Priest

22

‘When the missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land. They said “Let us pray.” We closed our eyes. When we opened them, we had the Bible and they had the land.’

This was said by Archbishop Tutu on a little historical irony in his country. I wish I’d remembered it when Malachy accused me of anti-clericalism.

There was a time, I’d been involved with the girls of the Magdalen Laundry. I’d been almost a regular Mass-goer, and if I remember, I wasn’t drinking or smoking. . Christ, what happened to me? The Mass had been a feature of regular comfort, a routine so alien I’d derived an almost peace. In Ireland, when an event of astonishing proportion occurs, we say, There must be a rib broke in the Devil.

His ribs seemed to be restored. The nun had mentioned the Bible — well, darkness was certainly stalking the land and a plague was upon our house.

Going after the nun, and going after her hard, made me feel cranked, but the downside comes and I had to ask,

‘You beat up on an old nun, what the hell is that about?’

The answer is/was. . rage.

Give me a few more minutes and I’d have been lashing out at her with fists. God Almighty, how far had I fallen? What next, mug old folk in their lonely homes? I needed a drink and badly. Heard my name called and here was Cody, carrying a large paper bag with the Brown Thomas logo on the front. What this said was ‘money’.

He had that bashful look and near stammered,

‘I hope I’m not out of line, but there was a sale in BTs and I had a few bob. I got this for you.’

He seemed mortified, pushed the bag at me and said,

‘Don’t be mad.’

And legged it.

It was a brown, three-quarter-length leather jacket, loads of pockets and on the front it said. . Boss.

I came as close to weeping in the street as I’ve ever been. You do that in Ireland and they think,

‘He started early.’

The hell with the shitty timetable, this was an emergency. I headed for Coyle’s but got sidetracked — met Bobby, a man I’d helped out a long time ago. I couldn’t recall what exactly I did but he seemed eternally grateful, grabbed my arm, said,

‘You’ve got to come for a jar.’

We chanced O’Neachtain’s, not a pub I’d frequent. Nothing wrong with it, in fact it has a lot going for it — old, has character — the problem is I know too many of the regulars, not a good idea for an alkie. Anonymity, even in your home town, has to be nourished, any small pocket you can carve, you do. Barely in the door and a near chorus of Hiya Jack began. Bobby ordered two pints of stout, Jameson chasers, and I decided to let the day go to ruin. We moved to a snug that shielded us from sight and we clinked glasses. I, yet again, didn’t touch the booze, just stared at it. Bobby, already two sheets to the ferocious wind, didn’t notice. He said,

‘I had a win on the Lotto.’

He was my age, well shattered from poteen, betting offices and a wife with a motor mouth. A cast in his right eye gave you the impression he was constantly winking, and it was disconcerting at the best of times. A few drinks, you winked back.

I didn’t know how much Bobby had won on the Lotto, but I guessed a bundle as various people made a point of sticking their heads over the partition and asking,

‘How you doing, Bobby? Want a pint, want crisps, peanuts?’

And he had the scent of money, that intangible aura of a winner, and if you could get close to him, have him know you, it might rub off.

He gave me a radiant smile, white smudge on his lip from the Guinness. He knew I understood, said,

‘Wankers, wouldn’t give me the time of day before.’

I said,

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella.’

I think I meant it, but good luck, you’re never sure if you’re not just the tiniest bit pissed that it ain’t you. He drank deep, belched, asked,

‘You OK for a few bob?’

Then laughed, said,

‘A few bob from Bobby, that’s rich — oops, another pun, two for one.’

I gave the polite laugh that suggests we move quickly on from this very unfunny line and said,

‘No, I’m good, thanks for asking.’

His face got grave and I wondered if I’d insulted him. He leaned close, said,

‘I don’t want those bowsies to hear, there’s a guy shouting the odds about doing you.’

I kept my alarm low and asked,

‘Who, why. . and especially where?’

I could smell his breath, the whiskey, the stout and. . cheese? He said,

‘Some Dublin git, he says he’s going to get a high-powered rifle and take you down.’

It sounded so American I laughed and said,

‘I know who it is, a pervert who was stalking a friend of mine. He’s all mouth, nothing to worry about.’

Bobby didn’t seem to agree, kept his concerned look, said,

‘Jesus, Jack, a fella is talking about rifles, you have to pay heed.’

I was truly amused and said,

‘Pub talk. I only worry about the guys who don’t talk about it and do get a rifle. Now that’s worth noting.’

Unbidden, the barman brought a fresh tray of drinks. When you win big, that’s the type of thing that happens, they know you’re good for it. Bobby changed tack, asked,

‘Want to know how much I won?’

Did I?

‘Only if you want to tell me.’

He did.

‘Three-quarters of a mil. .’

I whistled. He deserved it. Bobby was a guy who hadn’t had two pennies to jiggle on a tombstone, a life of scrimping and scraping, keeping the wolf from the door, dodging the rentman, putting everything on the slate and living from pillar to post.

I was glad for him.

He asked,

‘Guess how many millionaires the Lotto has made in Ireland?’

I had no idea, but he expected an answer, an attempt. He was paying the freight so I said,

‘Am. . a hundred?’

‘Eight hundred and fifty. Oh, fifty and three-quarters, if you include me.’

What do you say? I said the obvious,

‘Fuck.’

He was delighted, drank near half his fresh pint, said,

‘The newspaper did a survey on winners, and guess how many of them were happy, happy they won it?’

Tough question.

‘All of the lucky fuckers.’

He loved that, it was the right answer, in so far as it was the one he wanted. He exclaimed,

‘Almost none. Said it ruined their lives. Know why?’

This I knew.

‘Relatives.’

He was surprised, took a swig of Jameson to recoup, then,

‘You’re right. Caused ructions.’

So I had to ask,

‘And with you, did it cause. . ructions?’

His face fell and he looked on the verge of tears, said,

‘My wife got a heart attack two weeks after, isn’t that a whore of a thing?’

To put it mildly. I asked,

‘How is she now?’

‘Buried.’

Jesus.

He added,

‘In a very expensive casket, not that it matters a toss.’

We were silent then, staring at our drinks, pondering the vagaries of life, the sheer unfairness. Then he brightened, said,

‘I’m going to the Bahamas.’

‘Good for you.’

‘Want to come?’

Did I ever, said,

‘God, I’d love to, but I’m caught up in something here. Great offer, though.’

He looked into his empty glass, then,

‘I’ll probably never go. I’ve never been anywhere, what would I do?. . Drink. . I can do that here and at least I know the pint is solid.’

Words to mark the wisdom of the ages.

My cue to leave. The conversation was dipping into serious maudlin territory and wouldn’t improve so I stood, said,

‘Thanks a million. Oh, three-quarters anyway.’

He liked that a lot, actually shook hands with me, said,

‘I always liked you, Jack, even when you were a Guard.’

I looked at the untouched drink I was leaving behind. No doubt, I was seriously in need of treatment.

As I left, I saw a crowd of fellas saunter in, join him, telling him he was the best in the world.

As I headed across the Salmon Weir Bridge, I remembered the old name for it, the Bridge of Sighs, as it was the route from the courthouse to the old jail. I added my own small sigh to the generations that had gone before. Helped in no small measure by the tiny silver swan I could trace in the pocket of my jacket.

The next day I was hurting. You can’t be Irish and curse a nun and not hurt. And there was the ever-present rage for Michael Clare and his — what do the Americans call it? — dissing of me.

Still hoping to find Jeff, I was perched on a bench in Eyre Square, my leather creaking in its newness, the winos stirring to my right, a cluster preparing to swoop on some likely soft touch.

Eyre Square: my whole history and the history of the city enclosed here. In 1963, I was hoisted by my father to catch a glimpse of John F. Kennedy as he and Jackie passed in a motor parade. The very same car that in Dallas he would ride in for the last time. The Irish loved him. He seemed to shine, maybe he did, and no matter how his name was tarnished now, he was among our hierarchy. I’d once heard an old Claddagh woman say,

‘His halo still shines.’

Only Bill Clinton would grab the same slice of the Irish heart.

In the Middle Ages, this was a green just outside the main wall. The square was named for the mayor who in 1710 gave the land to the city. Now it contains Kennedy Park.

I stared at the rust-coloured fountain, built to celebrate the five-hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the city. It has sails to represent the Hooker ships that built the trade of the city. Always amuses Americans, who go,

‘Hookers!’

Add that we call cigarettes fags, and they are, dare I say, hooked. Behind me was Brown’s Doorway, from the seventeenth century, a reminder of the fourteen tribes that once ruled the town.

Maybe my favourite feature are the cannons from the Crimean War. They stand like UN observers, useless and obvious, serving nothing. The statue of our poet Padraig O’Conaire, a man fond of a bevy too, was about to be moved. The whole area was going to be revamped, Padraig consigned to a building site for eighteen months, alone and neglected, like the decent poets. He wrote in Irish, guaranteeing that he’d never be read. A woman with a young girl strolled by. The woman looked at me and I smiled. The little girl shouted at me,

‘Smile at your own wife.’

Even at that young age, Irish females are feisty, ready to bust your chops before you utter a word. They need to learn early to deal with the sulkiness of the male. I rubbed the patch on my arm, marvelling that with all the freight I’d been carrying, I hadn’t yet smoked. I’m loath to term it a miracle, but it was astonishing. A man was approaching, wearing a very battered leather coat. For one mad moment, I thought it might be the coat I’d brought back from London which had been stolen long ago. Shook my head, as if it was a mirage. The man recognized me and stopped.

Trade. The owner/barman from Coyle’s.

It was like seeing a vampire at noon. His face had the mottle of the habitual drinker. He was wearing a black tie, white shirt, black pants, looked almost respectable till you met the eyes and saw the faded life.

I asked,

‘How you doing?’

Sounding like Joey from Friends, which is not really to be recommended, if you’re Irish. He appraised me. If he saw something he liked, he wasn’t showing it. He asked,

‘Join you for a minute?’

I moved over on the bench and he sat down. He smelled of hops and barley, which figures if you’re in the bar game. He put his hand in his pocket, produced a pipe, a leather pouch of tobacco and fired up, took his own time in getting it lit, gave a sigh of contentment. The aroma was sweet but not cloying and he said,

‘Clan.’

The brand.

He stared at the jacket, said,

‘Cost a few punts, that.’

‘Euros.’

He was not a man who liked being corrected and I made a note of it. He answered,

‘Euros, punts, none of it worth a toss.’

I said,

‘My son gave it to me.’

Took him by surprise and he thought about it, then,

‘I don’t have a family, never wanted to give up me freedom. What’s he do, your lad?’

My lad.

Without missing a beat I said,

‘He’s in computers.’

He muttered there was a future in that, but not with any conviction.

We sat in silence, surveying the square, then he said,

‘I’m coming from a funeral.’

Explained the attire. I did the Irish thing, asked,

‘Anyone close?’

He was not a man who answered quickly. As if he searched for hidden agendas, then,

‘Who’s close?’

I wished I had a cig, asked,

‘Was he a friend?’

I was thinking, why the hell don’t I shut up? He didn’t answer for a full five minutes. I know, I counted every awkward one. Then,

‘A customer.’

I was surprised and gave a grunt of assent. He turned to me, said,

‘You knew him.’

‘Did I?’

‘The priest, Gerald.’

And I remembered Gerald saying,

‘The Devil’s right hand.’

Gave me a spooky feeling, though it could have been the need for a drink. I said,

‘I’m sorry.’

He nodded as if he expected nothing less, then,

‘The bastards wouldn’t bury him, so I shelled out.’

I presumed he meant the Church and said,

‘That was good of you.’

He stood, shook the ashes out of his pipe, banged it against the bench, said,

‘Don’t talk shite.’

We let that gem swirl above our heads. Then he gave me a full look, said,

‘You’re a quare one.’

Not in the sense of gay, but more the Behan meaning of odd. Before I could, as it were, rise to the occasion, he asked,

‘What kind of man goes to the pub, pays good money for whiskey and then doesn’t touch a drop?’

Did I want to explain to him it was my deal with God?

No.

When he saw no answer was coming, he shrugged, said,

‘No skin off my nose.’

And walked away.

I wanted to roar,

‘Thanks for sharing.’

But I was afraid he’d come back. I sat for another twenty minutes. I’d liked that priest a lot. One meeting and I felt like I knew him. Tried to find some prayer. A wino approached and I gave him ten euro, felt that was the best prayer of all.

* * *

Next morning, I was up early, got the phone directory and rang Michael Clare. A woman answered.

‘Michael Clare’s, Engineers, how may I help?’

‘I’d like to speak to Michael, please.’

Step on those manners.

‘May I say who’s calling?’

‘Father Joyce.’

If she recognized the murdered man’s name, she kept it to herself, said,

‘One moment, please.’

Then like afterglow, added,

‘Father.’

He came on, caution in his voice, said,

‘Hello?’

‘Mike, it’s Jack Taylor.’

A moment, then,

‘Ah, the private dick. . The Father Joyce bit, that supposed to be what? Ironic?’

‘I don’t do irony.’

He let out a suppressed breath. ‘What is it, Taylor?’

‘What happened to Jack?’

‘Listen, Taylor, I’m a busy man and you’re clearly an idiot. Either get to it or-’

‘I want to buy you lunch.’

‘What?’

‘So, are you up for a spot of lunch?’

Exasperation in his tone, he asked,

‘Why on earth would I have lunch with you?’

Time to get ol’ Michael focused, said,

‘Met your sister.’

Huge intake of breath, then the palpable rage.

‘You stay the fuck away from my sister.’

I ignored that, continued,

‘Here’s some hard ball. If you don’t meet me, I’ll make some phone calls, tell that flash receptionist her boss cut a priest’s head off, and you know what, I had me a talk with a nun and she got me thinking, maybe your sister beheaded the priest?’

He went quiet, then agreed to a drink that evening in Brennan’s Yard, six thirty, and he slammed the phone down. It rang almost immediately. Vinny from Charly Byrnes’ bookshop.

‘Jack, me oul’ segotia, it’s Vinny.’

‘How are you doing, Vinny?’

‘Good. Reason I’m calling is, we got a load of new books — a lot of crime — and among them David Goodis, Dan Simmons and other gems.’

I was amazed.

‘I thought it was impossible to get Goodis?’

‘It is, but you know us, we like a challenge.’

‘That’s great, I’ll be in.’

‘Don’t sweat it, I’ll put them aside for you.’

A dark coincidence, in that time of shadows, that those books should come along. I was too far out on the edge to read, or to read anything significant into this happening. My existence had become so haphazard, the odd had become the norm.

* * *

In 1953, at the age of thirty-three, following a prolific New York career as a pulp writer, David Goodis returned home to live with his parents in Philadelphia. He became a virtual recluse.

His lifestyle was beyond strange. In California, he rented a sofa in a friend’s house for four dollars a month and would crash there intermittently, when he was on the prowl. Prowling for the fat black hookers he paid to humiliate him. Wore suits till they were threadbare, then dyed them blue and went right on wearing them. Recycling before his time.

A habit he had, taking the red cellophane from cigarette packets, shoving it up his nose, pretending to have nose-bleeds. How fucking weird is that? Then he’d howl from pain. Thing is, he’d have slotted right into Coyle’s.

This was a writer with a six-year contract from Warner Brothers, published his first novel at twenty-one, and at twenty-eight years of age his most famous book, Dark Passage, was sold as a Bogart/Bacall vehicle.

After the death of his father, Goodis began to lose it, big time. When his mother died, he was truly gone, lost. He sued the producers of The Fugitive, believing they had stolen his work. He ended up in the asylum, and at the age of forty-nine he was dead.