Galway Confidential

35

Father Pat’s funeral was a dismal affair. A small turnout.

Officiating priest, a Guard, two forlorn people who could only be his parents...

And me. The priest droned on about man being full of misery and other dire descriptions.

When it was done, the man spoke, said,

“There will be refreshments in Tonerys, and all are welcome.”

All hung in the air like the worst kind of broken promise.

I went.

At the bar were the couple, staring into glasses of whiskey. I did consider running. But the man spotted me, signaled me to approach, shook my hand, thanked me for attending. His wife looked devastated. He asked,

“Are you a priest?”

Good God.

“No, I am... was a friend of your son.”

The woman touched my arm, said,

“Thanks for being his friend.”

Fuck.

I tried,

“He was a fine young man and I’m sure as a priest he was terrific.”

They both looked at me as if I was kidding. They said in unison,

“But he was a dipsomaniac.”

Wow.

I felt a tinge of anger.

“He got sober.”

And the father near shouted,

“But he got killed, sober people don’t get killed.”

If only.

We stood in awkward silence for a solid five minutes and the father examined me closely, asked,

“What do you do?”

Whoops.

“I’m in the security business.”

God on a bike, why did I say that?

The man looked dubious, said,

“I’m in real estate.”

And we descended into more silence until the man asked,

“You want to buy a house?”

I said,

“Let me buy you a drink.”

He waved his hands.

“It’s a free bar, for the funeral and all.”

As we were all of three mourners, we had a wide range. I accepted another Jameson and the woman asked,

“Are you fond of it yourself, the drink, I mean?”

Phew-oh.

I think sweat had broken out on my forehead. I said,

“ ’Tis a comfort in times like this.”

Not to mention a bloody dire necessity.

The man said,

“We’ll have a sit-down meal after. You are invited to join us.”

Not if hell froze over.

“Very good of you to ask me but I have a prior engagement.”

The man considered this, accused,

“Something more important than honoring my dead son?”

I finished my drink, put out my hand,

“Again, my deepest sympathy.”

The man asked,

“When will the rest of the mourners appear?”

The fuck!

I lied, looked at my watch, said,

“Any minute now.”

And got out of there.

On the path were two ne’er-do-wells looking thirsty, broke, and desperate. I said to them,

“Go into the bar, there’s a couple at the counter. Sympathize over their dead son and you can drink for free.”

They liked the concept. One of them asked,

“What did the son do? You know, so we can wing it.”

“He was a priest.”

One spoke,

“I’m not fond of priests.”

My agitation rising, I near shouted,

“Someone killed the poor bastard.”

They mulled over that, then one asked,

“Who’d kill a priest?”

When I got back to my apartment, Quinlan was waiting outside. Dressed in a dark tracksuit, he had a rucksack at his feet. He greeted,

“Jack, where have you been?”

Rage simmered, danced on the outskirts of my heart. I strove for a civil tone, said,

“I was at the funeral of a priest, you may remember him, Father Pat?”

His face did a fine job of feigning mild shock.

“That is a shame. I can’t say I’m too fond of the man since he took it on himself to warn Raftery.”

I opened the door to my apartment, moved to the side, motioned to him to follow, and as he did so, I gripped the side of the door, slammed it full wallop into his face. He crashed back against the corridor wall, I followed, kicked him in the balls. He went down like a lost petition.

I pulled him by his collar into the apartment, tied him to a chair, tied him tight, waited.

He gradually came to, spat remnants of teeth and blood on the carpet, muttered,

“The fuck is with you, Jack?”

I said,

“You killed that young priest, you figured I’d blame Raftery.”

He shook his head, spat,

“He betrayed us.”

He managed a bitter smile, asked,

“What now, Jack, you going to kill me?”

“No,” I said.

He waited and I added,

“I’m going to do something I’ve never done.”

He sneered,

“What’s that then?”

“Call the Guards.”

And I did.

They arrested me,

For false imprisonment,

Assault and battery.

In the interview room at the station, I told them my story.

Quinlan was in a room down the hall. I was allowed a phone call and used it to contact Brown, my previous solicitor. I chose him because he’d been a vociferous critic of the Guards in the past months, and he knew me.

He arrived shortly after the call, had a brief word with me, then headed for the Superintendent’s office. An hour later I was out on bail.

I asked him,

“How did you achieve that?”

He was a big man, ruddy face and a head of hair that would never submit to a comb. Energy oozed from him like the best form of hope. He gave a laugh, said,

“DNA, from the priest’s clothes to items in Quinlan’s rucksack, I guaranteed them there would be a match when it was tested. It was sufficient to raise doubt on your case.”

While I considered that, he added,

“Doesn’t hurt that I play golf with the commissioner.”

I asked,

“But aren’t you currently at war with the Guards?”

He shrugged that away with,

“Ah, that’s just work. Golf is important.”

In Galway

   It is believed

      That when someone

         Takes you into

            Their confidence

                It is

                  To gag you.