Sanctuary

32

For breakfast, I ordered:

Three sausages

Two fried eggs

Black pudding

Fried tomatoes

Toast

A pot of coffee

Stewart asked for a muffin and decaffeinated tea.

The waitress, in her fifties, went, ‘What?’

She was that rarity, Irish, and so still spoke to customers. The café was one of the nigh-on-extinct breed, hidden off a small street near the Jesuit School. You knew it was old style as it was crammed with guys from the building trade, more than usual for that time of day — the building game, like everything else, was in meltdown. Mortgages had gone through the roof, so to speak, and first-time buyers were seriously screwed. The waitress had heard just about everything, but decaffeinated tea?

She looked at me, asked, ‘Is he codding me?’

Her face was vaguely familiar, but then anyone Irish looked familiar these days as there seemed to be so few.

I said, ‘He’s young.’

She looked at him. ‘Well, he’s certainly in the wrong place.’

Stewart was smart and said nothing

I suggested she squeeze the hell out of the tea bag and she enjoyed that. She said, ‘Just what I need on my busiest shift, squeezing the life out of a tea bag.’

I could hear snatches of conversation and for once it wasn’t about the water, it was about Clancy’s boy. Neither the papers or the guards had released any details about the ex-nun: the clergy were in enough strife. But a backlash had already begun. A well-known paedophile, recently released, had had his home burnt out and dark mutterings could be heard about various perverts being run out of town.

Stewart asked, ‘Have you seen your old. . er. . friend Jeff recently?’

I hadn’t.

Stewart toyed with his cutlery, then said, ‘His wife, Cathy. . she’s back in town. I think they may be attempting to get back together.’

‘Lucky them.’ Bitterness leaking all over my tone.

He was quiet for a time, then said, ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

Jesus, I had an overwhelming desire for a cigarette. I contemplated going outside to where a bunch of smokers were huddled and bumming one.

‘About what?’

He sighed. ‘You know what I mean.’

I did.

I said, ‘Let’s get that little boy back first.’

He wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘Jack, the woman was sick. Can’t you factor that into the mix?’

I could feel anger rising. ‘You talking about the fucking nun or the bitch who killed her own child?’

He was about to protest when I added, ‘She let me carry the weight for the death of Ser-’ Still couldn’t say her name. ‘The child. All that guilt, and what came after. . some things are unforgivable.’

He stared into my eyes, then said, ‘Jack, you of all people might want to reconsider that.’

I was spared a reply and just as well, as it would have been ugly.

The waitress brought the food and cautioned, ‘Careful, the plate is hot.’ She looked at Stewart. ‘Not you. We don’t put muffins on heated plates.’

Stewart looked at my pile of cholesterol and simply shook his head.

I said, ‘Call it comfort food.’

The waitress returned with my coffee and the tea and plonked them down. She said, ‘Enjoy’ to me and, to Stewart, ‘Endure.’

We both looked at the tea bag. It seemed to have been put through the wringer — maybe it had.

I said, ‘Guess she got all the caffeine out of there.’

He pushed it aside. ‘And everything else.’

I ate with relish. Stewart made a grimace as I forked some black pudding and dipped it in the runny egg. He said, ‘How can you eat that?’ Meaning the black pudding.

‘The late Pope on his visit here liked it a lot.’

‘Might explain why he’s the late Pope.’

As we were leaving, I said, ‘My treat.’

Stewart replied, ‘My cup runneth over, de-caff or otherwise.’

Like I said, he was definitely getting the hang of the humour biz.

I left him outside the café, saying I’d see him around ten or so that evening at the Salthill church. He was turning to leave when I suggested he might consider bringing something to protect himself.

He said, ‘I have my martial arts.’

I thought maybe I should shake his hand or something, but went with ‘You’ll fucking need them.’

I went shopping. I had a list of items I figured I’d need. You’re going to stake out a church, it could be a long wait. Top of the list was a decent torch; the rest of the stuff I managed to get within an hour.

I walked slowly back to my place, all sorts of ideas screaming through my head, mainly the terrible thought that I might not be able to save the child. Oh sweet Jesus, I would not be able to lose another child.

A woman was selling pins for charity on the corner of Dominic Street and, talk about irony, the pins were tiny angels in aid of abused children. Into my head unbidden came the Irish term Angeail an Dorchadas. . Angel of Darkness.

I gave a few euro to the seller, but didn’t wait to receive the pin.

Back at my flat, I rang the cathedral and asked what time confessions were finished. I wanted a place to hide before they locked up for the night, and on hearing five in the afternoon, asked, ‘Any evening devotions?’

The woman, a nun perhaps, said, ‘You mean Benediction?’

I felt a tiny finger of ice creep along my spine.

Jesus.

I said, ‘Yes.’

She had a warm voice, but it didn’t do much for the chill I was feeling. She said, ‘No dear, Benediction is on Tuesday and Thursday.’

I thanked her for her help and she added, ‘You’re welcome. God bless you.’

Christ, someone would need to.