A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

They’re Out There... and They’re Active

Charles wrote this carefully in his notebook, next to his shopping list. London had been dancing on his nerves and, short of moving, he’d run out of answers. Then this gem of lucidity.

He was fifty-two years of age and recently redundant. A tall man, his hair was grey and thinning. A fragile build made him most unsuited to urban strife.

Samuel Johnson had written, “When a man was tired of London, he was tired of life.” Charles was tired of Johnson. He’d like to have Johnson with a bus pass... see how wise he cracked then.

Breakfast was one boiled egg, one slice of toast and one cup of tea. He knew that loneliness thrived on single items and, phew... he’d been lonely for such a long time. Colette had met another man ten years ago and they’d scarpered to Amsterdam. The chap was an artist and according to her... “FUN.” God, that word was like a curse of woesome proportions. He washed the cup and steeled himself for the day. He didn’t expect “fun” to be prominent.

He was third in the bus queue. A sizeable crowd fell in behind him. Top of the line was a cheerful black woman who seemed unfazed by the wait. The bus appeared, driver-only model. The line moved expectantly. The doors opened and the driver moved from his seat; he began to manoeuvre the outside mirror.

“Are you changing drivers?” the black woman asked.

“Hey... What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Fixing the mirror.”

“Hooray, give her a chat show.”

Finally, the driver moved back inside and the line began to enter. A man asked,

“Do you go over London Bridge?”

“Ask the fat lady, she’s the one with the answers.”

A silence fell on the group as they gauged the insult. Cowed, they filed to their seats. Charles couldn’t find a gentle response and he didn’t think silence covered it either. What he wanted was to slap the driver full in the mouth. He got off at Camberwell Green and resolved to put the incident behind him. “NAZIS,” his mind roared.

“Give them a uniform and the Third Reich thrives.”

Outside McDonald’s a young wino asked,

“Got any change?”

“Am... afraid not... all my loose change went on the bus.”

“I’ll take notes!.. and we accept major credit cards!”

Charles hurried on, the shouts of abuse bounced against his neck. He found the employment office and crossing his fingers went in. The receptionist was an impossibly young seventeen and reading a magazine. She didn’t look up.

“Excuse me, Miss.”

“Yea.”

“I’ve an appointment with a Mr. Hamilton.”

“Not here today.”

“Oh dear, I’m supposed to see him at eleven.”

“Well, he’s not ’ere, is he... he’s got flu...”

“I see... I see, shall I leave my name then?”

“Suit yerself.”

He stormed out... BLAST... Blast and damnation, he muttered... bad-mannered trollop... probably a reader.

He glared at passers-by with black hatred in his heart.

“Tea...,” he thought. “... a cup of English tranquility.”

A café on the Walworth Road and he sat wearily. Ordered a large tea. The waitress was sixty and tired. Her hair matched the colour of the tea. Only a fool would risk the soup.

“Colour coordination,” he thought.

A smudge of pink lipstick clung to the mug’s rim. Charles wanted to fling it through the window. A man sat opposite and ordered toast with poached eggs. When it came, he removed his false teeth and slipped them into his pocket. He said,

“I hate eggs.”

Charles sighed and wondered who’d planted the pink kiss on his forlorn mug. The man tapped him on the arm and said,

“Them Yanks... they’ve got all kinds of serial killers” (he pronounced it cereal) “and psychopaths. Here in London, we’ve got our own band.”

“Oh really?” said Charles.

“I’m telling you, matey... they’re out there... and they’re active.”

Charles began to tilt the mug and let the tea seep onto the table. He said, “Can’t say I’ve noticed, old boy... no can’t say that I have.”

They Dream of Angels

He was a sad man. Even his clothes sang of sorrow. Old, too, she knew he’d not see seventy again. His face featured the look that said he wouldn’t want to, even were it possible.

The coffee bar was full and Cora desperately wanted a seat. New shoes were crucifying the very blood in her toes. Her Mother used to say, “A lady always buys a size smaller.” She wished her Mother were wearing them... see how lady-like she’d be.

Only the man’s table was free of other occupants. People sense misery and avoid it. Woe was neon-lit above the man’s head. On a busy day, who needed that. A full head of white hair topped his worn, lined face. Cora reckoned he’d smell of mustiness, old hangers and faded shirts. He’d probably have those hideous false teeth that startle in a face, like a shout.

Cora was thirty. Blonde and petite. At least her friends said that. “Petite”... it sounded like a delicate chocolate you’d hoard for a special day, or a fragrance you can never quite identify.

“May I sit?” she asked.

He looked up. Brown eyes, decked in some lost grief. Standing, he half bowed. It made him more forlorn.

“But of course.”

Cora ordered cakes and coffee. The waitress brought a tray of pure temptation. The coffee had a rich smell, like energy. Cora didn’t want to draw the old codger on herself but he was so thin.

“Join me in a cake,” she offered.

He gave a beautiful smile, even his eyes were linked to it. The teeth might well have been his own, uneven but clean. All of him was clean as a whistle, as if he’d been shine-scrubbed for viewing.

“I’d dearly love to but alas... I’ve gone beyond delicacies!”

Cora thought she’d leave well enough alone.

“Miserable old goat,” she thought... he’d probably have some yarn about a dead wife and sweet cakes... and yet. She said,

“Don’t be silly, nobody’s beyond a bit of sweetness.”

The near wisdom of this hung between them. She selected an éclair, her absolute favourite. Cutting carefully, she saved the cream, which galloped to the side and popped a wedge.

“Ah bliss...” she thought, “all of heaven”... and double bonus, felt the softness meet like joy against the roof of her mouth. A shot of coffee and she knew true contentment. He looked directly at her.

“When are you due?”

Astonished, she nearly forgot the cakes.

“How can you tell... do I show?”

“No, no... it’s the bloom, you have... a radiance.”

Her English mind searched for an English word to catch her reaction.

“CHUFFED”...

Yes... exactly that. A proper description.

“Have you children?” she asked.

“No. No, I don’t. A woman once told me I wasn’t responsible enough for such a grace.”

Cora was appalled.

“Damn cheek... you don’t believe that do you?... surely not?”

He thought about it.

“I hope not,” he answered.

A silence fell. Cora finished the éclair. A second one was winking for her attention. She thought that might be greedy but oh... it looked lonely without its mate... weren’t they better in pairs?

“Excuse me, dear, but I must to the Gents...”

When he returned, he didn’t sit but stood straight as if he was going to recite. He said,

“My dear, please indulge the whim of an old man. I paid for your coffee... and TWO éclairs.

(They both smiled.)

“I’d be so pleased if you’d eat the partner remaining. I wish you and the baby a whole mountain of light. I always thought that babies dream... do you think they do?”

Cora didn’t know.

“I dunno,” she said, “what on earth could they dream about?”

“Exactly... that’s it... I’d say they dream of angels.”

After he’d gone, Cora sliced the second éclair and with deep relish, ate it. Was it possibly more delicious? A smudge of chocolate lit her upper lip. Even had she known, it’s doubtful she’d have cared. A hint of a lullaby was coursing out from her heart. Gently and slowly, words of childhood began to trickle from her mouth. As she hummed, she wondered if she’d risk another coffee.

Liver

Mary fretted.

When would be the best moment for the gift?

She didn’t look fifty-five. Her face retained the fresh Irish expectantly. After thirty-five years of marriage she expected precious little. Up close her face showed the lines of disappointment. Not many got close, not anymore.

She’d retained most of her figure, not through vanity but disillusionment. A steady diet. Dark rinsed hair highlit blue eyes. A mouth built to smile... didn’t, at least not often.

Charles was ten years older. Wiser, too, to hear him tell it. Tall, he used his height as a weapon, of sneak intimidation. Completely bald, he polished the pate with gusto. “VIRILITY” and he spelt it.

Wide grey eyes lulled you to interpretations of kindness. Till he spoke. A voice fuelled on contempt wiped the impression. Their thirty-fifth anniversary. He’d chosen the restaurant for its hauteur. Belittlement was the main course and ensured its success.

Dressed in dark blue pin-stripe, Charles surveyed the room with glee.

“Class,” he said, “No yobbos.”

Mary didn’t answer. He was accustomed to an audience, not a participant.

“Snob-appeal,” she thought.

His tie established his status as a Tory outrider.

A waiter appeared, greeting-less.

Charles commanded,

   — No starters.

   — Chicken Maryland for me.

   — the fish for my wife.

   — side order of

      sauté mushrooms

      jacket potatoes

      celery sticks

      broccoli and carrots.

“The chicken is fresh?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. A carafe of the house plonk... and mineral water for my wife. MALVERN... none of that French rubbish.

“Your face is unfamiliar to me.”

“I’m new, sir.”

“Well, chop chop, the food won’t arrive of its own volition.”

The waiter withdrew.

Mary was mortified, not a new experience but always raw. She longed to say something. Instead, she took the package from her bag and shyly placed it before him. Her heart was pounding. It was beautifully wrapped in black and gold paper. A tiny ribbon enhanced its appeal.

“What’s this?”

“A little surprise for the occasion.”

He frowned, and said, “I hope you haven’t been playing silly buggers... wasting money again.”

She flushed, and said, “Go on dear, open it now.”

Sighing, he crudely tore it open. A thin gold watch fell on the table.

“I have a watch,” he said.

Something rattled near her heart.

“But Charles, this is special, it’s a dress watch... and... I had it inscribed.”

He looked at the back. It read “TI AMOR.”

“Spanish is it... of some significance I suppose?”

“Italian, dear... it’s Italian... it says... well am... that I care about you.”

“Stuff and nonsense... here put the damned thing away before the new chappie brings the grub. I declare, where you pick up those silly notions. AND, marked like that, it lowers the pre-sale value.”

“It’s not marked, it’s inscribed.”

“Same thing,” he said, and pushed it at her.

She lifted it gently and let it rest a moment in her lap. Then she let it slip to the floor, using her right heel, she began to grind down.

The food arrived.

Charles set to... and drank noisily. He’d eaten half when he set down his fork and loudly summoned the waiter.

“Yes sir, is everything to your satisfaction... and madam?”

“New... you said.”

“Y... es... sir.”

“What does this look like to you... go on... have a good look.”

“Chicken, sire... Chicken Maryland.”

Mary’s stomach churned.

“Well, pigs might fly, not only does it look like CHICKEN, it damned well tastes like it.”

“I’m not sure I understand the problem sir.”

“Remarkable... he doesn’t understand, from one of the Grammar schools I shouldn’t wonder. I ordered liver.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“LIVER... are you dense as well as deaf... what did I order dear?”

Mary couldn’t answer.

“Cat got your tongue, woman?... TELL him what I ordered.”

“I’m not sure, Charles... I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You weren’t WHAT!” and he banged the table.

Mary reached over quickly and grabbed the remains of the chicken. With a small yelp, she flung it out across the restaurant. All eyes turned.

“See...,” she said, “... mebbe it’s bacon... or some breed of bird. But liver, no, I don’t think so darling... You’re right as usual.”

God Wore Shoes

Violence! Don’t talk to me about bloody violence. Brady’s roar shook the customer who had innocently commented on urban crime. Brady was nigh 6’5” in height and close on 200 pounds. Built to be a publican. At 50 years of age he radiated menace. Almost bald, this added to his aura of force. He had mean eyes and they meant exactly that. The nose was misshapen through nature and brawling. A generous mouth covered teeth dominated by a gold filling. The gold flashed frequently but merriment almost never.

Brady was obsessed by crime. He gave directions accordingly. “Want the nearest tube?... two muggings from here... the bus stop... a rape away.” A farmed portrait of Ruth Ellis was enshrined at the centre of the bar. “See here,” Brady would say, “now there’s British justice for you.” Nobody was sure if he meant this as approval or not. Alice, his wife, may have known but she’d fled some years ago. “The missis... oh I’ve her buried in the back,” he’d say. Undoubtedly, such a fate awaited her if he were to catch up with her. But she’d run fast... and far.

Brady’s pub was situated at the wrong exit of The Mile End road. “Bandit country,” according to the locals. The clientele consisted almost exclusively of policemen. A stray drinker would be advised by Brady as to this and then cautioned...

“Watch your wallet.”

As a youth, Brady had been a merchant seaman and at some point had been tattooed. The right arm predictably proclaimed “Mother.” The left read “Watch Out.” One was well advised to heed this. During his travels, Brady had acquired a long, wooden club. A narrow handle led to a thick, ugly baseball type body. It had been fashioned with oak for weight and bamboo for flexibility. When swung, it made a vicious “swish” which put the fear of eternity about. The customers were very familiar with it. At closing time, without fail, the club would appear with the same cry “Drink up or join the club... permanently.” To policemen, of course, this was the height of comfort. The nightly “swish” was indeed Mother’s milk to their blue heats. Beat your own, so to speak.

On a wet November morning, a young Irishman attempted to steal from Brady. He managed to get into the yard at the back of the pub and was in the act of forcing a shed door. Brady caught him there and went to work with the club. The “swish” almost drowned out the litany of “Oh Sweet God... oh for the love of God and His Saints.” The he stopped. The words of entreaty hung on the air. Brady dropped the club, the wood rattled on the concrete yard. “God is it... ya thieving Mick... see those shoes... I worked for them... like everything else.” So saying, Brady three times swung his shoe at the unconscious head. And three times you denied me! Brady made a few telephone calls and the youth was discreetly removed from the premises. Cleaning the club took longer and afterwards it was placed under the Ruth Ellis shrine. The staff kept clear of their boss as he began to drink with ferocity. All through the evening session, he continued to drink and felt “watched.” From the corner of his eye, he’d sense a man’s eyes on him. He’d snap round and no one was staring. Last orders rang early and Brady’s surliness cleared the pub quickly. Along, he double-checked the door locks and windows. Moving to the centre of the bar, Brady felt he could watch the whole area. A fresh bottle of Scotch was open and the club rested on his knees. As the bottle diminished Brady’s attention lulled.

A man stood inside the bar, his back to Brady, covering Ruth Ellis. The sudden sight of him snapped something in Brady’s chest and a jolt of pain drew him upright. “Hey... who the bloody hell are you... want some of this... what... want to join the club fella?” As he lifted the club, a double jolt slammed his heart and he fell heavily on his back. The whiskey crashed to the floor. Brady tried to clasp the club but paralysis spread through him. He heard the man’s footsteps as he began to approach. The shoes made an odd sound... like the lilt that pervades an Irish wake. As the man’s shadow fell across Brady he roared “for the love of...” But blackness took away completion.

The pub didn’t open the following morning. By evening a group of thirsty, rather than concerned, coppers forced the door. Inside they found the bar had been cleaned and polished. No Brady! Eventually, a chief inspector from Hackney ventured the three flights to Brady’s bedroom. He found him in bed with the sheets up to his chin. The face was spit-clean and he looked as dead as he indeed was. More coppers came up and they drew the blankets back. Brady was clad in pyjamas with the sleeves rolled back to display the tattoos.

“Bugger’s dead,” they agreed. It was further agreed that Brady would wish them to have a few drinks. Shortly, a festive atmosphere prevailed and the drink flowed. A police cadet, fresh from Stepney Green, was assigned as barman. Cutting a lemon for the Chief Inspector’s gins, his eye fell on the Ruth Ellis photo. “Hello... it’s Marilyn Monroe... I’ll be having that,” and he quickly stuffed it beneath his tunic.

Upstairs, the door had been closed on Brady. For a while the sounds of merriment reached there but gradually the silence spread and settled. The club wasn’t found behind the bar and nobody seemed interested in its whereabouts.

In the months to come, Brady was remembered but was seldom missed.

Twist of Lemon

“All you need is your own place... and a cat called Norman.”

Jack was eavesdropping on two women seated behind him... Norman... why Norman?

The pub was full and he worried about the delay in getting served again... if... and when, Melanie arrived. Jack was forty-three years old, five foot eight with a slight stoop.

A pot belly was building but he felt powerless against its march out and onward.

He had brown thinning hair and daily distress at recession. Soft brown eyes were his redeeming feature. They almost compensated for his poor nose and poorer mouth. He was doing what he did best, worrying.

Melanie arrived, looking carefree and careless.

A petite blonde with blue eyes, she was dressed now in jail sentence outfit. Short black mini, black boots, white cling sweater and midi leather coat.

“God,” he thought, “I worship her, I’ll light candles to her.”

“Hello,” he thought, “I worship her, I’ll light candles to her.”

“Hello,” he said.

“Oh hello.”

She had the knack of always sounding as if she’d never met him.

“What will you have?”

“A vermouth

   and perhaps... yes.

   a lightly tossed salad... mm... m

   Some French bread, check it’s fresh

   and

   a twist of lemon in the drink.”

His heart

   s

   a

   n

   k.

The barman was an animal and a very busy one. They’d already traded glares. A tossed salad!

“Coming up,” he said.

It took fifteen minutes before he got the barman’s attention.

“We don’t got no turned salad.”

“Tossed, that’s tossed salad.”

“You winding me up Guv?... we got salad sandwiches and we got burgers... we got other customers too. So, you wanna get yer skates on or wot?”

“Am... fine, a salad sandwich then, a large scotch and a vermouth, please”

He couldn’t, he just couldn’t ask for the lemon twisted or otherwise. The order was slapped down with no change from the ten pound note. Jack offered it for some soul in purgatory and fought his way back to Melanie.

She’d let his seat go and was chatting to the occupant, a navvy. In donkey jacket and vicious work boots, a hard-ass. Jack sighed and put the sandwich down, like an offering. He tried to slip the vermouth next to it.

“WHAT’S THIS THEN?” she screeched... she and the navvy eyed the sandwich.

“It’s all they’d left... am... darling.”

The navvy sniggered at the endearment. Jack wished for a bundle of things.

a) She’d lower her voice.

b) He didn’t feel the suicidal compulsion to call her affectionately.

c) He was in South America.

“That’s all they had love... the am... the tossed salad wasn’t available.”

Jack took a lethal belt of the scotch, chocked and felt his face burn.

“Toss the sandwich more like,” said the navvy.

Melanie removed the cellophane and delicately lifted the bread. Very dead lettuce hid slyly against the light. The navy roared,

“Lettuce pray for the recently departed.”

Melanie pushed the sandwich away and glared at the vermouth.

“Didn’t they have any lemon then?”

Jack finished his drink. He and Melanie had separated three months ago. This was to have been an attempt at reconciliation. Was it on himself or was it going down the toilet.

“Sweetheart,” he croaked, “could we mebbe go some place else.”

She stood and gave him an icy look.

“Go!.. the only place I’m go-ing is back to work,” and swept out before he could reply.

“Bye honey bunch,” he whispered.

The loud voices of the crowd beat against his heart. A guffaw from the navvy as he headed away. Jack took the seat and quoted H. L. Mencken,

He wanted to cry

to cry out.

Instead, he lifted the sandwich and began to chew. A piece of limp lettuce floated to his lap.

“Not bad,” he said... not bad at all. A single tear slipped down his cheek and splashed gently in the un-touched vermouth.

He sipped that and added,

“She’s right you know, it definitely needs something, it needs a bitterness right enough... I’ll call her later, she’d appreciate a call... I will, I’ll do that... that’s the best thing...”

Daddy

His daughter, wounded... stared at the soggy cornflakes. Pain writ full on her face. Tom sipped his tea and tried not to notice how old she looked. She was thirty-nine and had come home “for a few days.”

That was three weeks ago.

If only he could grab her pain, he’d hug it to himself as he’d never hugged her. A teacher, she made him feel un-learnt.

“Did you ever hear of Tennessee Williams?”

He hadn’t.

“Am... I’m not sure.”

She smiled and quoted “‘Happiness is insensitivity’... what do you think?”

He thought she made the tea too weak. But never, he’d never tell her. When Mary was alive, the girl seemed happy. After... well... things died in little places you’d never even been aware about. His own daughter had never used a term of parental address with him. No one else seemed to notice. One weak day, he’d said it to Mary and heard the faint whine in his own voice. Mary answered,

“Don’t be an eejit.”

The girl’s sense of humour baffled him. At dinner yesterday she said, “Life’s a bitch but I don’t have to be one.”

Her marriage had failed. What a description, he thought, as if you could re-take it like a driving test... and they sure didn’t give any lessons for it, all those came after.

She’d only talked the one time about it; she’d begun “At the table, Rob leant over and punched me in the face.”

Tom was frozen. Rage and hurt assaulted his very heart. He managed to ask, foolishly, “what did you do sweetheart?”

“Do?... I fell off the chair, that’s what I did. But the food must have been good, he carried on eating.”

Tom tried to unclench his fists without the bones cracking.

She continued, “Rob was very proud of a butcher’s cleaver he’d got on the cheap.

“A big ugly-looking instrument. At four in the morning, he was snoring loudly. I rested the blade of the cleaver lightly on his Adam’s apple... and I waited. The steel was cold as ice. His eyes opened and do you know... he said nothing. I had his full concentration. I guess a blade will do that, get your attention I mean.”

Tom was horrified, he said,

“Did... did you do anything darling?”

A laugh she gave chilled him.

“I said... ‘next time.’”

Tom thought he’d brew more tea... toast too, a fresh batch. As he buttered it she said,

“Will you butter a slice for me?”

“I will, honey bunch.”

“When I was little, you always buttered Mummy’s toast. I thought — when I marry, I’ll marry a man who’d do that.

“What I did was... I met Rob... and the rest is... as they say... Grief or should that be brief?”

“You’ll meet someone else love, you’re young yet.”

“You never did.”

He chewed the toast and tried not to crunch it. She was the very beat of his heart. What else is there... he didn’t know or want to know.

“I’m leaving today.”

“Ah no... sweetheart... why?”

“Because I’m in your way... don’t fret, it’s not your fault.

“You’re a solitary man but there’s not a breath of loneliness about you. I always liked that.”

After she’d packed, she came and pecked him on the cheek.

The kiss burned there like afterglow. She looked at him and said,

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything darling,”... God forgive him, he thought it was money.”

“You never use my name... you call me darling sweetheart honey bunch. Anything but my name. I wonder why that is Daddy.”

He was speechless. She smiled and said,

“Now don’t you start worrying about that. You’re not to make a big deal out of it. So you won’t. Promise me... Daddy, will you promise me that?”

Sherry

“So...” he said, “... are you some kind of alcoholic or what?”

Amy nearly fell off the chair. This balding fat man with perspiration on his upper lip... how dare he! Before she could reply, he leaned under the table, pinched her knew and roared “Just kidding... lighten up Ann... or should I say... drink up,” and he actually guffawed. Not a pleasant sound.

“Amy, it’s Amy.”

“What... are you sure... well of course you are. I could have sworn the form said Ann.”

The form in question was supplied by The Zodiac Dating Service. For fifty guineas they found your “star mate” and guaranteed “future happiness.” It was written in the stars. This was Amy’s third star mate. The other two burned out in jig-time. The guineas tag was supposed to suggest class and old fashioned romance. Smelled of a con, thought Amy. This third and final star was named Oliver. Amy saw he’d been more than liberal in his vital statistics. He’d chopped a good fifteen years from his age and maybe two stone from his weight. Obviously he’d shrunk two inches since posting his form.

She’d been a touch free in her own vitals. Amy was 5’2”, currently permed blonde, plump and forty-nine years old. Her form said thirty-nine, 5’4” and, she blushed at the thought of it... SVELTE. Not quite sure exactly what that meant, she hoped it suggested mystery and allure. A bad moment now as she wondered if it was some awful code for kinky. Would he want to tie her up and smear her with garlic... or was that treacle. She’d read somewhere about roses and maple syrup.

Amy was single. Funny she thought how that description seemed to diminished a woman. A single man had charm. The term “splinter” was a mental mugging (to her). It reeked of desperation. Over twenty years she’d achieved the position of Head of The Typing Pool with a large insurance company. These past few months she’d begun to lose it. Lack of companionship was her own verdict. “Drink,” said the pool.

“O.K.,” she said... and said aloud at the bus stop. Talking to herself on the streets was a whole new terror. It crept up gradually. So I take a few drinks... a few tots of gin at night. Mother’s ruin, he Mother said. To balance her talking to herself she’d purchased a dog. A Yorkshire Terrier and terror she was. Sherry she called the pup and was stunned at her love for it.

The pup wreaked early havoc and chewed furniture or shoes with equal abandon. But the welcome... ah. Returning from work, Sherry went into paroxysms of delight at her key in the door. Amy was made to feel the very centre of another living creature’s existence. Dizzy stuff. Perhaps she was, and it warmed a heart that cold had roughened for too many years. Amy’s flat was almost in Notting Hill Gate. She told people she lived in Holland Park. Not that a soul seemed to care if she lived in Hackney.

She’d managed to ration the gin and didn’t drink every evening. Well, not Sundays. Oliver! When she’d received details on him she felt lucky. Third time blessed and all of that. An accountant... probably drove a Bentley and had a little weekend place. He’d be sensitive but strong. Not above whacking the thugs at Notting Hill, but saddened by the homeless too. A rugby player, he’d write concise sonnets in secret. With deep understanding, only Amy would ever see them.

Oliver Philips. It had solidity. Presenting Oliver, Amy and Sherry Philips... the family Philips. The Holland Park Philips. Yes! she thought... oh yes. She’d dressed carefully for the meeting. A dark navy two-piece and discreet shoes. Pearls she’d considered but thought... over-toried.

A silk scarf with a splash of red to show her flair. For what exactly she wasn’t sure but she could wing it. She fixed her accent with the tiniest tot of gin... keep those vowels subdued. All hints of south of The River must be muted. South East London indeed... never heard of it. And now, this moron! “I’m an accountant, lass” was his opening “on account of there’s brass in it, geddit... can you FIGURE it out.”

Their date was set at a small grill and bar off the Charing Cross Road. Amy thought it boded well for her literary aspirations of Oliver.

“I picked this place, lass, cos I do the books here,” he said. More accountancy wit followed. “Cook more than the books... eh!” Amy would never swear to it but, to her horror, he winked. She had begun with a small gin, then ordered a second as the Oliver humour disintegrated. That was when he’d made the alcoholic reference. The evening shambled downwards. Oliver continued a vein of bawdy innuendo. During dessert (a forlorn crème caramel with septic cream), he’d tried to ram his knees between her legs. With the coffee, he launched on a treatise about knockers and Amy stood up.

“Shut up,” she said, “you stupid lecherous oaf.” Oliver did. She swept out, somewhat regally she thought.

A taxi got her home and she felt her heart had been mangled.

The pup tore around in delight at her appearance. Amy kicked off her shoes and pored a murderous length of gin. Two slow tears crept down her cheeks and fell softly on the ritzy scarf. More tears gathered. The pup launched herself onto Amy’s lap. A small, warm tongue began to lap at the tears. A bitty tail endeavoured to shake itself into a frenzy. Amy felt a glow of love at its purest.

“Oh Sherry,” she said, “Sherry darlin’.”

Priest, Part I Apparitions

Man, born of woman, is full of misery and has but a short time to live. Morgan read the words and felt them heavy in his mouth. “God,” he thought, “but they’re depressing.”

He woke... the same dream.

Fr. Morgan to be exact. He was six foot and lean. An unruly mop of greying hair refused settlement. Blue eyes and a nose that looked broken. His mouth had a tendency to turn down. This was due to experience rather than temperament. At forty-two years of age, he felt every one of them.

His doctor had recently given him a full physical, even including measurements.

“You’re six foot,” he accused.

“I’m awfully sorry.”

“But you can’t be.”

“Well, Doctor, I didn’t come here proclaiming I was... in fact, I never mentioned height.”

“Only one man was ever six foot.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Himself.”

“Didn’t I just ask you not to tell me... what did I ask you?”

“It’s remarkable. How’s the priesting?”

“Steady... that war scare always drums up business. People like to get their premiums paid.”

“You’re an unlikely priest.”

How true that was. If he’d had a vocation, it was fast eroding. Now he saw it as a job and that was deep trouble.

“You think so?”

“The heart isn’t in it. Ah, you do the priestly things but like an actor... and speaking of heart... how many cigarettes are you doing?”

“I’m trying to cut down.”

“They’ll cut you down, laddybuck.”

“I’m having some problems sleeping, can you give me something?”

“Yes... advice... STOP SMOKING.”

“Ah, no... no, I won’t. I can go somewhere else.”

“Who’d have you, Father?”

“Wait till your next confession, by jingo, you’ll hop.”

On the street he’d felt a powerful urge for a drink. But pubs were for citizens. He’d love nothing better than the freedom to pub crawl. He walked the short distance to his parish. On the outskirts of Clapham, his church was “a good appointment,” and he was going to be the governor, as the locals said. The parish priest, a Fr. Malachy, seventy years old, had dropped dead after Sunday Mass. Malachy the miser. Never spend a penny when you could borrow two. Morgan was temporarily assigned his duties and a year later, he was still the boss.

As he turned the corner to the church, he was turning into nightmare such as his sleep had never conjured. He’d been with Malachy before the priest had said that Sunday Mass. The priest had turned to him and said,

“Some day, Morgan, you’ll come to know a high holiness.”

“You may be right.”

“But first, I feel you may have to understand the ‘Benediction.’”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. In fact, you suffer from what Herbert Marcuse called true ignorance... contempt prior to investigation. Now for a layman, it’s just a pity, but for a priest, it’s downright tragic. Smirk all you like!”

Outside the Church, the housekeeper, Mrs. Fleming, was pacing. She looked frantic. A dumpy woman from Tipperary. She was over sixty and a worrier.

“Ah, Fr. Morgan... Thank God... oh, you won’t believe what’s happened.”

“Now calm down, Mrs. Fleming, tell me nice and slowly.”

“It’s the altar, Father. They’ve... well, I can’t describe it... come and see. Tis pure blasphemy and worse.”

Morgan sighed and followed her.

The large crucifix usually suspended above the altar was inverted. A chill whispered at his heart. Along the aisle were strewn entrails from fowl or an animal. An appalling stink rose.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he said.

“There’s worse, Father... look... on the altar. I’ll wait here.”

It took all he had to approach. Scolding himself “I’m a modern man, this is just hooliganism,” he went. The torso of a headless cat was laid there. White Rosary beads bound its back paws together. Nausea assailed him. Bile rushed to his throat as he looked at the beads. Given to him by his mother for his ordination. He had to grip the altar to keep from fainting.

“The police... call the police,” he choked.

“How did they get the beads?” asked the policeman. A detective no less. No common bobby for church matters. He was a beefy man over fifty. The face looked squatted in... and for a long time. “I’m Brady,” he’d said, “and mind, no jokes about ‘The Bunch.’”

“I don’t know how they got them. I keep them with my breviary upstairs. My mother gave them to me... she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” said Brady.

Whether for the mother or the beads, he didn’t specify. He had his men plod round the altar doing police things. They had the look of knowing more and, moreover, they’d be keeping it on a “need to know” basis. As usual, nobody needed to know.

Brady said,

“You have to wonder though.”

“What on earth about?”

“The head... where’s the head? Did you see The Godfather?”

“No... no, I did not see it... can we get on with this?”

“The head of a horse, they put it in a bloke’s bed.”

“Pl... uu... ze.”

“Any enemies, Father?”

Morgan couldn’t believe he was seriously asked this.

“Detective, I’m not altogether sure your attitude is quite the correct one.”

Brady ignored this and soon after, he left. The cleaning up fell to Morgan as Mrs. Fleming had legged it. After cleaning the debris he took nearly two hours to re-align the Cross. An elderly parishioner watched him wrestle with it and chuckled.

“Ary, Father, I don’t think there’s room on it for the both of yer.”

Morgan fled to his room. It used to be Malachy’s. A large mahogany writing desk usually gave him fierce bursts of pride. Not today. The bed was just a wish short of being double, you climbed in you didn’t ever want to emerge. An urge to check for the cat’s head was nigh ferocious.

“Enough already,” he muttered, “time to stop this paranoia.”

He lit a cigarette and was drawing deep when the phone rang. It put his heart sideways.

“Hello.”

“Fr. Morgan... am I speaking to Fr. Morgan?”

“Yes, you are... state your business.”

Cold... formal... sure, but he was all through with pleasantries for this day... he’d left them at the altar.

“I’m Kate Delaney and...”

“The journalist?”

“Yes... you’ve heard of me?”

“The radical feminist... you wrote a series of articles called ‘Men and other Garbage’.”

“Guilty as charged...”

“What do you want?”

“The incidents at your Church, I’d like to talk about them.”

“Would you now... Miss... or Mzzzz or what Mmm is current. Well, the integrity of woman isn’t threatened so you can go claw some other tree.”

“Claw... very apt, Fr... Very catty, in fact. You’re a feisty old devil, aren’t you?”

“Good day to you, Ma’am,” and he hung up.

There’s a terrible power in this. You just shut them down. Feeling like a wicked child, he glared at the phone. It rang.

She pestered him through three more calls, and more to get away from the Church, he agreed to meet at Charing Cross. He looked forward to trimming her sails.

The rendezvous was at a small Italian coffee shop where The Strand meets Charing Cross. As he entered, a woman rose from a table.

“You’re Fr. Morgan, I presume.”

“And you’re an awful nuisance.”

She was tall, almost 5’10”, and with a full figure. A navy blue suit showed the curves discreetly. Jet black hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes were dark brown and her nose was finely finished. Full lips revealed strong white teeth. The overall effect made him feel shabby. They sat.

“Would you like to eat something, Father.”

“I’d like to get this over with.”

“Testy!!..”

The waiter, a true Italian, was in heaven. A woman and a priest. Twin gods to be servile before.

“Buongiorno.”

“For God’s sake,” said Morgan.

“S’cuzi?”

“Cappuccino... yes, two.”

“Bene...”

Kate looked at the priest and said,

“You’d need to lighten up there, padre.”

“Look... call me Morgan, it’s my name, I’m not your father and I very much doubt you’re Catholic. What am I to call you?”

“Kate, it’s my name... and I am... or was Catholic.”

“Worse, the lapsed ones are the worst. Neither fowl nor beast.”

The waiter brought the coffees amid a flourish of flattery and servility not heard since Popes went to Ireland.

Kate took a sip, smiled, and said,

“It’s my birthday.”

“What age are you, or is that a huge chauvinist crime?”

“Forty.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Well... Morgan, as Gloria Steinheim said, ‘this is what forty looks like.’”

“That... another neurotic.”

“Tut tut, I do believe you’re attempting to wind me up. Relax... I won’t bite, you know.”

The waiter slid over and hovered.

“What... what is it?” asked Morgan.

“Telefono, Monsignor... you are the Padre Morgan?”

“Telephone... for me?... here, but it can’t be.”

Kate said,

“Did the caller give a name?”

“Ah, si... he said he be ‘Father Malachy.’”

Blood drained from Morgan’s face. Kate stood and said,

“I’ll go... just wait here.”

He couldn’t have moved anyway. Icicles ran down his spine and he actually felt the hairs bristle at the neck base. He didn’t think that was ever anything but a figure of speech.

Kate returned.

“The line was dead.”

Her figure of speech nigh finished him off.

“What’s going on, Morgan?... you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Or heard from one.”

He resolved that, whatever else, he wouldn’t tell her. No matter how strong the urge, she’d get nothing. Then he told her.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Look at me... do I look like I’m kidding... do I?”

“Valium... do you have any valium?”

“I wouldn’t take those!”

“Not for you, for me. Jeez, I thought you guys had stuff for all emergencies.”

“That’s social workers, pills and patronisation.”

“Whew. Rough... if I write this, they’ll shoot me.”

“Graham Greene, are you familiar with him?”

“You think he’d written it?”

“I was about to say that he remarked how priests and writers found success unavailable.”

“Speak for yourself, fella. I’ll get the check.”

She had a car, a beat up Rover, and on seeing his expression, said,

“Pretty macho, eh?”

He was too spooked to wise-ass, thought he wanted to... instead he took the lift back to the Church. Her driving was strong and careful... like real Irish tea. Practised and sure. At the Church she said,

“Well be seeing each other, Father Morgan, you can count on that.”

As she drove off, she thanked some God that the remark on the tip of her tongue had stayed there: “Cat got your tongue, then?”

Someone had the cat’s head and the priest’s attention. Attracted to him, too, she knew that from the moment she saw him. That he was a priest didn’t make him untouchable... just difficult.

Entering the Church, the first thing he heard was whistling, and if he wasn’t much mistaken, it had the air of “The Kerry Dances.” Sister Benedventura. Her whistlin’ was on a par with her shining. If it moved, polish and then spit shine. Malachy had said “she’d shine the head of a pin”... and God, he sure didn’t want to think about him. What he wanted... and fast, was a big drink.

Sister Ben said,

“There’s someone here for the post of secretary.”

“Ary, God. Blast it... sorry, Ben... sorry... look, gimme five minutes and I’ll see her in the Rectory.”

“She’s been waiting an hour already.”

“Well, she won’t mind a few more minutes. Give her tea or somethin’...”

“Tea.”

“Yes... tea... or sherry... just stop giving me grief.”

“Well, I’m sorry I spoke, your Reverence.”

“Get on with it.”

As he stopped off, he distinctly heard the whistle turn into to “Colonel Bogie.” He felt like a prisoner of war himself and heavily tortured. In his room, he opened a bottle of Jameson. A deliberate choice. Reading Graham Greene, he’d learned a large glass of this looked like a very watered drink. In company, you could appear pious and get absolutely pissed. Such is the learning of literature. He poured a single... considered... then shrugged and built an Irish double. Clug... wait and wham-oh. Wallop! The eyes nigh jumped out of his head. A few seconds later, a sense of well-being flooded his system. He said aloud,

“Aw, Jaysus... isn’t that only might. The Holy Name be glorified.”

Chance another, better not... so he did regardless. An urge to sign nigh overwhelmed him. As he went to interview the woman, he glanced around the room and went... pss... pss... nice cat... pss... pss. Ah, wasn’t life on an upsurge. Entering the Rectory, a slight jauntiness lit his step. A woman rose to her feet. Early thirties, blonde streaked hair and the face of an angel. She was about 5’2” and a figure that screamed to be hugged. The eyes were oval-shaped and intelligence-blazed. Her hand was extended.

“I’m Sera Blake.”

“Sarah... is it?”

“S... E... R... A...”

“Ah, sorry, that’s an unusual name.”

“It’s the one given to me, Father.”

“Yes... yes, of course, quite lovely... am...” (He wanted to say how even lovelier she was.)

He took her hand and electricity burned. A jolt of passion nearly toppled him. She knew... a tiny smile hovered. Sweat broke on his forehead.

“The job is quite varied... apart from Church correspondence, there’s personal letters, etc., I’d need you to take charge of.”

She handed him her references.

“Very impressive, are you married, Mzz... Miss... am.”

“No... please call me Sera.”

“Grand... and let’s dispense with the formalities. I’m Morgan... and when can you start?”

“Tomorrow... I never got married because the best ones are ‘unavailable.’”

She gave him a look that Raymond Chandler said “you felt in your back pocket.”

Lust tore throughout him and he felt the physical signs of this were soon to be mortifyingly obvious. Shame and Jameson burned his face.

“How is Malachy?” she asked.

Too stunned to answer, he gaped at her.

“I used to know him when I attended this parish years ago.”

“Am... he’s... no longer with us... I’m sorry to tell you he’s deceased.”

Sera prepared to leave. As she got to the door, she turned and said,

“I like to think they’re always with us... don’t you, Father?”

He sat down and lit a shaking cigarette. The nicotine burned like revelation. Alcohol whispered,

“No worries, son, nothing here that a few stiff belts won’t fix... let’s nip upstairs and finish that bottle... how much can be left in it.”

He did.

The small hours of the morning he came to. Stretched on his bed, still dressed and a mega hangover waiting. Looking at his watch, he remembered Scott Fitzgerald’s “It’s 3:30 in the morning of our souls.” Time of fear.

Thirst drove him out to the landing. Someone was at the top of the stairs.

“Hello,” he ventured.

His mother turned and smiled.

The impact floored him and he fell to his knees. Whimpering, he forced himself to look. The landing was empty. Trembling he eased down the stairs, expecting a hand on his shoulder. The sheer screaming of his thirst got him to continue. He turned the lights on in the kitchen. A gallon of ice cold water he promised. Opening the fridge, the cat’s head was grinning at him. A shriek made him worse and then he realized it was he who was making the woeful sound. Thirst forgotten, he fled back upstairs and bolted the door of his room.

Morning came, slow and heavy. A pack of cigarettes had brought his thirst to manic proportions. A scalding shower helped, and he drank from the bathroom tap. The shake in his hands made shaving a near massacre. Dressed in civvies he made his way tentatively to the kitchen. All was bustle and activity. Mrs. Fleming said,

“Tis yourself.”

“Sort of,” he thought.

A couple of altar boys were throwing toast, Sister Ben was shining the taps, and Mrs. Fleming moved back and forth from the fridge with ease.

“Nothing for me,” he said, “just coffee... and black... no milk.”

“But it’s all ready, Father.”

“What did I say... does everyone have a contrary opinion?”

“Oh well, please yourself. I’ll leave it for the cats.”

His stomach lurched.

“Hurry up with the coffee.”

The Church bell rang and then the visitors. Mrs. Fleming went, muttering darkly about the starving millions in India. Morgan made a full mug of coffee. Toast sailed past his ear.

“Get out, for the love of God,” he roared. The altar boys fled.

“Sister Ben... did you use the fridge this morning?”

“Is there something missing, Father?”

“Jaysus... sorry... sorry, could you just answer yes or no?”

“What’s missing?”

He made a manic run for the fridge. Sister Ben shouted in alarm. Flinging open the door, he steeled himself. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just fridge things. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mrs. Fleming returned.

“A visitor for you, Father.”

“Who is it?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s my place to ask.”

Gulping down half the coffee, he considered putting her head in the fridge. A wino was waiting at reception.

Tall, over 6’2”, he had a huge mop of white hair, black ragged beard, and sunglasses with red frames. A heavy grey overcoat came to his knees. The wino’s tan covered large hands and his face.

“I’m Walter,” he said, and offered his hand.

Morgan shook it.

“Bit early to be looking for money, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon, vicar, I’m no beggar... ask for nothing from no man. None asked, none given, harsh but equitable.”

“I’m a priest, this is a Catholic church, the other crowd are across the common.”

“Are you sure? A policeman gave me directions. I’ve no idea how he jumped to a papist conclusion.”

“Well, good day to you then, sir.”

“A moment, priest... I’ve been toying with conversion. Anyway, I’m new to this borough and I like to present my credentials with the relevant authorities. Am I too late for breakfast penance?”

Morgan laughed. Something he thought he’d never do again. He took Walter through to the kitchen and instructed a sulking Mrs. Fleming to feed him. As he left, Walter said,

“I can see you’re fond of a drop yerself. I’m definitely converting.”

Morgan said a shaky mass and noticed a large crowd. Word of yesterday’s events was circuited widely. As he took the wine from the altar boys he saw them exchange a knowing look. “God,” he thought, “I’ll be known as the dipso priest.”

Sera was waiting in the small office. She wore a short black skirt, black blouse and black stockings. It made her hair shine like brilliantine.

“I’m all yours,” she said.

Passion again engulfed him. He outlined the work and added,

“I’ve some personal letters later.”

She crossed her legs and the sound the nylon was like a bomb.

“Your personals will receive my full attention.”

Unable to reply, he excused himself. Fresh air, he reckoned... and a drink, but that would have to wait. A killer, but vital. As he turned the corner outside, he nigh collided with Kate Delaney.

“You macho brute,” she said, and laughed.

“Sorry... sorry, I didn’t expect to find you creeping round here. What do you want?”

“A small favour.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a drinks pity party this evening to launch a new charity and the sight of a priest will boost the funds.”

“To go with you... is it?”

“Would that be so horrible?”

“Well, all righty. I will.”

They sat on a church stone seat. Weak September light gave an impression of warmth. He resolved not to tell her about last night. Any sane person would ask had he been drinking. She’d think he’d had the D.T.s. A moment later, he told her the lot.

“And had you been drinking?”

“A bit.”

“Sounds like the D.T.s”

Before he could reply, Sera appeared carrying a sheaf of papers. She looked brazen at Kate, to him she said,

“I’ll need your signature, Father.”

Kate smiled.

“Do introduce us, MORGAN.”

He did.

A loaded tension settled. He felt as if he was six years old and couldn’t think of a further word. The parishioner who’d watched him wrestle the Cross came by.

“Double dating, is it, Father?... Yah saucy rascal.”

Sera told him she’d wait inside. He watched her walk with renewed feelings of guilt and lust.

“Watch out for her, Morgan.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As they say in Southeast London, ‘she’ll be ’aving you, that one.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m a priest.”

“And it must be said, a pretty naïve one. I’ll pick you up at 7. Meanwhile, do keep it in your pants.”

Flabbergasted, he watched her leave. What had happened to the world? In his youth, you’d never dare talk like that to a priest. Never... never were sex and the clergy linked, at least never verbally. An old word surfaced and he uttered it with grim satisfaction,

“Hussy.”

Thing was, he wasn’t altogether clear as to which of the women it applied. A blast of fatigue hit him and he resolved on a few hours kip that afternoon.

Once, reading Saul Alinsky, he’d underlined a line which he hadn’t comprehended. It read,

“He who fears corruption fears life.”

Where on earth this left him now was up for grabs.

He looked onto the vestry. An altar boy had a bottle of wine and was clugging like an old hand.

“Yah pup, yah,” roared Morgan.

The boy fled, droppin’ the wine. Morgan managed a brief, powerful kick to the boy’s behind and heard him howl. Morgan said,

“I’ll skin yah alive if I catch yah at that again.”

The boy turned, defiance writ large on his face.

“My dad says you’re an oul souse!”

It stopped Morgan cold... souse!.. Where they find them.

Round three, he could postpone a nap no longer. Entering his room, his heart lurched anew, a body was outlined beneath the blankets.

“God in Heaven, what now?” he asked.

Tiptoeing over, he grabbed the top blanket and pulled. Walter leapt up, startled, and then leapt at Morgan. They wrestled for a furious moment before recognition lit the wino’s eyes.

“The priest.”

“Get off me... you reprobate... who the hell were you expecting?”

“Be fair, mate... I thought it was the old bill... the coppers, you know... the filth.”

“You’re wearing my pyjamas... how dare you.”

“But don’t you Catholics share all?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“What about the Francis guy?”

“A Franciscan... a queer set of semi-hippies at the best of times.”

“Are you going to call the rozzers?”

“Who?”

“The police, don’t you speak any modern English or is it all Latin... eh?”

“Clear off before I do something drastic.”

“I have a confession to make.”

“Yea, well, Saturdays, from 9 to 12.”

“I used your toothbrush.”

Walter gathered his belongings and humming “Ave Maria” he left... in the pyjamas.

Morgan was too tired to clean up or change the sheets. He lay on the tousled bed and slept immediately.

In his dreams, Sera came and made sensual love to him. She brought him to a peak of passionate climax that hurled him gasping to consciousness.

“Good Lord,” he gasped.

He lit a cigarette and the irony of this escaped him. How to face her. Surely his face would betray the contents of his dreams. A vague trace of perfume lingered in the room. Unless he was mistaken, it was patchouli oil. It hardly belonged to Walter. At the seminary, in the late ’60s, the fragrance was associated with the hippies. It always appealed to him.

“Ary, I dunno what to think,” he said.

A hot shower and shave banished all analysis. He selected a grey suit and just a hint of the dog collar. The look was sufficiently priestly without being pious. Just the thing for a charity event. Get their money with subliminals. Nothing pushy, but effective. He whistled a bar of “Ave Maria.”

He remembered a passage from his reading. It went,

A copy of Ulysses was quarter read. Someday, he’d give it his full attention. The profile of Joyce he knew best was

Kate was waiting in the car, the engine of the Rover quietly humming. She was wearing a tan suit with a very short skirt. The skirt had risen very close to her hips. He didn’t know where to look. She said,

“I finally identified it.”

“What... whatever happened to hello?”

“That, too... when I met your little friend Sera. I knew I recognised something.”

“So... is it a secret or do you want to tell me.”

“Her scent, it’s patchouli oil.”

He fumbled for a cigarette.

“Please don’t smoke in the car.”

“Let me out so.”

“Don’t be childish, surely you can do without one for ten minutes.”

He lit the cigarette. Kate opened the window. There wasn’t a whole lot of further conversation on the journey.

On arrival she said,

“I do hope your behaviour will improve.”

“Have you any children?”

“No.”

“No wonder.”

Her face looked slapped... and hard. He was too shaken to apologize. The expression on her face changed to one of indifference.

“Shall we go in, Father.”

They did.

For Morgan, the fund-raiser was not a success. The only beverage served was white wine and he drank far too much. Kate circulated widely and avoided him easily. Money was raised and spirits lowered. Morgan was cornered by a fervent man with a ponytail. In his thirties, he was very bald on top and he had the eyes of a zealot.

“You’re the priest?”

“I am.”

“I’m Jeff. Tell me about yourself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you a man of the people?”

“Well, I’m one of them.”

“Semantics, verbal escapism.”

Morgan looked a little more closely at him. What he’d have liked was to give the ponytail a good and hard yank. “Some more wine and I might,” he thought.

Jeff persisted.

“Where do you stand on homosexuals?”

“Well clear.”

“How facetious... do I detect a trace of an Irish accent?”

“You might.”

“Would you like me to tell you the trouble with the Irish?”

“Listen, Jude, why you don’t take a flying leap is what’s the real trouble.”

“It’s Jeff, actually... I see you came with Kate... the old protective cover, eh! How would you like to slip off somewhere for the old mano el man.”

To Morgan’s astonishment, the guy winked. The wine was roaring in his head and he was a bit dizzy from the nicotine.

“Ary, fuck off,” he said.

He headed for the door and ignored the polite greetings from various people. On the street, he looked in vain for a taxi. North of the river was about all he knew of his location. Bound to be a tube station and he trudged hopefully down the street. It was residential with front gardens. The lighting was poor and he began to fret. An urge to relieve himself built from deep within. Looking round furtively, he hopped energetically over a small gate. The garden had a large tree and he trotted over.

A low growl was the only warning before half a ton of Rottweiler attacked. It knocked him flat and then sunk its jaws in his thigh.

“Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he screamed.

Was it trying to sever his leg? He grabbed its huge head and with ferocity, sank his teeth into its neck. A howl of agony from the dog.

“How do you like it, you bastard?”

Releasing its grip, the animal backed away. A near-full insane Morgan roared,

“Want a piece of me, do you... you mangy cur, I’ll tear the bloody bollocks off you, yah bloody mongrel.”

Rising shakily to his feet, Morgan backed towards the fence. They watched each other warily... A truce understood. The priest looked down at his mangled thigh. A blast of pain near blacked him out. He was trying to light a cigarette when the Rover came by. Kate rolled down the window.

“Morgan, what on earth happened?”

“I was mugged.”

“And the mugger tried to give you some sort of lethal blow job... better get you to the hospital.”

Slumped in the front seat, he thought,

“I’m in a Rover and ten minutes ago I was nearly in a Rottweiler.”

Hysteria blocked the agony.

Kate insisted on taking him to the hospital. An Irish nurse was on duty. She exclaimed, “By the holy, what sort of animal was at you at all, Father? Is nothing sacred?”

Morgan glared.

“Save me the leprechaun spiel, sister.”

“And a mouth on him... we’ll have to have a tetanus shot.”

“What, all of us?”

“Aren’t you the one... hold still... this won’t hurt.”

It did.

Kate drove him home. He felt bedraggled and old.

“I feel bedraggled and old, Kate.”

“God knows, you look it.”

At the Church, he got out then leant back in for a moment.

“Kate, what I said about the children, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did, but never mind, I like you anyway.”

He watched her drive off and regretted the pain he’d caused. The ache in his thigh was throbbing. Some years before, he’d watched a young mother and her little boy. The boy was eating chocolate, he’d broke off a bit and said,

“Mummy, would you like a taste of my chocolate?”

The boy had then gazed as his mother ate the chocolate. A look of adoration twixt wonder. Morgan had felt then a sadness of infinity. Such tenderness he’d never experience. The same feeling swept him now. What he most longed to do was sit on the kerb and weep. To have someone put an arm round him and say,

“Like a piece of my chocolate?”

But as he wept, he wasn’t altogether sure he’d ever stop.

“Do priests cry?” he asked. “Not in public,” answered the dregs of the white wine.

Sera was sitting in the kitchen. A cup of tea sat beside a fruit plant and her papers.

“Bit late, isn’t it?” he said.

“Oh, I’m nearly done. I just wanted to water the plant.”

“What is it?... that fruit looks almost like strawberries.”

“Yes, they do... don’t they? Try one.”

She broke off a piece and offered it to him. The fruit was a scarlet red, like her lips.

“Eve in the garden,” he thought, but what he said was,

“Not right now, thanks, it’s late. I’ll be getting along.”

“It’s deceptive.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It looks sweet, luscious even, and you can’t wait to sink your teeth in it... But it’s tasteless.”

A cold finger crept along his spine. Sera sank her even white teeth into the fruit and smiled.

“So few things are what they seem... are they, Father?”

Lust roared in his loins and the pain in his thigh only highlit that.

“Good night to you then.”

He’d almost reached the door when he heard her whisper,

“You need not be bereft of chocolate or comfort... ever.”

He kept going, perhaps he’d just imagined it.

“Yea, he muttered, “I’m highly wrought, that’s all.”

A bile taste in his mouth, he felt hairs in his teeth... using his fingers, he extracted the Rottweiler’s strands.

“Ah, Jay-sus,” he cried, “I’ve heard of the hair of the dog, but this is downright ridiculous.”

The dreams again were Sera and sensual. He came to with a feeling of guilt and delight. Sunday, the day of rest, not if you were a priest. The face in the mirror would give winos a bad name. A night on the tiles, in fact he looked like he’d tried to eat them.

He hadn’t prepared a sermon and reckoned he’d wing it. Who listened anyway? Could he remember a single sermon he’d ever heard? Not one... not even his own. Mrs. Fleming was busy with kitchen things, and he made a pot of strong black coffee. In last night’s turmoil he’d forgotten to get cigarettes.

“Mrs. Fleming? You... you wouldn’t know of any cigarettes hidden around?”

“I certainly would not... hmm, the very idea!”

References!.. “yea,” he promised... “I’m going to re-check those that Sera had provided.” What he could recall had been excellent. Malachy had said to him once,

“Beware the person with a perfect past.”

Mrs. Fleming began to sweep round him, then under his feet. It felt like McDonald’s.

The lack of cigarettes frayed his nerves.

“For God’s sake, will you let me have my coffee in peace.”

“My, my... aren’t we touchy this morning.”

While he was at it he fumed,

“I’ll check this biddy’s references, too.”

The Church was packed. As Morgan climbed the podium he recognized Kate, Sera and Walter.

He began,

“Sin is like a Rottweiler, it fastens itself to your thigh... I mean soul. It leads us into dark gardens of the night. Yet the very heart of man yearns for a cigarette... sorry, for salvation.”

The congregation shuffled nervously.

“We live in an age of AIDS and poll taxes. The cure for our afflictions lives in a bottle... I mean it doesn’t live in a bottle.”

Sweat ran along his forehead.

“Sex is the modern obsession. You cannot screw... I mean steal your way to salvation. He who lives by the dick... SWORD, shall die by the crowd... by the Sword.”

Isolated bursts of laughter began.

“I tell you, he who laughs last didn’t understand the joke. Is God the Tommy Cooper of today? To be switched off when we tire of his tricks. We are deceived by the appearance of things. What looks sweet and desirable is tasteless. Does God ask for references? When we despair, is He there with comfort and chocolate?” People were muttering. A desperate Morgan knew he’d have to go Biblical. Snow them with the ring of authenticity. The less comprehensible, the more ominous. “Verily I say to you... what is begun is begun. Jacob howled in the wilderness. The Lord God of Abraham smote the hordes of Babylon and the Citadel was built on sand. Hosannahs will be heard above the covenant and a mighty reckoning will occur. In vino veritas, secolo secularum. In Nomino Patre...”

The crowd tentatively took up the refrain. Morgan reckoned Millwall wouldn’t spit on this lot of a Saturday afternoon.

He raced through the remainder of the mass and hoped the Bishop didn’t get to hear of this. “A lack of nicotine, if only I’d got a few drags,” he thought. In the vestry, he sent an altar boy for cigarettes.

“Hurry up,” he said.

He wasn’t facing that lot smokeless. No way.

Morgan locked himself away for the remainder of the day. He left the phone off the hook. Towards evening Mrs. Fleming came banging on the door.

“Go away,” he said.

“I’ve left a tray here, you’ll have to eat something.”

“Clear off.”

“Father Conor is back, he says he’s coming up.”

Conor was second in command. Just recently ordained, he had the gung-ho of the truly native. He looked like an Irish choirboy and hailed from the West of Ireland. Tall and stringy, he was wildly enthusiastic about everything. For the past month, he’d been on a course in “Urban Psychology.” Morgan felt “Urban Terrorism” would have been more useful. It was said he had “the ear of the Bishop.”

“Aye,” thought Morgan, “and the heart of a snake.”

Sure enough, a while later, he knocked and came in.

“Why did you knock?” asked Morgan.

“Oh, I think it’s very important to knock before entering a room.”

“But you came in anyway.”

“Ah, Father Morgan, you’re teasing me.”

“Ary, catch yerself on, little girls get teased. I’m trying to get your attention.”

“I hear you’re not well.”

“From your lips to the Bishop’s ear.”

“Isn’t that to ‘God’s ear’?”

“Not in your case, laddybuck.”

They eyed each other warily. Neither was keen on what he saw. Conor outlined the itinerary for the coming week and then came to the point.

“The Bishop will want a full report.”

“And you’re the one to do it.”

“With your guidance, of course.”

“Was there anything else, Conor?”

“The new secretary, Sera, she’s a treasure. Well done!”

Morgan looked carefully at him. Was he winding him up?

“Are you winding me up?”

“Good Lord, no... I mean it... she knew Fr. Malachy.”

“Yea, but before or after he died, that’s what worries me.”

Conor was taken aback. He’d never understood Morgan and knew only that the humour was never straightforward. This had to be a joke. So he laughed, albeit a trifle hollowly.

Morgan said,

“What’s the joke, lad?”

“Am...”

“I dunno what ye find funny in the bogs of Mayo, but it’s a different story here. Off with you now.”

A confused Conor withdrew.

On a bus bound for Kennington, Mrs. Fleming was heading home. Thoughts of the roast in her bag kept her content. She “liberated” it from the Church and was well pleased. A priest greeted her heartily as he rose to leave the bus.

“Bless you, Ma’am.”

It was a full five minutes before she realized who he was. Walter... the wino. In Fr. Morgan’s best suit. A malicious smile began at the corner of her mouth.

The next week restored Morgan to near sanity. No incidents occurred in the Church, his dreams were quiet, and Sera worked with Conor. Kate rang once but he hadn’t returned the call. He cut down on his cigarettes and the drink seemed less a necessity.

Morgan found himself whistling as he entered the Confessional for the Saturday morning session.

A list of petty sins nigh lulled him to sleep. He distributed light penance to all and word spread that a good deal was going and parishioners flocked for the cut-rate penance. Just before one, the door opened on the penitent’s side and he slid back the grille.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

A woman’s voice, but not familiar.

“How long since your last confession?”

“A very long time.”

“God will forgive you, my child.”

A chuckle from the darkness. A deep, almost masculine tone. The hairs at the base of his neck tingled. Then the woman’s voice.

“I’ve been having sex with a man.”

“In marriage, my child, that’s perfectly normal.”

“I’m not married.”

“Well... have you plans to be wed later?”

“He’s already married.”

“I see.”

“To the Church.”

A wave of patchouli oil blasted through the grille. The deeper voice said, “And will his God forgive him? Answer me, priest...”

He was too stricken to look towards the voice. The penitent’s door opened and the woman said,

“See you later, lover boy.”

Morgan was hyperventilating... he pushed open the door and staggered out. Blindly he groped his way along to the open air. He heard two old ladies whispering, “He’s drunk again... absolutely legless.”

Trying to gather his senses, he gulped in huge breaths of air. A parishioner approached.

“Fr. Morgan, I just want to say what a fine man that new priest is.”

“Well, Fr. Conor is a West of Ireland man, something in the water breeds fine clergy.”

“And,” he thought, “even finer madness.”

“No... not the young whippersnapper, the more mature man... Wally... no, Walter... Fr. Walter.”

“WALTER!”

“The very man, he has the common touch... and compassion... it pours from him. We might all take a page out of his book.”

“I’ll take more than that... I’ll have a piece of his hide.”

Priest, Part II Demons

Morgan invited Kate to dinner. He felt woesome about his crack on her childlessness. He was going to feel worse.

Mrs. Fleming was approached for the meal preparation. She said,

“And is that all you think I have to do, prepare special meals for floosies?”

“Floosie? She’s a respectable woman.”

“Is she married?”

“Am... I’m not sure.”

“Hah... I thought so!”

Morgan was seething. Not easy when you need a favour from the seethe dispenser.

“Forget it, Fleming... I’ll make other arrangements.”

“Suit yerself.”

Sister Ben was next approached. A litre bottle of Lourdes Holy Water was all it took. He suggested something simple and she said,

“Rely on me, Father. I put the ‘C’ in clerical culinary.”

He decided not to investigate that. Some statements are best left alone. A functions room at the back of the Church he thought would do nicely. Looking at the room, he said,

“This will do nicely.”

When he invited Kate, she sounded surprised and pleased. She asked who was cooking.

“One of the sisters,” he said.

“In the feminist or religious use?”

“Now, Kate, don’t start. I’m trying to be nice.”

“Some people are nice without trying.”

“Yer fairly trying yerself... are you going to come or what?”

“Well, Morgan, I’ll show up, whether I come or not is the great magazine debate.”

It took a moment to sink in for him. His cheeks burned.

“I’m a priest,” he gasped.

“Let’s all attempt to bear that in mind,” and she hung up.

Irish stew. Sister Ben had made enough for a small country.

“Would ye like consommé to start?” she asked.

“Con-fusion is more like,” said a disappointed Morgan. He’d hoped for some dish he couldn’t pronounce. Still, he was grateful it wasn’t bacon and cabbage. Sister Ben gave him a run through where the various pots were simmering, and the fridge with red jelly in bowls. He gave her a small medal and said,

“There’s a plenary indulgence attached.”

“Can I return it if I’m not fully satisfied?”

“Sister, I’m not sure it’s a matter for jocularity.”

“I’d have preferred money.”

“And what, tell me, would a nun do with money?”

“Buy lotto cards.”

“That’s gambling.”

“It’s popular, Father, that’s what it is. Sister Mary won big...”

“Away with you, Sister, I won’t listen to such worldliness.”

Sister Ben stared at him. Rebellion etched her fine features. What she said, she said in Spanish,

“Vaya con dios.”

Morgan, whose English was suspect, was suspicious even of Latin. His bread and butter so to speak.

“What’s that?” he roared.

“Tis Spanish.”

“Hmmph, well, if you read anything besides Woman’s Own, you’d know Dominick Dunne described it as the language of maids.”

Sister Ben muttered and left.

Kate arrived with a bottle of scotch and two bottles of wine. She was dressed in a pale blue suit, the skirt was to her knees. Morgan felt relief and regret. She said,

“I was going to bring flowers but you’d go all mawkish, I think.”

“Scotch is good. Will I pour?”

“As if you meant it.”

The dinner table impressed her... and the smell of stew was comforting. After the soup, Morgan ladled mountains of stew on their plates. They ate in silence and drank the wine.

“More?” he asked.

“No... wow, that stew was delicious. Who made it?”

“I did,” said Morgan.

“Well, it was excellent, I didn’t think priests cooked.”

“It’s a long tradition, you never know when the culinary call might be needed.”

She smiled. Morgan poured more wine and asked,

“Jelly?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For dessert, there’s red jelly.”

“I’m sure there is but is it on myself or does it sound slightly suggestive.”

They skipped the jelly. He made coffee and slipped a shot of scotch into the cups. If she noticed, she kept it to herself.

Kate was silent for a long time, then she began,

“I was married... Martin died three years ago and there isn’t a day I don’t miss him. He was an alcoholic and a nicer person even drunk than most are sober.”

“Was it his heart?”

“No, it was suicide.”

Morgan was horrified. Words of comfort wouldn’t give themselves.

She continued,

“One bleak day, he obviously lost the battle with his demons and carbon monoxided himself in the garage. Not the Rover, his own one... a Datsun. Naturally, if you’re going to commit hari-kiri, use a Japanese car.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She seemed not to hear him. Her look was far and far away.

“Is he damned forever then?”

Morgan didn’t know so he said,

“I dunno, I think there’s a special compassionate part of Heaven for such desperation. You used the word ‘demons.’”

“What would you use?”

“Did he describe them?”

“Morgan, they don’t come with identikits. The nature of them is their non-descriptiveness. If you could name them, mebbe you could fight back.”

Morgan fetched the scotch. He was leaning over Kate to pour into her cup. The door opened. Sera stood there, the light behind her lit her hair like a halo. She said,

“Well, isn’t this cosy?”

Morgan shot up... fumbled... and dropped the scotch.

“Ah, Jay-sus,” he said, as the golden liquid spread across the floor.

“Join us,” ventured Kate. Sera tossed her head, saying,

“Three’s a crowd, I don’t think the priest is yet ready for the ménage a trois.”

Departing, she nigh took the door off its hinges.

“What on earth,” gasped Morgan.

“That... is a woman scorned.”

“Surely you don’t think... I mean, you don’t think she thought. Oh, God.”

Kate smiled and said,

“A murderess is only an ordinary woman in a temper... and that, Morgan, is no ordinary woman.”

Morgan began to clear up. Rattled by Sera, he resolved like Scarlett O’Hara to think about it tomorrow. Kate said it was late and she’d better get moving. He agreed and walked her to her car.

The Rover was parked at the rear. They found the tyres slashed and red paint had been lashed across the windscreen. They both hoped it was paint. They went inside for Morgan to call a taxi. Kate was pale. He made her a coffee and poured the remaining scotch into it. The dregs of the wine gave him some semblance of a drink, too. She said,

“Let’s not even hazard a guess as to what happened. We can speculate tomorrow. Right now, I have to go home alone.”

“Tell me about Martin.”

“I found with him what it means to truly love. I put everything about him before my own wants and needs. I wanted to please him more than I wanted him to please me. For as long as I loved for myself, I felt frustrated loving him, for his loving me set me free. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Before Martin, I prided myself on my sensitivity. In fact, I was a touchy little bitch. I only knew what hurt me. Through him I learned that sensitivity is knowing what hurts others... so... gimme another shot of that lethal coffee.”

Morgan had to raid the church supplies to find drink. A bottle of Napoleon Brandy was kept for the Bishop’s visits. He took it. Two dynamite coffees were made. He said,

“Here’s to the Bishop.”

“May all his children be baptised.”

“Jeez, Kate, keep your voice down. I’d better call you a taxi... to Streatham, is it?”

“That’s home.”

“Is it a safe area?”

“Well, Morgan, I dunno about safe, but the pitbulls travel in pairs.”

He laughed and rang the taxi. Kate said,

“Gimme another of those suckers and I’ll skip home.”

“Aw, I think you’ve had enough, Kate.”

A tad unsteady, Kate allowed him to guide her outside for the taxi. The driver got out to help her. He looked at Morgan, one eyebrow raised.

“Plied her with drinks, did you, Vicar?”

“I beg your pardon.”

The driver smiled. “You know what they say, Vic, a bird in the hand is worth two in Shepherd’s Bush.”

“What are you suggesting? I have the number of your vehicle, I’ll have you know.”

The driver shrugged. As he put the car in gear, he rolled down the window and said,

“I have your number, Vic... yah randy old git... the News of the World pays for stories about the likes of you... give us a shout for the Christening.”

With a squeal of tyres, he roared into the night. Morgan said,

“A black Protestant.”

As Morgan re-entered the Church, he heard a loud voice.

“Great God, I would rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn so might I have glimpses that would make me less forlorn, have sight of Proteus rising from the sea or hear old Triton blow His wretched horn.”

Walter was striding up and down the function room, slugging from the brandy.

“Walter!.. what the hell are you doing?”

“Wordsworth, I’m quoting the lyrical poet himself.”

“That’s the Bishop’s brandy.”

“Ah render unto Caesar those things that belong to Caesar.”

Morgan grabbed the bottle, saying,

“Sit down. I want a word with you.”

Walter was dressed in blue dungarees and a fisherman’s smock. Brand-new work boots peeped from below the pants. Heavy gel was keeping his hair straight back. He sat and Morgan said,

“What’s your game? You’ve been masquerading as a priest... do you think this church is your house?”

Walter sighed and spoke as you would to a particularly dense child,

“Morgan, Morgan, Morgan... this is God’s House and it’s time you learned that. Is it not true that you are the one masquerading as a priest?”

“I don’t believe this... are you stone mad?”

Walter hopped up and before an astonished Morgan, poured two large brandies.

“Join me in the fruit of the nectar.”

He knocked back the brandy, clenched his teeth and went,

“Ar... ar... gh.”

Then he examined the remnants of the meal.

“Was it the Gaelic dish?... any left or did you villains scoff the lot? I saw jelly in the fridge. My, oh my... I do love a sliver of jelly.”

Morgan said,

“Looks like you put it in your hair... I’m going to ring the police for you, me lad.”

Walter put up his hand.

“HALT... let me share my wisdom with you. Never mind you didn’t share the stew. I bear you no malice. Are you conversant with Ralph Waldo Emerson?” Morgan was lost, he didn’t know how to rid himself of the man. He drank and said,

“Not recently.”

“A facetious answer but I’ll plough on,” the man said. “There are three wants which can never be satisfied. That of the rich, who want something more. That of the sick, who want something different, and that of the traveler, who says, Anywhere but here.’ What say you to that, Father?”

“I identify with the traveler.”

“I wish to put myself forward as caretaker to this Church. I am both plumber and scholar.”

Morgan felt he’d never be rid of him... if he was employed here, at least Morgan could keep some control. He said,

“I’ll consider it, but you better behave yourself.”

“You don’t believe I’m a scholar, do you? I’m particularly a fait with Greek mythology. Have you heard of Ares, the God of Warfare?”

“Enough for one night, Walter. You can begin by locking up. I’m for the leaba.”

“La... bah?”

“Leaba, it’s Irish for bed. Goodnight to you.”

“Morgan... reverse it, use your mind.”

A weary Morgan climbed between the sheets...

“Reverse what,” he thought.

Just before sleep overcame him, he thought and dismissed it,

SERA

   ARES

Malachy made a guest appearance in his dreams. He carried a slim volume of Longfellow’s poems. Next to money, he’d liked few things with such intensity as this poetry. Malachy opened the book and read,

As in all dreams, events were jangled and confused. Malachy was dressed in Walter’s dungarees and spoke like the Bishop. Sera appeared and screamed at Malachy,

“What warehouse of the soul awaits you now?”

Morgan felt his shoulder grabbed and came awake to find Conor at his bedside. He said,

“Good God, Morgan, you were wailing like the Banshee... you woke the whole parish.”

“Jaysus... where am I?... I’d a nightmare that Tobe Hooper would be afraid to film.”

“Who?”

“Tobe Hooper... The Texas Chainsaw Massacre... do you know anything?... yah ignoramus. I suppose the bloody Bishop will hear of this.”

A highly offended Conor shot back as he departed,

“At the volume you were roaring, I’d say he’s already heard.”

Morgan spent the day on conscious low profile. His face said, “Not available and that means you.” A purposeful stride suggested industry and kept him moving. Late in the afternoon he took a stroll in the gardens.

Walter, in bright green overalls, was berating a middle-aged parishioner. The man, a shopkeeper, was a heavy contributor to church funds. Walter was saying,

“Listen, mate, the last time you got it up, the bow and arrow was a secret weapon.”

On Morgan’s arrival, the man beat a hasty retreat.

“Walter, what on earth were you saying to that poor devil... Good grief, what are you wearing?”

The overalls had stenciled in big black letters,

“My uniform. You have to let people know what’s what... Joe Public respects the uniform.”

“What does the T.P. stand for?”

“I should have thought that obvious to a man of your hearing, Reverend. It’s ‘Trainee Priest’.”

“You’re testing me to the limit, bobo. Keep it up, and you’ll rue the day you were born. What do you think this is, an employment incentive scheme? This is a bloody Church.”

Walter tut-tutted.

“Tut-tut... less of the obscenities, your Worship... I have a query of ecclesiastical significance.”

“Out with it.”

“Who’s Harold?”

“Harold?”

“Yea... I’ve been wrestling with the prayers your crowd use. One goes, ‘Our father Harold is yer name...’”

Morgan took a deep breath.

“Get outa my sight, you lud-ri-mawn.”

“I’m history...”

This was said in wise-ass American and would have guaranteed a shoe in the arse if he’d been moving any slower.

The late post brought a Thank You card from Kate. She quoted Margaret MacDonald,

He stood and read the card a number of times. Then he said,

“If I understood this, I’d probably be greatly disturbed.”

Then he tore it and dropped it in the waste paper basket. A little later, Sera retrieved the pieces and went in search of Sellotape. A grim smile touched her mouth but never reached her eyes.

Morgan met Sister Ben near the altar, she was polishing the brass rails and whistling, “Love Story.”

“How’s it going, Ben?”

“Your ladyship rang twice but I couldn’t find you.”

“Not to worry, I got her card.”

Sister Ben stood, hands on her plump hips.

“She told me, Father Morgan cooks great stew.”

“Am... oh dear, a slight misunderstanding.”

“Mrs. Fleming will love to hear you’re now a cook.”

“Sister Ben... I trust you’ll keep this under your... cowl.”

“With my plenary indulgences, I suppose.”

Morgan knew defeat... he reached for his wallet.

“And how much are those lotto cards?”

“Well, if you buy ten at one pound a time, you’re bound to win. That’s how Sister Mary scored big.”

Another week of calm followed, Morgan again believed “All was well” and life had returned to dull routine. Was he ever in love with dullness now. Monday morning, the phone rang. The Bishop’s secretary, he was to meet His Eminence at two that afternoon. Morgan asked,

“Is anything wrong?”

“No... no, just an informal chat.”

Very bad, that was prelude to execution. He knew he was for the high jump. Conor... get hold of him.

Conor was instructing trainee/altar boys. They had the surly look so essential to urban life.

“Conor. A moment of your time...”

“Can it wait?”

“No, it can’t, do you think I’d ask you now if it could wait... do you?”

The altar boys were delighted. The priests went to the kitchen. Morgan began to look for cups. He asked,

“Coffee?”

“Is there any de-caff?”

“For God’s sake, man, have something real in yer life... jaysus... de-caff... Plu-eeze.”

He made the strongest brew he could. Then ladled sugar on top. Conor grimaced on tasting it. Morgan began,

“The Bishop wants to see me... any clues you might provide?”

“I can’t help you there, alas.”

“I tell you, Conor, he’s a vicious bastard.”

“Morgan, one, that’s a sin.”

“Cop on to yerself. I think it was H. L. Mencken who said,

“You’re fond of the quotations.”

“As long as the Bishop doesn’t know I’m fonder of the drink.”

“I’d better attend to the education of the altar boys.”

“Do that, Conor. Here’s another quotation for you... from the oul man himself.”

“You mean the devil?”

“No, George Bernard Shaw, but he’d have been flattered at the comparison. He said, ‘Education in the ways of the world was a series of humiliations.’ Good luck to yah.”

The Bishop’s residence was secluded from the street. Muggers weren’t likely to make house calls in this area. Inside, a battalion of nuns were polishing as if their lives depended on it. Fr. Coleman, the Bishop’s secretary, kept Morgan waiting for half an hour. He looked round, not an ashtray to be seen. Just a sea of black shining nuns. He decided to risk a cigarette. The first drag was as sweet as temptation. Fr. Coleman glided over.

“Please don’t smoke here.”

“Where will I put it?”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea... please don’t use the floor... it’s being polished.”

“Oh... I thought them nuns was searching for money.”

The summons came. Behind a massive, black mahogany desk sat the Bishop. In his fifties, he was bald and spotless. Hooded eyes overlooked a grim mouth. If anything had ever amused him, he’d managed to put it behind him. The desk was bare save for one lone file. Nothing was said for a few minutes. Finally, he said,

“You’re a smoker, Morgan.”

To Morgan, it sounded like “joker” and he replied,

“I like a bit of a laugh, sure enough.”

“You’ll find very little mirth here.”

As Morgan watched him, he began to fully appreciate the meaning of PRIG. The Bishop had long bony fingers. One of these tapped the file. No chair was offered. He said,

“These... ‘occurrences’... Any explanation to offer me?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“I think you’ve forgotten something, Father.”

“Like what?”

“RESPECT... there is a proper form of address to your Bishop. I’ll thank you to use it. Now, who’s this Kate person... and what is the nature of your relationship?”

“She’s a journalist... and she’s a friend.”

The Bishop opened the file, extracted the Sellotaped card. Perusing it, his nostrils twitched as if smelling something very unpleasant.

“The tone of this would suggest otherwise.”

Morgan felt a rage begin.

“That’s private... the bloody cheek of you... yer Grace.”

Uncertainty flicked across his Grace’s face.

“There have also been stories of your drinking. All in all, I regret to say that we’ll have to take steps to replace you.”

“Steps... steps by God” and Morgan stepped forward. He snatched the card from the Bishop’s hands, roaring,

“Gimme that.”

“Control yourself, Father. This isn’t helping your case.”

Morgan took a deep breath, reached for a cigarette. The Bishop jumped up.

“There’ll be no smoking in here.”

The cigarette was slowly lit and followed by a loud exhalation of breath. Morgan said,

“You think you can fire me... you’ve treated me like dirt. You jumped-up guttersnipe, I know a few strokes you pulled when you were over at Kennington. You fire me and I’ll give the newspaper such a story that you won’t be allowed to serve mass. I’ll say you arranged the incidents at the church to drum up attendance. Now, how so you like them potatoes, your Worshipful?”

The Bishop was dumbfounded... He sat back down and said,

“You wouldn’t dare... no one would believe it.”

“But they’d print it... you go after me, laddybuck, and I’ll bring you down into the sewer with me. You’re nothing but a thug in robes. Don’t ever threaten me again... here, hold this.”

Morgan put the half-smoked cigarette on the file and walked out. The secretary was hovering near the door.

“Get an earful, did you... yah, Judas, if I ever see you near my parish, I’ll break yer friggin’ neck... now get out of my way.”

The secretary jumped back and the nuns had stopped their shining. Pausing at the door, Morgan turned and said,

“Ladies, I bid ye adieu.”

Giggles of delight rose from them as the secretary rushed to the Bishop. His eminence was caught having a fitful pull of the cigarette.

“Shut the door, you imbecile!”

The nuns hadn’t felt such excitement since Sister Mary had the big win. This was almost as rewarding.

That evening Morgan had two stiff belts of Jameson. He had asked Sera to meet him when she’d finished her work. All he knew was he was getting rid of her. No evidence of wrongdoing existed, but he knew with certainty she was malevolence. A hammering in his heart he called nicotine. He could be afraid of her... could he?

A slip of a girl...

A light tap on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Sera was again in black. A dress above the knee and black tights. The blonde hair shone like expectation. He tried to remember what it was the Buddhists said on that...

She never made any noise, he realised. As if she glided. Passion tried to rise in him again, but he was determined to suppress it. A slight smile hovered as always on her lips.

“Sit down, please. Would you like a drink?”

The rustle of nylon as she crossed her legs.

“I’d like whatever you have, Father.”

He got another glass and poured her an Irish measure, i.e. generous. He started,

“I’ve no complaints about your work, and of course, I’ll give you great references, but... you don’t belong here... you’ll get severance pay, of course.”

Sera raised her glass, ran her tongue along the rim... and sipped.

“Strong,” she said.

He didn’t know if she meant the drink, what he’d said... or worse, him. He said lamely,

“I know it’s a shock, but really, a nice lady like yerself, you don’t want to waste yer life around a bunch of middle-aged clerics. There’s a good girl, finish up yer drink, and I’ll see you out.”

He took a hefty swig of his drink. All in all, he felt it had gone quite well.

Much better really than he’d reckoned. Firmness, he thought... that’s the key... but fair, too.

Sera’s smile didn’t change. A wave of patchouli oil slowly reached him. She said,

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’re what...!”

“With child.”

“Do I know the father?”

“But of course... you’re the father, Father.”

Her eyes burned, the smile now spread more as a grimace. Morgan’s head reeled, he said,

“Sure what nonsense is this, girl... I think you need some serious help.”

“Treachery, thy name is man... you took your pleasure, priest, now is the time to take your name.”

“Ah, for the love of God, come on... clear out of here... you’re stone mad.”

He reached out his hand to take her. Sera grabbed the hand and sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of the palm and chomped down. Visions of pit bulls danced before him and the pain shot to his brain.

“Ah, Jaysus,” he gasped, and swung his other hand in a side arc. The blow slammed against the side of her head and knocked her to the floor. The bite had gone almost clean through. She sprang to her knees and spat.

“Priest... you belong to me... the Jezebel shall not seduce you from me... The Whore of Babylon will not be triumphant.”

A string of obscenities, mixed with Latin, followed, the likes of which he’d never heard.

The door opened and Conor stood there. Walter followed behind in black overalls. Conor said,

“What in the name of God...”

Sera sprang at Morgan and tore her fingers down his face, missing his left eye by a fraction. The man grabbed her and tried to hold her. She broke free and ran to the door... turning, she said,

“And a fearful vengeance shall be visited upon ye all.”

And she fled.

Three deep gouges were imprinted on the left side of Morgan’s face. He said to Conor,

“Call a taxi. I’d better get to the hospital.”

Walter said, “If that’s the result of chastity, I may have to re-examine my options. Does this go on at The Church of England?”

At the hospital, the same Irish nurse was in attendance. She said,

“By the hokey, you have some effect on women, Father.”

“Stay out of my face,” he said.

“Tis a bit late for that, by the looks of you... what you do at weekends I can’t even begin to imagine.”

Conor, still in shock, laid his arm on Morgan’s shoulder. He said,

“In all me born days, I never saw such ferocity. That woman was like a demon.”

Morgan groaned.

A fragile feeling clung to him over the next few days. Nothing was heard of Sera, but he lived in dread of an appearance. Conor said only,

“I know how much you like quotations, so maybe Leo F. Buscaglia is appropriate.”

Morgan had never heard of him.

“I never heard of him. What had he to say for himself?”

“That when we cling to pain, we end up punishing ourselves.”

“Oh, very deep, Conor... stick to limericks, they’re more in your line.”

He rang Kate, and she arrived with a bottle of bourbon.

“Let’s go American,” she said.

“You betcha.”

They talked about everything save Sera. The level of the bourbon sank. Kate asked if she might use the phone to call a cab.

“Use the one in the hall.”

Morgan was feeling the drink, and as he reached to put the glass on the table, he staggered, knocking Kate’s large handbag. It hit the floor and spilled open.

“Aw, shit,” he said.

Getting down on his knees, he began to gather the various items. A small bottle caught his attention. The label read “Patchouli Oil.”

“What?...”

He upturned the bag again and began to sift more carefully. A notebook. He flicked through. Halway along, the address of the coffee bar on the Strand. Where he’d first met Kate... and underneath was printed a name,

“Luigi d’Agostino.”

“The bloody waiter... she already knew him!”

Another entry gave the date of Malachy’s death. His mind was reeling... Click... Click... Click, came the sound of her heels... he dived back to his chair, the contents rammed back into her bag. Messy, but what could he do... hope... a lot. Kate was smiling and asked,

“We’ve time for another bourbon?”

“Absolutely... look, Kate, I just need to go to my room for a second... help yourself.”

As he left, she gave him a curious look. He bounded up the stairs, his heart in his mouth. The full impact of his discovery was nigh too much. A series of deep breaths didn’t help.

A sound behind... Kate was at the door. She said,

“So you know, priest... don’t you?”

“Why... what on earth for... Jaysus, I can’t get a grasp of this.”

Kate spoke, the voice from the confessional.

“The altar was easy... and true, the cat struggled... but your mother’s beads were a tremendous help. A personal touch is so endearing. Kept it in the family. When Martin died, the Church, your fuckin’ Church turned from him. Even in death, he was to be tormented. I thought I’d introduce the Church to some demons of their own. A suicide kills two people. I died with him. The church condemned us both.”

“But Sera... what about her?”

Kate chuckled, it sounded like a straight line to the very nature of viciousness. She continued,

“Might one say, the luck of the devil, a pure coincidence. A trollop on heat. Your thinking was all below your waist. You petty dipso cleric. I spit on you from a height... and always. I’ll be bear... to you.”

Tossing her head, she gave a laugh like a shriek and turned back to the stairs. He ran after her and made a grab for her arm.

“Are you insane?” he shouted.

She pulled free and her heel caught on the top stair. The movement threw her body forward, and she crashed down... a horrendous cry as she fell. Morgan rushed down. Her neck was twisted to the side and her legs were broken beneath her body. He knelt and began to form the words of Benediction.

Her mouth moved.

“F... u... c... k you, priest... I’ll be in your dreams... watch for me.”

Over at the convent, celebrations were in full roar. Sister Ben had turned her final lotto card and screamed,

“Cripes... I’ve won... it’s flaming torture... God forgive me cursing... yippee!”

Walter was on the other side. At the Church of England near Balham High Road. He was laying lavish praise on “The Book of Common Prayer” to a puzzled Vicar.

Conor was studying literature. He’d reckoned he’d found a gem in the following... from one of their own calling, too. A man of God... Thomas a Kempis. The quotation read:

“Even Morgan would appreciate that,” he said.