Galway Confidential

32

It was late in the evening. I’d made Irish stew, not like my mother made it. I put:

Carrots,

   Onions,

      Gravy,

         Mass of spuds.

And as this came to a nice boil, I added shots of Jameson. I piled it on a plate, put some in the dog’s dish, cracked a long neck, put on Better Call Saul, and tucked in.

This is not by any means a definition of contentment, but it was lurking in that elusive neighborhood. I’d just finished and was debating a cig when the doorbell went. The dog barked, as if he was pissed our evening idyll was interrupted.

I opened the door to Father Pat, who seemed sober. He was dressed in mid-cleric garb, blue jeans but black sweater and the white collar. A mixed message indeed. He asked,

“Something smells good?”

I waved him in, and he literally jumped when he saw the dog, said,

“That’s a dog.”

Before I could snarl, he ventured,

“I’m a cat person.”

Like I gave a flying fuck.

“Want some dinner?”

He looked to the large pot on the range.

“If I’m not intruding.”

I fixed him a bowl, asked,

“To drink?”

Testing his new earned sobriety?

He asked for a glass of milk.

He ate with relish, then suddenly stopped, sat back as if scalded, roared,

“There’s booze in this.”

So?

I said with a measured tone,

“It’s Irish stew. The clue is in the name, Irish.”

He stood up, rage writ large, accused,

“You deliberately tried to sabotage me.”

I said,

“You had a taste, nothing more, don’t sweat it.”

He shook his head, near spat,

“You’re a bad person. I mean, I know that, but I thought you’d have more consideration for your friends.”

I said,

“We’re not friends. I mean, seriously, who has priest friends?”

He reached in his jacket, pulled out a sheet of paper, slapped it on the table. It was the printout I’d had made up, of Raftery. I asked,

“You know where he is?”

He glared at me, sneered,

“I’ve a good mind not to tell you.”

“Then when he attacks another nun, it will be on you.”

He seemed to struggle with this, then,

“He came to me in confession.”

Fuck.

Would we be breaking the seal of that ritual?

He read my mind, answered,

“He didn’t come for confession; he came for confrontation.”

Oh.

I echoed,

“Confrontation?”

He sighed, said,

“He had your leaflet in his hand, said to tell you it would take more than a f— piece of paper to bother him.”

I asked,

“What did you say?”

He gave a small smile, said,

“I asked him not to curse in the confessional.”

I waited, then asked,

“What happened after?”

Pat said,

“He stormed out, kicked the box.”

“And what did you do?”

“I followed him.”

I was so delighted I nearly hugged him, but hugging a priest?

Yeah.

I said,

“That is great. Where did he go?”

Pat was well pleased with himself. He took his time, then,

“There’s a house for refugees off Sheridan’s pub, on the right side of the docks, number seventeen, Raglan Road. With the number of people milling about, it’s perfect cover for hiding in plain sight.”

I admitted,

“You did good.”

He was pleased, asked,

“When will the Guards be alerted?”

“No Guards.”

He protested,

“You must call them, what? You think you can take him on your own?”

I said,

“I’ll have help.”

He wasn’t satisfied.

“I’m not convinced; you probably mean your hurly.”

He was right, I would bring that, but I also would call Quinlan.

Pat, as he headed for the door, asked,

“You won’t do vigilante stuff?”

I gave him my best smile.

Quinlan arrived at my apartment, dressed for a hunt.

Black combat trousers, black T, black plimsolls, black windbreaker.

I said,

“Black is the new vengeance.”

He had a holdall that he laid gingerly on the floor. I looked at him, asked,

“Is that incendiary?”

He gave me a tight smile.

“It’s not sandwiches.”

“You have a plan?”

And he laughed, said,

“It’s Raftery, plans are redundant.”

I got my rucksack, put the hurly in, put on my all-weather Garda coat. The weather had turned cold in the second week of Sept. Quinlan glanced at the Jameson bottle, said,

“We’ll have a drink after.”

After what? I wondered, but kept that thought to myself.

We got to the house in early evening, and it was a-buzz with activity. A mass of people milling about but there was an air of desperation over everything. Quinlan nodded to three men off to the right, said,

“They’re Ukraine.”

I didn’t know how he could tell as there were so many nationalities gathered. I asked,

“How can you tell?”

He gave a bitter sigh, said,

“They seem to have a look of hope.”

Jesus.

I said,

“Fuck, that’s cynical.”

He shrugged, said,

“Naw, just Ireland today.”

We pushed our way inside, found what appeared to be some sort of reception desk with a tall thin man sorting through reams of paper, and were pointedly ignored. Quinlan slapped his large right hand hard on the papers, said,

“Bit of manners, eh.”

The man had a name tag:

Albert.

He seemed for a short moment to consider removing Quinlan’s hand, but something whispered to him,

Careful.

He let out a harried breath, asked,

“What can I help you with...”

Pause.

“Gentlemen?”

I gave Albert my most focused stare, the one that suggests shite is coming down their pike. I asked,

“A man using the name Raftery, or maybe not?”

I gave a description of him.

And Albert said,

“The top-floor suites.”

Suites!

We turned to leave, when Albert interjected,

“But he’s gone now.”

Fuck.

Albert continued,

“He left with the priest.”

Double fuck.

I asked,

“What priest?”

Albert got more than a little joy in answering,

“The young priest who came to warn him that men from Immigration would be coming.”

I described the priest and Albert nodded. I said to Quinlan,

“Father Pat.”

Albert seemed to enjoy seeing us thwarted, he had a smug smile as he added,

“That photo you have of Mr. Raftery is not quite accurate.”

Quinlan scoffed,

“Little of our Raftery information seems accurate.”

The anger in his voice was lethal.

I asked,

“What’s the difference?”

“He’s bald.”

Quinlan guffawed, said,

“Of course he is.”

“Might you have an idea where they might have gone?”

Albert looked at me like I was not fully with the game, said,

“To the church.”

Saint Patrick’s church was the church of my childhood. It was no longer in use as a brash, ugly new building was erected beside it. It was big, it was spacious, and Mass on a Sunday highlighted the empty seats. In the small old church, I remembered it jammed with people.

The church had power then.

Those days went the way of old-fashioned candles. Now they were electronic, push a button, miss a prayer. You could attend Mass on Zoom, killing the communal spirit that once permeated the parish.

The government was in a serious panic over refugees and yet empty churches remained empty.

I said to Quinlan,

“If Pat is still sheltering him, he’ll use the old church.”

The front door was boarded up, but you could tell it had recently been opened and then the boards hastily restored.

Quinlan asked,

“Is there another door?’

I snapped,

“What am I? The ecclesiastical planner? I have no idea.”

We got the door opened but it creaked like a very ancient sermon.

It was dark and we took a moment to get our bearings. Gradually, a figure was visible in the front pew. I moved slowly up the aisle, the hurly gripped tight. The figure was a man, and he was slumped over the rail.

It was Pat.

His neck was broken.