Galway Confidential

16

Sister Aloysius liked the quiet shrine beside St. Patrick’s church. It was well back from the road and yet within a prayer of the parish priest’s house. Mother Superior would be angry she was on her own but how long could one decade of the rosary take?

Almost out of nowhere, a man appeared. He was dressed in black and stood about five yards from her. He was carrying a backpack, and she estimated his age at about thirty. He was of average height, regular features. He gave her a warm smile, asked,

“Is it safe for a nun to be out alone these days?”

And something in his tone chilled her. She said,

“My friend is in the church and will be out any moment.”

He let out a long sigh.

“A lying nun, that’s not good.”

His body was relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. She moved to get past him, and he said,

“Ah, you can’t leave without knowing what’s in the bag.”

He reached in the rucksack, took out a hammer.

“One whack for the lie and maybe a second whack just for the hell of it.”

She made a rush to his right, but he almost lazily punched her in the face, asked,

“What’s your hurry?”

Sheila was inconsolable. I was with her in the corridor of the hospital as the doctors fought to save the life of Sister Aloysius. She was banging her head against the wall, muttering,

“You were right, Jack, why didn’t I listen?”

I had no answer for that. A tall man approached, showed a warrant card, said,

“Detective Walsh. Might I have a few words with you, Mr. Taylor?”

We moved to a secluded area of the corridor, and he said,

“I’ve been assigned to the case.”

I wanted to snap,

About fucking time.

But bit down, waited.

He said,

“Can you tell me what you know about the other attacks?”

I gave him all I had, which was pityingly little. He made a few notes, then asked,

“How come the nuns came to you for help? I mean no offense, but what did they think you could accomplish?”

There was an edge to his tone now but that was okay.

I can do edge.

“They got tired of asking you lot for help.”

Before he could respond, I added,

“Plus, I’m cheap.”

Raftery said,

“The podcast threw up a few names of likely suspects, but they came to nothing.”

For a dizzying few moments I didn’t know which case he was referring to.

The arsonists?

The nun predator?

The world was spinning out of the slim circles remaining.

One hundred thousand Russian troops were assembled at the border of Ukraine. In the US, Trump’s troops seemed to be reignited, and Joe Biden was proving to be a lame duck.

The Omicron variant of the virus appeared to have peaked in Ireland and we waited anxiously for hospital admissions to fall. It was like a collective holding of breath.

Parties at 10 Downing Street threatened to oust Boris Johnson, even hard-core Tories were aghast at him.

On the 18th of January, at 11:00 a.m., the country held a moment’s silence for the murdered twenty-three-year-old teacher Ashling Murphy. She had been out jogging along the canal, a route well-worn by many walkers, when she was attacked by a man. She had fought ferociously and left him with injuries. The chief suspect was now in hospital, with the Guards waiting to interview him.

Ten thousand people turned up for a vigil. It was one of those moments when the whole country united in its grief. The stretch of ground Aisling had been on was known as Fiona Pinder Walk in memory of a young pregnant woman who had disappeared from that very spot.

The heated debate on the violence of men against women was everywhere.