Sanctuary

26

I watched the crowds passing, bemused — not one Galway accent to be heard. It had been on the news that we were the second richest nation behind Japan. There were, at the last count, nearly four thousand millionaires in the state, and yeah, the poor were getting seriously poorer.

A woman, dressed in a shawl, cautiously approached. She was an indeterminate fifty, had the Romanian look, all bangles and rings. The government had recently chartered a flight, made a pre-dawn swoop and gathered up nearly a hundred of these people who were camping on the M1.

Oh yeah, we were rich and getting real ruthless.

A cycling team from Latvia, due to take part in the Round Ireland Race, had if not legged it, certainly disappeared. I couldn’t help wondering what they did with the bikes.

She asked in a clipped Brit voice, ‘Is this seat free?’ That way the Brits have of making everything sound imperious and commanding.

I looked round — lots of vacant benches — but said, ‘It’s vacant. Very little is free here any more.’ Even the public toilets were pay-as-you-go.

She eyed me warily, wondering if she was making a terrible mistake, then sat cautiously down, keeping a safe distance between us. She took out a paper bag jammed with breadcrumbs and I thought, Uh-oh. Said, ‘If you’re going to feed the pigeons, you might want to bear something in mind.’

She paused — mid-crumb, so to speak — and I said, ‘Apart from the fact that they are flying rodents, you’re just fattening them up. Come evening, the New Age travellers net them and roast them over their campfires down near the pier.’

In that precise, clipped tone she said, ‘Surely you jest?’

I turned to face her. ‘Jest? Lady I’ve done lots of stuff in my life, but jesting hasn’t yet been one of them.’

Then lo and behold, a perfect single white feather came floating on the slight breeze and landed at our feet.

She was delighted, clapped her hands in joy, asked, ‘Do you know what that means?’

Many replies suggested themselves, all sarcastic, e.g. A bird doesn’t fly on one wing. But I went with ‘No.’

I picked it up and it was pristine, almost like the quills the monks used.

She said, ‘When a feather floats by, it means your angel is close by.’

Right.

I handed it to her.

She protested, ‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’

‘I insist.’

She took it gently, like a baby, put it delicately in her bag, then took out a card and said, ‘This is for you.’

I saw my drug-dealer approach. She stood and said, ‘My angel thanks you.’

And in then the brief moment when I should have been paying attention, which of course I wasn’t, she added, ‘Brian will love that.’

And she was gone.

The guy sat, looked round carefully, then laid an envelope on the bench. I palmed him the money and he said, ‘You need a refill, come back to this bench anytime.’

As he stood up I said, ‘My angel thanks you.’

He stared at me. ‘What?’

I shook my head, said, ‘I jest.’

I took the envelope, slipped it casually in my pocket, then remembered the card the pigeon lady had given me. It had a picture of a dark angel with a sword, slashing the bejaysus out of a serpent. I turned it over, and the print on the back said:

In benedictus

Requiescat in pace.

Holy fuck. It was her.

I jumped up, but she was long gone.

Despite the warming sun, I felt a chill run down my spine. Ice cold, like evil has reached out and touched you with its malevolence.

I opened the envelope, took out one of the pills, swallowed it and hoped to Christ they were as good as the character in John Straley’s novels claimed. He had described the effect as like being wrapped in cotton wool, a warm woozy feeling.

I stayed sitting, chilled to the depths of my very soul.

I felt powerless, wondering if she was watching me — not a feeling I’m used to. I’ve always been able to take action — usually of the worst kind, but able to function. This feeling was not only new but scary.

A familiar figure came shambling across the square, enveloped in nicotine. Father Malachy. He looked as he always did: angry, shabby, about to explode. Then his eyes lit on me and he approached.

No warm greeting, just straight in. ‘Too drunk to move, Taylor?’

Nice.

I gave him a bitter smile. ‘Actually I’m dealing drugs.’

He sat down, wheezing deeply. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me at all.’

He indicated the drinking school, who knew better than to approach him. ‘That’s the crowd you belong with and I don’t doubt you’re soon to join them.’

I asked, ‘Do you believe in angels?’

He looked at me, suspicion writ huge. ‘Why?’

I could feel a warm mellowness beginning to take hold. God bless pharmaceuticals.

‘Well, you’re a priest, sort of, and angels and all that stuff is your. . How should I put it? Your merchandise.’

I saw a slow cunning light his eyes and knew he was ready to retaliate.

He said, ‘Your mother was an angel.’

I let him savour that for a bit then said, ‘So was Lucifer.’

He blessed himself — not easy with a cigarette in his hand, and ash dribbled on to his black jacket. He said, ‘In the name of all that’s holy, may God forgive you for that blasphemy.’

He sat in seething silence and I asked, ‘If a nun had to hide out, away from the convent, where would she go?’

He was startled. ‘What kind of eejit question is that? All I know about nuns is they are great shiners. Nobody can polish a floor like a nun.’

The pill was kicking in big time and I felt almost warm towards it. Jesus, now that is one dynamite medication. I said, ‘Useful as that gem of information is, should I just go check out shining floors and follow the trail?’

He was getting fidgety — must be out of cigarettes, though I didn’t know how he could afford them now they were over seven euro a pack. But then money was never a problem for the clergy.

He asked, ‘Why on God’s earth would you want to find a nun?’

I told him the truth. ‘Because she’s killing people.’

He shook his head — more of my paranoid nonsense. But instead of attacking me he said, ‘I did my novitiate in Rome. Ah Lord God, ’twas heaven. Sun, wine. .’ And for a moment, his face relaxed.

I caught a glimpse of a young man, a decent one, who once used to laugh, and not from bitterness.

He shook himself out of the reverie, said, ‘The Italians had a saying: “If you ever walk past a nun, touch a piece of iron and say, ‘Your nun’ to a passerby — passing any bad luck to them.”’

Well, I had iron in my pocket, a revolver, and was touching it right now.

He stood up, looked right at me, some of the Roman decency still lingering, and said, ‘You were brought up Catholic and you read all those books and you think you’re so smart? So use your head, boyo. Where would a nun hide? She can’t go home — the convent is out of bounds.’

And he headed off.

I shouted, ‘Where?’

‘Use your head, yah eejit.’

My head was full of cotton wool. I couldn’t figure it out, and the Xanax whispered, ‘Why bother?’

But it was almost a Zen question and there was only one person who could help with that: Stewart.

So I called him, said, ‘I need your help.’

A pause. My requests tended to get people hurt and he had the sore head to prove it.

He said, ‘Jack, you’re forgetting something.’

‘That you got hurt already?’

Almost a laugh, then, ‘No Jack, the item you’re big on yourself — manners. Like, please.’

Jesus. I said, ‘Please?’

‘You sure hate that, Jack, don’t you? Come round, I’m near finished my meditation so I should be grounded enough, even for you.’

I clicked off. Was that insulting?

The Xanax answered, ‘Who gives a fuck?’

I liked that answer and I loved this drug.