Sanctuary

16

I’d been listening to Billy Joe Shaver. His legendary album Restless Wind was on the track called ‘Fit To Kill And Going Out In Style’ when my mobile rang. It was Stewart. He sounded almost excited, if a Zen devotee could ever rise to that.

He said, ‘I’ve some news.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We need to meet. I’m in the Meyrick, I’ll buy you a coffee.’

Coffee. Like fuck

I asked, ‘Where the hell is the Merrick?’ Not even knowing I was spelling it wrong.

He laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that old Galway gig of yours. It used to be the Great Southern Hotel.’

‘Then why the hell didn’t you say so? See you there in ten minutes.’

A few days had gone by since my visit to Gary Blake and there had been no reports of gay-bashing.

I’d found a temporary way to avoid complete alcoholic meltdown: an eye-opener at noon, then four pints and shorts in the evening. Ten drinks a day. It was holding, barely. I was never completely out of the game, but never quite with it, either. The time was coming when I’d lose count, literally, and just not give a fuck. Then watch out. I’d even gone to Jeff’s pub a few times, looking for what — confrontation, affirmation, forgiveness? But no Jeff so far.

I put on my all-weather Garda coat, item 8234. They still wanted it back. Dream on. I wore a black sweatshirt for that rugged look and black jeans; the Doc Martens, of course.

Did I look dangerous? Yeah, if an old guy with a hearing aid and a limp scares you. I had great teeth, mind you. Not my own, but at least they shone. Something needed to.

The Meyrick looked the same as the old Southern. Stewart was sitting in a plush leather armchair, glancing at The Irish Times. The headlines screamed about a coming election and the Taoiseach’s money problems. The previous September he had come clean in a moving TV interview about, yes, getting a digout from friends when he was hurting financially, and the confession, instead of bringing him down, had led to a soar in popularity and the term digout had become local lore. These fresh allegations were proving harder to shake.

Stewart put the paper aside, hailed a passing waiter, ordered herbal tea for himself and looked to me.

I said, ‘Pint and a Jameson, no ice.’

Stewart raised an eyebrow and I warned, ‘Don’t start.’

He didn’t.

I sat down and looked at him. He was the picture of tranquillity — expensive suit, knotted silk tie, shoes of the softest leather I’d ever seen. I asked, derision in my voice, ‘Tell me again what it is you actually do, now that you’re out of the drug business?’

A slight frown creased his eyes, then he let his face relax. The dope reference reminded him naturally of his six years’ jail time, but I guess the Zen kicked in and he smiled. ‘I trade information, nothing more valuable. It’s not what you know but knowing what it is that is where the information lies.’

Jesus.

The drinks came and Stewart said, ‘Put it on my account.’

His account.

I refrained from rising to the bait, took a hefty wallop of the Jay, sat back and waited for it to jolt. It always did, so far. I asked, ‘What’s the news, or do I have to pay for the information?’

He was bulletproof now, knew my moves too well. He made a grand show of fussing with the tea, then poured. It smelt like dandelions. Maybe it was.

He said, ‘I’ve spent two weeks researching our Benedictus.’

Our?

He continued, ‘You have to look behind the actions to discover the motivation, and there is always, no matter how obscure or twisted, a reason. Now we have a guard, a judge and a nun. Two elements stand out — revenge or punishment, or indeed both — so you dig a little deeper to see how these three people are connected, random though they appear, and lo and behold, a person begins to emerge, very slowly, out of the shadows. You go back into court records, newspapers, and the puzzle starts to take shape.’ He stopped.

I drank some of the Guinness — it tasted real fine on the back of the Jay — and asked, ‘So who is he?’

That irritating smile again. ‘Wrong question.’

Maybe if I leaned over, gave him a slap in the mouth, he’d tell me the right one.

I said, ‘I give up. Tell me.’

‘Not he. She.’

Took me a moment to grasp. ‘You’re sure?’

He sipped at the wretched tea — no one is ever going to convince me they like that crap.

Then he said, ‘Here’s a scenario: a young girl is viciously raped, goes before the courts, and two guards testify. The judge throws out the case, due to lack of evidence. The girl throws herself in the Corrib a week later. Now here is the interesting part. Her sister, a nun, leaves the convent. There is a suggestion she was asked to go due to the scandal involving her sister, and the nun’s name in Holy Orders. . yeah, you guessed it, Sister Benedictus.’

I muttered, ‘Jesus.’

Stewart looked quietly pleased with himself. ‘Her real name is Josephine Lally, known as Jo. The smart one in the whole sordid case was the rapist. He took off for parts unknown and can’t be found, so I guess that’s why he’s not on the list.’

It made total sense.

He watched me, then said, ‘And before you ask, I spoke to the Mother Superior — she didn’t outright admit that the nun was fired or whatever they do with nuns — I suppose defrock would hardly be right. I asked her where Jo was now and gee, no idea.’

I had to know. ‘How did you get to see the Mother Superior?’

He smiled. ‘I posed as a priest, and I had the air of quietness and humility that nuns think priests should have. I was very convincing, and all you need to know is, nuns love priests.’

I could see him in the role; he had all the moves and with the Zen gig, he was a natural. I was impressed. I didn’t say so, he was impressed enough with himself. I said, ‘So all we have to do is find her.’

He was shaking his head.

I snapped, ‘What?’

‘We have to prove it.’

It was my turn to smile, the booze giving me a swagger I hadn’t felt in a long time. ‘We find her, I’ll prove it.’

He stood up, said, ‘Jack, the way you’re drinking, I’d be surprised if you could find your way out of the hotel.’

And he was gone.