He turned out to be a public relations genius.
He got the slogan,
“The family that prays together,
Stays together.”
And hounded celebrities like Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Maureen O’Hara to join his crusade of the family rosary. He said,
“Aim to get ten million families to say the rosary.”
He did, trebled it, and was a rock star in his appearances.
His big task was South America, so enter the CIA, who funded his campaign.
Gave him a million dollars.
But.
The Church in the sixties, fearful of this money coming out, began to curb his appeal.
You might say,
“The Church that conspired together.
Prayed together.”
Then I saw the documentary The Family, a massive network of politicians and businessmen whose tentacles reached all over the world. Their influence and power was staggering. Utilizing the National Prayer Breakfast, they had every U.S. president since Eisenhower in attendance and all this web spun by the most influential man you never heard of.
Douglas Coe.
His genius was to stay invisible, manipulating the name of Jesus, to cover a whole host of activities that remain mired in darkness and the shadows.
I had been to the cinema for the first time in years — Galway’s new movie theater.
Theater was $8 million in debt, not that we needed a new one. We already had two Omniplex and the city was outraged at this white elephant.
The cinema itself was a maze of steep granite chairs and screens all over a confused site. Chaotic didn’t even come near to the whole shambles.
But I wanted to see Us, the new one from the director of the brilliant Get Out.
Phew-oh.
Terrifying, topical, and oh, so relevant.
Put the heart sideways in me many times.
Lupita Nyong’o in a dual role was a sight to wonder at.
I came out shaken, nearly walked into a woman, friend of my late mother. My mother, the very hound from hell.
So any of her friends were never going to be chuffed (as they say in Hampstead) to meet me.
But she excelled herself, near spat,
“Is there anything sadder than a grown man having to go to the pictures on his own? Sure, who’d go anywhere with the likes of you?”
Normally, if “normal” has any meaning in the realm of the truly evil, I’d just pass on by.
But!
I got right in her face, snarled,
“My mother was a bad bitch but you? You might be just a little bit worse.”
She took a step back, frightened, but the nastiness won out, she railed,
“I wish that truck had killed you.”
Now that is true horror.
Who needs the cinema?
After an encounter like that, you need some balance. I went to Charlie Byrne’s bookshop. It had just won
“Best Independent Bookshop in Ireland!”
I congratulated them; it was a pleasure to see them win. I bought
Emily Dean’s
Everybody Died, So I Got a Dog.
Purely on the title. Noirin asked,
“You had a dog?”
Indeed.
Two.
Both died.
I didn’t of course say that, in the midst of them delighted with their win.
Even I have some decency.
Danny Doherty called me, said he had news.
I felt part exhilaration, part dread.
If he had the name of the troll, what then?
Tell Stephen Morgan I knew who had terrorized his daughter into her grave?
I didn’t know.
Danny was dressed to impress as usuaclass="underline" fine suit, expensive raincoat, he looked composed. We were in the Meyrick hotel; seemed apt for serious business. We ordered coffee, didn’t speak until we’d settled. He had a file before him, said,
“Phew, this was a tough one, behind every firewall was another blind, then bounced back to three different locations.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed save it sounded difficult.
He opened the file, asked,
“You sure you want to know?”
I was.
I think.
He said,
“Okay, you’d expect a monster, at least in description, but it’s a woman, girl really, twenty years old, lives with her parents, and gets social security. In appearance she seems almost normal, drab really, doesn’t go down to the pub or hang with anyone.”
I said,
“Spends her time frightening young vulnerable girls.”
He considered that, then,
“Here’s her photo and address.”
She lived off Grattan Road, nice unremarkable house, a study in normalcy. The photo showed a girl rather than a woman, looking away from the camera, brown hair in long braids, a face that missed being pretty by a distance but makeup would have helped: Mostly, she looked young.
Her name was Greta Haut.
Unusual surname. The only time I’d ever come across it was the writer Woody Haut. Her parents were some sort of born-again Christians and belonged to a group that met on Wednesday nights where, it was said, some spoke in tongues. One wondered if any of them were civil.
Greta had been recruited by a top tech company but was let go for unspecified reasons. Like being a psycho, perhaps. She dressed like an ex-nun,
That is, unremarkable, mainly old green combat jacket, high-top sneakers.
She had never been in trouble with the law save for a minor charge of stealing a six-pack of Red Bull. Most of her time seemed to be spent at home, destroying lives.
I said,
“A winner.”
Danny gave me a look of mild distaste, said,
“The wee lass is obviously unhinged.”
Lass!
That infuriated me. I snarled,
“Lass! She’s a full-formed psychotic bitch who gets off on tormenting vulnerable girls.”
Danny physically pulled back, as if I’d slapped him, said,
“Whoa, get a grip.”
I bit down for a moment, trying to rein it in, tried,
“I’m just a little tired of excusing sick fucks that ruin others.”
Danny was done, stood up, said,
“I better go. I hope you won’t do something criminal here.”
I offered,
“Let me pay you for your time.”
“No.”
I had preparations to make for Greta Haut. In a dive bar off the docks, I bought some Rohypnol, the date rape drug. The guy who sold it to me didn’t bat an eyelid, then went to get a single bottle of Coke, screw-off top.
I also got a large knife, known as the Bowie blade, which had a serrated edge that would put shivers on a corpse.
Wednesday evening Greta’s parents would be attending their prayer meeting. I put my purchases in a small backpack, dressed in black jeans, black T, and threw in an old tie that had attended more funerals than I dare remember.
I broke into Greta’s house at eight that evening. No sophisticated locks; I guess born-agains are more trusting. The house was plainly furnished, attesting to tidiness more than money. I crept up the stairs, could hear the white noise of Greta’s PC. Her door was ajar. I pushed it open carefully.
Her back was to me, headphones on: She was dressed in sweatpants, sloppy sweatshirt. I tapped her gently on the shoulder. She nigh jumped a foot, screamed once. I gripped her hair, said,
“Scream again and I’ll kill you.”
I pulled up my backpack, produced the bottle of Coke, my own flask, offered her the Coke, asked, as I offered the flask,
“You want something stronger in the Coke?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide but a nasty malevolence creeping in. I said,
“Sláinte.”