The Devil

21

Father Ralph was seriously disturbed by the encounter with Jack Taylor. And he felt that he had failed him. He went back into the church to say a decade of the rosary for the poor man.

He was startled to see a man in the front row.

A man with long golden tresses.

For a brief moment, he thought he’d imbibed too much of the Bushmills. It almost looked like Jesus!

Much as he’d always wished for divine intervention, he hadn’t necessarily wanted it so directly.

Without turning, the man said in some kind of foreign-accented English,

‘Rest easy, priest, I’m not the pale Nazarene.’

The urge to flee was paramount, but he drew on his will and the Bushmills. By God, he would not be intimidated in his own church.

The man had his feet up on the connecting pew, totally at his ease. He said,

‘Take a load off, Ralphy, come join me.’

Ralph approached slowly and the man turned to look at him.

Yellow eyes.

It wasn’t possible.

The man patted the seat, said,

‘I’m not going to bite you…yet.’

Ralph stood in front of him, and had to admire the sheer quality of the suit.

The man said,

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ and laughed, said,

‘Like the Stones song.’

Ralph felt a cold breeze rush down the aisle and nearly knock him over. He steadied himself, asked,

‘Is there something I can help you with?’

The man ran his fingers through his hair, almost a sensuous gesture, said,

‘You thought I couldn’t enter a church.’

Then reached in his immaculate suit, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with a slim gold lighter, frowned and asked,

‘Is it OK to smoke in the house of the dead Jew?’

Before Ralph could answer, the man blew a perfect ring towards him and said,

‘I feel you were of little solace to our mutual friend.’

Ralph was more terrified than he’d ever been in his whole life. Not even the bad days of the township had affected him like this.

The man said,

‘Ah, the township, now wasn’t that a happening burg?’

Then asked,

‘Cat got your tongue, priest?’

Ralph finally managed to say,

‘I’m going to call the Guards.’

The man stood up, flicked his cigarette at Ralph’s cassock, said,

‘I think it’s about five yards to the Sacristy, sure you want to risk it?’

He didn’t.

Ralph, despite himself, sank down into the seat. The man smiled and said,

‘Let me tell you a story. A parable, I think you guys call them?’

Ralph nodded, muttered,

‘Parables, yes, that’s right.’

The man reached over, touched Ralph on the face, the touch like the hand of the cemetery, said,

‘See, we’re bonding, already we’ve got us a dialogue going.’

He gave a smile, like the worst kind of madness, said,

‘Thing is, priest, I have a special thing for our Mr Taylor. He has, mainly through bumbling, upset some playtime I had.’

Ralph wanted to move, to run, but he felt paralysed. The man said,

‘And you, priest, filling his head with nonsense, with half-heard stories, now he is going to be even more of an irritant than I’d anticipated.’

He moved closer to Ralph, said,

‘But all this seems very heavy, am I right?’

Ralph tried to smile and hoped maybe the lunatic was going to leave, but the man said,

‘I get a very bad press, and really, I’m a fun guy. You like tricks, Ralphy?’

Ralph managed to utter a yes. He knew if you could keep a psycho on your side, you had a shot.

The man said,

‘Wonderful, I do love a player. Watch this.’

And clicked his fingers.

A noose appeared above the statue of Saint Jude. Last resort of hopeless cases.

‘Just for the hell of it, you’re going to hop on up there, put that around your ecclesiastical neck and swing as if you meant it.’

Ralph felt his limbs move and he was walking towards St Jude. The man said,

‘Swing for the sinner, daddy-o.’

Outside, the man stood for a moment, re-living how Taylor had fucked up his little diversion of the boy who’d been beheading swans.

An elderly woman approached, looked towards the church and asked,

‘Would you know if Father Ralph is in residence?’

He gave her his most charming smile, said,

‘He’s a little tied up right now.’

She looked crestfallen and he asked, his accent deliberately more foreign,

‘You are Catholic, no?’

She was indignant, said,

‘Born and bred, and proud of it.’

Oozing charm, he asked,

‘I’m a stranger to your country and, forgive me, to your religion.’

She was thinking, Protestant, they can’t even speak right. But she was prepared to be Christian. She said,

‘Tis not your fault.’

He had to force himself not to laugh, said,

‘You might be able to help with me with a question about your faith.’

She was delighted. Jesus and His Holy Mother, she might make a convert. She said,

‘Ask away.’

‘They say – please forgive my English, but suicide is the one unforgivable sin in your belief?’

She nodded furiously, said,

‘Oh that’s the big one, no coming back from that one, damned for all eternity.’

He moved right up to her, and she thought his breath smelled funny, like wilted flowers. He said,

‘Then if you will pardon my French, your Father Ralph is fucked.’

On St Patrick’s Day, a young student named, yes, Sarah, was found murdered in Eyre Square.

Didn’t stop the parade, but OK, did delay it a little.

The head of a dog was found resting – gently, they tell me – on her gutted stomach.

That’s when I finally decided to kill Carl/Kurt.

I was in my apartment when I heard the news. Got the call from Stewart.

Brief.

But then what was there to say?

I could already hear the brass bands, inevitable police sirens, ceilidh music, all intermingled as the madness of St Paddy’s Day got into full whoop. We never needed an excuse, but if it was legit to get pissed, it got my vote.

I began to clean the Sig.

A clean gun is like prayer – it might not do the job, but you’re en route.

I had me one sharp knife, a throwback to my glory days of the swans, and it’s sharp as a nun on her second sherry.

I carved crosses on to the head of the bullets.

Makes them like hollow points and it seemed appropriate.

I was all out of silver bullets and gee, guess what, they’re a whore to find.

Mostly I needed a bloody miracle.

I lit another cig, and my mobile shrilled.

Answered.

‘Jacques, comment ça va?’

I said, as I jammed the cartridge into the Sig,

‘La Feile Padraig.’

‘Excusez moi?’

‘It’s Irish for Happy St Patrick’s Day.’

A pause, then,

‘How lovely, and how fitting with my rather excellent news.’

I put the cig in the ashtray, asked,

‘What news is that, good buddy?’

He gave that viper laugh, I could feel the iciness over the line, said,

‘You are going to the US of A. Félicitations, mon frère.’

I could laugh or puke. Went,

‘When?’

He caught the curtness, said,

‘May the thirteenth. You are happy, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Delirious, but I owe you, bro. Where are you staying? I’d like to show my real appreciation.’

Again the laugh, but with a somewhat dulled vigour.

‘I’ve been with Anthony and his delightful wife, but as you know, guests are like fish, they stink after three days.’

The emphasis on stink was not lost.

I looked out at the nuns’ convent, held the gun up against the faint light, asked,

‘So, you are staying?’

He gave a theatrical sigh, said,

‘I have the penthouse at the Meyrick. Are you familiar with it?’

I said,

‘So sorry that poor girl was murdered almost on your doorstep.’

Formerly the Great Southern, the Meyrick overlooked Eyre Square.

His tone now in a different arena, he said,

‘Quel dommage.’

I pushed, said,

‘And a dog’s head, damn gruesome, don’t you think?’

Real granite coming down the phone now.

‘I never cared for les chiens.’

I upped my bright tone, asked,

‘So Carl, my benefactor, would tomorrow at seven be suitable for a farewell dinner? My treat, of course. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.’

His blitz was back.

‘Bien sûr. We’ll have us a good time.’

I nearly added,

‘I’ll leave the dog at home.’

No need to tip my hand.

I hung up.

Those two damn cigs I’d smoked with Peg, the tinker lady, you got it, I was hooked again. Add to the mix:

Xanax,

Jay,

Guinness, and now fucking nicotine.

Even had me a new Zippo.

How’d that happen?

I’d had a few over me limit and lit up, so to speak, I’d gone into Holland’s. One of the few remaining old shops and still holding, despite the recession. Mary, a dote, had been there as long as I could remember. Not once, ever, did I see the slightest dent in her natural good humour.

Jesus, she had to have her share of troubles, but did she once take it out on the customers?

Nope.

A saint.

She’d be mortified if you told her.

I didn’t.

I bought a brass Zippo with the Claddagh emblem. Mary offered to gift-wrap it. I said no, it would be fine.

She said,

‘I fuelled it for you, Jack.’

If only they did Mary in a patch, you could erase depression overnight.

Now I was clicking it, loving that clunk that only a Zippo has. Rang Stewart, asked,

‘How’s Aine?’

He laughed, asked,

‘You write her name down, Jack?’

Er…yes.

‘C’mon Stewart, she’s important to you, I know her name.’

A cynical laugh, then,

‘What’s up?’

Sounding like that old Bud advert.

I said,

‘I’m meeting Carl, he’s staying at the Meyrick, I’m buying him dinner.’

‘The where?’

‘Used to be the Great Southern, Gerry Barrett owns it. He also owns the Eye cinema and the Benetton outlet, and Edward Square is named after his dad.’

He said,

‘I know Gerry, good guy.’

I asked as I used the Zip to fire up,

‘Anyone you don’t know?’

Pause, then,

‘Times are, Jack, I don’t think I know you at all. Hey, what was that sound? Are you smoking again?’

What was he going to do, tell Aine on me? I lied,

‘You fucking kidding me? You know how hard I found it to quit.’

He let it slide, then,

‘You’re meeting with him again? Why?’

I was a bit pissed about the cig remark so I hit back with the truth.

‘I’m going to kill him.’

Silence.

Then,

‘Jack, this is a joke, right? Please tell me you’re not serious.’

I told him about Peg, the priest, Father Raphael, South Africa and, lest he forget, his own responses to Mr K.

I flicked the Zippo back and forth. Stewart had been a dope dealer, he knew the sound of addiction.

I don’t think I ever heard Stewart plead, not a trait you use when you’ve done hard time in Mountjoy and you were a pretty boy going in.

He pleaded now.

‘Jack, listen to me, this is all conjecture. I’ll admit there’s some weird stuff going on, and sure, you can see a pattern of some very bad karma, but you’ve been doing a lot of dope, and I know it’s been a very bad time with not getting into America and all, but…’

Pause.

‘To cap a guy on speculation?’

Cap?

What were we? Boyz in the fuckin’ hood?

I reined in a whole range of anger, assumed a patient tone, not easy for me, said,

‘It has to end, Stewart.’

He took a deep breath, Zenning no doubt, and said,

‘What if you’re way off base? You’re going to kill a man on…on what is probably a terrible set of coincidences, and I hate to say this, Jack, your own peculiar paranoia.’

Long silence as we both measured what we should say. I went with,

‘I’m guessing you won’t be available as back-up?’

Deep distress in his voice, he said,

‘Aine is a very fine lawyer. You’re going to need one.’

I asked,

‘What makes you think I’ll be caught?’

Total resignation as he said,

‘Cos, Jack, you fuck up everything.’

Hung up.

He was the closest to a real male friend I had, so I figured I’d at least consider his point.

I remembered a time, after I’d been thrown out of the Guards, I was drinking like Behan in his last days and not giving a fuck. I met an American in a pub on Forster Street. In publishing, if I remember, and we got to chatting about the nature of evil.

It was a pub, so what’d you expect?

He was editing a book on the supernatural and told me:

‘It’s known as horror. Occult fiction. I call it the Further-Out genre, like in David Lynch movies. You’re in the middle of a crime story. But then the camera finds, say, a painting. Pushes into it. Turns a corner into the realm of the metaphysical. Which, in the sense of the real origins of suspense, might actually take us closer than men with guns ever could.

Consider.

Everyone sees things out of the corner of their eye. Everyone has feelings that can’t be explained. Everyone, to a certain extent, is afraid of the dark. The Further-Out genre speaks to this condition. Reminds us that maybe, at essence, if a gun is pointed at you, it’s not the bullet you’re afraid of.

You’re afraid for your soul.’

His name was John something or other. I remember his words so clearly, as I was stunned a young guy could know so much.

Over the years, I kept a vague track of his career and wasn’t surprised he’d become an editor with some major American publisher.

I wish I’d kept in touch.