Purgatory

34

Time ago, in The Killing of the Tinkers, a former priest said to me, bitterness leaking over every measured word,

“Jack, a terrible darkness is hovering. It’s going to be the passing of the priests, where once they trod on hallowed ground, now they will tread on the thinnest ice. Lunch parties will be replaced by lynch ones. To wear the Roman collar will be to wear a bull’s-eye on their back.”

I’d had a few, the Jay sinking nicely, whispering nice warm lies to me, and I trivialized his prophecy, said,

“Arrah, go on, they will always pull off the ecclesiastical smoke and mirrors.”

He’d stared into a dwindling pint of the black, seeing nothing but demons, howling ones, said,

“You will see, not so much the end of days but a rise in such as

Scientology

The Black Arts

Sham clairvoyants

Fundamentalism.”

He’d stood abruptly, shot out of the pub, and, in those days, I cared enough to follow him. He was huddled in a doorway, gulping down a cigarette as if it were Holy Communion, he coughed, and I asked him,

“What will you do?”

He gave me a look of utter surprise, as if the thought never occurred to him, said,

“I’m going the Irish way.”

I mused on that, then tried,

“Pretend it isn’t happening or, worse, confined to the U.K.”

He laughed, no relation to joy or humor, said,

“I’ll slow-drink myself to oblivion.”

I made light of it, said,

“I doubt that.”

He nodded, crushed the butt into the ground with vehemence, said,

“You’re right. Scratch the slow shite.”

Call it serendipity or just sheer shite bad luck. That priest was running through my mind

. . for reasons

Not at all

When

I heard

“Taylor!”

In that tone of

Get over here. . now.

Imperative, very.

I was on Shop Street, just outside Tommy Hilfiger, who, despite the so-called pestilence of recession, was doing a roaring trade.

Go figure.

The very bane of my life has been a friend of my late mother. Her very own tame priest, he was easier to maintain than a dog and cheaper to feed; he simply needed pious platitudes as a rudimentary diet. Her part of the deal was to look good with a priest in tow. These changed days, you’d be considerably safer to tow a rabid rottweiler. Father Malachy.

Phew-oh.

What a charged lethal history we had.

He loathed, despised, and downright hated me. Straight up.

And get this for Irish irony: I saved the bollix’s hide, and was he grateful?

Was he by fuck. Few more resentful than those you’ve helped. The gas part was, he hated priests more than most. His calling was a joke. It was purely a job and one he detested. Said to me once,

“Confessions, fuckers whining about beating wives and getting drunk. I should be so lucky.”

He was dressed in the priestly gear, rare to rarest these days owing to the suspected public fatwa, his suit jacket a riot of either dandruff or ash or both. His pockets bulging, like those of a cheeky boy who’d raided an orchard, save he carried many packs of cigs and

Lighter

Matches

Handkerchief

Nasal spray

Breath freshener.

Well, maybe the last one not so much, but one could hope. He looked diminished, not just age and nicotine. A year back he’d been set on by a vile gang named Headstone and never quite recovered.

Who would?

It saddened me, no matter how much I despised him, and I did, but it was no joy to see him fade. He was a tangible link to my past and a reminder, too, that once I’d held belief. He stared at me, said,

“Jaysus, you look like something the dog refused to drag in.”

I smiled, glad of the constant.

Then he asked,

“Would you come for a drink?”

By all that’s unholy, it was startling. Next, he might even offer to pay but that would be stretching it. I said,

“Sure, where’d you have in mind?”

He gave a sly grin.

“Someplace you’re not barred.”

We went to Richardson’s on the Square, still family-run by some amazing miracle. The barman said,

“Good day to you, Father.”

And got,

“What’s bloody good about it? Bring us a couple of pints and slow-draw them.”

The barman wasn’t fazed. Like I said, a family place.

We sat in the corner, Malachy with his back to the wall, eyeing the door. Beatings do that. A light sweat broke out on his forehead and I recognized the onset of a panic attack. I said,

“Take a deep breath.”

He snarled,

“Take a fucking jump in the Corrib.”

He tore off his jacket, let it fall to the floor, and, when I went to retrieve it, he snapped,

“Leave it.”

My sadness for him was eroding fast.

The pints came, I toasted,

“Sláinte.”

He spat,

“Bad cess to them all.”

Them being an Irish generic term for all the gobshites who crossed his path in vexation. He killed that pint like a nun on ecclesiastical meth, wiped his mouth, said,

“I’m off for a fag.”

He was rooting in his jacket when he noticed I wasn’t moving, asked,

“Aren’t yah coming?”

I said, quite demurely I thought,

“I don’t do that type of thing anymore.”

My tone framed for max annoyance.

Landed.

He said,

“Jaysus, the day you give up anything, there’s a new wing in hell.”

And off he stomped. A book had fallen from his jacket, I bent to pick it up and nearly had a convulsion.

. . Fifty Shades of Grey.

I was so fucking delighted. A true stick to wallop the living be-fuck out of him.

When he returned, reeking of nicotine, enough to make me, a smoker, gag, I prepared my best shot. At school, the days when the clergy could beat you with impunity, and often with approval, they liked to lecture at length about

. . dirty books.

Pronouced, doirty.

As if they all originated in Dublin.

Prime contenders were

Joyce, of course, though you’d have thought a medal would be more fitting for attempting to get a thrill from Finnegans Wake.

Edna O’Brien.

J. P. Donleavy

Ian Fleming

And a series of soft- to softest-porn novels, all with the name Angelique in them.

Before I could launch, he signaled for fresh pints, said,

“I’m sorry for your friend.”

And before I could say anything, he added,

“Even though he was a Protestant.”

There are times, not many so much anymore but enough, that sheer hereditary hatred will stun me. Malachy had trained, if such a term as train can be applied to the priests of his generation, but fuck, he spent seven years in seminary doing something besides playing hurling and bad-mouthing Brits.

Liturgy, theology, the Latin Mass, surely they would have dented even his thick skin.

Seemingly not.

One time, he’d told me of sending silver paper to the African missions and that, mad as it seems, was a widespread practice.

I’d asked, in dismay,

“What the fuck for?”

Cross me heart, I was waiting for a half-sane answer. He’d told me,

“Gollywogs like shiny things.”

Now he asked,

“Your friend, Savile, was it?”

A sly dig over the Jimmy Savile scandal, rocking the BBC, but maybe I gave him too much guile credit.

I hissed,

“Stewart.”

He shrugged, laying into the fresh pint,

“Not an Irish lad, then.”

Jesus.

Maybe blunt trauma would kick-start him. I said,

“The shotgun blast tore off his face.”

Unfazed, he said,

“I know. I’ve hunted rabbits in me time.”

Enough.

I stood up and he grabbed my jacket, cried,

“Jack, Jesus, don’t go, I need your help.”

Truth to tell, I hesitated. Time of the Priest, a nasty, vicious case involving child abuse, Malachy had been on the accusatory hook and nigh destroyed. He’d begged for my help and I’d managed to free him of the stain. Was he grateful?

Yeah, right, along the lines of Oscar’s

. . No good deed shall go unpunished.

Too, he never, like fucking ever, missed an opportunity to slag

Slander

And, as the kids say,

Diss

Me in every form of religious viciousness at his yellowed fingertips. So the temptation to go,

“Go fuck your unholy self.”

Was paramount. I sighed, Jesus, almost like my mother who could have sighed for Ireland and frequently did. I’d say Lord rest her but not even the Almighty has that alchemy.

His gratitude was almost worse than his bile. He gushed,

“Christ, Jack, thanks, thanks a million.”

I snarled,

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d help. You hear me say I’d do that?”

He nearly smiled. The bollix. I was sitting, so he was halfway home, now he’d but to nail the deal. The barman, unbidden, brought two Jamesons, said to Malachy,

“On the house, Father.”

He grunted as if such was only to be expected. He said to me,

“Sláinte mhaith.”

I left the toast and the drink cold, asked,

“Get to it.”

The Jay immediately lit up his cheeks, giving that barroom tan beloved by reality TV. His eyes shone and he began.

“The church says we have to tighten our belts, the public are not giving as generously as of yore.”

Of fucking yore.

Jesus, had he morphed into Darby O’Gill? My face must have shown my ire-a good word to add to yore, I guess. He hurried,

I felt the rush of anger, spat,

“Christ, people can’t feed their families, pay mortgages, and you expect them to continue paying your wages? Wake up, Padre, the country is dying from poverty.”

Not a stir out of him.

He said,

“Your shout.”

I didn’t shout-that is, for the next round. I asked in a quiet tone,

“How much were you needing?”

He said,

“Well, you got the big payoff from the dead Prod.”

Incredulous, I asked,

“How did you know?”

He laughed, not from humor but from pure unadulterated spite, said,

“The bank fellah. I’m his priest.”

Jesus, no wonder we were fucked. I took a deep breath, asked,

“How much were you estimating you could wrench from me?”

The drinks had woven their malicious alchemy and he had a cockiness that I remembered well from days when the clergy ruled like feudal lords. He said,

“You know, your mother, Lord rest the poor woman, wouldn’t like me to be out on the street.”

And came as close to a wallop to the head as it gets. My mother was never the route to go. I said,

“I’ll go the bank, see what I can get. I don’t suppose you’d take a check?”

He gave me a look of utter devilment, said,

“Cash keeps us all afloat, wouldn’t you say?”

I could have said a lot of things but, to him, like a wasted prayer on a wasted overgrown forgotten grave. I got up to leave and he said,

“God knows, Jack, but you’re not the worst.”

A blessing from the inferno.

Sister Wendy, Britain’s favorite nun, is eighty-two. She reveals,

“I have a cold heart. People never meant much to me. I was a nasty child with no emotions.”

I read this in the paper, The Irish Independent, as I waited for Reardon to show. We’d agreed to meet at seven, Tuesday evening. He’d suggested McSwiggan’s, said,

“I feel the need to see that tree growing in the center of the pub.”

Fucking with me.

I wanted to ask him for a job for the cop’s daughter and then, hopefully, find out where Kelly was and, as Liam Neeson said, track her down and kill her. Nice thoughts to run as I read of a coldhearted nun. Obama was reelected but the big news here was the next Irish ambassador might be

Wait for it

Breath held

Clinton.

Our new Bono and John Kennedy in one. We hated Bono owing to the whole tax gig. Clinton seemed to love us as much as we did him. Michael Winner, the film director, in his final column for The Sunday Times, wrote,

“I’m a totally insane film director, writer, producer, silk shirt cleaner, bad-tempered, totally ridiculous example of humanity in deep shit.”

Still, if it came to the wire, who’d you have a pint with?

Him or Sister Wendy?

A mammoth man approached my table. I’d just gotten what looked like the perfect pint: the head was so creamy, so still, it seemed a sin to touch it. The man’s shadow fell across that head, I looked up, he was seriously steroid. And you could see road rage dance in his eyes. I hoped to fuck I didn’t owe this megaton anything. He was wearing a suit, swear to Christ, or, rather, a fabulously expensive cloth had been draped over his form and he. . just let it hang.

He asked,

“You Taylor?”

I wanted to go Hollywood, snarl,

“Depends who’s asking.”

But, seriously?

I said,

“Yeah.”

And to cream off the surreal element, he spoke into his cuff, like all the movies, said,

“Clear.”

And moved to a table close by. It was so fucking deliciously lunatic, I could almost have appreciated it. Moment later, Reardon sauntered in. Dressed in Silicon Valley chic: chinos, trainers, and the ubiquitous T with the logo

Wired to the Pogues.

Okay.

He smiled, asked,

“May I sit?”

I said,

“You probably own the place by now, but sure.”

He was immediately attended by the barman, who asked,

“Mr. Reardon, what can we get you?”

In true ego vein, he never looked at him, said,

“Same as Mr. Taylor here and, oh, rustle up some fries with curry sauce.”

No need to mention the kitchen was long closed. He’d get the fries if the guy had to run up to Supermac’s. I finally took a draft, said,

“Sláinte mhaith.”

He said,

“You wanted something?”

I told him, the cop’s daughter, a job? He didn’t hesitate, said,

“Sure.”

I was surprised, went,

“Really, just like that? I mean, don’t you want any details?”

He finally got his pint, drank deep, made a sound of joy, said,

“In my world, all is joy and light.”

I looked at the mega bodyguard, said,

“He part of the. . joy?”

Reardon gave a long scrutiny, then,

“This is my movie, Jack. Don’t you get that? You’re just part of the plot.”

His fries came, the curry sauce giving off a strong aroma. He ate them noisily. I asked,

“How is Kelly?”

He pushed the fries aside, burped, said-and, I was later to discover, parts of what he told me were true. That was his game, sprinkle all the lies with nibbles of truth. He said,

“See, thing with Kelly is, she gets. . hyped.”

Laughed.

“Jacked, if you like, then burns out, we ship her off, get her serious ECT, and blast the hell out of her memories, then, good as new, she’s out, ready to boogie.”

I said,

“Part of the boogie being murder.”

He signaled for the bar guy, said,

“Two shots of Black Bush.”

To me,

“The tattoo dude, he’s now saying, gee, guess what, the needle in the other dude’s eye, pure accident.”

I felt the bile rise, asked,

“Stewart, my friend, he part of the. . memory loss?”

He said,

“Bottoms up.”

The shot downed, he said,

“Stewart is history and now your friend’s daughter, she has a bright future. All is hunky-dory, isn’t it?”

The velvet threat.

I got up to leave, didn’t touch the Bushmills, said,

“Appreciate your time.”

He was staring at the shot glass, then shook himself, said,

“Thing to remember, Jack, about my movie?”

I waited.

“In the final edit, lots of shit gets, like, you know, on the cutting-room floor.”

I said,

“Jesus, Mary, and Joe Cocker.”

He laughed, asked,

“You speak American now?”

I let him savor it, then,

“From Season One of Damages.”

He took my glass, turned it over the fries, watched the whiskey muddle over the curry sauce, dribble over the side of the plate, begin to drip to the wooden floor, said,

“It’s all there, Jack. Some of us, the followers, we’re TV, get maybe one series.”

I was tired of him, his bullshit sermons, asked,

“And you’re the movie mogul, right?”

He smiled, shook his head.

“No, Jack. Smell the coffee, I’m the money guy.”