Priest

8

Turned on the radio, blast the silence. The news. A Vatican document was discovered by a Texan lawyer. Published in Latin, he called it a blueprint for deception and concealment. Sixty-nine pages, with the seal of Pope John XXIII, in 1962 it was sent to every bishop in the world.

Some postage.

It contained guidelines for bishops to deal discreetly with victims of abuse. Irish bishops were told to follow a policy of strictest secrecy. Excommunication was threatened if they spoke out. Victims, after making a complaint, were to take an oath of secrecy.

I got dressed, went out. My limp was pronounced — going down three flights of stairs didn’t help. At a shop across the street, I bought the papers and the woman said,

‘Nice morning for it.’

I hadn’t the energy to ask what, lest she tell me. Back up the stairs, I settled in the chair by the window and began to read. The Vatican revelations were front-page news. The Vatican document, called Crimine Solicitationes — instructions on proceeding in cases of solicitation — dealt with sexual abuse between a priest and a member of his congregation in the confessional.

I stopped reading, went and brewed some fresh coffee, thinking how Father Joyce had been beheaded in the confessional. The rage it required to sever the head would have to be ferocious. A shudder passed through me.

I returned reluctantly to the papers.

The document also covered ‘the worst crime of all’, which it described as an obscene act by a cleric with ‘youths of either sex’.

Was the killer out there, reading this?

The description youths tore at my guts, but worse was to follow. The next few words made me retch.

‘. . or with brute animals (Bestiality).’

The bishops were instructed to pursue these cases in ‘the most sensitive way. . restrained by a perpetual silence. . And everyone is to observe the strictest secrecy which is commonly regarded as a secret of the Holy Office.’

In May 2001, the Vatican sent a letter to bishops, clearly stating that the 1962 instruction was still in force.

I put the papers aside, darkness all around me. The phone rang and I jumped. The heart sideways in me, I grabbed the receiver, went,

‘Yeah?’

‘Jack Taylor, it’s Ni Iomaire.’

‘Ridge.’

I didn’t hear her customary annoyance when I used the English version of her name. I asked,

‘What’s up?’

‘Can we meet? I need to talk to you.’

‘Sure. You OK?’

‘I don’t know.’

Then I recognized the tone in her voice, something I’d never heard in her — fear. I asked,

‘Did something happen?’

‘I’ll be in the Southern at noon. Will you come?’

‘Sure, I-’

Click.

The Great Southern Hotel, situated at the bottom of Eyre Square, had been closed for six months’ renovation. I’d known the doorman more years than either of us would admit. He had the red face, broken veins of the daily heavy drinker. But he managed to stay employed and that was a whole lot more than I’d ever achieved. He gave me the Galway greeting.

‘How’s it going, Jack?’

In all our years, we’d never pinned down that elusive it. Perhaps it was all-encompassing. I did my part, said,

‘It’s going good.’

He spread his arms out, indicating the changes, asked,

‘What do you think?’

I didn’t think much, it looked exactly the same, said,

‘They did a great job.’

He beamed, as if he personally had overseen the work. In Ireland, we’re never slow to take the credit where it isn’t due. We call it honesty. Doormen, cab-drivers, barmen, they’re the best source of information. I leaned close to get that conspiracy angle going, said,

‘Bad business about Father Joyce.’

His eyes lit up. Scandal. . near as good as a hidden half of Jameson. He said,

‘He used to come here, you know.’

I kept my face grave, prompted,

‘You’d have known him then?’

About as dumb an observation as you can make, but it was the right track. Animated, he took my arm, moved me away from the door, said,

‘Every Friday, five o’ clock, you could set your watch, he’d be in.’

He shot out his right hand, finger to the far corner.

‘Always the same table and a large Paddy, pint of Guinness. Some Americans were in his place once. I shunted them.’

He stared at me, awaiting the verdict on his action. I said,

‘Good one.’

I got a few notes, palmed them to him, asking,

‘Where did he go during the renovations?’

He looked at me as if I was mad, said,

‘How the hell would I know?’

And stomped off.

What had I learned? Precious little. Sat in the corner myself, wished I could have the Paddy and chaser. Ordered a pot of coffee and watched the door. Half an hour before Ridge appeared. She arrived, wearing a white T-shirt, tan jeans, sandals, the outfit declaring,

‘Hey, I’m cool, not a thing bothering me.’

Her face told a different tale — lines of worry along her forehead, her mouth a grim purse. I stood as she approached but the gesture didn’t impress her. She sat, said,

‘I got caught in traffic’

I indicated the coffee pot, said,

‘It’s cold, I can order fresh. .’

She shook her head, did what police do — checked the exits, windows, number of people. You do it automatically and it never goes away. She said,

‘I ever tell you I was thinking of being a nurse? I’d applied to the Guards, but if they turned me down, then nursing was my next choice.’

The way she said it, you’d think we had frequent intimate chats. We certainly had a lot of mileage, but never by choice. I said,

‘No, you didn’t tell me.’

She was fiddling with the strap of her watch, the only sign of her agitation. She said,

‘As preparation, I was working as Care Assistant with old people. One old woman, lived in Rossaville, she was very wealthy but a cow, a walking bitch.’

The vehemence of her words was fevered. It was like Ridge was back there, with the woman. I wanted to shout,

‘Go for it, girl! Get it out, vent that fucker.’

She said,

‘The day I got accepted for the Guards and had a date to report for training, I went to tell the old biddy I wouldn’t be seeing her any more. She wouldn’t hear of it. You know what she said?’

I’d no idea and shook my head.

‘You’re being paid to care for me.’

Ridge almost smiled at the memory, said,

‘I told her, the cheque’s not been written that would make me care for you.’

I wondered how this related to what was spooking her. She said, as if reading my mind,

‘That’s nothing to do with why I wanted to talk to you.’

I must have looked confused. I’d been trying for attentive and she added,

‘I wanted you to understand that being a Guard is what I do care about. Sometimes I think it’s all I have.’

As if I needed that spelled out. The day I got kicked off the Force was among the darkest of my life. You hear people say, ‘What I do is not who I am.’ They were never cops. The rate of suicide among retired cops is through the roof, because you can’t stop being one. Everything for me related to my time as a Guard. I never recovered from losing it. All the disasters, one way or another, they’d their basis in that loss. I said,

‘I understand.’

I waited, figuring she’d get to it in her own time. Then,

‘I’m being stalked.’

I hadn’t known what to expect, but this threw me. Took me a few minutes to get my head round it, then I said,

‘Tell me.’

Her face was scrunched, her eyes almost closed, the effort of articulating it requiring massive effort. She said,

‘The past few weeks, I’d the sense of being watched. Then late-night calls, no one there and when I hit 1471 got blocked call. My apartment — someone’s been in there. Nothing taken, just a very subtle rearranging of things. Then yesterday, this came.’

She reached in her jeans, took out a folded envelope. I looked at it — it had her name and address on (in Irish), posted in Galway the day before. I took out a single sheet of paper, read

Say

Your

Prayers

Bitch.

Nothing else.

And the first thought that struck me was,

‘Cody?’

Would he be double fucking, me and Ridge?