The Guards

Great shiners

The nun was reading Patricia Cornwell. She saw me glance at the cover, said,

“I prefer Kathy Reichs.”

There’s no answer to this. No polite answer anyway. I asked,

“Am I too early?”

She reluctantly put her book aside, said,

“There’s half an hour yet. You could walk round the grounds.”

I did.

The Poor Clare Convent is smack in the centre of the city. Every Sunday, at 5.30, there’s a Latin mass. It’s like a throwback to fifty years before.

Downright medieval.

The ritual, the smell of incense, the Latin intonations are a comfort beyond articulation.

I dunno why I go. Ask me for belief and I reach for the racing page. In an unguarded moment, I told Cathy B. She’d been plaguing me ever since. I said,

“Why? You’re some kind of English heathen.”

“I’m a Buddhist.”

“Jeez, see what I mean? Why on earth would you want to go?

“It’s so Brideshead.”

“What?”

“In England, High Catholicism is for the special few. Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, all converted.”

She wore me down. I watched now as she turned into the convent. I’d warned,

“Dress appropriately. None of that Goth trip.”

Now she was wearing a full-length dress. Fine for a dress dance at the Bank of Ireland, but mass! Then I saw the Doc Martens. I said,

“Docs!”

“I polished them.”

“But they’re blue.”

“Nuns do blue.”

“How would you know?”

“I saw Agnes of God”

Then she saw my nose, my fingers in the cast, raised her eyebrows. I told her. She said,

“Wow, like cool.”

“What?”

“Think they’ll come after me?”

“There isn’t a ‘they’... it’s coincidence.”

“Yeah... sure.”

The bell rang. Cathy asked,

“How will I know what to do?”

“Do what I do.”

“That’s bound to get us slung out.”

Inside, the tiny church was warm and welcoming. Cathy grabbed a hymn sheet, squeaked,

“There’s singing.”

“Not for you.”

But it was.

The congregation joined in the song performance. Cathy loudest of all. A nun came up after to congratulate her, asked,

“Would you like to sing some Sunday?”

I hopped in.

“She’s not one of us.”

Cathy and the nun gave me a look of withering contempt. I slunk outside.

Fr Malachy had arrived. No sooner off his bicycle than he lit a cigarette. I said,

“You’re late.”

He smiled, answered,

“But for what?”

Malachy was like Sean Connery, minus

The tan

The golf.

You couldn’t call him a friend. Priests have other loyalties. I knew him since I was a child. He took in my injuries, said,

“You’re still drinking.”

“This was unrelated.”

He took out his cigarettes. Major. The green and white packet. As strong as a mule kick and twice as lethal. I said,

“You’re still smoking.”

“Me and Bette Davis.”

“She’s dead.”

“My point exactly.”

He watched two nuns and said,

“Great shiners.”

“What.”

“Polishing. No one can touch them for it.”

I looked round then asked,

“Where’s the Church on suicide these days?”

“Leaving us, are yah?”

“I’m serious. Is it still the ‘can’t be buried in hallowed ground’ stance?”

“Ah, you’re very out of touch, Jack.”

“That’s an answer?”

“No, that’s a sad fact.”