of your . . . friendship? With her.’
I nearly laughed, wanted to say confron-fucking-tational. But not an easy word to get your tongue round. When I said nothing, she said,
‘You’re leaving us tomorrow. Garda Ni Iomaire is coming to collect you. Do you feel you’re ready to leave?’
Did I?
I stubbed out the cigarette in a brass ashtray. It had a hurler in the centre, the words
G.A.A. ANNUAL CONVENTION.
I said,
‘I’m ready.’
She gauged me, then,
‘I’m going to give you my phone number and a prescription for some mild tranquillizers, to help you through the first few days. Don’t underestimate the difficulty of returning to the world.’
‘I won’t.’
She fiddled with her ring, said,
‘You should attend AA.’
‘Right.’
‘And stay out of pubs.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
A small smile. She stood, reached out her hand, said,
‘Good luck, Jack.’
I took her hand, said,
‘Thank you.’
I was at the door when she added,
‘I’m a Liverpool supporter.’
I nearly smiled.
That evening, I had my first real meal with the general population. The atmosphere in the canteen was muted, almost religious. Long tables with near a hundred patients gathered. The joys of medication. I got a plate of sausages, mashed spuds and black pudding. I could taste the food, nearly enjoy it, till the TV was turned on. It stood above the room, attached to steel girders, locked down. What? Someone was going to steal it? The opening ceremony of Ireland’s hosting of the Special Olympics. A wave of dizziness hit as the face of a special-needs child filled the screen. The reason I was here. Moving back from the table, I stood up. A woman with tangled black hair, nails bitten till blood had come, asked,
‘Can I have your grub?’
Palpitations in my chest. A line of sweat coursed down my back, drenching my shirt. Serena May, the only light in an increasingly darkening life.
Dead.
Three years of age and gone because I lost my grip, wasn’t paying attention. As I bolted from the refectory, a patient shouted,
‘Yo, chow down.’
In my terror, I thought he said, ‘Child down.’
Next morning I was packed, ready to leave. My holdall held trousers, one shirt and rosary beads.
The Irish survival kit.
Oh, and Pascal.
I went to find the black man, thank him for his help. I’d a pack of twenty cigs to give him. The doctor had included them with my tranquillizers. The black man was standing in the day room, staring at a newspaper. I mean staring as opposed to reading because the paper was upside-down. I’d learned his name was Solomon, went,
‘Solomon.’
No reply.
I hunkered down, tried again. He had slid down along the wall. Slowly, his eyes reached up and he asked,
‘I know you?’
‘Yes, you pulled me back, remember?’
I offered the cigs and he gave me a petulant look, said,
‘Don’t smoke, boss.’
I wanted to touch his hand, but he suddenly emitted a piercing scream, then said,
‘Fuck off, whitey.’
Later, months on, I rang the hospital to ask if maybe I might visit him, was told his deportation orders came through – the government was deporting eighty non-nationals a day. Using two wet sheets, freshly starched that morning, he hung himself in the laundry.
The new Ireland.
‘Respect means, “Put yourself out.”’
Pascal, Pensées, 317
The priest was removing his vestments, the altar boy assisting him. The priest lifted the glass of wine, said,
‘Try this, you’ve been a good boy.’
The boy, seven years old, was afraid to refuse. It tasted sweet but put a warm glow in his stomach.
His bum hurt and the priest had given him half a crown. Later, leaving the church, the priest whispered,
‘Remember now, it’s our little secret.’
The nun was gathering up the song sheets. She loved this time of the morning, the sun streaming through the stained glass. Her habit felt heavy but she offered it for the souls in Purgatory. She found a ten-euro note in the end pew, was tempted to pocket it, buy a feast of ice cream. But blessing herself, she shoved it in the poor box. It slid in easily as the box was empty – who gave alms any more?
She noticed the door to the confessional ajar. Tut-tutting, she felt a tremor of annoyance. Father Joyce would have a fit if he saw that. He was a holy terror for order, ran the church like an army, God’s army. Moving quickly, she gently pulled the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Getting seriously irritated, she scuttled round to the other door and peered through the grille. Her scream could be heard all the way to Eyre Square.
Father Joyce’s severed head was placed on the floor of the confessional.
The land of saints and scholars was long gone. In an era of fading prosperity, the mugging of priests, rape of nuns was no longer a national horror. It was on the increase. The deluge of scandal enveloping the Church had caused the people to lose faith in the one institution that had seemed invulnerable.
But the decapitation of Father Joyce brought a gasp from the most hardened cynics. The Irish Times editorial began with,
‘We have been plunged into darkness.’
A leading Dublin drug lord offered a bounty for the capture of the killer. The Taoiseach gave a press conference asking for calm and understanding.
As if . . .
Ridge arrived in a yellow Datsun. Seeing my expression, she went,
‘What?’
And we were back to our usual antagonistic relationship. The rare moments of warmth between us could be counted on the fingers of one hand, yet we continued to be joined together, our fates inexplicably bound despite our personal feelings. I smiled, wondering what had happened to basic civility, to a simple How you doing? gig. I said,
‘The car . . . is it new?’
She was wearing tiny pearl earrings, a feature of Ban Gardai. Her face up close was plain but the vivacity of her eyes lent an allure. As usual, she was dressed a step above trailer trash, a small step. Penny’s most loyal customer. White cotton jeans and a red T-shirt, the number 7 above the left breast. I wondered briefly if it was a sign, a sign to back one number in the lottery. Usually you got 5:1 on a single number. Dismissed it – superstition, the curse of my race.
You will never, and I mean never, catch an Irish person walking under a ladder or not crossing their fingers during a hurling match. Doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s as genetic, as casual as the use of the Lord’s name. Sure it’s bollocks but it’s inevitable. She was instantly angry, shot back,
‘Is that a dig?’
Meaning her sexual orientation. She was gay. I sighed, put my holdall on my shoulder, said,
‘Fuck it, I’ll hitch.’
‘Don’t you curse at me, Jack Taylor. Now get in the car.’
I did.
We drove in silence for almost ten minutes. She ground through the gear changes with ferocity, then,
‘I’ve been wondering . . . After the . . . events . . . am, you went to the pub . . . ?’
She paused as she let a trailer enter a side road, continued,
‘But you didn’t actually drink?’
I checked my seatbelt, asked,
‘So, what’s your point?’
‘Well, terrible things had happened, you’d ordered all those drinks . . . why didn’t you actually lift a glass?’
I stared at the windscreen, took my time, then,
‘I don’t know.’
And I didn’t.
If the answer satisfied her, the expression on her face wasn’t reflecting it. Then,
‘That means you’re a success.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t drink. You’re an alcoholic – not drinking makes you a success.’
I was flabbergasted, couldn’t credit what she said.
‘Bollocks.’
She glared through the windscreen, said,
‘I told you, don’t use that language. In AA they say if you don’t pick up a drink, you’re a winner.’
I let that simmer, hang over us a bit, noticed she had a St Bridget’s Cross on the dash, asked,
‘You’re in AA?’
I’d never seen her really drink. Usually she had an orange, and one memorable time, a wine spritzer, whatever the hell that is. Course, I’d known nuns who turned out to be alcoholics and they were in enclosed orders!! Proving that, whatever else, alcoholics have some tenacity.
Her mouth turned down, a very bad sign, and she scoffed,
‘I don’t believe you, Jack Taylor, you are the densest man I ever met. No, I’m not in AA . . . do you know anything?’
I lit a cig, despite the huge decal on the dash proclaiming,
DONT SMOKE
Not,
Please refrain from smoking.
An out-and-out command.
In response, she opened the windows, letting a force nine blow in, turned on the air and froze us instantly. I smoked on, whined,
‘I’ve been in hospital. Cut me some bloody slack,’ then chucked the cig out the window.
She didn’t close them, said,
‘My mother is in AA . . . and you already know my uncle had the disease . . . It has decimated generations of us. Still does.’
I was surprised, understood her a little more. Children of alcoholics grow up fast – fast and angry.
Not that they have a whole lot of choice.
We were coming into Oranmore and she asked,
‘Want some coffee?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good.’
If I thought she was softening, I was soon corrected as she said,
‘You buy your own.’
Irish women, nine ways to Sunday, they’ll bust your balls. She headed for the big pub on the corner, which I thought was a bit rich in light of our conversation. The lounge was spacious and posters on the walls advertised coming attractions:
Micky Joe Harte
The Wolfe Tones
Abba tribute band.
I shuddered.
We took a table at the window, sunlight full on in our faces. A black ashtray proclaimed,
Craven A.
How old is that?
A heavy man in his sixties approached, breezed,
‘Good morning to ye.’
Ridge gave him a tight smile and I nodded. She said,
‘Do you have herbal tea?’
I wanted to hide. The man gave her a full look . . . like . . . was she serious, playing with a full deck?
‘We have Liptons.’
‘Decaffeinated?’
The poor bastard glanced at me. I had no help to offer. He sighed, said,
‘I could give it a good squeeze – the tea bag, that is.’
Ridge didn’t smile, went,
‘I’d like it in a glass, slice of lemon.’
I said,
‘I’ll have a coffee, caffeinated, in a cup . . . please.’
He gave a large grin, ambled off. Ridge was suspicious, asked,
‘What was that about?’
I decided to simply annoy her, said,
‘It’s a guy thing.’
She raised her eyes, went,
‘Isn’t everything?’
As is usual for Irish pubs, sentries sat at the counter – men in their sixties with worn caps, worn eyes, nursing half-empty pints. They rarely talked to each other and began their vigil right after opening time. I’d never asked what they were waiting for, lest they told me. If the sentries ever depart, like the monkeys on Gibraltar, the pubs will fold. The radio was on and we heard of a massive Garda drug sting in Dublin. For months they’d been scoring from dealers, now it was round-up time. There had been a public outcry when a TV camera filmed dealers selling openly on the streets and it was like a kasbah in Temple Bar. A junkie shooting up in front of a uniformed Guard. Crack cocaine was being sold widely. I said,
‘Jeez, when crack arrives, the country is gone.’ Some irony for a nation that had given the word crack to the world – we now had crack of a whole more sinister hue.
She seemed not to have heard, then,
‘Galway is as bad.’
‘As if I didn’t know.’
She was fiddling with a silver ring on her right hand, appeared nervous, asked,
‘Did you hear about the priest?’
The question hung there, like an omen.
Like a sign of the times.
Ireland is a land of questions and very, very few answers. We’re notorious for replying to a direct question with a question. It’s like an inbred caution: never commit yourself. And it buys you time, lets you consider the implications of the query.
We may have got rich, but we never got impulsive. Questions are always suspect. The years of British rule, the years of yes, questions usually posed by a soldier with a weapon in your face, led to a certain wariness. If the truth be told, and sometimes it is, we really want to hit back with two other questions.
First, Why d’you want to know?
Second, and maybe more essential, How is it any of your business?
When I see a map of the island and they’re promoting the country, like, say, for the tourist trade, they’ll have a giant leprechaun or a harp, slap bang in the middle. I feel they should get honest and put a big question mark, let the folk know what they’re letting themselves in for.
The classic Irish questions, of course, are the one to the returned emigrant, When are you going back? And the near daily one, Do you know who’s dead?
Naturally, I didn’t reply immediately to Ridge’s question. Especially in the current climate. You hear about priests now, it ain’t going to be good, it’s not going to be a heartwarming tale about some poor dedicated soul who spent fifty years among some remote tribe and then they ate him. No, it’s going to be bad, and scandalous. Every day, new revelations about clerical abuse. I can’t say we’d become immune to that. The clergy will always hold a special place in our psyche, it’s pure history, but their unassailable position of trust, respect and yes, fear, was over. Man, they’d had their day, and as the Americans might put it, That is so, like, over.
Was it ever.
‘Of true justice. We no longer have any. If we
had, we should accept it as a rule of justice
that one should follow the customs of
one’s country.’
Pascal, Pensées, 297
We were on that stretch of road that leads into Galway. You could see the ocean on the left and, as always, it made me yearn – for what, I’ve never known. The silence in the car was oppressive and Ridge, in a very aggressive movement, flicked on the radio.
Jimmy Norman, Ollie Jennings were doing their two-hander on
Sport
Politics
Music
Craic.
I was homeward bound.
Jimmy said,
‘Here’s my favourite record.’
And Shania Twain launched with ‘Forever And For Always’. I liked the line about never letting you go down. There wasn’t a single human being I could think of who felt that way about me.
Years ago, watching Bruce Springsteen on video, Patti Scialfa had her eyes locked on him, a mix of adoration and ownership, centred on love. I knew, in a horrible moment of clarity, no one had ever gazed upon me so. I’d muttered, ‘The awful knowledge of the wrath of God.’ Back in the pub, I had to shake myself physically, rid my mind of the demons. Must have shown in my face as Ridge’s eyes softened, a rare occurrence. She asked,
‘Jack, you OK?’
Jack!
A rib broke in the devil. I didn’t answer and for one mad moment it seemed like she might reach out and touch me. Then she said,
‘Jack, there’ve been some changes in Galway.’
I snapped out of the maudlin mode, said,
‘Yeah?’
Like I gave a fuck.
She took a breath, then,
‘Your friends, Jack and Cathy – she’s gone back to London and he . . . Well . . . he’s drinking.’
The parents of the dead child – my friends. Jeff had the alcohol deal, as I did. I could have asked about them, the fine hard details, but he was drinking, there was only one reply. So I let it slide, asked,
‘How’s Mrs Bailey?’
The owner of the hotel I’d been living in. Over eighty, she was a woman of true stature.
Ridge paused, then,
‘The hotel was sold . . . And she . . . died a month ago.’
Sucker punch.
Like a blade in my gut. Once I muttered, a long time ago, as I emerged from the DTs, Everybody’s dead, of fucking note perhaps.
Ridge moved on, said,
‘A friend of mine, she rented an apartment in the Granary, know it?’
Sure. I was a Galwegian, course I knew. The old Bridge Mills, like everything else, had been converted. Into luxury apartments. Looked out over the Claddagh Basin, view of the bay. What I mainly knew was they cost an arm and a leg. I asked,
‘And this of interest, how?’
Couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my tone: Mrs Bailey had been a bulwark in my life. Ridge was almost animated.
‘She only stayed a week as her mother got sick and she had to go to Dublin.’
I lit another cig, blew the smoke through my nostrils, said,
‘Fascinating as that is, it would probably be more gripping if I knew her. Thing is, is there a point to this?’
The anger crossed her face. She didn’t fight it, replied,
‘You’re as insufferable as ever.’
I don’t know who said it but it sure seemed now to fit.
‘If a person is put in his place often enough, he becomes the place.’
I stretched and she went,
‘Wait . . . okay?’
I did.
She continued,
‘I’m trying to do you a favour here.’
I couldn’t resist, snapped,
‘And like, I asked you for a favour?’
The guy behind the bar was eyeing us warily. The vibe of hostility had obviously reached him. Ridge stood and we left. Outside, she handed me a key ring, two brass keys and a silver relic of St Therese. I smiled, couldn’t help it. Other nations reach for weapons, we reach for relics. She smiled too.
‘I got it at the Novena.’
I juggled the keys, said,
‘To the Kingdom, I’d say.’
‘Not exactly . . . for the Furbo Suite, my friend’s apartment in the Granary. You have three weeks, get you sorted.’
‘I’ve been months in a mental hospital. How much more sorted can I be?’
She’d no answer.
The fear hit the moment we reached Bohermore, the graveyard on my left. I kept my eyes averted. Tom Waits’ ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’ began to unravel in my head . . . wasted and wounded.
Jesus.
I’d been married to a German, albeit briefly. She’d Rilke on the wall of her London apartment.
‘Do not return. If you bear to, stay dead with the dead. The dead have their tasks.’
I’d thought ruefully many times, yeah, their task is to haunt me.
The poem is ‘Requiem for a Friend’.
Ridge said,
‘Galway has changed even in the short time you’ve been away.’
It looked like it usually did – unwelcoming. I said,
‘Changed, not to be confused with improved.’
As if to mock my words, the sun appeared as we reached Eyre Square. It lit up the whole area – the crowds in the park, even the winos were animated. As we paused at the pedestrian crossing, streams of backpackers passed. Ridge was not impressed.
‘We’ve just been voted the dirtiest city in Ireland.’
As a native, I wasn’t surprised – the scarce litter bins seemed to function purely as urinals – but I didn’t like the rest of the country to be in on the fact. Rough as my history in the town had been, it was the only town I had. Johnny Duhan’s ‘Just Another Town’ captured the contradictions best. I answered,
‘Dirtiest? And I don’t suppose they meant the litter.’
She ignored that.
‘A priest was beheaded.’
I couldn’t resist, went,
‘Not before time.’
Some years before, students had beheaded the statue of Padraig O’Conaire. Maybe it was contagious. We moved along past the newly refurbished Great Southern Hotel, turned right and up by the Skeffington Arms – it too had a facelift. Only the natives remained with the old faces. My flippant remark rattled her and she hit low, said,
‘I knew him.’
What else could I do? I mumbled a lame apology but it cut no ice. She snapped,
‘Sorry! Good God, you’re always sorry, but are you repentant?’
Was I?
I considered a cig, but she was riled enough. Down past Moons, then a detour to drive the long route past the university, and again I averted my eyes. More bad history. Like Bono, I’d need permanent shades. Alas, they’d only dim the light, not the memory. We arrived in Dominic Street and she pointed to an alley beside Aran Travel, said,
‘Go through there and the Granary is on the left. The Furbo Suite, your apartment, is on the top floor. No elevator, I’m afraid.’
I’d taken a heavy beating which involved my knee being hammered by a hurley. It left me with a limp, which wasn’t as pronounced now but still noticeable. I turned to her.
‘I’m very grateful, but I have to ask, why? Why are you helping me?’
She bit her lower lip.
‘I might need a favour, and soon. And the apartment is vacant. It helps my friend and you need a place – it’s not complicated.’
Of all the things I was sure of, that this would be complicated was one of them. So I asked,
‘What’s the favour you need?’
She was already putting the car in gear, snapped,
‘Not now.’
I stood on the street as forlorn as I’d ever felt, the holdall at my feet, and watched her turn at the canal, disappear towards the west. She hadn’t looked back.
Why would she?
The Furbo Suite amazed me. Contrary as I was, I’d resolved to be unimpressed. What was it, after all? Just another temporary shelter.
Got that wrong.
It was sensational. Decorated in pine, huge ceilings and truly luxurious. Beams criss-crossed the roof that had a comforting feel. There was a staircase. I’d of course anticipated one level. The bedrooms – yes, plural – were on the first level, then up the stairs to a wide open sitting room, surrounded by large windows. I gasped, went,
‘Fuck.’
Best of all was the view. Out across the Claddagh, over the swans and the whole of Galway Bay in all its splendour. I loved it. Everything was provided: towels, iron, video, crockery, and a notice said the garbage was collected daily. I opened the fridge: milk, butter, a chicken, two steaks, chops.
Ridge, I figured.