Sanctuary

10

I looked round. Not a feather in sight, not even a black one.

As I turned into Grattan Park, I knew I was only about five minutes from Ridge’s house and I slowed my pace, reluctant to face the scene I expected, to see her fucked and bedraggled from booze. And saw an off-licence beckoning. It was a new one, but then, in my years of dryness God only knew how many had opened up. The water might be poisoned, but by Jesus, we weren’t letting the virus affect our drinking habits.

Sure enough, a sign in the window proclaimed, ‘Our ice cubes are made by Alto.’

So, a company had sprung up to meet the need for purified ice? When I was a child, ice was something you might see on Christmas Eve.

I went in, saw the bottles of tequila on display — another trend I’d missed. Shots of tequila being de rigueur for the young, wealthy kids who hit the clubs. . ‘De rigueur’ — took me years to find a way to use that, never mind figure out what the hell it meant.

On the wall was a poster advertising Philip Fogarty and Anna Lardi in concert. I clocked the rows of cigarettes and had a pang for another addiction denied. I grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose, because it came with a free T-shirt and I figured Ridge hadn’t been doing a whole lot of laundry.

The kid at the register was non-national. Rang up my bottle and said, ‘That be twenty-eight euro.’

Me thinking, That be fucking exorbitant.

He put the bottle and the T-shirt in a bag that screamed, off-licence.

I paid him. He never said ‘thank you’ or anything related to it and I was about to say something when I heard, ‘Taylor, back on the drink?’

Turned to see Father Malachy, my nemesis, an adversary for so many years and, worse, a friend of my late mother.

We might actually have become, if not friends, allies of an uneasy kind when he enlisted my help for a case. A priest had been murdered and Malachy, desperate, had turned to me for help. I did conclude it and, albeit a terrible conclusion, the case had been solved. Not my finest hour. He didn’t know the full details, only that I’d helped him. Thus you’d expect, if not gratitude, at least a certain appreciation.

But no, it made us more combative than ever.

He reeked of nicotine, his black priest’s jacket was littered with dandruff and ash, his teeth brown from his addiction.

I said, ‘Good to see you, Father.’

It wasn’t.

He eyed my purchase, said, ‘You couldn’t stay off it, could you?’

The temptation to kick the living shite out of him was as compelling as ever. Instead, I thought of the letter I’d received and asked, ‘What do you know about benediction?’

He was taken aback, silent for a moment.

‘Why? What do you want to know?’

I had him intrigued and pushed, ‘I got a letter, a threatening one, with the signature “Benedictus”.’

He shrugged. ‘Benediction is a blessing, but in your case can only be a curse.’ And he moved past me, heading for the cartons of cut-price cigarettes.

I resisted the temptation to kick him in the arse.

It took some doing.

I said, ‘See you soon.’

Without even turning round, he spat, ‘Not if God is good.’ Nice ecclesiastical parting remark.

I got outside, rage rampant in my head, and in an effort to calm down recalled an incident a few weeks back with Stewart.

I’d been in some state, with Ridge in the hospital, the booze calling and regrets about my aborted getaway to America swirling in my head, and I’d run into Stewart. He’d taken one look at my face and suggested we go back to his place and, like, chill.

Chill! The way these young Irish talk.

But I’d gone. He’d given me a Xanax and whoa. . jig time, I was enveloped in if not the cloud of unknowing, certainly the mellow shroud of laid-back ease.

I’d said, ‘Jesus, that is one fucking great pill.’

He’d smiled, said, ‘Read John Straley, see how long it lasts.’

Who? I didn’t care.

Then Stewart did an odd thing. OK, everything the guy did was odd, but he came to where I was stretched out on the sofa and presented me with a long leather case.

I asked, not caring, ‘And this is?’

He gestured for me to open it.

Inside were seven beautiful knives, exquisitely made, like the Gurkhas use.

I gazed at them in total admiration, whistled, ‘Wow.’

He gave that enigmatic smile, like wow was as much as he could expect from me, explained, ‘Kabuki knives. You’ll notice there are seven, for each stage of my life.’

The Xanax had kicked in big time and I could listen to whatever Zen bullshit he wanted to pedal. I muttered, ‘And which number are you on now?’

He lifted one out gently, with more care than if it was a baby. ‘The sixth, I term it. . I’ll explain when you are a little further along the road to enlightenment.’

I was cool, or indeed chill enough to ask, ‘So, these knives, they tell you what?’

He leaned right into my face, said in a stone tone, ‘What do they tell you, Jack?’

Even with the pill, I was ready to rumble, You know, they tell me fuck all. And mainly they tell me, you need to get out more.

I said, ‘They’re impressive. What are they meant to be — the Seven Samurai?’

He stared at them. ‘They are for the seven levels of evil. Each one removes another layer of the ills that bedevil our world.’

I should have paid more attention to what he was telling me, and later I’d learn exactly what the levels of evil were, but then they were just knives — impressive but, you know, just fucking blades. I’d seen enough of them and was tempted to say, A Stanley knife is just as useful. But the Xanax whispered, Who cares?

He stood back, considered me, then said, ‘Stand up.’

Was he kidding? I’d eat him for breakfast. But what the hell, he wanted to take a shot at me. I was up for it. He moved right into me, his arms hanging by his sides, palms outwards in the classic show of non aggression, said, ‘Hit me.’

I laughed. Long time since I’d had cause and I don’t suppose the medication hindered my mood either. I scoffed, ‘You’re fucking kidding.’

He didn’t move, his face set in a serious mode. ‘I mean it, Jack. Hit me with all you’ve got.’

I shook my head. ‘Stewart, I like you. You piss me off with all the Zen bollocks. But hit you? I don’t think so.’

He never moved, said, ‘You’ve got a limp, a hearing aid, and a dead child to your credit.’

I swung with all my might and. . where’d he go? I hit air.

He was standing to my right, smiled, asked, ‘That your best, Jack? Losing your sight too?’

I lashed out with me foot and missed again. Where was he getting this speed from? For five more minutes, I tried in vain. Zip, nada, couldn’t touch him.

He said, ‘With Zen and a few other Eastern disciplines, I’ve learned how to be at one.’

I was breathing hard and seriously pissed. ‘Yeah, did you learn how to hit, though?’

And I was flat on my back, a throbbing in my throat where he’d taken me with the side of his left hand.

Guess that answered that.

When I got my wind back, I said, ‘You’re good. What’s your point?’

He did a flexing routine, said, ‘As well as Zen, I can teach you some moves that will make you less vulnerable.’

I said I’d think about it. When I was leaving, he was standing at the door. I said, ‘Oh shit, forgot me jacket.’ He turned and I rabbit-punched him. As he went down hard I said, ‘It ain’t Zen but it sure is effective.’

I’d swear, though he had to be hurting, he was smiling. Mad bastard.

I wasn’t sure why I was replaying this unless somewhere in my mind I expected Ridge to attack me. One way or another, she always did.

I’d reached her house. Took a deep breath and rang the bell.