The Devil

18

I heard about the fire on the radio. Jimmy Norman’s show. He’d been playing one of me all-time favourites, Nilsson’s ‘If Living Is Without You’.

That he died of booze endeared him to me anyway, but this song reminded me of when I’d met the love of me life and she left me for a Guard, because, she said,

‘You’re a hopeless drunk.’

Yeah, I know, it’s a classic whine-into-your-glass dirge, but no less effective for that.

Time eases all pain.

What a fucking crock.

Sometimes I thought I saw her on the street and me heart died all over again.

I nearly missed the news item.

As it sunk in, I wanted to weep. The fire department believed the woman had fallen asleep with a burning cigarette in her hand.

The inference being ‘a drunk’.

An empty whiskey bottle found amid the charred remains seemed to endorse their premiss.

Like the Peter Gabriel song, I grieved, in ribbons over her terrible death, song titles mutating like wrapped cobras in me fevered brain.

I muttered Leonard Cohen’s ‘Who By Fire?’.

Why the fuck did I bring booze and cigarettes to her?

I didn’t know if I could go to the funeral. Tinkers grieve like Muslim women, the awful keening and wailing. I wasn’t sure my shredded nerves could withstand it.

But Jesus, I could do flowers, had to.

Rang Interflora.

The woman was sympathetic without being cloying.

I ordered a dozen red roses and she asked if I’d like to add a note. I said, ‘Just “Deepest condolences, Jack Taylor”.’

A pause and I figured she was writing it down, then she asked,

‘You live at Nun’s Island?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you wish to send a second wreath?’

‘What?’

‘Bear with me a moment, Mr Taylor. I haven’t been in the office for the past few days, touch of flu, and the girl I have, not a fecking clue, just boys, boys, boys.’

I needed to hear about her personal fucking problems? I gave a snort of impatience. She caught it, said as she shuffled through papers,

‘This is very odd.’

‘What?’

She sounded almost panicked.

‘Must be that nitwit of a girl. According to the dates, the wreath was ordered…the day before the poor unfortunate woman died.’

I felt a wave of dizziness, but asked,

‘What does the card say?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Now she was getting attitude?

‘The card for the first wreath?’

‘But Mr Taylor, you wrote it, didn’t you?’

Christ on a bike. I said,

‘Please forgive me, but grief, it has me all over the place.’

She eased a notch, said,

‘Of course, Mr Taylor, I empathize.’

I prompted,

‘The card?’

‘Oh, of course, it reads…well, it seems a touch odd.’

I waited.

‘It reads…“Didn’t see this coming.”’

I hung up.

See.

It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be. I tried to get my mind into focus. The note could only be from one source.

I asked myself for the hundredth time,

‘What does the Devil want with me?’

The old people used to say,

‘The Devil can only enter your life if you invite him.’

Had I?

In my darkest hours, I’d ranted and sworn at God. Hunched over a toilet bowl, puking me guts out, I remember I’d cried,

‘Anyone else out there?’

Never, never thinking there was a darkness waiting to be bidden.

I’d lived in the dark so long.

Had the darkness come to live in me?

I muttered,

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’

I had to get out, walk the town, dispel the shadows. The pelting rain had eased but I grabbed my all-weather coat. The Sig fitted neatly in the right pocket. Popped the Xanax and headed out. Something about the date was itching at me subconscious.

A newspaper confirmed my unease. The tenth anniversary of Columbine. Whatever you believed, the Devil had stalked the halls of the high school that awful day.

Coincidence?

They say coincidence is when God wishes to appear anonymous.

He was sure keeping one blitz of a low profile these days.

And the other gem,

‘If God seems far away, who moved?’

Bollix.

I walked down Shop Street. A mime artist dressed as the Joker was performing outside Garavan’s. I dropped some coins in his box and he said,

‘Joke’s on you, boyo.’

My temper was not at its best, the Xanax was failing to chill me. I snapped, asked,

‘Aren’t you fuckers supposed to be silent or did I miss something?’

He smiled, and I hoped those yellow fangs were part of the make-up. He said,

‘You missed the bigger picture.’

It wouldn’t look too great if I was to be seen beating the living be-jaysus out of a street performer.

I moved on.

At Anthony Ryan’s, the clothes shop, a figure emerged, bustling with bags of stuff. Stopped and lit a cigarette.

Who else?

The nicotine czar, his own self, Father Malachy.

I said,

‘Business must be good if you can shop in Ryan’s.’

He looked terrible.

Christ, he always looked woebegone but now he had an added air of desperation. The ubiquitous dandruff lined the black shoulders of his suit. He hadn’t shaved and the grey stubble gave him the aura of a dank wino. His hair was like a bedraggled crow.

He neither heard nor saw me. I moved closer and a shower had been least of his priorities, it seemed. I asked,

‘They give you a clerical discount there?’

His eyes finally registered and he stared at me…in relief?

He took me completely out of left field, grabbed my arm, said,

‘Let’s get a jar.’

All the years he’d torn me limb from fragile limb over my drinking, and now this? I was about to say,

‘Never look a gift priest in the mouth.’

But he looked too close to the brink, so I said,

‘Sure, you’re paying, so yeah.’

We went to Feeney’s, close to where Kenny’s wondrous bookshop used to be located. It was that rarity, unchanged. Not too far from the old pawn shop, where my late mother used to hock my dad’s suit and his beloved pocket watch.

She had hocked his life a long time before that.

Years ago, when I drank in Grogan’s, and had my loved friends, Jeff and Cathy, and their golden child, Serena May…

But I can’t dwell on them or the child.

Two sentries held up either end of the bar there. Two old men in cloth caps, always nourishing a half-full/empty pint, and as far as I knew they never spoke to each other.

But they were as reliable as a sincere prayer.

All the bad shite that had ensued over the years, I’d lost track of them. I’d presumed, hoped, they still kept their vigil there. And even though Grogan’s had been sold after the death of the child, I clung to the hope that they had found stools in some other old Galway bar.

As we entered Feeney’s, right by the door was one of them.

I realized I never knew their names. So I did the Irish dance, asked,

‘How’ve you been?’

He looked at me and the same disinterest he’d always shown was still alive. He said,

‘Middling.’

That’s as close to ‘Fuck off’ as it gets.

But I persisted, asked,

‘And, er…your friend?’

‘He wasn’t my friend.’

I began to move off, wasn’t going to do a whole lot of spreading the joy there, and he said,

‘He died.’

I nodded, kept going.

I’d read my Russell Friedman on grief and how not to express remorse/sorrow for someone you never knew.

Some books do actually help.

My sympathy would only have elicited more bitterness and I’d enough of my own to be going on with.

Malachy had gone right down to the end of the pub and found a table, and I joined him. I figured he’d already put in an order.

Sure enough, the drinks came.

Two large Jamesons.

No ice.

The barman said,

‘On the house, Father.’

If Malachy was grateful, he was hiding it. He said, ‘I don’t see you at Mass.’

The barman gave him a look – not of respect or awe, those days were well over – said,

‘I took my business elsewhere.’

And moved off.

Malachy, already raising his glass, muttered,

‘A pup, that fellah.’

Not a compliment. I raised my glass, toasted,

‘Good health.’

He made a sound halfway between hmmph and Is it on meself? Then drained most of the double Jay.

I did the same.

Waited.

The whiskey hit him fast, a crimson glow mounting like sunburn up his cheeks, making his battered face almost glow. He said,

‘I don’t have many friends in the priesthood.’

I was surprised he had any friends anywhere, but kept my mouth shut. He continued,

‘Over in the Claddagh, Father Ralph was my friend. We were in Maynooth together and took our final vows on the same day. We always stayed in touch, a card or letter, even after he went on the Missions.’

I had no idea where this was going.

Something between a sigh and groan escaped him as he said,

‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’

Took me a moment, then I blurted,

‘Ralph’s dead?’

He was startled, turned to look at me.

‘You knew him?’

I was trying to focus, muttered,

‘I met him once. I liked him a lot.’

Malachy shook his head, amazed and, I think, angry. I’d known his friend. Then he made that condescending gesture that serious drinkers all over the fucking world hate. He raised his hand in a drinking gesture to his mouth, the words conveying, in bright shame, alkie. Said, as if I didn’t get it already,

‘Fond of it, you know, no denying that. But to do what he did, I never realized he was so far gone.’

Had I missed something? I was trying so hard not to lash him across his smug non-alkie face that rage temporarily blinded me. I asked,

‘What did he do?’

Jesus wept. Not another child molester. That I couldn’t stomach, not now. Malachy said,

‘Your turn for a round, I believe.’

The bollix.

I jumped up, went to the counter, tried to rein in the ferocious wave building, said to the barman,

‘Same again, please,’ and put a twenty Euro note on the counter lest he think I was freeloading.

If he thought neat larges that early in the day were odd, he said nothing. He got the drinks, gave me the pittance change, said, nodding to Malachy,

‘Contrary bastard.’

I took the drinks, looked at the paltry change, said,

‘Put it in the Missions box.’

He laughed, said,

‘Where have you been? We are the Missions.’

I got back to the table – no sign of Malachy. I looked round and the barman indicated the shed beside the bar.

The smokers’ room.

Beside the toilets, of course.

I sat, sipping my fresh drink, trying to keep my mind blank and a lid on my temper.

Malachy returned, reeking of cigarettes, sat, grabbed the new drink and downed a fair portion. Then took a breath and said,

‘They’ve covered it up, of course, said he died of a heart attack. If the truth came out, they’d be more banjaxed than before.’

He emitted a long sad sigh, said,

‘He hanged himself.’

I was appalled, said,

‘I’m so sorry.’

He rounded on me, spittle dribbling from the corners of his mouth, accused,

‘You? You’re sorry? I thought the likes of you would dance a jig at the clergy being destroyed.’

I understood the blind lashing out of grief, had done it often enough, and when you add Jameson to a simmering fire…I said,

‘You make me sound like the Devil.’

He sat back, drained instantly, said,

‘I met a man last week, he frightened me, Jack.’

Jack!

‘Good-looking fellah, lovely suit, said he wanted to make a donation to the Church fund and asked me to excuse his poor English. I think he was French, said he’d been recommended by you! At first I was glad – we’re always happy with donations and supporters of the Church – till he began to look at me. He scared me, Jack. It was like he was – Jesus, God forgive me for taking the Holy Name in vain, but he looked like pure badness, and as he was leaving, he handed me a large wad of notes – hundred notes they were, Jack – and said with this awful smile…’

He had to stop. Sweat was pouring down his face and he grabbed at his glass, then continued,

‘He said, “Priests shouldn’t be hanging round.” Jack, he stressed hanging, and as he left, he stopped and said, “If you really are a friend of our Jack, I might have to return, make another donation.”’

I didn’t like Malachy, never had, but I didn’t like to see him afraid. I asked,

‘Who do you think he was?’

He jumped up, his eyes mad in his head, shouted,

‘You’re the Devil’s spawn! Even your blessed mother, God rest her, she always said some day he’d come to claim you.’

And he stormed out.

I finished my drink and thought, if I was going to hell, the worst thing would be that the bitch she’d been all her miserable life was sure to be the first to welcome me.

Ian Dury and the Blockheads – the cheerful face of punk, if there was such a thing – had a big hit with ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful’.

For the life of me, I couldn’t think of one.

Ian Dury, badly crippled by polio as a child, never gave anything but his best in concert.

He had passed on too.

Everybody of fucking note had.

I finished my drink, headed out and said to the lone sentry,

‘God mind you well.’

He never looked up from his pint, said,

‘God, like the rest of the slick bastards, moved to a tax haven.’

What to say?

Save think of what Ronnie Scott said to Van Morrison,

‘You’ve made a happy man very old.’