Priest

10

‘Jeff is gone.’

I was meeting with Cody in the new coffee bar at Jury’s. They’d a menu of designer blends on display. Cody was wearing a bright tan leather jacket with a T-shirt proclaiming

We rock.

His hair was awash with gel and his opening remark was the above. Before I could reply, he said,

‘He hasn’t been seen for five days. Though he was part of the drinking school, he didn’t really belong.’

I wanted to ask who did, but he continued,

‘I checked the Simon Community, the hospitals, even the morgue, but no trace of him. That pub he owned, Nestor’s, is up for sale. A guy working there hasn’t seen your friend for months.’

Your friend — that burned. Whatever else, I hadn’t been much of that. Cody added,

‘The wife, Cathy. . is in Galway. .’

He let that hang there to see how I’d respond, and when I didn’t, he continued,

‘I spread some money around the drinking school, left my phone number, said there’d be more if they had any news.’

He considered this, then,

‘But homeless people, drinkers, they’re not going to have a huge concentration span.’

I was impressed at his diligence, how he’d covered all the bases.

‘You’ve done good work.’

He gave a knowing smile, said,

‘I was born for this gig.’

The waitress asked what we’d have and Cody said,

‘Black coffee, a pot of the stuff, right Jack?’

‘Why not?’

He reached in his jacket, produced a business card, handed it to me.

Like this:

Taylor and Cody

Investigations

No divorce work.

And five — count them — phone numbers. On the top right-hand corner was what looked suspiciously like a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker. I hoped not. He was watching my face, couldn’t wait, blurted,

‘I put your name first, you being the senior operative, and see, the divorce stuff shows we’re serious, only primo gigs.’

I hadn’t words to match my astonishment.

‘You. . We. . have five numbers?’

He was shaking his head, going,

‘Naw, I only have my mobile, but it looks good and you, you have to get a mobile.’

I began to shove the card back to him. He said,

‘No, no, I’ve another five hundred. That’s for you, the very first off the press. This is the moment.’

I was afraid he was going to explain. He did.

‘The moment. . Jack. . when you stepped up to the base, when what you called finding became a pro outfit.’

The coffee came, thank Christ, deferring an opinion from me. Cody gave the girl a radiant smile. At least he hadn’t given her a card — not yet — said,

‘That’ll hit the spot.’

I produced an envelope, handed it over, said,

‘You’ve earned this.’

He took it, put it in his jacket, said,

‘I didn’t expect a salary yet.’

Yet?

He poured the coffee, raised his cup, toasted,

‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’

I tried to pretend he hadn’t, covered with,

‘We have a new case.’

Case.

There, it was out, was that so bad? Oh yeah. Before he could nauseate me with an even worse cliche, I outlined the stalking of Ridge, the B amp;B we’d be occupying next week. If he’d been glowing before, he was lit up now.

‘We’re going undercover, I love it! We’ll need a camera and, of course, junk food. Stake-outs are hell, man, you need to maintain a sugar rush.’

Sounding like he’d been on numerous ones. I was afraid to raise the issue, said instead I’d take Monday, Tuesday and he could do the next two days, then we’d review the situation. He was filling his cup again, more caffeine for his already racing system, said,

‘Aye aye, skipper.’

I stared at him.

‘Cody, you’ve got to promise me something.’

‘Name and claim it, skip.’

‘Don’t ever call me skipper or any derivative.’

The oddest thing — that night I dreamed that Cody was my son, and I was delighted. When I woke, I could recall the dream in its entirety. Shook me head, asking me own self,

‘What’s with you?’

Wish-fulfilment?

Not having children is a burden you don’t even know you carry. You shrug it off, go ‘I’d be a lousy parent,’ or mutter about loss of freedom. But somewhere deep in the treacherous human psyche is the ache of loss. The worst kind of pain, to miss something you never had, and worse, never will. The heart wants what it will never hold. Though I’d need a drink to admit it, a lot of drinks, my fear was to end up like the consul in Under the Volcano, Lowry’s searing depiction of alcoholism at its truest and most ferocious. That after they threw me in the hole, they’d throw a dead dog in after me. That imaginary dead dog had howled through many of my worst nightmares.

Early morning is the time for cold truth and I realized that yes, I saw Cody as a surrogate son, and for that reason alone I was harsh on him. Would never dare let him get close.

The ones I let get close get annihilated.

I recalled Cody asking,

‘This woman, Ridge, right? She your main squeeze?’

Oh God, I thought he’d peaked but he seemed to be just warming up. I shook my head, said,

‘Not likely.’

He was nodding.

‘I’m with you, Jack. We’re on the same page, singing from the same hymn sheet.’

Enough already. I snapped,

‘What does that mean?’

He raised his right hand, made a gun of his thumb and index finger, dropped the hammer, said,

‘You and me, Jack, we’re not the tied-down type. I’m not saying we’re commitment phobics, but there’s a big sea out there, we’re going to cast our rods more than once.’

Rods.

I’d have to shoot him. He was a blend of Oprah and Jerry Springer — is there a more awesome hybrid? I reached for the bill, just couldn’t take another moment, but he was quick, grabbed it and winked. If I was ever mad enough to go on a stake-out with him, I’d swing for him. I decided to act on my instinct, leaned in, asked,

‘How do you feel about stalkers?’

If he was guilty, he sure hid it well. He was taken aback though, then sneered,

‘The scum of the earth.’

I jabbed a finger in his chest, said,

‘You remember you said that.’

Outside, I shook myself, to rid myself physically of the whole meeting. My worst dread was that it might be contagious and I’d begin to talk in a similar fashion. American television had given our young people a bastardized language that dredged up Homer Simpson, Eminem and MTV. Fear Factor was one of the most popular programmes in the country, not to mention the rip-offs such as joe Millionaire. The result was a language that primarily set your teeth on edge. Perhaps that was the whole point.

The rest of the day I spent organizing my home. At intervals, it dawned on me I actually owned it. I was finally in the realm, if not of stability, at least of security. I wanted to ring the solicitor, check there hadn’t been a mistake, that nothing could go wrong. I rang Ridge, asked,

‘Are you at work?’

‘Day off.’

She sounded listless so I said,

‘Hey, you want some lunch?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

Then before I could respond, she said,

‘Those three names?’

‘Yes?’

‘I have some information.’

‘Terrific, so. . you want to have coffee or something?’

No answer, then,

‘I’ll come to the Granary.’

Whoops.

‘Am, I moved.’

More animation in her voice, sarcasm too.

‘It wasn’t good enough, that it?’

Phew-oh. She was one hard lady to like. When they threw around the description ball-buster, I think they’d her in mind. I said,

‘I told you I came into some good luck, remember?’

I could hear the sigh in her voice, then,

‘Whatever.’

Fuck this, I thought, near shouted,

‘You meeting me or what?’

‘McSwiggan’s, eight o’clock, be on time.’

Click.

My apartment was taking shape. It had the essentials — the only thing missing was books. No matter what I lost, and God knows, I’d lost so much, I somehow always held on to a library of sorts. With my Garda all-weather coat, they were part of my territory, part of who I was.

Or not?

Bookless in Galway.

I hadn’t opened a volume in months. The death of the child rendered everything obsolete. For a moment, I felt despair like I seldom ever did, a bleak bone-chilling voice that cajoled,

‘Why bother with any of it?’

Got moving, turned on the new TV and wouldn’t you know, an ad for Guinness, the pint near perfect in its blackness, a creamy head of incitement and allure. Two guys at a bar, waffling, the drinks untouched before them. What the hell was the matter with them? Talking. . when they could be drinking. I was almost shouting, going,

‘Drink the bloody stuff.’

And caught myself, said,

‘Jeez, get a grip.’

Showered, with the water scalding, to burn the obsession away. As if you could.

Ridge was already in McSwiggan’s when I got there. One of those miniature bottles of red wine in front of her. You get exactly a glass and a quarter from it — I know, I measured. Alkies always know the amount a bottle holds — never enough. Like a snooker player, the focus is always on the one to come. What’s in front of you is a done deal. I got a coke, sat opposite her, asked,

‘Waiting long?’

‘Do you care?’

Barbed or what? Jeez, here we went already. I wanted to shout, No, I don’t care, but chose to forgo the kick of that, poured half the coke into my glass, tried,

‘Slainte.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

She put a sheet of paper on the table. Two names on it.

Tom Reed

4, Shantalla Place

Galway and Michael Clare

56, Long Walk

Galway

I asked,

‘Where’s the third guy?’

She looked at me, said,

‘He died five years ago. The remaining two — one supplies bouncers to nightclubs and the other, Michael Clare, he’s an engineer. Why are you interested in them? They’ve no history of crime, appear to be upright citizens. But I don’t know, is it coincidence, both single and in their early forties?’

I couldn’t resist, went,

‘It’s Ireland, bachelors are part of the landscape.’

She grimaced, said,

‘And usually living with their mothers.’

She had finished the wine. I’d never known her to finish a drink. Usually it was just something to have on the table. I asked,

‘Another?’

She jumped up, said,

‘I’ll get my own.’

And did. Returning, she poured it straight away, took a hefty slug. Before I could stop myself, I said,

‘You need to be careful with that stuff.’

She seemed like she might strike me, gathered herself, said,

‘This, from you? That’s rich. I think I have a distance to travel before I sink to your level.’

Touché!

But I didn’t want to let it go, said,

‘I’m probably the best person to know. You want to avoid hell, check out the territory with an inmate.’

She raised her glass, defiance writ large, said,

‘Cheers.’

I let it slide, said,

‘I’ve put some things in place, to see if we can catch your stalker.’

Enraged, she spat,

‘Don’t call him that.’

‘A stalker? What? Come on, is there some pc term we’re supposed to use now?’

She stood up, said,

‘My stalker. Don’t you ever, like ever, call him mine. .’

And she stormed off. I wanted to shout,

‘Drink all you like, it’s never going to give you a personality.’

There was some wine in the second bottle that would maybe cover the bottom of the glass, give me that tiny lift I craved with all my being. A barmaid, wiping tables, approached, asked,

‘These done?’

‘Oh yeah.’