Priest

5

A week later, I went for a job interview, as a security guard. I knew how ridiculous this was — I was applying to mind buildings and I couldn’t mind myself. As my mother had been fond of saying, after I became a Guard,

‘Him! A Guard! He couldn’t mind mice at a crossroad.’

I have to admit that particular image always made me smile, not what she intended. In Ireland, possibly the greatest sin is to have ideas above your station. Notions, they’re called, to ‘lose the run of yourself, as they say. She ensured I never did.

The security office was located at the rear of the Augustinian church, close to Galway’s only sex shop. Tempting to say, keep your vices close. Yeah, we had our first sex emporium. They follow in the wake of the big boys: McDonald’s, River Island, Gap. I’m not sure of the implications, other than money, but they are the bottom feeders.

The sun was splitting the rocks. Europe was being blasted by a heatwave, England baking in the high thirties, Tony Blair feeling heat of a different kind as he clung to his ‘We’ll find weapons of mass destruction’ dogma. In Ireland, we had our own weapon of mass destruction.

Alcoholism.

I was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, a dark-blue tie, loosely fastened — that careless-swagger touch, black pressed pants, sensible black slip-on shoes. All purchased from the Vincent de Paul shop, cost me all of nine euro. The woman behind the counter held up the shirt to the light, looked at me, assessing, said,

‘That’ll be lovely on you.’

Well, it fit.

The shoes were too tight but a daily level of discomfort

Physical

Mental

And/or

Spiritual

was habitual.

Time was, when I read Thomas Merton, found uplift there. Not no more. A corrosive despair rendered him obsolete. What the shoes did was emphasize my limp. Perhaps I’d get the sympathy vote, be employed on a variation of the disabledvet syndrome. What I knew of security firms I’d mostly gleaned from my dead friend Brendan Cross. He’d once told me,

‘If you can stand up, you can be a security guard.’

I’d asked,

‘That’s it?’

‘Helps if you’re under seventy.’

The guy who interviewed me was definitely sixty. He’d obviously watched a lot of bad B movies, as a cigar stub, unlit, was lodged in the corner of his mouth. He rotated it slowly as he spoke, said,

‘I see from your application you were a Guard.’

I nodded, not volunteering further. That I’d been bounced wasn’t a selling point.

He made various grunts, whether of approval or not I couldn’t tell. To say my papers were sketchy was putting it mildly. He sighed, asked,

‘When can you start?’

‘Am. .’

‘You free today?’

I was free every day, but fuck, I hadn’t got my head ready to jump so fast. I said,

‘I’m moving house, could I start next week?’

He finally looked at me. I hoped the white shirt was strutting its stuff and I said,

‘Give you time to check my references.’

My referees were Ridge and a doctor who’d once set my broken fingers. The guy said,

‘Whatever.’

I realized the interview was over, stood, said,

‘Thank you for your time.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

I left, thinking,

‘I’m employed, just like that?’

Decided to go to the Augustinian, light a candle for all my dead. I used to bring my business to the Abbey but they’d priced themselves out of the market. Their rates for Mass Card signings had gone way up. At the church, I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water font, blessed myself, intoned . . In ainm an Athair. . the Lord’s Prayer in Irish. Mass was just concluding and there was a sizeable crowd. I went to St Jude’s shrine at the back and put some money in the box. I was sad to see the candles were now automated. You pressed a button and a light came on. What a shame. The whole deal of actually selecting a candle, lighting it, had been a ritual of comfort, as old as poverty. What next? Internet access, sit at home, light a candle on a website. I chose a position on the top right, hit the button, didn’t work. Tried three more. Nope. Hoped it wasn’t an omen, knelt and said,

‘For the repose of the souls of the dearly departed.’

Felt like a hypocrite. An old woman came in, put her coins in the box, hit a button and the whole top row lit up. She seemed delighted. I wanted a refund. Maybe I hadn’t put the right money in, was it exact fare only or was there a special offer, ten lights for only €;9.99? It was too complicated. I got out of there, a sense of unfulfilment in my heart.

Stood on the steps, the sun on my face, heard,

‘Mr Taylor? Mother of God, is it yourself?’

Janet, the chambermaid/pot walloper/all-round staff at Bailey’s Hotel. She had always looked as old as Mrs Bailey, got to be hitting late eighties. Wearing a Connemara shawl, she looked frail. Those shawls were made by hand, handed down from mother to daughter, a slice of living history. I said,

‘Janet.’

And she moved, gave me a full hug, said,

‘We heard you were in the madhouse.’

Paused, blushed, tried,

‘Oh heavens, I mean the hospital.’

I hugged her back, said,

‘I was but I’m OK now.’

She released me, uttered the closest thing to an Irish benediction.

‘Let me have a look at you.’

Centuries of care in that. And look they do, but with tenderness, concern. She said,

‘You need fattening up.’

I smiled, asked,

‘How are you?’

Her face lit up, much like the top row of candles. Excitement in her eyes, she exclaimed,

‘Isn’t it great?’

What?

I was lost, went,

‘I’m lost.’

She moved in close, as if eavesdroppers were everywhere, which in Ireland they probably were, near whispered,

‘About our legacy.’

My face was showing my confusion and she said,

‘Mrs Bailey had no children, no close ties. So she left me money and before she died, may she rest in peace, she told me she was leaving you a small flat and money.’

I was stunned, lost for words. Janet rooted in a brand-new leather handbag — the result of the legacy, I suspected — found a business card, handed it over, said,

‘That’s the solicitor, he’s anxious to hear from you.’

I read the name:

Terence Brown

Family solicitor with four phone lines.

I said,

‘I’ll call him.’

Janet was smiling, but with a sadness in her eyes said,

‘Mrs Bailey said you’d been a great help to her, and she worried about you having a home.’

I had to ask,

‘Where is she buried?’

‘Fort Hill, beside her husband.’

There are three cemeteries in Galway: Bohermore, Rahoon and Fort Hill. I had friends and family in the first two. Few people were buried in the third any more, you had to be very old Galway. Even in death, there are categories. Janet checked a new gold watch, said,

‘I’ll have to go, Mr Taylor, get my husband’s dinner.’

I’d never met him but asked,

‘How is he keeping?’

Her reply contained all the casual warmth and affection of a lost era, almost thrown away in its simplicity.

‘Sure what would be wrong with him? We have Sky Sports, there’s not a brack on him.’

Another hug and she was gone. I hadn’t said we’d be seeing each other — our relationship didn’t entail commitment. I shook myself, amazed at how my day was shaping. Not yet noon and I’d a job, perhaps a home and even the prospect of money. What it did was make me want to celebrate, and I’d only ever known one way to do that.

Drink.

I walked up to Eyre Square, took a seat near the fountain, let the sun wash over me, wondered to whom should I say thanks.

The Square was hopping.

Backpackers

Office workers

Children

Apprentice hooligans

Winos

The homeless.

Time was, Buckfast was the very bottom of the booze chain. Regarded as but a notch above meths, known as the Wino’s choice. . cheap and potent. Lately, teenagers had discovered if you mixed it with Red Bull and a shot of cider, you got wasted. This new popularity had caused a price hike. Under my bench, I counted four empty bottles. Had I ever drunk it?

Undoubtedly.

Near the pay-toilets, a drinking school was huddled. A bunch of men and women, ragged, dirty, subdued. At intervals, they’d send forth an emissary to perform the ‘beg’. The rules of the school were simple: don’t return empty handed. On a bench beside them, one of their number sat alone, his head down. A tremor discernible across the distance. He shook his head and something in the movement chilled my heart. I got up, began to approach. The school, seeing me, sent a scout who went,

‘Spare change for a cup of tea, Sir?’

I waved him off and he veered to my left, targeted a German couple scanning a map.

I stood over the man, went,

‘Jeff?’

No answer, then slowly his head came up, the once fine long hair now knotted, dirty. Sores lined his mouth, a fading bruise covered his left eye. An odour rose from his body, a mix of urine, damp and decay. He focused, croaked,

‘Jack?’

I wanted to embrace him, get him a bath, fresh clothes. I asked,

‘What can I do, buddy?’

I didn’t hear his reply and leaned closer. His breath smelled like a dead horse. He muttered,

‘Go fuck yourself, Jack Taylor.’

I reeled back and he tried to straighten, then spat near my foot, said,

‘Killed my golden child.’