Priest

16

Christina Aguilera, as a nun, at an awards ceremony, strips off, wowing the audience.

Christ.

The afternoon, I went to a man named Curtin, in his seventies, part of a dying breed. He made hurleys. Located in Prospect Hill, he had a small shop with no sign — he didn’t need to advertise. I greeted him and he took a moment to adjust his vision, asked,

‘Young Taylor?’

God bless him.

He honed the hurleys from the ash, took weeks to get one exactly right. I gave him the specifications, the vital element being what the Irish call the give, the way the stick bends, what gives it that swoosh. You have to be able to hear it, else forget it. He listened, then,

‘I’ll have it in a month.’

I hated to fuck with an artist, but. .

‘I need one now.’

He was appalled, snapped,

‘Go to a sports shop.’

Finally, he gave me what he considered inferior stock. Got him to further compromise his craft by putting iron bands on the end. When I paid him, he gave me a look of true disappointment, said,

‘Young Taylor, you could have been a fine hurler.’

Only fine? I went,

‘Not great?’

He turned away, said,

‘There’s very few Kerrs.’

Arguably the greatest player of our time.

Before meeting Cody, I rang Father Malachy, said,

‘The case is closed.’

‘What? You’re giving up?’

I grimaced, said,

‘I found the killer.’

I’d called him on my mobile. I was standing outside Griffin’s Bakery, the smell of fresh bread enticing though I had no appetite. The Black Eyed Peas were playing in a nearby clothes shop. Hell, they were everywhere, had been Number One in the charts for ages. The song, ‘Where Is The Love?’

Like I’d ever know.

Only much later did I learn the song was about 9/11. The band had been together since 1998, proving endurance sometimes pays dividends. A lesson I needed to apply. Father Malachy asked,

‘Who is he?’

‘Meet me, I’ll tell you then.’

We fixed noon the next day. He ended with,

‘I can’t believe you found the fucker.’

From a priest!

He pronounced it in the Roscommon fashion. . Fooker. Gives the word an added dimension and leaves you in no doubt as to the intent.

People round me were discussing the latest outrage in Limerick. That town had exploded in tribal/gang warfare. A man barely out of his teens, accused of murder, had been sensationally released. Due to ‘witness intimidation’, according to popular belief, the case against him had collapsed. The youth, emerging from the courthouse, gave the two-fingered salute to the media.

Almost of equal interest was Ireland losing to Australia in the quarter finals in rugby. Keith Woods, the captain, in tears, announcing his retirement.

Tough days.

And they were about to get a whole lot tougher.

Back at my apartment, I showered, had a double-spooned coffee, dressed for a beating. I put the hurley in a holdall, wore a black T-shirt that bore the faded logo

Knicks kiss ass.

Not exactly appropriate to Galway, but what had logic to do with this deal? Black cords, black boots. For nostalgia, for reassurance, item 8234, the Garda coat. A woman had thrown it on a fire and it still carried a hint of flame. Now that seemed appropriate.

Evening was coming in. I checked myself in the mirror, saw a grim face, rage in the eyes, the way I wanted it.

Cody was nervous when we hooked up. He was wearing a tracksuit, trainers and a suede jacket. His eyes were wary. He said,

‘Good to see you, Jack.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

I looked at him, asked,

‘How did you find him?’

He was excited, delighted at his ingenuity, said,

‘Mary, the landlady’s daughter, and I. .’

He actually seemed embarrassed, but continued,

‘We were, you know, fooling around in her bedroom, and out of the corner of my eye I saw this guy, hanging around outside your friend’s house.’

I was amazed. At his age, if I was fooling around with a girl, I wouldn’t have seen a damn thing out of my eye, I’d have had eyes for her, nothing else. He continued,

‘I stood up and Mary wasn’t pleased, I had to shush her. Mad, isn’t it? As if the guy could have heard me.’

He looked at me for some praise, but I said nothing so he went on,

‘I watched him cruise her house twice, and something in the tilt of his head, I knew this wasn’t a casual stroll. Then he looked around in a furtive way and I knew, knew it was him, and I actually shouted that. Mary was asking. . Who?’

He had to pause for a breath, he was reliving the chase, said,

‘I pulled me jeans on and told her I had to go. She was annoyed but I said I’d make it up to her. I tracked him for two days, followed him into pubs, betting shops, and of course three times to your friend’s house. He even tried the door and I got to see his face, his expression. I swear, Jack, it was full of. . hate and. . lust. I knew it was him.’

The classic procedure of tailing he’d picked up from cop shows. Did I tell him he’d done well?

No.

He glanced at the holdall and I said,

‘It’s a persuader.’

Waited for him to ask what that meant, but he went with,

‘This Sam White, he’s stalked women before, was even in court, but the woman withdrew the charges.’

I nodded and he asked,

‘Are we going to report him?’

I nearly laughed, said,

‘We had this conversation before, remember? I asked you if you were up to doing what had to be done.’

He was fading by the minute. Whatever resolve had gotten him this far was leaking fast. He tried,

‘But maybe the Guards. .?’

‘Maybe bollocks.’

More fiercely than I intended and I could see I scared him. I eased, not much but a little, said,

‘The Guards might, I emphasize might, caution him. Then guess what? He’ll up the ante, he’ll do real damage.’

He went for broke.

‘What are you going to do with. . to. . him?’

I began walking, said,

‘Caution him, but with conviction.’

St Patrick’s Avenue used to consist of a small lane connecting the church to Eyre Square, compact homes that housed a batch of true Galwegians. Like everything else, those people are scattered and gone. I could have named the members of each household. Who’d want to hear them?

Now they’re townhouses.

Jesus.

You’re sitting in a flash hotel, some asshole in a flashier suit is telling a babe,

‘For weekends, I’ve a little pad in St Patrick’s Avenue.’

I want to jump up, grab him by his Armani tie, roar,

‘You know what happened to the people who lived there?’

And if I beat him from then till Christmas, he’d never know what I was on about. Or care.

Sam White’s house was midway up the avenue, a light in the front window. I said,

‘He’s home.’

Cody looked like he might bolt. I asked,

‘You want to take off?’

The idea heavily appealed but he tugged at his hair, went,

‘No, it’s, am. . we’ll be restrained, won’t we?’

Lovely word. I tasted it, let it roll between my teeth, then,

‘When he jerked off into her knickers, threw them on the back seat of her car while she was at church, at Mass, for Chrissakes. .’

I had to take a deep breath, then,

‘You think he showed restraint there, eh? That what you’d call it, is it?’

He shook his head, the picture of misery.

I knocked on the door, heard a TV being turned down. The door opened. He was in his late twenties, aiming at thirty. Tall, with a shaved head, wearing a singlet and tracksuit bottoms, bare feet, his toenails needed clipping. He was built like an athlete, worked out. Even features marred by a bad nose, light-blue eyes with a faint bloodshot tint. He asked,

‘Help you?’

Dublin accent, not the north side but the more affluent belt, south of the Liffey — Dublin four, I’d guess. I said,

‘May we see your TV licence?’

He was instantly angry, said,

‘I’m unemployed.’

I gave Cody a long-suffering look, like we’d heard this a hundred times, asked,

‘Did I ask you about your working status?’

‘No. . but. .’

‘So let’s see some documentation — your social-security book. Maybe you’re entitled to a free licence.’

Gave him my affable expression. Us blue-collar guys, in this together. Suggested I might be about to cut him some slack. His anger eased, if not a lot. He was a guy who liked to keep it simmering, figured his temper helped him blast his way through most situations. He asked,

‘Couldn’t it wait till, like, another time? Top of The Pops is on.’

I glanced at Cody, then, my voice full of enthusiasm,

‘Hey, I want to see that. What do you think, Missy Elliott get to Number One? That Riverdance piece she uses, got black kids learning Irish dance, how cool is that?’

He was thrown. To him I was old, but hip? Before he could do the maths, I stepped inside, said,

‘You get the papers, we’ll keep an eye on the telly.’

He was moving down the hall, not sure how he’d been outdanced but going with it. Cody closed the door, looked at me, mouthed, Missy Elliott? I turned into the living room. Single guy’s pad, a recliner seat like Chandler and Joey have on Friends, a can of Bud on the arm, tabloids scattered on the table, the Dublin Gaelic football team framed on the wall. Bookshelves crammed with videos, CDs and car magazines but no books.

The TV was one of those widescreen jobs, cost an arm and a leg. I unzipped the bag, Cody behind me, fretting, took out the hurley, got a firm grip. I was mid swing, the swoosh beginning its song, as Sam came into the room. It hit the screen with a massive bang, shattering it. Sam’s jaw dropped. I said,

‘We’ll have to wait till next week to see what’s Number One.’

Then pivoted and with a second swing took his feet from under him. Cody had his hand up. I ignored him. Sam on the floor, moaning, managed,

‘For a TV licence?’

I nearly laughed. Instead, I swung my boot, broke his nose, let him feel that. Then I pulled him up, shoved him into the recliner. Blood was pouring into his mouth. I snapped at Cody,

‘Get a cloth, for fuck’s sake.’

He headed for the kitchen. I hunkered down, said,

‘You can tell I’m a fairly intense guy, so when I ask you a question, bear that in mind.’

I reached in the holdall, got out the can, doused him with petrol, then took a disposable lighter. His eyes went huge. I said,

‘You lie to me once, you’re toast, got it?’

He nodded. I asked,

‘Why are you terrorizing Guard Ridge?’

I gave the lighter an experimental flick and a bright flame leaped out. His body shaking, he said,

‘She arrested me for pissing on the street. In court, it sounded like I’d exposed myself. Got a five-hundred-euro fine and the label “sex offender”.’

I stared at him, said,

‘You go near her again, I’ll kill you. . believe me?’

He nodded. I slapped him open-handed on the face, twice, hard, said,

‘Let me hear you.’

‘I swear, Jesus, I’ll never go near her.’

I stood, put the hurley and can in the holdall, tapped his bald head, said,

‘Get a TV licence.’

As I turned I near collided with Cody, who had a wad of tissues in his hand. I said,

‘He won’t be needing them, we’re done.’

Cody glanced towards the figure slumped in the recliner, then followed me out.

I closed the front door quietly and walked quickly down the lane, my limp not bothering me at all. Cody, catching up, asked,

‘Did you kill him?’