Galway Confidential

29

Raftery seemed to have gone to ground. Speaking of ground, I had been to Charlie Byrne’s and picked up a debut novel, titled,

Old Country.

By two brothers.

It was the first novel I’d been able to read as my concentration had been fucked by the coma. I’d often said that books saved my sanity, and indeed, perhaps my life. There’s always been books in my bedraggled history and the fear of losing the gift of reading was just one more fear.

The dog, Trip, sat in front of me, the leash at his paws. I said,

“Cute trick.”

And it worked. I had bought him a new collar, dark blue, and as I fitted it on him now, he wagged his tail. Not a wild enthusiasm but a certain contained joy. It had occurred to me to read up on his breed, but I figured that the best method of knowing this creature was literally hands-on.

I put some treats in the back pocket of my jeans and I swear the dog gave a knowing nod, like,

“You’re doing good.”

I was wearing my 501s, my Doc Martens, black T-shirt that had a faded photo of Rory Gallagher. The weather was poised for a promised heat wave so no jacket required.

We got outside and for a moment I thought I saw Raftery leaning against a car outside the new cinema on the Salthill prom. But it was momentary, and I dismissed it, knowing a degree of paranoia was fueling a lot of my mind’s chicanery.

Sheila had obviously taught the dog well as I’d no problem guiding him on the lead. A woman stopped and,

Oh-ah.

Trip took it in his stride, and over the next thirty minutes, I realized what a babe magnet the dog was. In truth, I let the whole image down. If the dog owner had matched the magnetism of the dog, we’d have been elected.

How it goes.

We got down on the edge of the beach, dogs were forbidden on the actual beach for the summer months. The rubbish left on the sand by the public daily would shame a dog. I threw a stick and croaked,

“Fetch.”

Feeling slightly ridiculous.

Trip looked at the stick, then at me, and his expression said,

“Seriously, you think I’m running after that?”

A man in his late sixties was passing, asked,

“You do know dogs are not allowed on the beach during the summer months?”

Infuriated me. I snapped,

“Do you see the dog on the sand? Does he have as much as a paw touching it?”

The man began to back off, the look on his face showing he’d touched a hornets’ psycho nest. I said,

“You missed the memo on the whole mind factor.”

He stopped, interested but cautious, tried,

“I’m not familiar with that.”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s kind of an old idea, but basically it means, mind your own fucking business.”

This came out way sharper, rougher than I intended but he scarpered sharpish. The dog looked at me with what might have been a new level of respect.

We continued our walk with a spring in our respective steps.

Back at my apartment, I was putting down Trip’s bowl of nuts when the doorbell went. I opened it to a tall muscular man with a shaved head, in his midfifties, he was dressed in combat trousers, thick boots, body T-shirt, a sleeve tattoo covered his right arm.

Everything about him shouted army, well, somebody’s army.

“Jack Taylor?”

I nodded and he put out a thick, heavily calloused hand. He said,

“I’m Quinlan.”

I didn’t ask him in. He asked,

“May I come in?”

I gave a bitter chuckle.

“Really, I don’t know you.”

I was remembering Raftery’s story of his Marine buddy.

He rubbed his head, looked tired for a moment.

“Raftery didn’t mention me?”

The dog sniffed at the man’s legs, then began to wag his tail.

I said,

“Come in.”

He filled the apartment with his bulk, seemed to realize that, tried,

“I have trouble fitting in, so to speak.”

I waited and he took a full scan of the room, said,

“You’ve got the whole Zen gig going.”

Bollix.

“Naw, I’m just poor.”

He enjoyed that, then asked,

“What do you know about Raftery?”

I told the truth.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“How can that be?”

I sighed, answered,

“Try being in a coma for two years, you come to, and are told a man not only saved your life but visits every day. You think what? I’m going to ask for his CV?”

He laughed, said,

“Aye, I heard you were sharp.”

I asked,

“How did you find me?”

He gave a wry smile, said,

“You must be the easiest person in this city to find. When I read about nuns being killed, I knew it had to be Raftery, so I came here, and lo and behold, everyone I ask tells me about the hero who saved your life. I got your address on Google search.”

I was tiring of him.

“You want to get to the point, any point at this stage?”

He gave me a full look, the one that suggests there might be more to you than hitherto appeared. (I have yearned for many a barren year to use hitherto.)

He asked,

“Might I trouble you for a dram?”

He was Scottish, perhaps.

“I could maybe stretch for a whiskey but it’s Irish.”

He laughed again, echoed,

“Is there any other kind?”

So, not Scottish.

I poured two solid measures, handed one over, said,

“Sláinte.”

He winked at me.

You believe it? A fucking wink.

I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in months but just then an overriding urge for nicotine assailed me. I rooted in the press, found a pack of Major, the real coffin nails, and my battered Zippo. I lit one up and felt that treacherous joy. I looked at Quinlan, offered the pack, he debated for all a moment, uttered,

“Aw, fuckit.”

Took one and I fired him up. He didn’t cough on the inhale and those cigs are the original mule kick, so not his first rodeo. I asked,

“You’ve drank my booze, smoked my cigs, so I think it really is past time for some sort of yarn from you.”

He moved to the sofa, drink in one hand, cig in the other, the picture of contentment, began,

“I was in the Forces with Raftery. You don’t need to know which Force save the one that paid well for special skills.”

I waited.

“We left that gig round about the same time for an opportunity to work as special security for VIPs in Afghanistan. Raftery liked to select a random civilian and claim he was a terrorist. He didn’t care if they were, he just liked to beat the shit out of people.”

I remembered Brian Lee and his prosthesis.

Quinlan stopped, looked for an ashtray, I gave him a saucer and he ground out the cig, said,

“I enjoyed that.”

He indicated he meant the cig, I nodded and waited. He said,

“The pay was terrific, but the work was hazardous in the extreme.”

He stopped, his eyes sunk in his head for a minute, then he shook himself, continued,

“Some guys can deal with the high-octane tension on a twenty-four/seven basis and Raftery seemed to thrive on the knife edge of adrenaline. I burned out after a year and change but Raftery did two tours, it’s a junkie speed record. When Raftery finally bailed, he looked me up, we’d stayed in touch via email and he asked if he might crash at my place. I was living in London, trying to figure out my next life move. He was older, of course, and there was a quietness about him that didn’t speak of any kind of peace. I was drinking a lot then and he seemed more than willing to match me drink on drink. But come a certain time of the evening, it was like a darkness came into his eyes and he’d mutter, ‘I hate fucking nuns.’ It shocked the shit out of me the first few times, and then he’d say he had to go, hunt something.”

Quinlan took a deep breath, said,

“After a week, he lit out. No goodbye, just gone.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to this, but he wasn’t finished.

“Raftery was always a whiz of technology and he used that to clean out my bank accounts.”

Fuck.

He stared at me, asked,

“I was supposed to be his buddy, imagine what he might have done if he disliked me?”

I asked him,

“Why are you here?”

He spread his arms wide.

“To buddy up, catch this muttah-fuckah together.”

I nearly laughed, went with,

“No, I don’t really do buddies, and the time or two I did, it ended very badly.”

He was surprised, tried,

“You’re no match for him alone.”

I let that linger, then,

“I’ll find him.”

He stood up, took out a card, said,

“That’s got my cell on there. Call anytime but be best all round if you let me worry about Raftery.”

“I’m not worried.”

He chuckled, said,

“Then you know even less about Raftery than I figured.”

Another scorching heat wave arrived, twenty-five degrees and rising. This for Ireland was incredible but within days people were bitching, It’s too hot!

I couldn’t bring the dog out as the pavements were too hot. I kept him hydrated and he seemed content to lounge at home. I felt he was maybe getting used to me, but I also felt we had a way to travel before he might like me.

The Mother Superior summoned me.

I doubted she had further employment in mind but went along anyway, I was wearing a light pair of French Connection jeans which I’d picked up at the charity shop, plus some Under Armour T-shirts. I really wanted to go barefoot or even sandals, but sandals, yeah, like fuck.

The same young nun answered the door of the convent.

“You’re becoming quite the regular visitor.”

These nuns were not short of opinions. I said,

“I was summoned.”

And she laughed,

“Aren’t we all?”

I stood before the Mother Superior, feeling like I was in front of the teachers of my youth. Without looking up, she indicated I sit. I had a choice of a soft-looking couch or a hard-backed chair. I took the latter, figuring I’d stay with the hard choices.

She looked up, asked,

“Why the hard option?”

I nearly laughed.

“Is this an interrogation, a sort of door A or door B?”

She sat back, smiled, and what a difference it made to her appearance, took years away from her strong face. I noticed a statue I hadn’t seen before, said,

“That’s Saint Anthony?”

She nodded.

“You have an affinity for that saint?”

“There used to be a small shop in Forster Street that dealt in knickknacks and religious icons. I went in there to get a statue of Saint Martin.”

She interjected,

“Saint Martin, Good Lord.”

“Saint Martin and the reason I needed him is a whole other story, and not for today, but anyway, I asked the proprietor, a chancer named Davis, if he had a small replica of Saint Martin.”

He confirmed he had and presented me with a replica of Saint Anthony.

She laughed again so I continued,

“I told him it was Saint Anthony and he told me I had some cheek, not only disparaging Saint Martin, but Anthony too.”

She said,

“You have your moments, Mr. Taylor.”

She studied me carefully and I wondered how she felt about French Connection. I noticed her examine my Doc Martens. I said,

“They have steel toe caps.”

Why, why on God’s earth, did I share that? I mean, come on, really, with a mother superior.

Call it nerves.

She surprised me by saying,

“Birkenstocks are making an unexpected stir in the fashion world, probably due to the pandemic, when it didn’t matter what your footwear looked like. I mean, who’d see them?”

I had nothing, truly nothing. A mother superior is a fashionista?

She gave a nervous laugh, said,

“I obviously had too much time on my hands recently.”

Made me like her a bit more.

She stood up, went to a room to her right, commanded,

“Follow me, Mr. Taylor.”

I did.

To a small kitchen. She went to a fridge in the corner, took out two bottles of Galway water, said,

“Sláinte.”

The bottle was ice cold, perfect.

“Thank you.”

She headed back to her office, said,

“Manners? You can’t beat them.”

She continued,

“I gather you’d appreciate the water more if it had a drop of Jameson.”

I nearly laughed, answered,

“You seem to be well informed on me.”

She gave me that long clerical look, where nothing good is coming down the pike.

“I googled you.”

This really made me laugh. I said,

“Next, you’ll be playing video games.”

And she laughed.

“Don’t rule it out.”

“I’d give a lot to witness that.”

She waved a hand, dismissing all this chitchat, said,

“We’d like to reemploy you.”

I went,

“Ah.”

She produced an envelope, said,

“I think you’ll find we have been very generous in our estimation of your time.”

And suddenly wanting to fuck with her, asked,

“And my worth, how’d you reckon that?”

Her face changed, the expression now explained why she was the head honcho. She said,

“Please don’t try my patience.”

My name was written on the front, in a beautiful gothic script.

I said,

“Beautiful handwriting.”

She gave a small tight smile, said,

“I was taught by nuns.”

“A dying art,” I said and could have bitten my tongue off, but she let the inference slide, said,

“Young people have neither the time nor inclination for such refinement.”

I said,

“More’s the Irish pity.”

I let the envelope lie, said,

“Let’s defer that until I achieve the target.”

“Will you attend the Month’s Minds Mass?”

My God, a month already since Sheila Winston had been murdered. I delayed, asked,

“Where is the Mass?”

“Sheila loved the Abbey so that will be the official venue. We, of course, will have a private ceremony here.”

I pushed, asked,

“Am I invited to that?”

She sighed.

“You really do test a person. This is an enclosed convent, as you well know.”

I was on a roll, said,

“But I’m on the payroll, kind of.”

She stood up, dismissal time.

“Thank you for yet again agreeing to help us.”

I said,

“A nun in need is indeed?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Taylor.”

The little nun who let me out the front door said,

“Mother Superior does like you.”

I asked,

“What’s not to like?”

Outside the convent, the heat rose from the pavement like a clerical assault, fast and brutal. I walked along the canals, and a guy was fishing down near the Róisín Dubh. He greeted me,

“Taylor, heard you were dead.”

This was a familiar greeting to me and the years I’d been comatose only added to the belief. I asked,

“Catching anything?”

He answered,

“You know how many years I’ve been fishing from this exact spot?”

The fuck would I know, or care? I said,

“How would I know that?”

He spun around, snapped,

“No need to be snarky.”

This was truly one of those conversations going nowhere so I said,

“I’ll leave you to it.”

He waited until I was past him, then,

“Liked you better when I thought you were dead.”

Irish logic at its shining best.

It was believed for a long time

  That

   Nuns in an enclosed order

     Were

       Secretive until

          A bishop in the north of Ireland declared

                They were

                    Confidential.