Priest

12

27 July 2003, Ireland on Sunday

‘If he did fire 1,000 bullets at a cost of around fifty cents each, it was a small price to pay for a man who has put so much into the force.’

A colleague of departing Garda Commissioner Pat Byrne, who celebrated his retirement on the Phoenix Park indoor firing range.

Sister Mary Joseph was finally beginning to relax. No one had been apprehended for the murder of Father Joyce and no one had come to ask her any questions. . she dared to hope that her prayers had been answered. It looked like whoever had murdered the poor man was not coming after her. Anyway, she told herself over and over, she had done nothing wrong, but in her heart she knew she had allowed those boys to continue being abused. No matter how many rosaries she said, and no matter how many rationalizations she made, the voice in her head refused to cease its refrain. . You knew, you knew those poor creatures were being horribly abused and you did nothing. It’s a sin of omission, you are as guilty as Father Joyce is.

But most days, she took shameful comfort in the fact that she hadn’t been found out, no one was accusing her of anything. One boy had begged her, tears streaming down his face, for help. First she had tried to bribe him with chocolate, but he had had an extreme reaction on seeing it, went deathly pale, looked like he was about to faint, and she had read him the riot act, and, God forgive her, she had boxed his ears. She could still see his little face and hear the awful words, My bum is bleeding.

Out loud she intoned, ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God, deliver me from this torment.’ The boy had begun to inhabit her dreams, except now his tears were tears of blood.

Her hair had begun to fall out and she was hoping that this might be penance enough. Apart from Jesus, the only love of her life had been her father and she dreaded to think he’d be ashamed of her. She fell to her knees, began Ar nathair. . (Our Father. .)

I rang Joe Ryan, a guy I knew from my days as a Guard. He worked as a journalist and, while we were cordial when we met, we weren’t friends or anything in the vicinity. He answered on the second ring and I went through the usual semi-cordial shite till he cut to the chase, went,

‘So, what do you want?’

I faked some offence and he said,

‘Cut the bollocks, what do you want?’

I sighed, asked,

‘You know of a kid named Cody? In his twenties, has a quasi-American accent and-’

He cut me off. If you lived in Galway and had been here any length of time, Joe knew you. He said,

‘All the kids have those accents and yeah, I know him, he’s Liam Farraher’s son. Why?’

He was a journalist so I decided to confuse him with the truth, said,

‘He wants to be my partner in the — are you ready for this? — the private-eye game.’

I could hear him laughing, then he said,

‘That’s Liam’s kid, all right. He’s not a bad lad, but — what’s the current buzz word? — finding himself.’

I let the obvious pun of finding hang there a bit, and then asked,

‘Is he OK? I mean, apart from deluded.’

More laughter, then,

‘He worked in computers and was pretty damn good, from what I hear, but he obviously wants to lead an exciting life and so has hooked up with you.’

I let that slide and finally asked,

‘I don’t need to worry about him then, he’s not a nutter or anything?’

He waited a time, then,

‘Way I see it, they’re in their twenties, they’re all deranged.’

What I really wanted to ask was, could I trust him? I went,

‘Can I trust him?’

He laughed again, said,

‘Jeez, Jack, you have a way of putting things, you know that? Take a look round you. This is the new Ireland, no one believes in the Government or the Clergy, and as for the banks, forget it, they’re robbing us blind and admitting it. The only item people trust is money — greed is the new spirituality. You want someone to trust, find yourself a nice puppy and beat the bejaysus out of him. He won’t like you, but you’ll certainly be able to trust him.’

With all me cynicism, all the lies and treachery I’d encountered, this onslaught caught me blindside. The casual ferocity, the simple dismissal of a whole nation, and hey, this was my gig, I was the one who was bitter. I protested,

‘That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?’

He was laughing full now.

‘We’re fucked, Jack. We talk like quasi-Americans, we’re eating ourselves into obesity, drinking our lights out and abusing our children left, right and centre. The only religion now is Feather thy own nest, so if you want to know can you trust some kid, let me put it this way — let him do the donkey work and if he’s shite, fire his arse. It’s the new dynamic, and lemme go American too. . Get with the game, buddy.’

He took a deep breath then fired his final salvo right at my most vulnerable spot.

‘What’s your beef? It’s not like he’s your son.’

Then he hung up — no goodbye or take care or the old Irish-ism, Mind how you go.

I guess it was the new dynamic.

I didn’t know if this helped or not. Did it? Opted for the cynicism on Cody. Decided I’d let him run another mile or so. I could always fire his arse, or should that be ass?

Yet another bad decision on my part.

I began the stake-out on Ridge’s home on Monday. Days of numbing boredom. At first, the landlady kept checking on me. A knock at the door, did I need anything — tea, coffee, the paper?

After the third time, I answered with an abrupt,

‘What?’

She let me be. The daughter, Mary, the student, was introduced on Tuesday. A looker, with long auburn hair, she had all the confidence of the new Ireland, 100 per cent assurance and little ability. She asked,

‘And you’re doing exactly what?’

She could have a fine career in the Guards. I gave her the lame story. She didn’t believe a word of it, said,

‘Sounds very odd to me.’

But her mother intervened, mindful of the week’s money she’d had up front, said,

‘Now, Mary, leave Mr Taylor alone.’

Reluctantly she did, but giving me a look which warned,

‘I’ll be watching you.’

I was tempted to mention Sting, but let it slide. I’d been to Charly Byrnes, reconnected with Vinny and bought six books. They stood unread on the table, the light from the window throwing a shadow across the covers. You figure with a watching gig, you’ll have tons of time to read. Never opened a single volume. The art of sitting still I’d near perfected in the hospital. After the morgue and my relief that it wasn’t Jeff, I felt I owed God. My prayer had been answered so the barter system kicked in. I couldn’t swear off drink as I hadn’t had one in months. So I went to the chemist, bought a pack of nicotine patches. This was my third day, and though I was in withdrawal, it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. The last remaining cigarettes in the packet, I put under the mattress. If the craving got unbearable, I’d have a crushed, crumpled solution. Listened to Warren Zevon — well, to one track. He knew he was dying and I was conscious of that, heard ‘Knocking On Heaven’s Door’ as if I’d never heard the song before. It tore me apart and I knew I’d never be able to play it again.

Tried Emmylou. The title of the album, Stumbling Into Grace, seemed appropriate. No way I was going into grace other than like that. The second track, ‘I Will Dream’, had more than a touch of Irish influence, and not just the lyrics — a sadness of centuries. The fourth, ‘Time In Babylon’, seemed to be a statement on the current American psyche, but maybe I was just thinking too much. Then ‘Strong Hand’, a track for June Carter, came as close to saccharine as it gets, yet was uplifting in a melancholy style.

Perhaps it was the music, the isolation, the long empty hours, but try as I might, I couldn’t blot out Serena May, Jeff’s daughter. I’d loved her as much as I was ever going to be able to love anyone. I’d been minding her, but was unfocused, and she climbed out the window. Three years of age. My mind locked down, refused to play the chaos after.

I thought about Mrs Bailey, the times we talked. Never, not even once, had she lost faith in me. God knows, I’ve lost faith myself, climbing in and out of a bottle, receiving bad beatings, destroying everything I touched. Had never been able to get her to use my Christian name. I grieved for her.

With horror, I realized I cared for more people in the graveyard than in life, which means you’ve lived too long or God has a serious vendetta going, with no sign of Him letting up in the foreseeable future. What all this transmuted into was rage, a blinding, encompassing, white rawness of fury. When I hit the guy on the bridge, the truth was I felt near released. Only massive control prevented me finishing him off, and man, I wanted to — still did. The classic definition of depression is rage turned inward, so the way I figured it, I was born depressed. No fucking more. I wasn’t going under that dank water which is depression, where your best daily moment is climbing into bed. Of course, the very worst is when you wake, the black cloud waiting, and you go ‘Not this shit again.’

I was the cauldron waiting for the match. I bloody prayed for it. Deep down, I knew I was focusing on this stalker, glad he’d come along. The more I thought about him harassing Ridge, the more I simmered. I wanted to catch him, not for her but as a release for the tornado inside. Too, I fucking hate intimidation. Some asshole who crept around in the dark, preying unseen on a woman — oh man, I wanted him bad.

I was well aware I’d put Father Malachy on the back burner, tried to rationalize that I’d been en route to talk to one of Father Joyce’s victims when the cops whisked me away to meet Clancy. Resolved to get right on it when Cody relieved me midweek.

Meanwhile, the time edged by and I was going nuts.

I wanted to lash out, to put my fist through the window. No sign of a stalker. I saw Ridge leave for work, then return at the end of her shift. What she looked was tired and even hungover — I know the signs.

Wednesday finally came and Cody appeared with a ruck-sack and a breezy attitude. I introduced him to the landlady and he charmed her completely. Produced an apple tart from Griffin’s Bakery, so fresh that the aroma filled the house. The landlady was thrilled.

‘Oh, I love apple tart.’

He took out a carton of cream and she was full won over. He said,

‘You gotta have cream, am I right?’

She blushed, I swear she did, went,

‘I shouldn’t. I mean, a girl has to watch her figure.’

When I dragged him away, she was still cooing. He said to me, all business now,

‘We’re going to nail this guy, right?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Jack, come on, what’s with the negative waves. Practise saying “I can and I will.”

He couldn’t be bloody serious. I asked,

‘Are you serious?’

‘It’s an affirmation, Jack. I say every morning, “Every day, in every way, I’m getting better-” ’

I put up my hand, went,

‘Jesus, enough, I get the picture.’

Knocked him back, but he was a trier, said,

‘Works for me.’

He looked round the room, saw the CDs, asked,

‘What’s the sounds?’

‘Emmylou Harris, Warren Zevon.’

‘Who?’

I didn’t have the patience or the inclination to tell him, so began to take my leave. He produced a small box, gift wrapped, handed it over. I asked,

‘What’s this?’

‘A present to mark our bonding.’

Took the paper off and there was a mobile phone. He said,

‘It’s charged, with credit and ready to rock ‘n’ roll.’

I mumbled some lines of thanks and he said,

‘No biggie.’

I looked at him, the eager beaver, full of ideals and spunk, asked,

‘How far are you ready to go?’

‘Go?’

‘If we catch this guy, how far are you prepared to go, out on a limb?’

He was unsure, wanted to get it right, said,

‘We’ll, am, hand him over.’

My voice was scathing.

‘To, like. . the Guards — that your thinking?’

‘Am, I guess.’

I shook my head and he asked, a hint of desperation now,

‘What do you think, Jack? You’re the pro.’

I wanted to fuck with him. Hell, I just wanted to fuck with anyone, said,

‘Let me give you a clue, yeah?’

He waited. All the vim he’d garnered by buttering the landlady was leaking away and he nodded, anxiety plastered on his face. I said,

‘I’ll be getting a hurley, putting the steel rims on the end, ensuring it has that necessary swoosh. You catch my drift?’

He did, but didn’t believe it, said,

‘You mean, like a beating?’

I waited, then said,

‘Think of it more as an affirmation.’

As I was leaving, the landlady stepped into the hall, cooed,

‘What a lovely boy, is he your son?’

I denied him.

Walking towards town, I felt like I’d been released from prison. My limp wasn’t bothering me, due in part to all the pacing I’d done the past few days. A guy, the worse for wear, fell in step beside me, asked,

‘Remember me, Jack?’

I was all bummed out on civility, said,

‘No.’

He stopped, let me examine him. About five eight, balding rapidly, watery eyes and a drinker’s ruined face. Wearing a grey cardigan buttoned to the neck, shiny pants that gleamed from constant wear, slip-on grey shoes, a hole on the side of the left, he said,

‘Minty. . Minty Grey.’

Like a reject from Pop Idol, then I did remember — from schooldays, his nickname from the sweets he chewed on a regular basis. Two of his front teeth were black — not just decayed, coal black. As if reading my mind, he said,

‘I haven’t had a mint in years.’

I said,

‘Good to see you.’

Couldn’t bring myself to use his nickname. The years bring, if not maturity, then a heightened sense of ridiculousness. He said,

‘Did you hear about the Poor Clares?’

I hoped they hadn’t been burned out or worse. These days, anything seemed possible. An enclosed order, they existed on donations. The terrible times of the fifties, they’d ring the bell when they were hungry, the sound of that tolling telling all that was horrible and shameful about poverty. Who could have forecast the Celtic Tiger? Gone were the days when priests went door to door, asking for dues, and people turned out the lights in the vain hope the priest would think no one was home. And I wondered why I had such rage. He said,

‘They’ve gone online.’

Thought I misheard. Did he mean line dancing? Nuns drove cars, appeared on TV. .

Then he added,

‘They’ve got a website.’

‘You’re kidding — the Poor Clares?’

‘Honest to God, it was on the news.’

I shook my head, asked,

‘How do you. . I mean. . give alms?’

He gave a mega grin, black teeth prominent, said,

‘They accept all the major credit cards.’

He stopped at the Bal, said,

‘I’m going in here.’

I reached for some change and he said,

‘No need, Jack, it’s dole day. But thanks.’

He’d unnerved me, shook up the few illusions I’d kept. He laughed, said,

‘If I’d a website, you could send me a few bob, use your credit card.’

I laughed unconvincingly, admitted,

‘I don’t have one.’

He gave me a thumbs up, said,

‘But you’ve a good heart, best credit there is.’

Bank that.

On impulse, I headed for Shantalla to suss out Tom Reed, the guy who provided bouncers. I wondered if there was a vocation for that — you wake up one morning knowing with certainty your mission is to supply bouncers to the world. I found his house without any trouble, a two-storey with a well-tended garden. I took a deep breath, knocked at the door.

Showtime.

Always the moment I loved and loathed, never quite sure how I was going to broach the subject, the flat-out ‘Are you a killer?’

A woman answered. She was in her twenties, looked harried, asked,

‘Yes?’

‘Is Tom around?’

She roared over her shoulder,

‘Tom!’

And went back inside.

I could hear phones ringing — business was brisk. A short man, bald, with a barrel chest, jog pants and, I kid you not, a pink T-shirt with the logo WE BOUNCE appeared, went,

‘Yeah?’

I put out my hand, said,

‘I’m Jack Taylor. I wonder if I could have a few moments of your time?’

‘You selling something?’

Go for broke. I said,

‘It’s about Father Joyce.’

A look of sheer agony crossed his face — raw, naked hurt, followed by a weariness. He sighed.

‘This shit again.’

I tried to look sympathetic — not one of my strong suits, I come on like a chancer — said,

‘I realize this must be difficult.’

He gave me a long look, asked,

‘You a survivor?’

I knew he meant of child abuse, said,

‘No.’

He put his head to the side, said,

‘So you realize nothing.’

He considered, then,

‘OK, I’ll give you five minutes. The girl, she’s my secretary, up to her arse in sales.’

I stepped in and pulled the door closed. He led the way to a kitchen, files and papers everywhere. I asked,

‘Business good?’

‘Yeah, a madhouse. I keep planning on renting office space, but Galway — who can afford it? Get you some coffee? We only got instant.’

‘What I drink.’

While the kettle boiled, he asked,

‘You a boozer?’

A statement more than a question. I tried for indignation and he said,

‘It’s in the eyes, that haunted look — I’ve been there. Other places too, none I’d like to revisit.’

He shovelled instant into mugs, added the water, said,

‘We’re out of milk, out of everything except demand for door personnel. That’s bouncers to you and me.’

I was curious, asked,

‘How’d you get into it?’

He motioned for me to sit. I did and he took a chair opposite, said,

‘Much like you’d imagine. I was a bouncer, got tired of spit and worse in my face, figured I’d get into management. Seven years ago, when the town was seriously partying. If you were younger, I could have you working this evening.’

Not if Clancy got wind of it. I asked,

‘How come?’

He drank off his coffee, said,

‘You look thick.’

I let that lie, didn’t want to explore what exactly he meant. I’d a fairly good idea it wasn’t flattering. I said,

‘I’ve been asked to look into Father Joyce’s death.’

The fleeting pain again. He stood up, went to the sink, washed his mug with energy, said,

‘So you come to the few people who’d the courage to speak out. Three of us who had the balls to talk, among the numerous others who were abused. Who’s paying your freight? The Church? As they sure as hell ain’t paying us. But they will. The Government’s trying to shaft us too — I guess that’s legal abuse. One sympathetic judge, Le Foy? They got her to resign.’

There was a ferocity in his words, a power that seemed to chill the air. In an attempt to diffuse it, I said,

‘You’ve overcome. . am. . your past. I mean, you’re functioning, doing well.’

He slammed a fist on the washboard, asked,

‘How the fuck would you know? You see a wife here, kids, anything normal? I’ve been on every medication in the book, lost my hair when I was nineteen years old. You want to know what I do for recreation?’

He mouthed the word with every ounce of contempt he could summon, continued,

‘I walk the frigging prom, up and down. I talk to no one, not a single human being. I watch TV. Comedies — Seinfeld, Friends, South Park, Family Guy — and you know what? I never laugh, not even once. And Father Ted, I’ll never watch that, priests are never going to be funny. I died years ago, but my body won’t lie down — isn’t that a pisser? And family — forget it. I always thought I’d have a son, and like now, he could inherit the business. But thanks to that Father, the pervert, I’ll die alone, no issue. A man should have a son, ’tis a real sin what was robbed from me.’

I was lost for a reply, so he asked,

‘You want to know did I kill him. . That’s it, isn’t it? You think a hundred other people don’t want to ask me the very same thing? He buggered me ten times a week till I bled from me arse. I was nine years old when he started. When I told my mother, she leathered me till I couldn’t walk.’

Sweat was pouring down his face, the pink T-shirt drenched. He continued,

‘Sometimes, for variety, he’d stick it in my mouth. So am I sorry he’s dead? I tell you what I am sorry about — that it was the head got cut off. They got the wrong end.’

I stood up, asked,

‘Can I get you some water?’

He was spent, his whole body collapsed in on itself, shook his head, said,

‘You’ll want to see Michael?’

‘Yes, I would.’

He gave a small twisted smile, said,

‘You’ll like Michael, he’s got his shit together.’

I wanted to reach out, touch his shoulder and say, what? That it would be all right. Whatever else, it was never going to be that. I said,

‘I appreciate your talking to me, the coffee. .’

He seemed not to hear me. As I was heading out, he asked,

‘You familiar with the term “cold case”?’

When I nodded, he said,

‘That’s what this is. Cold as granite.’

Then he added,

‘You ever catch the guy who did it, do me a favour?’

‘Yes?’

‘Shake his hand for me.’

Later that evening, by one of those bizarre coincidences, Sky News reported a drive-by shooting in a small hamlet in Suffolk, alleged to be connected to a dispute between bouncers. Drive-by. . how American we were getting.

Switched to the local news. The Guards stopped a speeding car. The occupants, teenagers in balaclavas, had in their possession

Two swords

Six Stanley knives

Baseball bats

Can of petrol.

Trick or treat.