Galway Girl

Over the years, I have had an embattled link to a priest.

Father Malachy.

A chain-smoking chancer who’d been my bitch mother’s pet priest.

Back in those days, pious women believed it enhanced their status to have a priest in thrall; nowadays it would be a downright crime.

I’d managed to save him from various scandals, trouble over the years — not from friendship but he had a knack of inveigling me to assist him, despite his continuous loathing of me.

You might describe it as a wholly Irish connection, certainly not holy, unless you implied a disgrace.

Few years back I had gotten hold of a notorious Red Book that the Church was anxious to suppress.

Malachy, in some new bother, persuaded me to give him the book, to redeem himself in the eyes of Mother Church.

Did it ever.

He was feted, celebrated, and was now bishop-in-waiting.

Was he grateful?

Was he fuck.

Did he acknowledge my help?

Guess.

So when I saw him leaning against a black BMW outside my apartment I was not happy. He was not smoking but otherwise had the same furtive air of the new clergy.

He greeted,

“Where the hell have you been, Taylor?”

I gave him my granite look, asked,

“You the bishop yet?”

He indicated my apartment, asked,

“Can we talk?”

He gave some instructions to the driver, who drove off. I said,

“Nice to be chauffeured.”

He snarled,

“He’s a cheeky bollix is what he is. Asked me not to smoke in the car.”

I had no sane answer to this.

We got inside. He plonked himself down on the sofa, asked,

“Jameson, no ice.”

He was such a cunt that it made me laugh, so I obliged. He smelled the glass, asked,

“You sure this is Irish?”

I asked,

“Would I lie to a priest?”

He waved that away, looked round, said,

“Bit of a dump.”

I said,

“’Tis penance.”

He smiled grimly, said,

“God knows you have enough sins for a parish.”

Then he pulled out a crumpled pack of Major, the strongest cig on the market, lit up, blew a near perfect smoke ring.

I asked,

“The point of your visit?”

He shifted, the sofa creaking under his weight as he flicked ash on what passed for carpet.

He clocked I wasn’t drinking, asked,

“Nothing for you?”

I gave him what I hoped was the current clerical smile, guile with a glint, said,

“Gave it up for the souls in Purgatory.”

He sneered, then snapped,

“You’re probably on drugs. Your sainted mother often said,

‘That pup is in on drugs.’”

I laughed, my beatific mom, who swallowed Valium like her daily intake of bile. He continued,

“She hoped and indeed prayed you’d die young.”

Jesus.

I said,

“Lovely as this little chat is, is there a point?”

He seemed to sag and then, as if he had to drag it from the depths, near whispered,

“I have a sister.”

He said it in the tone of a man who might say,

“I’ve only a day to live.”

He looked at me but I had, well, nothing, so he continued.

“Jessica Selwyn, you might have heard of her. She played the duchess in that U.S. version of Downton, made a shit pile of money and is now here in Galway.”

I asked,

“All sounds great. You must be proud.”

He roared,

“I’m fucking mortified.”

Oh.

He added,

“She’s a bloody head case.”

I countered,

“But a rich one helps a bit?”

He glared at me, said,

“You need to pay attention, she’s got a...”

He searched for a description.

“Young lover.”

I could see his bishop aspirations might be compromised, so I said,

“Not great for the image.”

He was wallowing in rage and spite, said,

“Doing interviews with her arm draped around who she calls her Galway girl.”

I’ll admit it took a moment for me to grasp the word and I echoed slowly,

“Girl?”

He was so enraged froth was leaking from the corners of his mouth. He shouted,

“Carpet biters. Not only is my sister a lesbian but she’s a cougar or whatever they call these oul wans who have young...”

Again, the hesitation as he reached for a word, then,

“Lovers.”

Truly nearly choked him.

Did I feel for him?

No.

I asked,

“Isn’t the Church into acceptance and all sorts of fake liberal shite?”

He said,

“There’s that royal family thinking they have problems with the young lad marrying a black wan.”

Before I could get over Malachy being a royal watcher, he said,

“And the country’s going to legalize killing babies.”

I said to him,

“You once told me when I was in deep shite that I should pray for all parties.”

He looked at me in utter astonishment, said,

“Fuck that.”

He stood, crushed a butt under his clerical shoe, said,

“So I can rely on you, then?”

I asked,

“For what?”

He was annoyed, said,

“To fix it.”

“Fix it how?”

He muttered,

“Lord give me strength.”

Then,

“To get rid of the girl.”

By God, I was going to make him spell it out. I asked,

“Like kill her?”

He blessed himself, about as hypocritical an action as I’ve witnessed.

Said,

“God strike you mute, Taylor, for such a thought. Do one of those sly underhand things you’re famous for.”

Then he gave me his sister’s address, warned,

“You never met me.”

Right.

I asked,

“And the girl, the temptress, who is she?”

He spat the name.

“Calls herself Jericho.”